Theo shot his brother a questioning glare. Aramis had been gossiping to his wife again. He was obsessed with the woman, forever whispering in her ear, always touching her hand. If a hard-hearted rogue like Aramis could be tamed, all bachelors were doomed.
“As I’m sure Aramis told you, I have taken a vow of chastity.” If Theo avoided romantic entanglements, he could not fall into a matchmaker’s trap. “While Miss Baker invited me to dine with her tonight, I came only to humiliate our uncle and spend time with beloved family.”
Aramis snorted. “How long do you mean to keep up this charade?”
“Charade?” Theo clutched his chest as if mortally wounded.
“The pretence that you’ve abandoned your roguish ways. Your moniker is the King of Hearts, not Virtuous Victor. Avoiding women won’t prevent destiny from knocking on your door.”
“Destiny deems I shall die a bachelor.”
A shiver chased down Theo’s spine. Over the course of a few short months, three of his siblings had married. He was next in line. Doubtless fate lurked in the shadows, gripping a noose, ready to string him up by the proverbials.
“Look what happened to us. We didn’t expect to fall in love.” Naomi stared at Aramis as if he were a god amongst men. A curious combination of lust and longing encompassed them like a halo of gold. “We never believed we could be so happy. When you meet the right person, Theo, you will know true love, too.”
Theo turned his attention to the stage and feigned interest.
He would rather rot in hell than trust a woman.
Bitter thoughts of Lucille Bowman clawed their way out of the dirt and into his heart. Painful memories were never truly buried. They lay like the undead in the darkness, waiting to grab a man by the ankle and drag him to his doom.
Being his usual intuitive self, Aramis was quick to grasp the problem. “Lucille Bowman was not the right woman for you. She toyed with your affections to frighten her father. She kept you dangling like a puppet. You were never good enough. You’re not heir to a title.”
The words hit hard—no man wished to think himself inadequate—though Theo kept his arrogant mask in place. “Don’t spare my feelings. You may as well twist the blade and sever an artery.”
“I’m your brother. I’ll not serve the truth like a sweet treat on a lace doily. You were never in love with her. The sooner you realise that the better your life will be.”
The urge to curse the woman stung like acid on his tongue. Deceit was a sin he could not tolerate. But he was the King of Hearts. Should he not be a man of great empathy? Should he not have an emotional intelligence above that of other mortals?
Perhaps he needed a different moniker.
Engaging with one’s heart made a man weak.
He should be the King of Loathing. The King of Tragedies.
“What about Miss Darrow?” Naomi said above the crowd’s sudden shriek of laughter when a donkey in a periwig appeared on stage. “Aramis said she came to Fortune’s Den looking for you last night, though she wouldn’t say why. Only a woman driven by an obsession would risk visiting a gaming hell after dark.”
Mention of the modiste had Theo grumbling under his breath.
Miss Darrow was obsessed, but not with him.
“Perhaps she came to offer an apology. She lied to me. She made me coffee and flirted outrageously, all in the name of deception.”
It was partly Miss Darrow’s fault he got shot outside her shop. He had gone to the dressmaker’s to chaperone his sister, Delphine. Unbeknownst to him, she wasn’t there for a gown fitting. It was a ruse arranged by Miss Darrow so Delphine could meet a man in the yard.
Miss Darrow had used him and treated him like a fool. She was no different to Lady Lucille. They were both conniving cats.
“Miss Darrow merely came to her client’s aid,” Naomi said, showing her unwavering support for womanhood. “Surely the days spent nursing you are reparation enough. Besides, everything worked out perfectly in the end. Were it not for Miss Darrow’s intervention, Delphine would never have met her husband.”
Seeing Delphine happy and in love was indeed a blessing.
“Nothing pleases me more than knowing Delphine is content.” Theo rubbed his wounded shoulder and winced. Perhaps he should be grateful he’d gained a scar. It did add a certain ruggedness to his physique. “But being shot makes me look weak. Every coxcomb drunk on arak will think he has the strength to pummel me now.”
Aramis found the notion amusing. “You could do with honing your pugilistic skills. Admit nothing brings you greater pleasure than thrashing a few arrogant lords. We could put you in the fighting pit and take bets on the outcome.”
It was no laughing matter. Another attack was imminent. He could feel it in his blood. This time, he would be prepared.
“I shall consider fighting in the pit once I’ve won our current wager.” Theo met his brother’s gaze, and they both grinned.
Their latest bet involved Miss Darrow.
Miss Darrow had helped nurse him back to health as part of her penance. She’d closed her shop and spent hours at his bedside while he recuperated at Mile End—now his sister’s marital home. Yet he’d often wondered if the modiste had another reason for wanting to leave town. Throughout her vigil, she was never without her mysterious wooden box.
You hug that sewing box like it’s a beloved pet.
These threads are expensive.
Who in their right mind would steal haberdashery?
You’d be surprised.
One might ask why a simple sewing box came with a small gold key. Or why the modiste wore it on a red ribbon fastened around her neck. When feigning sleep, he was certain Miss Darrow had retrieved something from her bodice and buried it beneath the threads.
It was a puzzle he longed to unravel.
So, in an act of retribution, he stole the box and hid it in his bedchamber at Fortune’s Den. The longer he kept it, the closer he came to winning the wager.
Not that he cared about the prize. Toying with Miss Darrow was part of his recuperation. A means to heal his wounded pride. Indeed, he would make sure the modiste never lied to him again.
