“You will, of course, be by in the morning to redeem them?” Weston drawled as his long fingers stroked the tablecloth. The earl had every intention of refusing to accept the viscount’s money, but he wanted him to spend a sleepless night considering the implications of his foolish behavior first.

Pale and looking distinctly ill, Lord Briceland nodded and staggered out of the room, calling hoarsely for a whiskey.

“Well done, Noble, you haven’t lost your touch. I do hope the young man is duly appreciative of the fact you saved his fortune from the likes of Mansfield and the other vultures who have been circling him all evening.”

“Thank you, Harry.” Weston acknowledged his friend’s compliment and waved him and Sir Hugh into nearby chairs. “Brandy, gentlemen? Dingle! Three brandies.”

The Marquis Rosse adjusted his spectacles and took the offered balloon of brandy. Like Weston, he was in his evening blacks, creating a somber counterpoint to Sir Hugh’s emerald waistcoat and indigo coat and breeches. Weston thought the younger man looked like a peacock as he sat casting nervous glances around the room to see who was present, fiddling with several watch fobs, his quizzing glass, and two large emeralds on his pudgy fingers. He had reason to know those emeralds were paste and not the real thing.

“Where have you been?” Rosse leaned back and questioned the earl. “I thought you were taking Mariah to that play at the Lyceum. It’s all she and Alice talked about today.”

Weston rubbed a finger across his lips, enjoying the burn of brandy down his throat before it formed a warm pool in his stomach. His eyes narrowed as an acquaintance began to move toward the threesome, then, catching sight of the earl, turned on his heel and left the room. Another cut. They were getting bolder about it, too. “Does it occur to you that our mistresses are entirely too forthcoming with one another about our private plans?”

Sir Hugh snorted as Rosse grinned. “They are twins, Noble. And they do like to talk. I suppose it’s only natural that they share us, so to speak.”

“I suppose so, although it matters not. I will be giving Mariah her congé tomorrow.” Weston pulled a silver case from his coat and offered a cheroot to his friends. A servant dashed forward to light the men’s cigars.

“Tired of her already?” Sir Hugh asked, surprised. Although Weston did not often employ a mistress for any length of time, he had set up Mariah only two weeks past.

“Tired of her incessant chatter, yes, but that’s not the reason I am dispensing with her services. I will be marrying in three days, and much as it would shock the ton if they knew, I intend on honoring my marriage vows.”

Rosse and Sir Hugh both choked on their brandy. Five minutes later, when Rosse was once again able to breathe without gasping, he replaced his spectacles and stared at his friend.

“Who’s the lucky chit?”