Chapter 32

CHAPTER 32

Evan

T he heavy oak door of Boodles creaked open, letting in a gust of chilly air. The warm, smoky interior of the club was a stark contrast to the damp London streets outside. Evan paused just inside, letting his eyes adjust to the dim light. The scent of tobacco and polished wood mingled with the faint aroma of port and brandy, a familiar and oddly comforting blend.

The club was a sanctuary of exclusivity and tradition, its paneled walls lined with portraits of stern-faced members from decades past. The ceiling was ornately carved, the flickering light of gas lamps casting dancing shadows. A low murmur of conversation hummed through the room, punctuated by the occasional clink of glasses or shuffle of cards. The plush carpets muffled his steps as he made his way toward the corner where Jonathan sat, a crystal tumbler in hand.

Jonathan glanced up as Evan approached, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You’re late,” he said, leaning back in his chair and gesturing to the empty seat opposite him. “I was beginning to think you’d decided to nurse your wounds at home.”

Evan huffed a laugh, sliding into the chair and motioning for a whiskey. “Wouldn’t give you the satisfaction,” he replied, rubbing his jaw absently. The faint bruise there was tender to the touch, but it wasn’t as bad as he’d expected.

“You don’t look too bad,” Jonathan remarked, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. “Though, if I’m honest, though Wren looks rather worst for wear.”

Evan smirked, taking the whiskey the waiter placed before him and raising it in a mock toast. “I’ll take that as a compliment at my prowess with the fist. Not that I am terribly proud of what I did.”

Jonathan chuckled but quickly grew serious, his expression darkening. “You know, Evan, this isn’t the way you should be behaving. Not when we’re all in business together.”

Evan sighed, taking a long sip of his drink. “I’m not sure I want to be in business with someone like Wren. A man with such a filthy mouth has no place in polite company, let alone as a partner.”

Jonathan raised an eyebrow, his tone wry. “And yet, you’ve tolerated him for years. Why the sudden change? Surely this isn’t just about his insults toward Emma.”

Evan’s grip tightened on his glass, and he set it down with deliberate care. “Maybe it is,” he said quietly. “Or maybe I’ve just reached my limit with men like him.”

Jonathan leaned forward, studying his friend with an intensity that made Evan shift uncomfortably. “I never thought I’d see you so riled up over something like this. Or someone.”

Evan met his gaze steadily, his voice firm. “I love her, Jonathan. That’s why.”

Jonathan’s eyes widened slightly, but the surprise quickly gave way to a knowing smile. “Well,” he said, sitting back in his chair. “That does explain a few things. Though perhaps you should have told her that instead of throwing punches.”

“I already have,” Evan replied, a small, almost shy smile tugging at his lips. “We talked yesterday. I told her everything.”

“Everything?” Jonathan’s tone was sharp, his brows rising.

Evan hesitated, his gaze dropping to his drink. “Not quite,” he admitted. “There’s something I still need to resolve first.”

Jonathan’s expression grew more curious, and he leaned forward again. “Rose?”

Evan’s head snapped up, his eyes narrowing. “Yes, among other things.”

He looked at his friend, having expected some sort of comment about Evan’s sudden decision to stop what Jonathan still believed to be his rakish ways. Yet, it didn’t come. Instead, his friend leaned forward.

“And she does not mind your reputation? Or have you told her the truth? That you haven’t been a rake for many a year?”

Evan stared at his friend. “You knew?”

Jonathan smirked, his tone light but tinged with genuine affection. “Come now, Evan. I’ve known you since we were boys. Did you really think I wouldn’t notice when the infamous rake stopped jumping from bed to bed?”

Evan shrugged, looking away. “I lost the appetite for it. Not entirely, but… the reputation served its purpose.”

Jonathan nodded slowly, his expression thoughtful. “This is all because of your father, isn’t it?”

The question hung in the air, heavy with unspoken truths. Evan exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his face. “It’s always about him,” he admitted. “Even when I tell myself it’s not. No matter how hard I try to banish him from my thoughts, he’s always there, influencing my decisions.”

“But not anymore,” Jonathan guessed, his tone quiet.

Evan shook his head. “No. Not anymore. I’ve spent so much of my life fighting to avoid becoming like him, and now I’m starting to wonder if I’ve been so focused on that fear that I’ve pushed myself into his shadow anyway. I don’t want that. I want to be better.”

“For Emma,” Jonathan said, his smile returning.

Evan nodded, his voice firm. “For her. And for myself.”

Jonathan regarded him for a long moment, then leaned back, his expression thoughtful. “Have you told her the whole truth?”

Evan’s jaw tightened, and he looked away. “You mean about Rose?”

Jonathan nodded, his gaze steady. “If you love her, Evan, don’t you think she deserves to know?”

Evan was silent for a long moment, his fingers tracing the rim of his glass. “I haven’t told her,” he admitted finally. “I need to speak to Rose first. I need to know what she wants. Besides…” He hesitated, his voice lowering. “I don’t know if it matters. Does it really matter?”

Jonathan raised an eyebrow, his tone skeptical. “You don’t think the other most important woman in your life matters?”

Evan shook his head, his expression conflicted. “It’s not that. It’s just… the more people who know, the more likely it is that someone will find out. And I can’t risk that.”

Jonathan sighed, swirling his drink. “Maybe. But secrets have a way of coming to light, Evan. And sometimes, the longer you keep them, the more damage they do.”

Evan didn’t respond, his gaze fixed on the fire. The flickering light cast shadows across his face, highlighting the tension in his jaw and the faint lines of worry etched into his features.

