Scowling, he turned on his heel and went to the library. There, he strode directly to the liquor cabinet and promptly swore when he couldn’t find any Scotch whisky.

“Waiting on a shipment, I think,” Wexford said from a table behind him. “There’s Irish though!” Grinning, he raised his glass.

“Irish,” Tobias muttered as he poured some. He joined Wexford at his table and sipped the whisky. “Not bad.”

Wexford narrowed his eyes jauntily. “After you finish that glass, you won’t go back. I’ll put ten pounds on it.”

Tobias shook his head. “No more wagering. I lost enough downstairs already.”

“I heard.” Lucien, a glass of port in his hand, took another chair at the table. “I just came from the members’ den where Mrs. Jennings is crowing about her winnings.”

“I hope that’s all she’s talking about.” Tobias winced inwardly to think of her sharing the proposition she’d offered him with anyone else. Surely she wouldn’t. He didn’t know her to be the kind of person who delighted in salacious information.

Both Lucien and Wexford stared at him, their eyes wide.

“Are you shagging her too?” Wexford asked, incredulous. “I mean, she’s bloody attractive, but aren’t you trying to take the tarnish off?”

Tobias growled low in his throat. “I’m not shagging her. Or anyone else.” He took a long pull on the whisky. Wexford might be right about becoming a convert by the bottom of the glass. But was that because it was good, or because Tobias would have downed the cheapest gin if it was in front of him?

“Never mind,” Tobias grumbled, setting the glass down and leaning back in his chair. “She was trying to be helpful. I’ve twelve days to marry and zero prospects.”

“She offered herself?” Lucien asked.

“Not exactly.” Though she’d hinted at that too. “Can we forget about Mrs. Jennings and focus on the matter at hand?”

Lucien arched his brows. “Which is?”

“Finding a damned wife. If I’m going to race to Scotland, I need to leave in a few days.”

“Since you have no prospects at present, I take it you’re referring to a kidnapping then?” Wexford sent a smirk toward Lucien, who tried not to smile and failed.

“I can’t believe Mrs. Jennings was actually trying to be more helpful than you lot.” Tobias swept up his glass and finished the whisky. He started to rise, but Lucien waved him back down.

“We apologize,” Lucien said soberly as he cast a quelling glance toward Wexford. “You need help finding an appropriate bride, one whom you can whisk away to Scotland or marry by special license.”

“Yes.” Tobias settled himself in the chair and folded his arms over his chest.

“What happened with Miss Goodfellow?” Lucien asked.

“Her feelings toward me—if she even had any—may have cooled.” Tobias couldn’t even say for certain because he hadn’t seen her.

Cupping his glass atop the table, Lucien tapped his finger against the rim of the tumbler. “That’s a shame. Things seemed to be going well. You danced, you called on her, and she is in a position to eagerly accept a courtship. One wonders why you didn’t propose days ago.” There was a hidden question there, but Tobias wasn’t entirely certain what it was, nor did he like it. He also didn’t like that Lucien was getting to the heart of something—namely, Tobias’s heart and the fact that he was having trouble committing to marriage without engaging said organ.