“First,” said Grenville, “you may be unaware that while such exclusive clubs are not open toladies, it is not at all unusual to discover the presence of demimondaines within their hallowed walls.”
Julian drained his port rather than respond. He was doing his very best not to think about Miss Thorne in the arms of other men, at the Wit & Whistle or anywhere.
And he refused to contemplate the potential reasons for his discomfort.
“Second,” Grenville continued, “the doors of this particular club would open to her without hesitation. It appears Miss Thorne was the one managing the Wit & Whistle during its rise and peak of popularity.”
“Miss Thorne... ran a gentlemen’s club?”
“Not just ran,” Grenville reminded him. “Turned it profitable.”
Julian stared at him.
“I know what you’re thinking.” Grenville’s eyes twinkled. “How unseemly of the lower classes to dabble in trade.”
This was a private jest between them. Grenville was heir to a barony, yet solved the ton’s indelicate situations in exchange for coin. Julian had no need for others’ money, but was often teased that he worked more hours than his own servants.
“She created a profitable gentlemen’s club,” he repeated, “...and then became a courtesan?”
“The investigation is ongoing,” Grenville replied noncommittally.
Julian tightened his jaw.
Grenville was doing his best. His forte waskeepingsecrets, not uncovering them. The ton employed him to bury their little details before they became big scandals.
Julian didn’t give a fig about idle gossip. He wasn’t the least bit reputable, and until he’d begun the duchess hunt, such things had never caused him concern. But now that hewason the market…
“What do you think?” he asked. “Am I too scandalous to secure an impeccable bride?”
“You’re pretty peccable,” Grenville admitted. “For as long as you continue to throw masquerades in the manner in which you currently host them, you will continue to receive understandable censure.”
“Ninety-nine percent of my guests have never ventured upstairs,” Julian pointed out. “Most attend for the luxuries on display and the thrill of being scandal adjacent. And none are ever invited into my private quarters.”
“That is as may be,” Grenville said. “But what has it to do with Miss Thorne?”
“Nothing,” Julian said. “Why would my personal life have anything to do with Miss Thorne?”
“Mm,” said Grenville. “I see. Well, if you’re ever serious about mending your infamous reputation, let me know and I shall do my utmost to assist you. In the meantime, I shall carry on with the current, completely-unrelated-to-your-bride-hunt project.”
“Do that,” Julian growled.
Unperturbed, Grenville set his empty glass on a side table and rose to his feet. “I shall send a note when I have something further to report.”
Once his friend had taken his leave, Julian moved to stare moodily out through the window. It would be too dark to see anything but his own reflection, had the footmen not lit the path with dozens of lanterns in anticipation of tonight’s masquerade.
The carriages had not yet begun to queue. It was only nine o’clock.
He removed the report from his pocket and scanned its contents, then read it again, slower the second time. It contained marginally more detail than uncovered in their conversation, most of which centered about the club and the cousin.
Julian didn’t care about that. He wanted to know more about Miss Thorne. She was a conundrum. If he’d thought a modicum of information would sate his appetite, the opposite had occurred. Each new detail begat more questions.
He did have one answer. It seemed that her offer of assistance had not only been in earnest... she had reason to believe herself capable of fulfilling that duty.
But Julian’s masquerades were not some ill-run, no-name club of little standing. To be clear, putting that to rights was indeed a feat—and one her cousin was apparently incapable of achieving—but improving something terrible was far easier than improving something that had already been polished to perfection.
He filed the report in a drawer and then bade his brain to cease thinking about Miss Thorne.
It didn’t work.
