“You’ve a thirsty soul, Mr. Ravenel,” she’d said darkly. He could have sworn she’d poured out the rest of the porter before she’d left—surely he couldn’t have downed all of it in one afternoon. But maybe he had. It all felt wretchedly familiar, this churning in his gut, this endless poisonous craving that nothing would satisfy. As if he could drown in a lake of gin and still want more.

He’d been in reasonably good condition, that morning he’d left the Clare Estate. He’d breakfasted with Phoebe and the children, smiling at the sight of Stephen’s small hands grasping bits of fried bacon and mashing buttered toast into shapeless wads. Justin had asked more than once when he would return, and West had found himself responding the way he’d always hated in childhood when adults would say, “Someday,” or “We’ll see,” or “When the time is right.” Which everyone, even a child, knew meant “No.”

Phoebe, damn her, had behaved in the cruelest way possible, by being calm and gentle and understanding. It would have been so much easier for him if she’d pouted or been spiteful.

She’d kissed him goodbye at the front door before he’d gone to the train station . . . clasping one side of his face with a slender hand, her soft mouth brushing his cheek, her fragrance sweet in his nostrils. He’d closed his eyes, feeling as if he were surrounded by flower petals.

And then she’d let him go.

It was at the train station that the bad feeling had overcome him, a mixture of grayness, exhaustion, and powerful thirst. He’d planned to buy a ticket for Eversby Priory, and had instead found himself asking for Waterloo Station, with the vague intention of stopping in London for a night. That stop-over had turned into two days, then three, and then somehow he’d lost the wherewithal to make any decisions about anything. Something was wrong with him. He didn’t want to go back to Hampshire. He didn’t want to be anywhere.

It was as if he’d been taken over by some outside force that now controlled everything he did. Like demonic possession—he’d read about the condition in which one or more evil spirits would enter a man’s body and take away his will. But in his case, there was no speaking in tongues, lunatic ravings, or doing violence to himself or others. If he was unwittingly hosting demons, they were very sad, lethargic ones who wanted him to take long naps.

Of all the people he knew in London, the only one West found himself reaching out to for companionship was Tom Severin. He hadn’t wanted to be alone this evening, but he hadn’t wanted to spend time with someone like Winterborne or Ransom, who would ask questions and offer unwanted opinions, and try to push him into doing something he didn’t want to do. He wanted to keep company with a friend who didn’t care about him or his problems. Conveniently, that was exactly what Severin wanted, and so they had agreed to meet for an evening of drinking and carousing in London.

“Let’s stop off at my house first,” Severin suggested, eyeing his scuffed shoes with disfavor, “and my valet can do something to spruce you up.”

“I look well enough for our usual haunts,” West said, staring at the passing scenery as the carriage lurched and rolled through the streets. “If you’re too fastidious for me, let me out at the next corner.”

“No, never mind. But we’re not going to the usual places tonight. We’re going to Jenner’s.”

West jerked at the name and stared at him incredulously. The very last place in London he wanted to go was the gentlemen’s club owned by Phoebe’s father. “The hell you say. Stop the bloody carriage, I’m getting out.”

“What do you care where you do your drinking, so long as someone keeps pouring? Come, Ravenel, I don’t want to go alone.”

“Why do you assume they’ll let you past the front door?”

“That’s just it: I’ve been on the membership waiting list for five years, and last week I was finally allowed in. I thought I was going to have to have someone killed to clear a space, but thankfully some old codger passed away and spared me the trouble.”

“Congratulations,” West said acidly. “But I can’t go in there. I don’t want to risk crossing paths with Kingston. He visits now and then to keep his thumb on the business, and it would be my bloody luck for him to be there tonight.”

Severin’s eyes were bright with interest. “Why do you want to avoid him? What did you do?”

“It’s nothing I’d care to discuss while sober.”

“Onward, then. We’ll find a quiet corner and I’ll purchase the best liquor in the house—it will be worth it for a good story.”

“In light of past experience,” West said sourly, “I know better than to confide anything personal to you.”

“You will anyway. People always tell me things, even knowing they shouldn’t. I’m sure I don’t know why.”

To West’s chagrin, Severin was right. Once they were settled in one of the club rooms at Jenner’s, he found himself telling Severin far more than he’d intended. He blamed the surroundings. These rooms had been designed for comfort, with deep leather, button-back Chesterfield couches and chairs, tables laden with crystal decanters and glasses, crisply ironed newspapers and bronze cigar stands. The low, box-paneled ceilings and the thick Persian carpeting served to muffle noise and encourage private conversation. The main hall and the hazard room were more obviously extravagant, almost theatrical, with enough gold ornamentation to make a baroque church blush. They were places to socialize, gamble, and amuse oneself. In these rooms, however, powerful men conducted business and politics, sometimes altering the course of the Empire in ways the public would never know.

