Thornwich’s voice rang out through the dining room of White’s Gentlemen’s Club, but no one really noticed. To a gentleman, everyone was as far into his cups as were Nick and his friends – if one could call them friends. If truth be told, the company in town at this time of year, early December, left a lot to be desired. Every gentleman around this table was as dissolute as he. They were all rakes and libertines, even the married ones. And at this moment in time, they were all utterly foxed. Nick swirled the brandy in his glass and watched it coat the inside before dribbling back into the pool of dark amber liquid. Then he looked up at the man who had just spoken. “Broken-hearted, Thornwich? I don’t know what you mean.” “Lady Angela—Sedgewick’s daughter. You seemed very keen on her during the season and then suddenly she was betrothed to the bastard son of the Duke of Hawkhill.” “Mm, yes,” mused Nick, trying to sound non-committal. “I am sure she is very happy with Mr Stevenson and he is obscenely rich.”
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