“I’ve better things to do with my day than trade words with an unreasonable harpy.”

“I wonder that men find marriage such a trial,” she mused aloud. “It seems to me that ladies have far more to complain about, if this is the treatment we are to expect from our husbands.” She sounded vaguely like Mrs. Bennet from Pride and Prejudice—a novel she had thoroughly enjoyed—but believed herself justified.

He took his leave of her with an impossibly short bow. If he allowed the door to bang shut behind him with perhaps more force than was strictly necessary—well, she supposed that every gentleman had his limits.

Six

That evening, James visited his club and proceeded to get very, very drunk. Never had he been so grateful that Penvale and Jeremy did not have wives to return home to at a reasonable hour, because they took to this activity with great enthusiasm.

It began with a brandy—or two or three—in the drawing room at White’s. They then took themselves to the gaming tables, where Penvale won a tidy sum off of both Jeremy and James. There was more brandy, and a bottle of claret, before James declared himself done. He might be drunk, and he might be extremely angry with his wife, but that did not mean that he wished to lose so much money that he had to pawn her jewels.

Thus it was, at some ungodly hour of the morning, that the three men found themselves back in armchairs before the fire, sharing a bottle of Madeira, as James stared gloomily into the flickering flames before him.

“All right, Audley,” Jeremy said suddenly, breaking what had been a momentary peaceful silence. “You smell like a distillery, so out with it. What’s sent you into your cups?”

“Matrimony,” James said succinctly, taking a hearty gulp of his drink. He peered into his glass. Was it empty again already? This seemed to be happening more and more quickly as the evening wore on.

“Ah,” said Jeremy knowingly, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “Precisely why I haven’t the slightest interest in the institution.”

“Yes, well,” James said darkly, continuing to stare unseeingly down into his empty glass, “I do have to give that wife of mine credit. She has outdone herself when it comes to creating new ways to make my life difficult.”

“What’s she done now?” Penvale asked, and James didn’t think he was imagining the wariness in Penvale’s voice.

Some dim part of his mind registered that sober James, or perhaps even moderately intoxicated James, would prevaricate at this point, or back away entirely from any discussion of anything to do with himself and Violet. However, excessive-amounts-of-brandy-and-wine James had a loose tongue, and little desire to mince words. “Caught consumption.”

Jeremy choked on his drink. “Excuse me?” he managed, after his wheezing had subsided.

“Or at least, that’s what she’d like me to believe,” James continued, feeling a fresh surge of anger as he spoke. It had been devastating, four years prior, to learn that he had misplaced his trust in a woman who, as it turned out, would keep vital information from him. He, who had been so slow to trust in the past, had felt like a fool for being taken in by a pretty face and a charming laugh. Now, on his seeing further evidence of her duplicity, the pain was absent—but the anger was just as strong.

“She’s been acting oddly the last couple of days, and I return home yesterday to find some charlatan of a physician leaving the premises who informs me that she might or might not have consumption, he’s not quite certain.” James could hear the sarcasm in his own voice as he finished speaking.

“How do you know he was a charlatan?” Jeremy asked.

James thought of the calling card with Belfry’s name on it, still sitting in one of his coat pockets. “Trust me,” he said. “I know.” His friends, recognizing the tone that he adopted when he would not be pushed further on a given topic, didn’t protest. He redirected his bleary gaze toward Penvale, who had, until this point, remained largely silent. “And it’s your bloody fault for that letter, you ass.”

Penvale didn’t even blink. “According to my sister, everything usually is.” His tone was the weary one of a man accustomed to a lifetime of unfair accusations.

“Your sister,” James said, pausing, a thought occurring to him. “I’ll bet she knows all about this. Don’t suppose you’ve plans to see her anytime soon?”

“As a matter of fact, I’m engaged to escort her to the theater tomorrow,” Penvale said, with all the cheer of a man facing the gallows.

James frowned. “Violet mentioned the theater tomorrow, too.” Then, suddenly, the pieces fell into place. “She didn’t mention which one, though. Covent Garden? Drury Lane?” he queried innocently, knowing perfectly well what Penvale’s answer would be.

“No,” Penvale said, shaking his head. “The Belfry.”

Jeremy, who had been slouched back in his chair, swirling the contents of his glass around, sat up so quickly that some of the liquid sloshed over the side of the glass and onto his immaculately pressed breeches. “The Belfry?” he said, sounding more like an anxious mama than James would have believed possible. “You can’t take ladies to the Belfry, have you gone mad?”

Penvale seemed to be considering his words with care. “Diana was recently introduced to Julian Belfry. He extended the invitation.”