My Fake Rake

“The devil with your handshakes.” Curtis batted Rotherby’s hand away before thumping him squarely in the chest with the side of his fist—the old greeting, created two decades ago in an Eton library.

Rowe glanced at Seb. “Judging by your rags, someone’s been thumbing through the pages of Ackerman’s Repository.”

“‘Thereby hangs a tale,’” Seb quoted.

“But you are no motley fool,” Rowe said. “The Bond Street Loungers would soil themselves in envy were they to see you.”

“An unfortunate—and messy—response,” McCameron noted drily.

“Join us in my box,” Rotherby declared. “We’ll give you a complete accounting.”

“What do you say, Curtis?” Rowe asked. “Can you behave like a tame bear for a few minutes?”

“Only somewhat tame,” Curtis said. He waved in the direction Rotherby, McCameron, and Seb had been heading. “Lead on.”

The five of them moved down the corridor, with Rotherby, as usual, in the lead. They fell into comfortable conversation, bypassing formalities, and just then, Seb felt lingering tension leave his body. These four men had been the salvation of his youth, and the backbone of his adulthood. For all that they were, on the surface, wildly dissimilar, they shared the kind of bond that only struggle could create.

His thoughts drifted ahead to the next few hours, spent in the company of the men he cared for most. While he would have enjoyed seeing Grace tonight, he was grateful McCameron and Rotherby had dragged him out this evening, or else he would have missed this opportunity. It was going to be a fine night.

A man stepped forward, blocking Seb’s path.

Seb drew up short, and found himself looking at Mason Fredericks.

Chapter 16

Seb’s mind blanked, but not from anxiousness. Instead, he was mystified. What was one supposed to say to the man one attempted to turn into a suitor for the woman that he . . . he what? Cared for? Held deep feelings in regard to? Or was it something more than what he felt for a dear friend? Something like—

“Holloway,” Fredericks said with a nod.

Yes, of course, when standing in someone’s presence, he should make actual conversation with them instead of being mired in his own labyrinthine thoughts.

“Evening, Fredericks.” Seb mentally reached for the persona he’d been cultivating these past weeks, setting Thinking Seb on the shelf and donning the identity of Rake Sebastian. He made himself smile easily at Fredericks. “Always a wonderful time to be had at the theater.”

Seb decided not to mention that the last time he’d attended a theatrical performance had been fifteen years ago, when he and the other members of the union   of the Rakes had attended a bawdy pantomime performed in an Oxford public house. Seb did recall that throughout the entertainment his face had flamed hot as a Yule log and he’d kept his hands cupped in front of his stiffening cock.

“True,” Fredericks said with an affable nod, “though my attendance at the theater isn’t as frequent as I’d like. Always fielding invitations to dinners.” He grimaced. “People like to have me at their tables in order to impress the other guests with the breadth of their cultivation.”

“But you get a meal, gratis.”

“True, yet I’m fortunate enough to know where my next meal is coming from. Not every man of science can say the same. At many events, I’ve seen men with bountiful coffers seem perfectly healthy one moment, yet when the possibility of funding research comes up, the same men of means are suddenly and tragically overcome with consumption and cannot stop coughing.”

Seb fought a chuckle. Was Fredericks actually likable? Damn. “Temporary consumption.”

“Oh, they are cured within minutes.” Fredericks paused, then said in a tone of forced nonchalance, “I haven’t seen Lady Grace tonight.”

Seb concentrated on the feel of his feet in his shoes. If he didn’t, surely he’d snarl at Fredericks or at least scowl ferociously.

“Nor I,” he answered.

“Pity.” Another pause from Fredericks. “You appear to hold her in high regard.”