Martin glanced shrewdly at Devlin. “Your favorite club?”
“Yes.” He paused, then went on, “I’m a member of six clubs, and as you’ll have gathered from what I said at Boodle’s and Brooks’s, each has a distinct…flavor, I suppose you might say. I use each club for what it offers. If I need information on politics, I’ll call in at the Reform and, these days, perhaps White’s. For some types of business, the Oriental is best, but Boodle’s and Brooks’s can also be useful. On almost any subject of interest, be it social, business, politics, or government, there’s a decent chance you’ll learn something at Arthur’s. It might not be in the same depth as you might find via one of the other venues, but it’ll be enough to set you on the right track.”
Looking around, Martin nodded. “So this is a central clearinghouse for information of all sorts.”
“Among our set, yes.” Devlin gestured across the hall. “Let’s take a look in the smoking room. That’s the room for conversations and discussions. Despite the hour, we might find more members there.”
Sure enough, there were quite a few groups of gentlemen scattered about the long room, which was actually three rooms joined together with various alcoves on both sides. And as if to confirm Devlin’s earlier words, Henry Cynster, Jason Cynster, and George Rawlings were seated idly chatting in one of the alcoves; with respect to Martin, the first two were cousins of sorts, and George was a connection, and all three were close to Martin in age.
George happened to glance up, saw Devlin, and nodded, then his gaze moved on to Martin. George blinked, then sat straighter and said, “I say, Alverton, isn’t that…?”
The other two looked up, recognized Martin, and hailed him. Devlin accompanied his brother-in-law over and, amused, watched and listened as Henry, Jason, and George pumped Martin’s hand, insisted he join them, and proceeded to bombard him with questions as to where he’d been and why and what he was planning now he’d come back.
Having glimpsed James and Cedric farther down the room, Devlin clapped Martin on the shoulder and interrupted his replies to say, “I’m going to talk to some others. Come and fetch me when you’re ready to go on.”
Smiling, Martin nodded, then returned to satisfying his long-ago friends’ curiosities.
Devlin ambled down the room. Even before he reached the armchairs James and Cedric occupied, he knew from the look on Cedric’s face that James, who was speaking animatedly, was relating the latest episode in the apparently never-ending saga of his marriage. The melodrama that perennially invested James and Veronica’s clashes would have done credit to a Haymarket stage.
As Devlin neared, Cedric looked up, and after following his gaze, James broke from his monologue to observe, “You’re out early.”
“I could say the same for you two.” Devlin dropped into the third chair in the grouping.
James huffed. “I’m sure you, at least, haven’t been driven from your home. My wife is driving me demented!”
Unseen by James, Cedric rolled his eyes.
Knowing what was expected of him, good friend that he was, Devlin inquired, “Oh?”
He settled and resigned himself to spending the next ten minutes pretending to listen to a litany of James’s complaints, but the insight into the Hemmingses’ marriage that Therese had offered on their drive home from the park rose in his mind, and he found himself listening rather more attentively, searching for—and finding—numerous indications that, as usual in such matters, Therese had been right.
James wasn’t really complaining at all, although he dressed up his concerns, his uncomfortableness over loving his wife, in those terms. James had been taken by surprise and was still struggling to accept and adjust to the reality that he loved his wife. He’d yet to grapple meaningfully with rescripting his expectations and finding ways to cope with a situation he had never imagined happening to him.
For the first time since James had started railing about his marriage, Devlin grasped the genesis of James’s problem.
Given it wasn’t a problem he shared, his blindness until now wasn’t all that surprising. From the first moment he’d met Therese, he’d known and accepted—inwardly if not outwardly—that he loved her. He’d loved her in that first instant and, even then, hadn’t doubted, hadn’t questioned, hadn’t underestimated the magnitude of the force that had erupted and gripped him. Not for a minute had he thought of attempting to resist such an all-consuming passion; he’d never imagined that excising it from his soul was a viable option. Instead, he’d embraced it—wholly and completely. He’d concealed his state from everyone else, especially Therese, but he’d never attempted to deny or defy the emotion that was now such a fundamental part of him or pretend that it was less than it was.
The latter was what James was still actively attempting to do, predictably to no avail.
Devlin could have told James not to waste his time, not to exhaust himself in such a futile endeavor. Indeed, the impulse to tell James that fighting love was impossible set words burning the tip of Devlin’s tongue, but he swallowed them. Until James stopped trying to deny that he was in love with his wife, recommendations of how to cope with that emotion would fall on deaf ears. Until James was ready to listen, there was no point speaking.
Eventually, as he always did, James ran down, ending somewhat dejectedly staring at the toes of his boots. Then James raised his gaze and focused on Cedric. “But enough about me and the sorry state of my life. Devlin, as usual, is busy juggling his family, business, and politics, but what about you, old son? What are you up to?”
“Well.” Cedric leaned back in the chair and folded his hands across his stomach. “I’m tossing up whether to take up my uncle Maxwell’s annual invitation to shoot grouse in Scotland. And there’s a sale at Tattersalls that I wouldn’t mind attending.”
With James, Devlin listened as Cedric outlined the events likely to fill his calendar over the coming months. Although Devlin remained outwardly relaxed, he felt…restless and impatient on his friend’s behalf. A life like Cedric’s would—in James’s words—drive Devlin demented. Admittedly, from his earliest years, he’d been raised to manage a large and wealthy estate and shoulder the responsibility of providing for not just his family but also all those who depended on the earldom of Alverton.
To drift through life as Cedric was doing, with a complete lack of any meaningful goal… Devlin would find such an existence crippling.
He glanced at James, then returned his gaze to Cedric and gave mute thanks for his present life and his current course. The prospect of, with Therese, building something lasting and meaningful from the building blocks he’d inherited was the foundation stone of Devlin’s purpose, the engine that drove him through life. He wouldn’t be him—the man he was and the man he wanted and hoped to be—without it.
Viewing the roiling morass of James’s life and the aimlessness of Cedric’s reaffirmed for Devlin that his latest tack was not just worth pursuing but an endeavor he needed to push to a successful conclusion. Having Therese join with him in harnessing the power he now knew love brought to a marriage was, beyond question, the right path for him.