“But we are,” Wexford pointed out. He looked to Lucien. “You’d actually go to the drawing room just to investigate that?”

“Not really. I would be utterly redundant. So glad I’m not the heir,” he muttered again.

“I thought Her Majesty rather liked you,” Tobias said.

“She does, but that doesn’t mean I need to attend her drawing room and watch a score of young ladies preen.” Lucien’s shoulder twitched. He’d never been interested in participating in Society or the Marriage Mart. His father, the duke, wanted him to wed, but as the spare, Lucien felt no pressure to do so.

Wexford lifted his glass in a toast. “Hear, hear.” Lucien joined him in drinking.

Tobias frowned at his whisky. He missed the days when he was not consumed with thoughts of marriage, whether his own or that of Miss Wingate. He’d feel much better when she was settled and no longer his concern.

“Can either of you think of a well-regarded gentleman who is looking for a wife? He doesn’t need to be titled, but he must have a good reputation.” Tobias wouldn’t marry her off to a scoundrel.

He realized many in Society regarded him that way, or as a rogue, at least. Dammit. He was trying. He hadn’t seen Barbara in a week, and he’d focused the bulk of his energy on establishing his presence in the Lords.

“For Miss Wingate, I presume?” Lucien asked. “I’m trying to think of gentlemen who’ve joined the club this Season.”

“What about Witney’s spare? I met him at Brooks’s the other night.” Wexford waved his hand. “Yes, I still go there on occasion. Call me out if you must.”

Lucien laughed and cast a look of mock disdain at Tobias. “At least it isn’t White’s.”

“Anyway, his name’s Lord Gregory Blakemore,” Wexford continued. “He’s an unassuming sort. He’s been teaching at Oxford but may become a rector. I gather he is considering taking a wife.”

“It’s easier to obtain a living if you have one,” Lucien noted.

“He’s a scholar then?” Tobias thought of Miss Wingate’s interest in maps and wondered if they might, in fact, suit.

“Definitely,” Wexford said after swallowing some whisky.

“Sounds promising.” And as the second son, he likely wouldn’t care that Miss Wingate wasn’t in possession of an impeccable pedigree. Plus, she had a sizable dowry thanks to Tobias’s father. One that would grow even larger if Tobias didn’t wed.

Bloody hell, it kept coming back to that, didn’t it? He drank the rest of his whisky in one long gulp, then stood.

“Are we driving you away?” Lucien asked.

Setting his glass on a table, Tobias straightened his waistcoat. “No, just time to turn in.”

Wexford glanced toward the clock standing between a pair of windows that looked down on Ryder Street below. “It’s early yet.”

“I’m a respectable gentleman now,” Tobias said, brushing his sleeve. “I must keep respectable hours.”

Snorting, Wexford lifted his glass once more. “Better you than me.”

“Hear, hear,” Lucien said, echoing Wexford’s earlier words before taking a drink himself.