As they talked, West reflected privately that he knew exactly why people confided in Tom Severin, who never muddled an issue with moralizing or judgments, and never tried to change your opinions or talk you out of wanting something. Severin was never shocked by anything. And although he could be frequently disloyal or dishonorable, he was never dishonest.

“I’ll tell you what your problem is,” Severin eventually said. “It’s feelings.”

West paused with a crystal glass of brandy close to his lips. “Do you mean that unlike you, I have them?”

“I have feelings too, but I never let them turn into obstacles. If I were in your situation, for example, I would marry the woman I wanted and not worry about what was best for her. And if the children you raise turn out badly, that’s their business, isn’t it? They’ll decide for themselves whether or not they want to be good. Personally, I’ve always seen more advantage in being bad. Everyone knows the meek won’t really inherit the earth. That’s why I don’t hire meek people.”

“I hope you’re never going to be a father,” West said sincerely.

“Oh, I will,” Severin said. “I have to leave my fortune to someone, after all. I’d rather it be my own offspring—it’s the next best thing to leaving it to myself.”

As Severin spoke, West noticed out of the periphery of his vision that someone walking through the club rooms had paused to stare in his direction. The man approached the table slowly. Setting down his glass, West gave him a cool, appraising glance.

A stranger. Young, well-dressed, pale and visibly sweaty, as if he’d endured some great shock and needed a drink. West would have been tempted to pour him one, if not for the fact that he’d just pulled a small revolver from his pocket and was pointing it in his direction. The nose of the short barrel was shaking.

Commotion erupted all around them as patrons became aware of the drawn pistol. Tables and chairs were vacated, and shouts could be heard among the growing uproar.

“You self-serving bastard,” the stranger said unsteadily.

“That could be either of us,” Severin remarked with a slight frown, setting down his drink. “Which one of us do you want to shoot?”

The man didn’t seem to hear the question, his attention focused only on West. “You turned her against me, you lying, manipulative snake.”

“It’s you, apparently,” Severin said to West. “Who is he? Did you sleep with his wife?”

“I don’t know,” West said sullenly, knowing he should be frightened of an unhinged man aiming a pistol at him. But it took too much energy to care. “You forgot to cock the hammer,” he told the man, who immediately pulled it back.

“Don’t encourage him, Ravenel,” Severin said. “We don’t know how good a shot he is. He might hit me by mistake.” He left his chair and began to approach the man, who stood a few feet away. “Who are you?” he asked. When there was no reply, he persisted, “Pardon? Your name, please?”

“Edward Larson,” the young man snapped. “Stay back. If I’m to be hanged for shooting one of you, I’ll have nothing to lose by shooting both of you.”

West stared at him intently. The devil knew how Larson had found him there, but clearly he was in a state. Probably in worse condition than anyone in the club except for West. He was clean-cut, boyishly handsome, and looked like he was probably very nice when he wasn’t half-crazed. There could be no doubt as to what had made him so wretched—he knew his wrongdoings had been exposed, and that he’d lost any hope of a future with Phoebe. Poor bastard.

Picking up his glass, West muttered, “Go on and shoot.”

Severin continued speaking to the distraught man. “My good fellow, no one could blame you for wanting to shoot Ravenel. Even I, his best friend, have been tempted to put an end to him on a multitude of occasions.”

“You’re not my best friend,” West said, after taking a swallow of brandy. “You’re not even my third best friend.”

“However,” Severin continued, his gaze trained on Larson’s gleaming face, “the momentary satisfaction of killing a Ravenel—although considerable—wouldn’t be worth prison and public hanging. It’s far better to let him live and watch him suffer. Look how miserable he is right now. Doesn’t that make you feel better about your own circumstances? I know it does me.”

“Stop talking,” Larson snapped.

As Severin had intended, Larson was distracted long enough for another man to come up behind him unnoticed. In a deft and well-practiced move, the man smoothly hooked an arm around Larson’s neck, grasped his wrist, and pushed the hand with the gun toward the floor.

Even before West had a good look at the newcomer’s face, he recognized the smooth, dry voice with its cut-crystal tones, so elegantly commanding it could have belonged to the devil himself. “Finger off the trigger, Larson. Now.”

It was Sebastian, the Duke of Kingston . . . Phoebe’s father.

West lowered his forehead to the table and rested it there, while his inner demons all hastened to inform him they really would have preferred the bullet.