Before Jonathan could press further, the door opened again, and both men turned. Lord Wren strode into the room, his presence immediately commanding attention. Jonathan groaned, sinking lower into his chair. “Here we go,” he muttered.

Evan’s expression hardened, his gaze locking with Wren’s. For a moment, the room seemed to hold its breath as the two men regarded each other.

Jonathan sighed, draining the rest of his drink. “I take it back,” he said wryly. “He does look as though he was set on by highwaymen. I suppose the swelling didn’t come in until after we parted ways.”

Evan allowed himself a small, satisfied smile before taking another sip of his whiskey. “Good.”

Wren's left eye was swollen shut, his lips were cracked and bruised, and his nose was still red and misshapen from the impact of Evan’s fist. The attempt to conceal his injuries with powder was half-hearted at best, leaving him looking more pitiful than presentable.

Wren’s presence drew immediate attention, whispers rippling through the room like a stone skipping across a pond. Abernathy, who had been seated nearby, began to rise, clearly intending to intercept Evan, but Evan waved him off and stood. With deliberate steps, he crossed the room, each stride measured yet charged with an undeniable tension.

“How dare you show your face here,” Evan said, his voice low but sharp enough to carry. His finger jabbed toward Wren, who stood frozen, his flushed face a mixture of anger and humiliation.

Wren straightened, his lip curling in defiance. “This club is as much mine as anyone’s,” he retorted, though his voice wavered. “Besides, I’m not the one who should be embarrassed. You’re the one who resorted to pugilistic theatrics like a common brawler.”

Evan chuckled, a cold, mirthless sound. “Oh, I see. You insult a lady, provoke her husband, and then cry foul when you find yourself nursing a few bruises? Tell me, Lord Wren, would you have preferred I ‘tickled your catastrophe’ with words alone?” The old colloquialism for a thorough thrashing earned a few chuckles from nearby onlookers.

Wren stiffened, but before he could reply, Evan turned to the room, his voice rising just enough to command attention. “Gentlemen, let us imagine for a moment that your wife—your duchess, no less—was insulted to your face by an unmarried man. A man who, for all his pretensions, cannot even convince a matchmaker to find a woman desperate enough to entertain his courtship. Would you not feel compelled to respond? Would you not seek satisfaction for her honor?”

A few murmurs of agreement rippled through the gathering. One older gentleman near the back muttered something about Wren always having too much mouth for his own good. Another nodded approvingly, murmuring, “He had it coming.”

Evan’s eyes swept the room before settling back on Wren. “So hear me now, Lord Wren. You will not speak of my wife again—neither to my face nor to anyone else. Should I so much as catch wind of you uttering a single unkind word about the Duchess of Wells, I will ensure you regret it.”

Wren’s face turned a deeper shade of red, but Evan wasn’t finished. He leaned in slightly, his voice low but laced with menace. “I know enough about you, Wren, to make certain that polite society slams its doors in your face for good. And believe me, I will not hesitate to do so.”

Wren’s eyes darted around the room, noting the smirks and nods of approval directed toward Evan. Clearly outnumbered and outmaneuvered, he gritted his teeth, muttered something under his breath, and stormed out of the club, his boots echoing against the marble floor.

Satisfied, Evan returned to his seat. He took a long drink of his whiskey, the warmth of the liquor soothing the sharp edges of his adrenaline. Jonathan, who had been silently observing, leaned forward, his expression one of impressed amusement. “I didn’t know you had so many dirty secrets about Wren.”

Evan smirked, setting his glass down with a soft clink. “I don’t,” he admitted. “It’s all about the delivery. If you sound confident enough, people will believe anything.”

Jonathan chuckled, shaking his head. “Well played.”

Moments later, Abernathy approached, his hands raised in a gesture of peace. “Evan,” he began, his tone conciliatory, “I want to apologize for Wren’s behavior. He was out of line.”

Evan waved him off, his smile faint but genuine. “No need, Abernathy. It’s handled.”

Abernathy hesitated, then gestured toward the table. “Does this mean we’re still on for the vineyard in Bordeaux?”

Evan’s smile widened. “Of course.”

The three men settled into a comfortable camaraderie, their conversation drifting from vineyards to politics and back again. Jonathan couldn’t help but smile to himself. For once, Evan seemed truly at ease. Defending Emma had felt right, good even. It was as though he’d finally stepped out of his father’s shadow and into the light, becoming the kind of man his mother would have been proud of.

As the evening wore on, Evan rose to leave. He was halfway to the door when Jonathan hurried after him, a small package wrapped in brown paper in his hand.

“Evan, I have something to give you,” he said.

“Have I forgotten my own birthday?” Evan teased, arching a brow as he accepted the parcel.

Jonathan shook his head, his grin sheepish. “It’s not for me. It’s for Bridget.”

Evan’s brow furrowed in surprise. “Bridget? What’s this about?”

“Just some sweetmeats,” Jonathan replied casually. “She mentioned once that she loved marzipan and barley-sugar candies. I thought she might enjoy them.”

Evan’s expression turned serious, his tone softening. “Jonathan, you need to be careful. You can’t go raising her hopes unnecessarily.”

Jonathan’s smile faltered, but he shook his head firmly. “I have no intentions toward Brigitte, Evan. It was her birthday. That’s all. I gave your valet a gift for his birthday last month.”

Evan regarded him for a moment before nodding. “Very well.” He tucked the package under his arm and climbed into his waiting carriage, the faint sound of rain pattering against the roof as it pulled away from the club.