Sinful in Satin by Madeline Hunter

Jonathan would take care of it, just as he had taken care of so much else in that sorry business. Evidently Castleford and many others assumed the same thing. There were limits, however, to what any man could justify, no matter how good the cause. Even a murky soul had a few moments of moral clarity.
    Jonathan’s refusal had been a shock to a coward wanting to die in an “accident” with his good name intact. Jonathan did not know who finally pulled that trigger after he left the man, the pistol, and the library smelling of despair and terror—He guessed it had been a sympathetic servant, or even a wife.
    “So you are saying that all is well that ends well, no matter how the end comes about.” He did not like the world-weary bitterness he heard in his own voice. “I am delighted that you had me here early, so you could reassure me of your approval.”
    Those eyes fixed on him. The smile hardened. Castleford had not missed the sarcasm. “Actually, I had you here early so I could tell you that I do not blame you for what happened in France two years ago. There has been little chance to say so since then.”
    “You mean that you no longer blame me.”
    “Hell, I never blamed you.”
    “I hope that you do not blame yourself instead. There was no choice.”
    “There is always a choice,” he snarled. Then he relaxed, and shrugged. “But duty called, and all that.”
    “Yes. All that.”
    Summerhays mercifully arrived then, not late at all. Castleford’s spirits lightened immediately on seeing him. “I hope you brought plenty of money, Summerhays. I plan to pair with Albrighton here, and as I remember it, he never drinks at cards, so that mind of his will remain razor sharp.”
    “Regrettably, he can’t play alone, but will be forced to contend with your own erratic play as his partner,” Summerhays goaded. He greeted Jonathan warmly. They had not seen each other in years. Another old friend from Jonathan’s university days, Lord Sebastian Summerhays, as the brother of a marquess and an important member of the House of Commons, had in the past known enough about Jonathan’s activities to avoid asking about them.
    “I am told you have been back from France for almost a year,” Summerhays said.
    “In England, yes. Rarely in London.”
    “But you will be in London awhile now?”
    “Awhile.”
    Summerhays flashed the smile that made women swoon and men want to check their purse strings. “You must call and meet my wife, Audrianna. She has asked about you.”
    Jonathan could not imagine why. His confusion must have showed, because Summerhays added, “She is best of friends with Lady Hawkeswell, who knows a bit about you. Rather more than I do these days, from the curiosity being expressed in my home.”
    Summerhays waited for Jonathan to fill in holes and satisfy his own curiosity. Jonathan wondered just what Lady Hawkeswell had and had not said about her visit to Celia’s new house.
    The silent impasse was interrupted by Castleford. “Ah, here is Hawkeswell, so we can get down to it. You and Summerhays can just save time and put your purses in my money box, Hawkeswell.”
    The Earl of Hawkeswell hooted rudely in derision. “Albrighton, we can draw for partners if you want. It is unfair to force him on you, since you can ill afford the losses that will accrue due to his besotted intellect.”
    “He appears sober enough. I will risk it.”
    “Thank you,” Castleford said. He lowered his eyelids haughtily at Hawkeswell. “It is Tuesday, or have you forgotten?”
    “Oooo, Tuesday,” Hawkeswell mocked, wide-eyed.
    “Tuesday? Does it matter?” Jonathan asked.
    Summerhays helped himself to some brandy offered by a servant, then took a seat at the card table. “Tristan here no longer drinks on Tuesdays. He gathers his faculties and concentrates on his duties then. The rest of the week . . .” He shrugged.
    “Do not assume it will make a difference,” Hawkeswell said. “The other days pickle him enough