Low voices and the sound of glass hitting glass emerged from the Star Chamber—what he and the others on the membership committee now called the room after hearing the nickname—where the membership committee met to discuss invitations and other issues. Tobias veered from his course of finding Fiona and poked his head into the room. Just Lucien and Wexford sat inside drinking.

“Why are you hiding up here?” Tobias asked with a smile.

“We aren’t hiding. We’re fortifying.” Wexford set down his glass and leapt up from the chair. “What can I pour you?”

Tobias stepped inside. “Nothing. I’m eager to get downstairs.”

Lucien arched a brow. “Eager? Miss Goodfellow will be there this evening. Dare I assume she’s the source of your anticipation?”

“She must be the reason,” Wexford said after downing a gulp of his Irish whisky. “Deane is nearly out of time. Less than ten days, is it?”

Tobias dropped his chin in a single nod. “Yes, but it’s not going to happen—the marriage, I mean. Not before then anyway.”

Both men stared at Tobias.

Wexford’s brows drove down as he narrowed his eyes. “You’re giving up?”

“Not at all. I still plan to wed.” He inhaled and corrected himself. “I hope to wed.” He could not assume Fiona would accept him. She’d already said no once.

“What about Horethorne?” Lucien asked the question softly, almost reverently. He knew how much the place meant to Tobias.

“It will be well taken care of by its new owner.” He felt such joy when he thought of her having a place she could permanently call home for the first time.

Lucien didn’t look convinced. “How do you know?”

“Because in the event that I fail to wed by the dictated date, which I will, my father has given it to Fiona, rather, Miss Wingate.”

Nostrils flaring slightly, Lucien pinned him with a knowing stare. “Who is it you hope to marry? I do not think it is Miss Goodfellow.”

Lucien had always been too bloody astute, not that Tobias felt a need to keep his plan secret, at least not from them. “It is not. I hope that Miss Wingate will become my countess.”

Wexford let out a chortle. “Oh, well played!”

Tobias turned his attention to the laughing Wexford, as did Lucien. “This is not a game.”

“Deane’s not hoping to marry her to gain his mother’s house. He’s in love with his ward,” Lucien clarified.

Wexford’s laughter died immediately. He gaped at Tobias a moment and then leaned forward, his elbow on the table. “So you did have a tendre for her?” He grinned. “Spectacular.”

Setting his empty glass down, Lucien stood. “Come, let us go find your countess-to-be.”

“You assume she’ll say yes,” Tobias said, suddenly more nervous than he’d been all day. No, more nervous than he’d been in two years. The memory of learning that Priscilla had chosen someone other than him rose sharp in his mind.

“There’s a chance she won’t?” Wexford also stood, finishing his whisky as he rose and depositing the empty tumbler on the table.