“You ain’t old,” Thurman said.

“I shouldn’t have done it,” Darlington said. “It wasn’t as clever as the Wooly Breeder, though God knows I probably shouldn’t have done that either. I can’t believe I did anything prompted by Crogan, who has to be one of the more repellent fools on the earth. In truth, I did it for the pleasure of herding about all the witless men who call themselves gentlemen, and damned if I didn’t make myself as witless as the least of them.”

“Witless? Everyone knows we’re the clever ones,” Thurman bleated.

Darlington didn’t know why he’d spent so much time with such a cretin.

Berwick was as intelligent as they came, and he didn’t show a flash of emotion at this sudden parting of boyhood friends. He bowed, as elegantly as any magnate. “It’s been a pleasure,” he said, a marked lack of interest in his voice.

They had banded together on a whim, and it seemed they would part with as little ceremony, albeit years later. Darlington nodded at him, and nodded to Thurman.

He turned and walked a few feet before scanning the room for a wife. But what he really wanted wasn’t money, a single woman as rich as Berwick’s Aunt Augusta.

He wanted intelligence. Someone who was amusing and would talk to him, rather than reflecting back his own empty jokes. It was unfortunate that the task of finding her seemed Herculean.

He left behind a couple of dumbfounded men.

“Damned if he didn’t mean it,” Berwick said. “I think he means to marry.” And then, after a moment’s contemplation, “The poor sod.”“Perhaps he’ll take the Scottish Sausage,” Thurman said, an edge in his voice showing that he didn’t take to being snubbed by the man he’d bought so many rounds for. “She can afford to pay his tavern bills, by all accounts.”

“Her brother-in-law’s as rich as Croesus,” Berwick said.

“She’s one that won’t be looking in his direction, though,” Thurman said. “The Sausage won’t be able to marry until next season, if then. Remember the Wooly Breeder?”

Berwick shrugged. The truth was that whereas a year ago he hadn’t any prospects of marriage, now he was set to become a prime candidate. And he didn’t want his chances of gaining the very best to be marred by any unpleasantness resulting from their mockery of the Scottish Sausage.

“Do you suppose he really means it about not coming to the Convent tonight?” Thurman asked.

Berwick looked at him. Sometimes the man’s stupidity was truly astounding. “He’s dropped us, you ass.”

“What?”

“He’s dropped us. Darlington. He’s gone off and he’s not coming back to the Convent. He’ll find a rich wife, I suppose, or get his father to buy him a pair of colors. Either way, he just said good-bye.”

Thurman gaped at him. “He said good-bye because he’s going to look for a wife. We’ll all meet in a few hours and discuss how we did.”

Berwick’s mouth quirked. “He’s gone. Wisley went first; he just didn’t have the manners to comment about it.”

“Wisley?” Thurman looked around wildly as if the man was standing silently at his shoulder. Then he turned back to Berwick, blinking rapidly. “Nonsense. We’ll all meet at the Convent tonight, or tomorrow, and enough of this nonsense. We always meet at the Convent.”

Berwick wouldn’t be there, but he didn’t see any point in arguing over it.

“Let’s find the Sausage,” Thurman urged. “I’m sure her dress is bursting at the seams over the excitement of her sister’s wedding.”

Berwick shrugged again. “All right.” Privately, he thought the whole subject was tedious. Thurman had been the one to nourish the gossip, to repeat over and over little unpleasantries about this Scottish girl. The rest of them didn’t really care, and Darlington had even reminded them of Crogan’s repulsive behavior at school.

But they’d done it, for lack of anything else to do, as much as anyone. And because it was a suitable follow-up to the Wooly Breeder.

The whole thought process gave Berwick an unpleasant feeling in his stomach. Had they really made something of a career out of ruining young women’s marriage prospects?

Unpleasant, that.

He walked after Thurman, who kept wedging his large body into groups of people, searching for the Scottish Sausage. After a time Berwick walked in the opposite direction. There are times in a man’s life when he finds that he’s ashamed of himself. Berwick had felt it before, and he never liked it.

Thank God for Aunt Augusta, he said to himself.

Just then a tight-lipped woman stepped in front of him. “Mr. Berwick,” she said majestically, “I trust you remember me? I was a good friend of your dear mother’s.”

After a second’s chill panic, Berwick remembered her name. “Lady Yarrow, what a pleasure to meet you again.”

She pulled a thin, dyspeptic-looking girl from behind her like a fish on a line. “My daughter, Amelia. I’m quite certain you met as children; in fact, you probably gamboled together on the lawn of Yarrow House when your mother came for tea.”

Berwick was quite certain that never happened. From his few memories of his mother, he guessed that she would no sooner think of taking her second and thus worthless son with her on a social engagement than she would take holy orders.

Amelia eyed him. He bowed. And then he suddenly understood.

This was the beginning.

4

From The Earl of Hellgate, Chapter the Second

Believe me, I know the anguish this depraved and wicked story must be causing you, Dear Reader, but my confessor assures me that I must tell all in order to keep other youthful sinners from my path. This duchess—so young in years, so old in depravity—opened a door that led into some sort of a service closet. There did she charge me with the task of making her the most happy woman in Court…

U nder my direction, circulation of this newspaper has increased tenfold,” Mr. Jessopp said, his back so rigid with anger that he couldn’t even feel his stays. “Nay,” he corrected himself. “It’s improved hundredfold. What’s more, I’ve brought up the tone. Twenty years ago The Tatler had a reputation for scurrilous investigatory practices, sending men out to bribe butlers.” He curled his lip to indicate his opinion of the practice.

“It’s not as if the place ain’t rife with butlers carrying away a bit of the ready,” Mr. Goffe said. Jessopp’s partner was leaning against the fireplace, sucking on a rancid pipe.“I don’t go to them,” Jessopp said, explaining it again. “They come to me. There’s a difference.”

Goffe shrugged. “Whatever you say.”

“Anything happens in London, particularly amongst the ton, is mine for the asking.”

Goffe took his pipe out of his mouth. “Then how’s about handing over Hellgate, and let’s stop this demmed wrangling.”

“Hellgate is Mayne, everyone knows that.”

“The story may refer to Mayne’s exploits,” Goffe said. “You have to give the devil his due. But it was never the Earl of Mayne who sat down and wrote that up. For one thing, he’s got no call to. For another, he don’t need the ready. And it’s not a gentlemanlike thing to do. We need the author of those memoirs!”