In his study, he went directly to the drinks cabinet and indiscriminately picked a bottle. His right hand protested the motion with a dull ache. Bare-knuckle brawling and drinking—he could just picture his wife’s disapproving face. One can take a lad out of the squalor, but not the squalor out of the lad. He took the bottle—whisky, an Oban of good vintage he now saw—to one of the armchairs by the fireplace and settled down with a groan. Squalor or not, he was too old for fights in damp, dim, smoke-filled basements. No one had openly questioned his sudden presence at Macintyre’s establishment tonight, but as he had dodged and thrown punches until the floor was slick with blood and sweat and spit, he had felt the room vibrate with speculations. He had wondered whether they’d steal his horse, leaving him to deal with muggers when crossing Whitechapel on foot. He had realized that he thought like a toff and didn’t belong in places like Macintyre’s anymore. So he had caught a mean upper cut, and still tasted blood.
A knock sounded on the door, too firm to be his wife. “What.”
Matthews stood on the doorsill, as usual in his suit. “Sir—you have a visitor.”
He straightened. A caller close to midnight was always bad news. “Who is it?”
“Lord Ballentine. He is at the back entrance—here is his card.”
Odd. Ballentine hadn’t called on him in years. “Bring him here. Matthews—”
“Sir?”
“Has Mrs. Blackstone eaten?”
Matthews’s face was unreadable. “Every morsel.”
A few minutes later, the viscount’s tall, wide-shouldered form appeared in the doorway. His expression was suspiciously pleasant as he meandered in while surveying the study, the stacks of yellowing magazines, the map, the battered desk, the monetary and fiscal policy timeline. “Blackstone,” he said. “How quaint you have it here.”
“What’s your business, Ballentine?”
“I came to congratulate you on your recent nuptials.” Ballentine’s gaze traveled from Lucian’s raw knuckles to the bruise on his jaw. “You look splendid. Married life seems to suit you.”
“I could go another round, ye ken.”
His lordship raised his hands in surrender. He had a vested interest in keeping his pretty features exactly as they were—one of the reasons he’d always left the dirty work to Lucian during past undertakings. Like the diamond stud sparking on his right ear, Ballentine distracted with a garish glimmer from an impenetrable surface. He was the living embodiment of all the things despicable in a man: privileged from birth, easily amused, and hedonistic, a modern-day male Marie Antoinette, except no one was truly inclined to lop his head off—he was just so terribly charming. And apart from Aoife, he still came closest to what Lucian would call a friend ever since their paths had crossed in a den of iniquity ten years ago.
He gestured at the empty chair across from him. “Take a glass. Have a seat.”
“Believe me,” said Ballentine as he poured himself a drink and stretched out his long legs to reveal absurdly patterned socks, “your lack of enthusiasm over my visit is entirely mutual. However, given the choice between your wrath and that of my lady …”
“Your missus sends you?”
“Of sorts.”
Lucian scoffed. “A hen-pecked libertine—pathetic.”
“Former libertine,” Ballentine said amicably. “I’m hopelessly devoted now.”
Had rumors about Lucian’s marriage troubles made the rounds already? Appalling, how preoccupied he was with the matter of gossip about his person when until recently he had been free not to give a damn.
“As you know, your wife called on my fiancée today,” Ballentine said.
He gave a grunt of acknowledgment, when in fact, he hadn’t known that. He needed a word with Carson.
The nobleman gave him one of those bland smiles that hid multitudes. “My betrothed now has a bee in her bonnet about the state of her friend’s happiness.”
“That so?”
A grave nod. “She thinks she detected a lack of honeymoon exuberance in Mrs. Blackstone.”
When Lucian replied, his voice was icy. “Are you here to meddle with my marriage?”
“Good God, no. No, I’m here for old times’ sake. In the capacity of a friend.”
“The same capacity that made you send me a wedding-night manual?” Which hadn’t even worked.
Ballentine winced. “In my defense, that was not my idea.”