The Rebel Bride by Catherine Coulter

“I see your luck is quite out tonight, Percy.” He seated himself in a momentarily vacant chair next to his friend.

Sir Percy Blairstock turned a pair of pale-blue eyes to Julien and said with a grunt, “Well, Julien, what other choice do I have but to game away my fortune? I suppose you were in the arms of one of your fair Cyprians and quite forgot our dinner engagement.”

Julien smiled broadly, even white teeth flashing. “Quite accurate, old boy, but as you see, I did not forget. Just a bit late, that’s all. Your humble servant.”

“You conceited dog. You aren’t anyone’s humble servant, March. Bedamned, I’m nearly done in.” Sir Percy pushed back his chair and gathered up his few remaining guineas, stuffing them into his coat pocket.

“It appears that I’ve saved you from total ruin. Perhaps you owe me some words of thanks.” Julien grinned and at the same time shook his head in refusal at a footman who offered him brandy.

“Ho, March! You do not play tonight?”

Julien turned away from the footman and Percy and calmly surveyed the dissipated face of Lord Devalney, who appeared to be already deep in his cups. He had never liked the man, but he had been a friend of Julien’s father’s, and therefore, in Julien’s code, deserving at least of civility.

He gave a rather thin smile and said easily, “As you see, sir, I am otherwise engaged with Blairstock here.”

“And I for one am famished,” Sir Percy broke in. “Do come, Julien, let us try some of Pierre’s delicious fish.”

Julien shrugged his shoulders, rose, and bowed to Lord Devalney. “You will forgive me, sir, I must see to the pressing needs of Blairstock before he takes me to Hounslow Heath at dawn. Your servant, sir.”

Lord Devalney waved a thin, darkly veined hand and returned his attention to the faro bank.

“What a reckless old fool. Never liked him above half.” Sir Percy looked back over his shoulder as he spoke. Julien merely tugged on his sleeve, and the two friends made their way from the card room.

“Tolerance, Percy, tolerance.”

“But that wig, Julien . . . and he still paints his face. Did you see that ridiculous patch by his mouth?”

“A relic, Percy, just a relic who still breathes and still walks. Just imagine how he must regard us with our elaborate cravats and artfully disheveled hair.”

“My father used to tell me that wigs were full of lice,” Percy said, stubborn as a goat chewing on a boot.

Julien laughed but said only, “I fear if you dwell on that thought, Percy, you might well lose your appetite.”

It was well after midnight when Julien and Percy left White’s. There was a full moon. Since the night wasn’t overly cold, Julien cajoled Percy into walking to Grosvenor Square to the St. Clair town house. Their comfortable silence was broken only by the clicking of their canes on the cobblestones until Julien said pensively, “You know, Percy, I grow quite tired of the fair Yvette. Can I depend upon Riverton to take her off my hands?”

Percy turned his head with some difficulty above his high starched shirt points, to gaze wonderingly at his friend. “She is a tidy morsel,” he said only, trying to gauge Julien’s mood. As Julien’s countenance remained impassive and he offered no response, Percy said with some exasperation, “Good God, Julien, she has been in your keeping for but, what is it? ah, only five or six months?”

“Why don’t you take her then, Percy? Cut out old Riverton. Surely she would enjoy you more than that bag of wind.”

“Quite above my touch, as you well know, March. Unlike you, I am cursed with a father who holds a tight rein on the purse strings.”

“Come, Percy, you know very well you could afford to maintain the fair Yvette if you were not so careless with your guineas at the gaming tables.”

“That’s quite easy for you to say, Julien,” Percy said, allowing himself some bitterness. “In control of your own fortune and rich as Midas at eighteen— good God, it makes my dinner churn at the thought.”