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The look Westing leveled at him was scathing. “Oh, bollocks, man. If I had not, you would be lying in the gutter right now, beaten senseless and possibly left for dead.”
Quiet shame filled him. Shame for how he’d treated his truest friend. Shame for having been so stupid. “I thought they were my friends.” His mind replayed the words that had broken him. Diana had been right—which made him feel no better at all.
“Broomfield is an arse, and everyone knows it,” offered Westing.
“He only said what they were all thinking—what the whole of London doubtless thinks.”
“I don’t believe that to be true. Several of our comrades back there fought on your side.”
“Wonderful. Except that I don’t know who was fighting who,” Lucas countered sourly. He couldn’t take offense at Westing’s chuckle, because it really was funny. “I’m such an idiot.”
“That you are, my friend. But we are all fools in love.”
Oh, how Lucas wished he could take it all back. Now everyone would know he’d been the world’s greatest dupe. “What will you do about Charlotte?”
Westing shrugged, his expression dismal. “Throw myself upon her parents’ mercy, I suppose?”
“Elope.” He said it without thinking, but in truth it seemed like not such a bad idea.
“I beg your pardon?” said Westing, his eyes widening.
“You love her, correct?” He saw the other man nod a little. “Then fetch her tonight and take her to Gretna Green. Don’t overthink it. Don’t wait. Just do it.”
“But she’ll want a wedding and—”
“If she loves you, I think she’d rather have you than a fancy wedding with some other man waiting for her at the altar.”
Westing’s gaze narrowed. “I thought you did not believe in love?”
The only thing that kept Lucas from curling in on himself and letting out his pain was the brandy still coursing through his veins. It wasn’t enough to numb him, but it was enough to let him keep a shred of dignity. “Love is for people like you, Westie. Not people like me. You are good and kind and loyal. Me? I’m just a selfish hedonist and a gambler. I pushed to get what I wanted, and it has landed me exactly where I deserve to be.”
The look on Westing’s face shifted. “You want my advice? Go after your Diana. To hell with Harrow. If he calls you out, I’ll second you.”
Lucas tried to offer him a smile in thanks, but his swelling lip prevented it. “There are numerous reasons why that would be a terrible idea. Reasons I cannot reveal, even to you. It’s over, Westie. She’s gone, and I’ll never get her back. In truth, she was never really mine. It’s better off this w
ay. For both of us.”
Chapter Eighteen
Diana threw down her paper and tried with no appetite to nibble at the toast Francine had brought her. London was rife with scandal heaped upon scandal. A week had passed, and still all of London was talking about the terrific row in which Lucas had attacked several of his old friends.
It wasn’t hard to guess why he’d been throwing his fists about.
As Harrow had predicted, no one dared directly broach the subject of his falling out with his mistress and his newest friend, but he’d reported the looks he’d been getting whenever he went out as “telling.” The few people he’d confided in—purposely—about the whole unsavory affair had set about industriously spreading a tale of his anger at having been betrayed. The reason he’d given for not calling out Blackthorn was that he could hardly blame the man for having fallen prey to her skilled seduction. Thus had the blame been shifted from Blackthorn’s shoulders to hers—which was exactly what she wanted.
Theirs was not the only scandalbroth brewing in London, however. Rumor had it that Lucas’s erstwhile comrade, Lord Westing, had disappeared the day after pulling his friend from the fight—as had the young lady to which he’d been paying court. They’d been missing for several days now, and it was widely accepted that they’d gone to Scotland.
Diana was glad, both for the young couple and for the much-needed distraction from her and Harrow. Now, however, the spyglass would once again focus on them, for they were due to have their first public disagreement. They’d spent the first few days after their shock sequestered in their respective houses, cancelling all appointments and calls. The two parties they’d attended together since then had been painfully awkward—deliberately so. Harrow had pretended coldness toward her, and she’d pretended resentment. Tonight would be damned uncomfortable, but it had to be done.
When they arrived at the ball it was no surprise that eyes followed them everywhere. Harrow’s instructions had been clear. She was to remain glued to his arm the whole evening—and he would resolutely ignore her.
It was working beautifully until she saw Lucas staring down at her from the gallery.
“What is it?” hissed Harrow, stopping along with her involuntary pause.
“He’s here.”
His gaze followed hers up to where his supposed rival stood. “Come,” he said tersely, pulling her back into motion. He led her out of the other man’s line of sight before stopping. “Don’t worry. This can only work to our advantage. Change of plans. In a little while, I’m going to leave you to talk with one of my friends. If Blackthorn comes to you, let him. I’ll step in after a few moments and pull you away before anything truly untoward can occur. You must object—tell me you’re not a child or something to that effect—and then we’ll improvise until we can circle back to what we rehearsed.”
