LITMIR.BIZ

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love fled in the wake of expediency. Once gone, love could destroy.

      Oliver sincerely hoped the love shared by Frederick, Jacob and their wives would not be so easily shattered. But he would not wager any money on it.

      And he was known to wager on almost anything.

      Oliver stood next to Frederick and they hit their respective cue balls simultaneously to see who would have the first shot. Oliver’s ball stopped closest to the baulk cushion. He went first, hitting both Frederick’s cue ball and the red ball.

      Oliver concentrated on the billiards. That was what he liked about games or any competition. He could focus on winning and push all other thoughts out of his mind. Unfortunately, Frederick’s careful approach to billiards gave Oliver too much time to think.

      He frowned and crossed his arms over his chest.

      ‘Back to discussing my wife,’ Jacob said in good humour. ‘I highly recommend marriage.’

      ‘As do I.’ Frederick continued to eye the ball. ‘You should try it, Oliver.’

      ‘Not likely.’ Oliver’s reply came quickly.

      ‘You will change your tune.’ Frederick continued to consider the placement of his cue. ‘Once you meet the right lady.’ He finally hit the red ball and sent it into a pocket.

      Did Frederick not see how easily his marriage to Georgiana might have turned to misery? Oliver held his tongue, though.

      He took his shot and this time sent Fred’s cue ball into a pocket.

      ‘Maybe he already has.’ Jacob rose to pour himself some brandy. He turned to Oliver. ‘The mysterious Parisian lady.’

      Cecilia.

      ‘Nonsense.’ He regretted telling them of her, not that he’d said much, and it had taken him some time to divulge even that meagre information. He never discussed the more private elements of his time with women.

      ‘You cannot tell us you do not think of her,’ Jacob persisted. ‘You’ve been different since that trip. A veritable malcontent.’

      ‘I dispute that statement.’ Oliver tapped his foot, impatient over Frederick’s care in executing his shot. Or at least that was the reason he told himself his toe was tapping.

      Frederick finally hit the ball. ‘I agree with Jake. You’ve been moodier. And what lady was your last conquest? No one since Paris.’

      Frederick was right, of course. ‘You assume too much. Perhaps I do not tell you of my every liaison. Perhaps I am discreet.’ Oliver took his shot and missed.

      His friends exchanged knowing glances.

      He played the rest of the game in disgruntled silence. And lost.

      Oliver refused to believe that the brief encounter with Cecilia had sent him into this funk. Perhaps the cause was because he’d not accomplished his goal in Paris. He’d not found very much new to offer at their club. Nothing, at least, that was not distasteful to him.

      Too much of Vitium et Virtus was becoming distasteful to him.

      But that was a worry that had preceded his trip to Paris.

      He must admit that the memory of Cecilia did linger in the recesses of his mind. A church bell would call back the image of her in Notre Dame, the sun through the rose windows bathing her face in colour. One of the lady patrons of the club wrapped her Kashmir shawl around her shoulders, just as Cecilia had. Their new French songstress had Cecilia’s colour hair.

      Reminders were to be expected, were they not? Yet surely that bore no special significance.

      ‘Another game?’ Frederick held up a cue ball.

      Jacob stood and picked up a cue.

      Oliver poured himself some brandy and lowered himself into a chair. The room had been designed for their comfort, his, Jacob, Frederick and Nicholas. The richly carved oak panelling on the walls came from a German monastery. The billiard table, with its fine green-baize surface, filled the room’s centre, but around it were the most comfortable chairs in the club and enough tables and cabinets to hold the ever-present brandy. The chandelier’s many candles illuminated the billiard table so play could continue all night, if desired.

      Very occasionally they offered billiard tournaments, the prize of which was some debauched spree, but most of the time this room was for their own amusement. Oliver preferred it that way. Increasingly he was preferring the days Vitium et Virtus was closed and he had time to himself.

      He, Frederick, Jacob and Nicholas began the club back in their Oxford days. It was secret, exclusive and naughtier than the Hell Fire clubs of their grandfathers. Vitium et Virtus also lacked the Hell Fire clubs’ anti-religious affectations. No black mass for Vitium et Virtus. No devil worship or paganism or ridiculous rituals. Their club worshipped pleasure and excess, in card-playing, drink and fornication. It had been their highest accomplishment at the University.

      When they left Oxford, they brought the club to London.

      What did Oliver care that he was not welcome at Almack’s? He belonged to Vitium et Virtus.

      Life had been good right up until that night six years ago when Nicholas disappeared, leaving only a pool of blood and his signet ring in the alley behind the club.

      Oliver, Frederick and Jacob had kept Vitium et Virtus running for Nicholas’s sake, but for how much longer? Frederick and Jacob were now married. What honourable gentleman runs a club of Dionysian revels when his wife is waiting at home?

      Oliver would keep it going by himself, if necessary. To him, giving up on Vitium et Virtus was like giving up on Nicholas. He refused to believe Nicholas was dead.

      He finished his brandy and poured another.

      Enough blue devils.

      ‘I do have one new idea for the club,’ he began.

      Jacob grinned. ‘Nothing that involves driving hooks through one’s skin and hanging from ropes.’

      Oliver had told them of the self-mutilation and flagellation of some Paris clubs.

      ‘Not unless you wish to try it,’ he shot back.

      Jacob held up both hands. ‘Not me!’

      ‘We could have a Vitium et Virtus ball.’

      ‘Oh, that is original,’ Frederick said.

      ‘Not the usual sort of ball.’ Oliver rose and picked up one of the billiard balls from a pocket. ‘We have two baskets of balls like these, only each ball has a number painted on it. There are matching numbers for men and for women. The men pick from the men’s basket and the women from the women’s. Then they partner up with the person whose number matches theirs. No one knows ahead of time who their partner will be.’

      Frederick straightened his spine. ‘Georgiana and I will not play.’

      Jacob laughed. ‘Nor will Rose and I.’

      Oliver shook his head. ‘Of course not.’ In truth, he also had no desire to play that game. ‘I think several of our members will relish it, though. We know many married couples who would clamour to be first in line to play.’

      Frederick turned back to his game. ‘You manage it, if you like, but you had better make certain everyone knows what to expect.’

      ‘What if Bowles shows up?’ Jacob asked.

      Frederick missed his shot.

      Nash Bowles was a nasty fellow they’d known since their Oxford days, who’d joined before they’d become more selective. He’d lately pressed to purchase Jacob’s share of the club.

      Frederick’s lips thinned. ‘That reprobate.’

      Bowles was the reason Fred had married his Georgiana. Vitium et Virtus had held a virgin auction which was supposed

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