Page 9 of The Duke of Deceit

He stopped in the doorway of the basement that Devlin Raines had converted into a training room of sorts, complete with racks of swords and sawdust dummies. Brooks’s had itsbasement cockpit, Boodles’s had its hidden rooms where women could be smuggled into the club for an hour’s pleasure, and Brechenhurst had its own private fighting salon. Gentleman Jackson had nothing on the Duke of Dartmoor and his friends.

Lucien leaned against the doorframe far more casually than he felt and called out, “I’m surprised the duchess allows her husband to sneak away from Dartmoor House in the afternoons for such mischief.”

Devlin glanced up from unwrapping strips of cloth from his knuckles. The sheen of sweat on his torso proved he’d already been there long enough for a good workout. So did the dents and bumps in the sawdust dummy in front of him. “The duchessinsiststhat her husband leaves Dartmoor House every afternoon. Practically shoves me out the door, in fact, and says not to come back until dinner.”

“So a good marriage, then,” Lucien commented dryly.

Devlin’s face broke into a wide grin. “I’ve never been happier in my life.”

Lucien did his best to ignore a stab of jealousy. That was the problem with the way he led his life. On one hand, his black reputation kept unwanted women away. On the other, he didn’t want the women who weren’t frightened off. Neither group lent itself to producing viable candidates for Duchess of Crewe. Not that it mattered. Whoever it was, she wouldn’t be the real Duchess of Crewe anyway.

“You don’t have a wife to shove you out the door,” Devlin mused. “So what brings you out on a rainy afternoon?”

Lucien pushed himself away from the doorframe and came forward into the room. He took the liberty of removing his hat and gloves and tossing them onto a leather chair. “You haven’t been to the clubs for the past few days, if you have to ask that.”

“Oh, I’ve been,” Devlin corrected. He dropped the used cloths to the floor, and his smile faded. “I’ve heard what the rumors are saying about you. Whatever the reason, it can’t be good.”

Lucien blew out a hard breath as he shrugged out of his coat and tossed it onto the chair. Only six people in the world knew the truth about his life and why he behaved the way he did, and Devlin was one.

“No, it’s not good.” Lucien stripped off his jacket and let it fall onto his coat. “But damned if I know why the rumors are circulating.” He yanked free the cravat knot at his throat. “Don’t they know me at all? For God’s sake, who could possibly believe that I’d give money to orphans and pensioners?”

“Also to nuns and the infirmed.”

He froze, the cravat halfway off his neck, and croaked out in disbelief, “Nuns?”

“As well as anonymously sitting on several charity boards, including those which sponsor fallen women and champion prison reform.”

Lucien blinked, his stunned mind still a step behind. “Nuns?”

Devlin grinned and crossed to the wall to take down a pair of rapiers. Without having to ask if Lucien was up for a fight, Devlin tossed one to him.

But then, the two men knew each other better than anyone else in the world, to the point that they could often read each other’s minds.

That was what came of living together when they were at Eton, when Lucien, Devlin, Shay Douglass, and Chase Maddox had trained nightly under Anthony Titus,maître d’armes. They’d learned to protect themselves at every turn and to kill when they couldn’t turn away. Together, they’d become deadly fighters and then mercenaries in the wars against Napoleon, before life made all four of them dukes and sent them on their separate ways.

But no matter how far apart they wandered, the bonds they’d forged would never be broken. They were brothers in every way except blood, and that distinction meant nothing to any of them. They would do whatever the others asked without question, and they would lay down their lives for each other without hesitation.

“There’s more,” Devlin warned as he took his position in the center of the long basement and dropped into hisen gardestance. “Another rumor.”

Lucien stopped opposite him, steeling himself for the bad news. “What’s that?”

Devlin saluted Lucien with his rapier in lieu of callingprêts. “That you’ve loaned your townhouse to a society matron for hosting parties.”

“Who?” He lowered into position and returned the salute.

“Mrs. Peterson.” Devlin charged. “Allez!”

Lucien automatically dodged Devlin’s unexpected thrust only from muscle memory crafted from years of practice and belatedly remembered to raise his foil to counter the attack, stunned by the news.

Through the clash of metal upon metal as he countered Devlin’s thrusts, his foggy brain slowly found traction. “Mrs.HaroldPeterson? The aunt of Iphigenia Dunwoody?”

Every unmarried gentleman in England knew well both the spinster gel and her aunt. Rather, they knew how to avoid them. They feared to their cores being cornered by either woman at any soiree.

When Devlin nodded, Lucien groaned. “Please tell me the rumors say she’s hosting orgies.”

Devlin parried Lucien’s thrust and laughed. “Garden parties in your conservatory!”

“I don’t evenhavea conservatory,” Lucien ground out through clenched teeth.