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“But—”
“Please tell my mother I’ll be dining in my chambers, and I won’t accompany her this evening.”
Katie opened her mouth to protest, but she must have seen something in Grace’s expression that would not accept arguments. She bobbed a curtsy and quickly left the bedchamber.
Feet heavy, Grace moved to the fireplace and looked down at the captive flames. Disappointment weighted her like a leaden cloak. Only in the certainty of not seeing Sebastian did she realize how much she’d been looking forward to doing exactly that.
She had several worthwhile books to read, and her own thoughts about habitat encroachment to write down, and honestly, so many other things to do and contemplate that she shouldn’t mind not meeting up with Sebastian tonight. She didn’t need to spend more time pondering anything related to him.
But as she stared dispiritedly into the fire, she had a terrible premonition that she’d spend the next twenty-four hours preoccupied by Sebastian, and only Sebastian.
“This is what you do every night?” Seb asked in the carriage hours later. “Dining and billiards at Brooks’s, followed by wasting extravagant amounts of money at gaming hells?”
His own evenings were, by comparison, exceedingly quiet. A solitary meal at a chophouse, then home to read.
“Not every night.” Sitting opposite Seb, Rotherby swayed with the vehicle’s movement. “Occasionally, I go to pugilism matches, or visit any number of brothels—”
“Truly?” Seb demanded.
“Not truly.” McCameron, seated beside Rotherby, shooed the notion away with a wave of his hand. “Rotherby believes this line of discourse is amusing, so he persists in it.”
“Never say I’m not amusing,” Rotherby fired back.
“Faced with that choice,” McCameron said drily, “I shall remain silent.”
Seb leaned forward, bracing his forearms on his knees. “Is it true, Rotherby?”
“It isn’t.” Rotherby let out a sigh. “When I was a younger man, yes, I did partake in such amusements. Because I had wealth and power and prestige, and back then, it pleased me to see just what such privileges I could afford. But now . . .” He glanced out the window to the passing streets, illuminated by lamps and the storefronts of shops that catered to late-night customers. “It pleases me no longer.”
Seb had seen it—the way men gathered around Rotherby wherever they went, laughing too loudly at his quips, nodding like marionettes whenever Rotherby ventured an opinion, pressing him for private meetings. Exhaustion tugged at Seb to merely observe it, let alone be the focus of so much obsequiousness.
Small wonder that Rotherby seldom ventured forth in public. Yet he did so now, for Seb’s sake. Gratitude expanded warmly through Seb’s chest to consider the expansive limits of Rotherby’s friendship.
“We needn’t persist in this evening’s escapade,” Seb said.
Rotherby smirked. “Oh, no. I’ll gladly endure a few sycophants’ attempts to win my favor to ensure your status as a rake of consequence.”
“Doesn’t hurt that, wherever you deign to visit, pretty ladies drape themselves over you like Spanish moss,” McCameron noted with a quirked eyebrow.
“That, too, is something I must tolerate.” But Rotherby’s grin undercut his doleful words. “There are advantages to having a place in the world.”
“I’m beginning to see that,” Seb said. Already in the course of the evening, he’d shaken more hands with people of consequence than in the summation of his life. At Brooks’s, he’d received no fewer than seven invitations to dine with titled men. They’d looked at him with respect. For no other reason than he was seen in Rotherby’s company, and because Seb worked to carry himself as though he was worthy of that respect.
He still struggled to speak a bit when talking with strangers, but when those awkward pauses fell, he’d focus on his breathing, calming himself enough to ask a question, which prompted the other person to launch into a speech—and afforded Seb time to collect himself and become immersed in the moment, rather than his own thoughts.
