He was looking forward to discovering what unconventional tack she would lead him on tonight, their wedding night. He felt sure she’d have some novel idea, and if by chance she didn’t, he had quite a few ideas of his own.
Alicia, Tony’s wife, waylaid them, then carried Phoebe off to talk with the other wives—the increasing band of Bastion Club matriarchs-in-the-making. Knowing what was good for him, he yielded her up with good grace and took himself off to join his colleagues in the shadow of one wall.
Christian raised his glass to him as he came up. “I notice our dear ex-commander is as usual absent.”
“Of course.” Deverell glanced over the sea of heads. “We received the usual expression of regret.”
“One day,” Charles St. Austell predicted, “one of us is going to stumble across him in his true guise—I just hope it’s me.”
Tristan frowned. “Speaking of guises, one thing that puzzles me—I assume you noticed that your man Montague recognized him, and so did Lowther.”
“So?” Tony Blake arched a brow. “We know he’s one of us, almost certainly a son of the nobility.”
Jack Warnefleet snorted softly. “Half the old biddies seem to know who he is—they just won’t tell us.”
“That’s just it,” Tristan said. “They all know him—who he really is—but none of them, not one, uses his real name. They all refer to him as Dalziel. Why? For what possible reason would the entire ton—all the grande dames and peers—collude in such a thing, a noble gentleman—we all know he’s that—not using his real name?”
They all blinked.
Eventually Gervase voiced the one reason that had popped into all their heads. “Scandal. For some reason he’s debarred from using, or refuses to now use, his family name.”
Deverell frowned, then glanced at Christian. “He’s older than us, isn’t he?” Christian was the oldest of them by a year or so.
Christian grimaced. “I’ve never been sure, but yes, I think he is older than I am by a year, perhaps two.”
“So it’s possible,” Charles concluded, “that there was some ungodly scandal in the years before any of us went up to town—in the years while we were at Oxford busy doing other things.”
They all nodded.
“And of course none of us can remember it,” Deverell said, “because we never heard of it, never knew of it in the first place.”
A silence fell in which they all rapidly canvassed their sources, then Tony sighed. “It won’t do us a bit of good, you know. All those who know his name also know the reason he doesn’t use it, and for whatever reason, they have all accepted—every last one—that it’s better if he’s known as Dalziel, with that reason why wiped from collective memory.”
Charles grimaced and sipped. “That must have been quite a scandal.”
No one argued.
“So Royce whoever-he-is remains an enigma, at least for now.” Gervase turned to Deverell and held out his hand. “I’ve got to get on—I’m expected at Crowhurst tonight.”
Charles raised his brows. “Why the rush?” He waggled his brows. “Is there some particular someone waiting?”
They all noticed that the smile Gervase returned was somewhat tight. “Nothing as interesting, unfortunately. Family business calls, and I can’t afford to let it drift.”
Charles opened his mouth, then shut it.
Gervase made his farewells, then unobtrusively tacked through the crowd, heading for the archway and the stables beyond.
Deverell glanced at Charles. “What were you about to say?”
His gaze on Gervase’s back, Charles replied, “Have any of you noticed how often he’s called away, back to Crowhurst, on family business?”
Jack Warnefleet frowned. “Now you mention it, yes. He’s hardly spent any time in town at all, although I know he intended to.”
Christian cleared his throat. “According to G
asthorpe, it really is family business. Every time Gervase gets up to town, it’s only a matter of days, apparently, before some missive arrives and he has to return.”
They all stared after Gervase until he passed under the archway and out of sight.