The rain had finally stopped, leaving London's streets slick and gleaming under the gas lamps. Inside Roxbury's, the most exclusive gentleman's club in all of England, the air was thick with cigar smoke and the low murmur of masculine conversation.
Anthony Carrington sat in their usual corner, a glass of brandy warming in his palm.
Around him, his brothers had arranged themselves in the worn leather chairs that had cradled three generations of Carrington men, Edmund to his right, Adrian across, and Raphael sprawled with his characteristic lack of proper posture.
"He's late," Edmund observed, consulting his pocket watch for the third time in as many minutes. "Twenty minutes now."
"Perhaps he's not coming," Adrian said, though his tone suggested he didn't believe it.
"He will come," Anthony said quietly. "He gave his word."
As if summoned by the statement, the club's heavy oak doors swung open.
"Lord Ashmore!" Raphael's voice rang across the room, drawing more attention than was strictly proper.
Dorian Ashmore looked like he had been dragged through a hedge backward. His dark hair was plastered to his skull, water still dripping down his face. His coat clung to his shoulders, and his cravat, usually so precisely tied, hung loose and disheveled around his throat. Most notably, he wore no cloak.
That was strange, given that the sky had just finished emptying its contents.
He was breathless as he approached their corner, and the way he moved suggested he had been running.
"Gentlemen," Dorian said, his voice slightly rough. He dropped into the empty chair they had reserved for him, heedless of the water he was getting on the upholstery. "My apologies for the delay."
Adrian's eyebrows drew together, his expression shifting to an expression of both suspicion and concern. "Good God, man. Did you swim here?"
"I was….." Dorian paused, his jaw working as if searching for the right word. "Occupied."
The silence that followed was pointed. Anthony studied the Viscount's face, noting the slightly wild look in his gray eyes, the way his chest was still rising and falling too quickly.
"Whatever," Anthony said finally, waving a dismissive hand. He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his brandy glass dangling between his fingers. "Will you tell her?"
Dorian's expression shuttered immediately. "Tell who what?"
"Don't play games, Ashmore." Anthony's voice was filled with simmering anger. "My sister. Penelope. Will you tell her the truth? Because I know her. She won't let this lie. She'll ask me again, and I need to know what story you've given her, or what you plan to give her."
Dorian's hands curled into fists on the arms of his chair. His jaw worked again, tension radiating from every line of his body. When he finally spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper.
"No."
"No?"
"I won't tell her." Dorian looked up, meeting Anthony's gaze with a look of desperation. "I can't tell her. You should know I can't."
Anthony held his stare for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "Good. Keep it that way."
"Though it wouldn't be so good for you if the actual truth came to light, would it?" The words came out harder than Anthony had meant for them too, a layer of warning simmering within the edge.
Dorian's face went pale beneath the wet strands of his hair. "No," he said quietly. "It wouldn't be."
A weighted pause settled over their corner of the club. Then Dorian straightened slightly in his chair, some of his usual composure returning despite his bedraggled state.
"Thank you," he said, his voice carrying a formality that seemed at odds with his appearance. "Once again. For pardoning my brother. For allowing me to take the fall instead."
Edmund made a sound that was half-laugh, half-scoff, entirely without humor. He set down his own glass with enough force to make the amber liquid slosh. "Your fool of a brother left us no choice."
"Edmund," Adrian said quietly, a warning.
But Edmund was already leaning forward, his expression dark. "Do you have any idea what it took to keep that quiet? The Duke's prize stallion, Ashmore. Six years of breeding, worth more than most men see in a lifetime. And your brother—" He stopped himself, visibly reining in his anger. "He killed it in our own stables. Left it there like refuse."
Dorian's jaw clenched, but he said nothing.
"We found him standing over the body," Adrian added, his voice softer than Edmund's but no less serious. "Blood on his hands. On his face. He was..." Adrian glanced at Anthony, seeming to seek permission before continuing. "He wasn't himself."
"We could have had him arrested," Edmund continued. "Could have seen him hanged for destruction of property at the very least. The scandal alone would have destroyed both our families."
"But your father came to ours," Anthony said, picking up the thread of the story. "Offered compensation. Begged us to keep it quiet. Said his younger son wasn't well, that he needed help, not a noose."
Dorian's knuckles had gone white where they gripped the chair arms.
"The agreement was simple," Anthony continued, his voice taking on the formal tone he used for business matters. "Your family would pay triple the stallion's worth. Your brother would leave London immediately and remain wherever your father saw fit to send him. He would never set foot on Carrington property again."
"And you," Edmund cut in, his eyes boring into Dorian's, "would take responsibility for the 'business venture' that cost us the horse. You would be the one society blamed, the one Father could rail against at his club. The family disgrace."
"Better that than the truth getting out," Adrian said quietly. "That there was something…..wrong with your brother. People would have started asking questions. Started wondering what kind of illness makes a man tear apart a living creature with his bare hands."
The silence that followed was suffocating.
"Is he in London?" Anthony asked, his voice suddenly edged.
Dorian hesitated. It was only for a moment, barely perceptible, but Anthony caught it. The Viscount's eyes darted away, then back, and when he spoke, there was something uncertain in his tone.
"I cannot be certain."
Edmund's eyes narrowed. "What does that mean?"
"It means," Dorian said slowly, "that my brother does not keep me informed of his movements. We are not.….close."
"Not close," Edmund repeated flatly. "Your brother nearly destroyed both our families and you're 'not close.'"
"Edmund." Anthony's voice cut through his brother's rising anger. "That's enough."
But Edmund wasn't finished. "No it's not. What do you mean by that? He deserves every inch of dis—"
"I said that's enough." Anthony's voice had gone cold, the tone that reminded everyone in the room that he was the heir, the future Duke, the one who would lead their family when their father was gone.
Edmund sat back, jaw clenched, but he fell silent.
Anthony turned his attention back to Dorian, studying the man's face. The Viscount looked haunted and extremely exhausted.
"We have told you this already," Anthony said, his voice softening slightly, "but you must not court our sister. Do you understand me?"
Dorian's gray eyes met his, and for a moment, Anthony saw a pained expression flash through his features. Then it was gone, replaced by a mask of polite acquiescence.
"I wouldn't dream of it," Dorian said quietly.