a gleam of malevolent interest in the dark, burning sockets of his eyes.
“I doubt that,” the duke said calmly. He filled a glass with cognac and handed it to his cousin.
Lucien drained it in one gulp and sighed. “That’s better. Eases the tightness.” He patted his chest and extended his glass. “Another, dear fellow, if you please.”
Tarquin glanced at the clock on the mantel. It was ten in the morning. Then he shrugged and refilled the viscount’s glass. “Are you able to listen to me now?”
“Oh, by all means … by all means,” Lucien assured him, still grinning. “Why else would I obey your summons so promptly? Amuse me, dear boy. I’m in sore need of entertainment.”
Tarquin sat down and regarded his cousin in silence for aminute. His expression was dispassionate, showing no sign of the deep disgust he felt for this wreck of a young man who had willfully cast away every advantage of birth, breeding, and fortune, pursuing a course of self-destruction and depravity that considered no indulgence or activity too vile.
Sometimes Tarquin wondered why Lucien had turned out as he had. Sometimes he wondered if he, as the boy’s guardian, bore any responsibility. He’d tried to be an elder brother to Lucien, to provide an understanding and steadying influence in his life, but Lucien had always evaded him in some way. He’d always been dislikable, defeating even Quentin’s determination to see the good in him.
“Your passion for little boys has become something of a family liability,” he observed, withdrawing a Sevres snuffbox from his pocket. “That rather nasty business with the Dalton boy seems to have become common knowledge.”
Lucien had ceased to look amused. His expression was sullen and wary. “It was all hushed up quite satisfactorily.”
Tarquin shook his head. “Apparently not.” He took a pinch of snuff and replaced the box before continuing. “If you wish to continue with your present lifestyle in London, you need to protect yourself from further whispers. A charge against you would inevitably mean your exile … unless, of course, you were prepared to hang for your preferences.”
Lucien glowered. “You’re making mountains out of molehills, cousin.”
“Am I?” The duke raised an eyebrow. “Read this.” He drew a broadsheet out of his waistcoat pocket and tossed it across. “That story on the front has been providing entertaining gossip in every coffeehouse in town. Remarkable likeness, I think. The artist has a fine eye for caricature.”
Lucien read the story, his scowl deepening. The artist’s caricature of himself was as lewd and suggestive as the scurrilous description of an incident in the Lady Chapel involving a nobleman and an altar boy at St. Paul’s Cathedral.
“Who wrote this?” He hurled the sheet to the floor. “I’ll have his ears pinned to the pillory.”
“Certainly. If you want everyone to know who you are,” the duke observed, bending to pick up the sheet. He shook his head, marveling, “It really is a remarkably good likeness. A stroke of genius.”
Lucien tore savagely at his thumbnail with his teeth. “A plague on him! Just let me find out who he is, and I’ll run him through.”
“Not, I trust, in the back,” Tarquin said, his voice mild but his eyes snapping contempt.
Lucien flushed a dark, mottled crimson. “That never happened.”
“Of course not,” Tarquin said in silken tones. “Never let it be said that an Edgecombe would put his sword into a man’s back.”
Lucien sprang to his feet. “Accuse me of that again, Redmayne, and I’ll meet you at Barnes Common.”
“No, I don’t think so,” Tarquin responded, his lip curling. “I’ve no intention of committing murder.”
“You think you could—”
“Yes!” the duke interrupted, his voice now sharp and penetrating. “Yes, I would kill you, Lucien, with swords or pistols, and you know it. Now, stop sparring with me and sit down.”
Lucien flung himself
“I doubt that,” the duke said calmly. He filled a glass with cognac and handed it to his cousin.
Lucien drained it in one gulp and sighed. “That’s better. Eases the tightness.” He patted his chest and extended his glass. “Another, dear fellow, if you please.”
Tarquin glanced at the clock on the mantel. It was ten in the morning. Then he shrugged and refilled the viscount’s glass. “Are you able to listen to me now?”
“Oh, by all means … by all means,” Lucien assured him, still grinning. “Why else would I obey your summons so promptly? Amuse me, dear boy. I’m in sore need of entertainment.”
Tarquin sat down and regarded his cousin in silence for aminute. His expression was dispassionate, showing no sign of the deep disgust he felt for this wreck of a young man who had willfully cast away every advantage of birth, breeding, and fortune, pursuing a course of self-destruction and depravity that considered no indulgence or activity too vile.
Sometimes Tarquin wondered why Lucien had turned out as he had. Sometimes he wondered if he, as the boy’s guardian, bore any responsibility. He’d tried to be an elder brother to Lucien, to provide an understanding and steadying influence in his life, but Lucien had always evaded him in some way. He’d always been dislikable, defeating even Quentin’s determination to see the good in him.
“Your passion for little boys has become something of a family liability,” he observed, withdrawing a Sevres snuffbox from his pocket. “That rather nasty business with the Dalton boy seems to have become common knowledge.”
Lucien had ceased to look amused. His expression was sullen and wary. “It was all hushed up quite satisfactorily.”
Tarquin shook his head. “Apparently not.” He took a pinch of snuff and replaced the box before continuing. “If you wish to continue with your present lifestyle in London, you need to protect yourself from further whispers. A charge against you would inevitably mean your exile … unless, of course, you were prepared to hang for your preferences.”
Lucien glowered. “You’re making mountains out of molehills, cousin.”
“Am I?” The duke raised an eyebrow. “Read this.” He drew a broadsheet out of his waistcoat pocket and tossed it across. “That story on the front has been providing entertaining gossip in every coffeehouse in town. Remarkable likeness, I think. The artist has a fine eye for caricature.”
Lucien read the story, his scowl deepening. The artist’s caricature of himself was as lewd and suggestive as the scurrilous description of an incident in the Lady Chapel involving a nobleman and an altar boy at St. Paul’s Cathedral.
“Who wrote this?” He hurled the sheet to the floor. “I’ll have his ears pinned to the pillory.”
“Certainly. If you want everyone to know who you are,” the duke observed, bending to pick up the sheet. He shook his head, marveling, “It really is a remarkably good likeness. A stroke of genius.”
Lucien tore savagely at his thumbnail with his teeth. “A plague on him! Just let me find out who he is, and I’ll run him through.”
“Not, I trust, in the back,” Tarquin said, his voice mild but his eyes snapping contempt.
Lucien flushed a dark, mottled crimson. “That never happened.”
“Of course not,” Tarquin said in silken tones. “Never let it be said that an Edgecombe would put his sword into a man’s back.”
Lucien sprang to his feet. “Accuse me of that again, Redmayne, and I’ll meet you at Barnes Common.”
“No, I don’t think so,” Tarquin responded, his lip curling. “I’ve no intention of committing murder.”
“You think you could—”
“Yes!” the duke interrupted, his voice now sharp and penetrating. “Yes, I would kill you, Lucien, with swords or pistols, and you know it. Now, stop sparring with me and sit down.”
Lucien flung himself
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