Lord Jeremy ordered beefsteak, which Rex would have predicted, and he drank only sparingly, as did Rex.

“You seem a bit pre-occupied, Elsmore. Will the rest of your evening be spent in more interesting pursuits?”

“I am doubtless expected at the theater later this evening. You are more than welcome to join the party if you’d like.”

“Lady Rachel extended an invitation, but you might prefer not to catch sight of me for a bit after I air the next topic.”

Rex signaled the waiter to clear their plates.

“Will you gentlemen be having a sweet?” the waiter asked. “Our rum cream cake is not to be missed.”

“None for me,” Rex said. Of all things, he wanted to return to the bank. Howell’s books had been respectably accurate. Occasional errors had been crossed out and corrected rather than carried forward from week to week. Howell, at least, was minding his p’s and q’s.

A niggling splinter of unease told Rex that Howell might be the exception among the bank’s managers.

“Another time for the cream cake, then,” Lord Jeremy said.

The waiter cleared the table, leaving the wine and wineglasses, while Rex wondered what Eleanora was having for dinner. Was her cat growling in the corner over a nibble of fish? Had the lady indulged in any wine since returning from Surrey?

“Your Grace is welcome to call me out for the subject I’m about to raise,” Lord Jeremy said, “but I feel something must be said.”

“Calling suitors out is beneath my dignity, my lord. My sisters and my mother have all had occasion to assure me of this.”

His lordship’s brows rose, but he acquired the look of a man determined to soldier on. “I am in love with Lady Rachel. I admit this proudly, knowing she might yet decline me with the dreaded speech about we-would-not-suit.”

I’ve heard that speech, and it is to be dreaded. “Go on.”

“Her ladyship has recently favored me with her attentions, and my good fortune has been remarked by others.”

“If you make my sister the object of gossip, Bledsoe, no power on earth—”

His lordship held up a hand. “Not gossip, Your Grace. Angels defend me, never that. I ran into Lord Norcross at Tatts this week.”

Every idle gentleman in London milled around Tattersalls on sale days. Cold weather only meant they stood about nipping from flasks rather than miss a chance to enjoy a parade of good horseflesh and better gossip.

“I hope you found his lordship well.” Norcross was another eligible, and last year, Rachel had seemed to favor him.

“He asked me a very curious question, Your Grace. He asked if Lady Rachel had won free of her little attachment to the poppy. He seemed quite concerned for her, else I would have drawn his cork on the spot.”