A Gentleman's Guide to Scandal by Kathleen Kimmel

first quarter hour; he meant to improve his fortunes tonight.
    â€œHow dull,” Gibson said. “I always figured you for the one of us to have some grand love story.”
    â€œHargrove’s taken care of that,” Harken said.
    â€œYes, you really must tell me about this mysterious Mrs. Hargrove someday,” Gibson said, with a good-natured annoyance that indicated he was quite resigned to his ignorance. “No one even knows how they met.”
    â€œIt’s not that interesting,” Colin said quickly. “The mysterious Mrs. Hargrove” was in fact a wanted fugitive named Joan Price, a secret known by very few—Colin and Harken among them. “I’m with Harken. Let’s choose a new subject.”
    â€œLike how Edward Foyle’s back in England?” Gibson said.
    Colin froze. He stared at Gibson, his lips parted to just bare his teeth. “What did you say?”
    â€œEdward Foyle. He’s back. Or so I heard,” Gibson said.
    â€œWho?” Weathersby said.
    â€œDamn.” Harken leaned back in his chair and regarded Colin with narrowed eyes. “You want me to help you find him?”
    â€œWho?” Weathersby said again.
    Colin deftly swapped drink for cigar and back again, letting the flavor of the smoke and brandy roil over his tongue in a dark dance. Foyle was back. And Phoebe had been asking about Marie. It could be a coincidence—but that strained the imagination.
    â€œWhere is he?” he asked.
    Gibson grinned. “What is it they always said about the man? Find a pint and a pair of tits, and Foyle won’t be far. Beauchene’s taken him in, so he’ll have plenty of both.”
    â€œYou’re joking,” Colin said.
    â€œWho’s Beauchene?” Weathersby asked. They cast him brief looks of mingled admiration and pity.
    â€œHe is truly the most pure among us,” Gibson intoned, then clapped the man on the shoulder to show he didn’t mean anything by it. “Beauchene’s a Frenchman. Obviously. He throws these parties every summer, to mark the end of the Season. Like a Hellfire club, but less religion. Gentlemen, ladies of ill-repute, and a solid week without consequences.”
    â€œNot that Gibson would know,” Colin said darkly.
    Gibson laughed. “I prefer my debauchery in private. Can’t say I’ve never been invited, but it’s all a bit theatrical for me.”
    â€œSo then. Should we pay Foyle a visit?” Harken asked, casual as could be. “A social call.”
    â€œWe could welcome him back to England with a friendly thrashing,” Gibson suggested.
    â€œI’m confused,” Weathersby said. “Who is this man?”
    â€œFoyle seduced Farleigh’s sister, right,” Gibson said, emphasizing his words with precise jabs of his fingers. He’d finally got round to dealing, Colin noted, and retrieved his cards from the table. He could barely focus on the present long enough to read them. Nothing but rubbish. “And got control of her late husband’s shares of the diamond mines. Then he signs them over to Copeland.”
    How the hell did Gibson know so much about the business? Oh, right, he’d told him. Colin glared at his cards before collapsing them into a stack and tossing it back on the table. He really shouldn’t drink so much at cards. Not that Gibson wasn’t trustworthy, of course, but each drink made it a little harder to keep track of whose ears might be nearby. He’d only told them what his sisters already knew, though. No one knew about the contents of the box.
    â€œAnother drink sir?”
    The damned waiter. Colin jerked his head in an affirmative.
    â€œ. . . Should get Foyle to confess,” Weathersby was saying. “If he mistreated your sister like you say, it should be known.”
    â€œHe won’t be punished,” Colin said. “There’s no proof he did anything