“I’ll bet he did,” Jeremy muttered, with more feeling than James would have expected.

“She asked Violet to come, too, for the sake of appearances,” Penvale explained. He slumped back slightly in his chair, raising his glass to his lips in a gesture of practiced indolence that was reminiscent of his sister—Penvale and Lady Templeton both shared a particular lazy grace.

“And apparently I shall be accompanying Violet, also for the sake of appearances,” James said wryly. He leaned his head back against his chair, staring unseeingly up at the ornate ceiling of White’s. His mind was full of conflicting desires: the desire to catch Violet out in her lie in the most embarrassing way possible; the desire to learn how the hell Julian Belfry had gotten tangled up in all of this; the desire to tear off that bloody sheer nightgown she’d had on earlier and drag his tongue over every inch of the body that lay—

It was this enticing thought that was occupying most of his mental energy when he was dragged out of the reverie by the sound of Jeremy’s voice.

“West! Fancy a drink, old chap?”

James raised his head. Sure enough, his elder brother stood before them, regarding James in particular with an expression that was a mixture of amusement and disapproval.

“West,” James said shortly.

“James,” his brother replied. “Rough evening?”

“Not at all,” James said coldly, sitting up straighter in his chair.

West raised an eyebrow. James returned the gesture.

He could remember happier days, when conversations with his brother had not always felt like some sort of silent battle. When they’d been children, the duke had largely ignored James, focusing his attention and energies on his eldest son and heir, West. The young Marquess of Weston, it was understood, was the one the family pinned its hopes on. The future duke and steward of the land. The continuation of a long line of dukes. It was West who spent long days riding about the estate with the duke, while James was left behind in the care of a nurse or, later, a tutor.

His father’s motives for favoring West had not been particularly clear at the time to a boy who had spent his entire life in a large house in the country without anything in the way of fatherly affection—and not much of the brotherly sort, either, given West’s frequent absence. He had been sent to Eton, where Jeremy and Penvale had become brothers of a sort to him, and it was only after he’d taken up residence in London after finishing university that he and West had formed any sort of friendship. As an adult, James had come to realize that in some ways he, and not his brother, had received the better end of the deal in regard to their father.

The aforementioned friendship had faltered when his marriage had. Immediately on the heels of his argument with Violet, James—admittedly in a rather prickly mood—had quarreled with West, ostensibly over the management of the Audley House stables, but more broadly over their father’s role in his life, his marriage, and his relationship with his brother.

Their conversations in the recent past had been less warm than they once had been.

“West, have you plans for tomorrow evening?” Jeremy asked, interrupting James’s line of thought.

West refocused his attention from his brother. “Nothing specific.”

“Come to the Belfry with us then. We’re bringing the ladies,” Jeremy added in a conspiratorial whisper.

West stilled, looking suddenly and without warning very ducal. His gloves, which he had been slapping lightly against one of his thighs, ceased moving, and everything about him—from his perfectly tied neckcloth to the shine on his shoes—screamed disapproval. “The ladies?” he repeated in a deceptively mild tone. He shifted the walking stick he had used ever since the curricle accident from his side to his front, bracing it with both hands.

“Just my sister and Violet,” Penvale added quickly, but this did not seem to mollify West in the least. His dark gaze left Penvale and Jeremy and refocused on James with greater intensity. James and his brother shared a striking physical resemblance: both were tall and broad of shoulder, with similarly disheveled dark curls and memorably green eyes. From a distance, the only difference between them was the slight limp that had plagued West’s gait since the age of twenty-four.

“How can you possibly be considering escorting your wife to a place like the Belfry?” West asked, giving James a glimpse of the formidable duke he would one day become. His voice was mild, and he was careful to speak quietly enough to ensure that no one beyond Penvale and Jeremy overheard them, but James could sense the anger lurking behind his words.

James rose, feeling this was a conversation for which he would like to be at eye level with his brother. “If you must know, my wife asked me to escort her,” he said evenly, hoping that he was giving nothing away through his tone. Other than Violet, West had always been the person best able to see through his cool demeanor.

“On friendly terms with her again?” West asked, arching a brow.

James’s fist clenched, but he merely said, “No.”

West broke first. “Do what you want, James.” He shifted his cane back into one hand and took a step back. “I assume this is the latest parry in your never-ending war.” He nodded at Jeremy and Penvale in turn and turned back to James for one final parting shot. “I suppose I shall see you at the Belfry tomorrow, then.”