Rafe ground the tip of his cane against the carpet. “That’s what all wicked rogues tell themselves. Just one more drink. One more game of cards. One more meaningless liaison.”

West shrugged. “I never said I was redeemable.”

“I won’t be here to save you next time. I’ll be gone for months.”

“You call punching me and dragging me to a fusty old gentleman’s club saving me?”

“Just be more cautious in future, will you? I don’t want to have to worry about you while I’m gone.”

Rafe threw him one of the coats he kept at his club and West put it on. “I’ll be all right. Let’s leave. I don’t like these mildewy clubs. Too many doddering old autocrats telling tales of their youthful exploits. Enough to drive a duke to drink.”

“As if you require an excuse.”

The two men were on their way out when West overheard his eldest sister’s name. “Hold a moment.” He caught Rafe by the arm. “I think they’re talking about Blanche.”

He moved closer to the doorway of a room where several men, just out of sight, were laughing loudly and placing wagers.

“My money’s on Miss Brunhilda Shufflebottom for Wallflower of the Year. Her name alone makes me convulse with laughter. No gentleman in his right mind will ask her to dance for fear of the japes he’ll endure,” said a loud male voice that West didn’t recognize.

“No, no, it’s Lady Blanche who’ll take the honors again this year.”

West recognized the blasé tones of Lord Laxton, the coxcomb of a viscount whom Blanche fancied herself to be in love with.

“You’ve led her a merry chase, Laxton. Not going to make an honest woman of her this Season?”

“Or ever,” Laxton replied, with casual cruelty. “She’s not bride material. She’s tainted by association with that ruinous wreck of a brother.”

The floor dropped from beneath West’s boots. He steadied himself with a palm against the wainscotting.

“Westbury’s so wicked,” Laxton continued, “that his poor sisters are clinging to respectability by a thin thread which could snap at any moment, leaving them mired in the muck of scandal. Not to mention the fact that he’s gambled away most of their dowries.”

“I heard he sold the ancestral jewels to settle a debt,” another man said.

“That’s not true,” West whispered to Rafe, who gave him a sidelong glance. “I only sold the antiquities.”

“I heard he contracted a wasting disease from brothels catering to gents who prefer, ahem, you know . . . flagellation and that sort of thing.”

“Definitely not!” West whispered hoarsely. “I don’t pay for punishment.” He shuddered. “Had enough as a child. And I don’t have any diseases.”

“Relieved to hear it,” Rafe replied with a sardonic twist to his mouth. “Now can we leave?”