“I’d insist you call me Deane, but I know you won’t. Do you want a drink?”

“Yes, thank you. And I would call you Deane if you really want me to.”

Tobias finished pouring and handed Lucien the tumbler. “Tempting. My loathing for my father is particularly sharp this evening.”

“Has he visited some new horror upon you?”

“No, just the same manipulation from his grave. I should have postponed bringing Miss Wingate to London until after I was wed. Then she could be my wife’s problem.”

“Your poor wife,” Lucien said, smirking.

“Why? Managing young ladies is far more suited to a wife than to someone like me.”

“You just referred to Miss Wingate as a problem. That sounds like a…problem.”

Snorting, Tobias went to the collection of chairs near the hearth and dropped into a wingback chair. “She’s out of her element completely.”

Lucien sat opposite him. “Isn’t Lady Pickering schooling her?”

“Yes, but in hindsight, I should have delayed Miss Wingate’s introduction to Society and given her more time to learn what’s expected of her.”

Lucien shrugged. “You still can. Have her focus on her studies for a fortnight or however long. Then, when she’s more comfortable, she can reenter.”

Stretching his legs out and clutching his whisky on the arm of the chair, Tobias pondered his friend’s suggestion. “Perhaps I should. I was so hellbent on seeing her wed so that I could focus on finding a countess that I failed to see she wasn’t ready.”

“Did something happen this evening?” Lucien asked.

“We went to the Billingsworth musicale.” Tobias glowered at his friend. “She went off with your sister, and I found them wagering at loo. Since Miss Wingate had no money, Lady Cassandra supplied her with the necessary funds.”

Lucien exhaled. “My apologies. But really, there’s no harm in what they were doing. Unless Cass was throwing in with the high stakes ladies? Lady Billingsworth is known for her deep play.”

“No, they were playing for pennies, but I still don’t like it. Miss Wingate’s father is not a duke. She doesn’t even have a father. She’s a nobody from the country.” Tobias realized he hadn’t paused to censor himself as he had with Lucien’s brother.

“Whose guardian is an earl and whose sponsor is the inestimable Lady Pickering. She is also, apparently, a close friend of that daughter of a duke. I think you underestimate Miss Wingate’s standing.”

“Perhaps.” Tobias took a long, satisfying drink of whisky.

Wexford tossed himself into a nearby chair. “What’s worrying Deane?” he asked no one in particular.

Lucien chuckled. “I called him Deane too.”

“Oh hell,” Wexford said, laughing. “Was bound to happen.”

“He’d rather we call him that.”

“Done.” Wexford eyed Tobias’s glass. “You’re almost out, and I forgot to pour myself something.” The Irishman stood. “What about you, Lucien? Need a refill?”

“Not yet.”

As Wexford stood, Tobias threw the rest of his drink down his throat and held out his empty glass. “It’s the Scotch whisky.”