The last thing Simon had wanted was to walk into the Cloven Hoof and all but trip over his brother.

The good news—if, indeed, there was anything good at all about the current situation—was that with Hawkridge’s well-tailored back toward Simon, the marquess hadn’t noticed his illegitimate half-brother at all.

Hardly an ironic turn of events, Simon acknowledged from a dark corner of the main room.

Hawkridge had made an art form out of self-absorption. For years, Simon’s younger self had dreamed of surprising his sure-to-be delighted brother with his existence, only to discover the younger marquess had always known and never cared.

As for the previous marquess going so far as to boast about his bastard in order to manipulate his legitimate son… Well. Simon rather thought the bastard was their father. Although perhaps the old marquess wasn’t all bad. Simon had always assumed his father had deposited money for him and his mother out of the same sense of duty one might pay one’s cobbler or one’s tailor.

The idea that perhaps it wasn’t as black-and-white as that was mind-blowing. His father might actually have possessed a modicum of affection for both of his sons.

Simon had never touched the old account that had been left in his name because he would rather have his self-respect than a fleet of phaetons. If there was even enough for flashy purchases. He hadn’t looked at the balance in over a decade.

He made a mental note to have his solicitor make a few inquiries. Perhaps there would be enough to outfit Dahlia’s girls with new dresses and shoes that fit.

Once his promotion came through, he’d be able to do even more.

He settled into a shadowy nook in the Cloven Hoof and pushed his personal concerns from his mind. He was here to investigate Maxwell Gideon. Simon would view his half-brother’s presence not as a sharp reminder of unresolved family matters, but as emblematic of the sort of clientele Gideon sought to attract.

As luck would have it, Hawkridge’s decision to visit a gentlemen’s club of suspicious financial background on this particular evening was actually a boon to Simon’s investigation. The last few times he’d visited, the owner of the gambling den had either been off-premises, or hidden away in a back room, doing God-knew-what.

Not tonight.

Maxwell Gideon had been en route from the gaming tables to the passageway leading to his office when Hawkridge entered the club. Gideon spun an immediate about-face to join both Hawkridge and their friend Lord Wainwright at what was clearly the trio’s customary table.

Despite a visceral disinterest in knowing any details about his half-brother’s life, Simon would be forced to listen carefully, lest any hint of the club owner’s suspicious dealings enter the conversation. With a sigh, he tilted an ear toward the table.

“Lovely caricature of you in the morning paper,” Hawkridge commented to Lord Wainwright. “Something about, ‘his countess’s voice turns the Lord of Pleasure into a Puddle of Pleasure even after months of marriage,’ if I recall correctly?”

The earl’s hallmark rakish smile only widened. “And yet there was no mention of you in any of the pages. The hunt for an heiress must be going slower than planned. Oh my, I didn’t realize a marquess could find himself on the shelf.”

“Outright trickery does seem to be the only way for you to get a woman of quality to the altar,” Gideon put in helpfully.

“Thank you.” Hawkridge rolled his eyes. “Always a gentleman. I shall take your suggestion to heart, should more ethical methods prove fruitless.”

Wainwright brightened. “With luck, your bamboozled heiress will be a halfwit and hideously ugly.”

Hawkridge slanted the earl a flat look. “How is my marrying some repulsive idiot ‘lucky?’”

“Oh, not for you.” Wainwright straightened his shirt points beneath razor sharp cheekbones with exaggerated precision. “For me. One gets so tired of the society papers going on and on about how dreadfully happy, attractive, and in love one is with one’s wife. You being stuck with some rich, featherbrained shrew would be a refreshing change of pace, wouldn’t you say?”

“Absolutely,” Gideon agreed before Hawkridge could reply. “We’re all tired of hearing how blissful, attractive, and in love the two of you are. Since Hawkridge is sacrificing his future happiness anyway, he might as well do so in whichever way most amuses his fellow man. It’s positively patriotic.”

Hawkridge’s smile flashed before clenched teeth. “Do you know what would amuse me?”

The arrival of a barmaid fortunately saved both Wainwright and Gideon from whatever blistering set-down Hawkridge had planned.

Despite the bitterness Simon had long held toward his brother, he could not repress a flash of pity. Inheriting a destitute marquessate left Hawkridge no choice but to wed any given woman in possession of the largest dowry.

Whereas Simon was born with a variety of choices Hawkridge would never have. Simon had the freedom to fall in love, to find employment he enjoyed, to marry the woman he loved—or, if he so chose, to never wed at all. The most important decisions any man would ever face were completely up to Simon, in a way that those same decisions would never be up to Hawkridge. A marquess’s job was being a marquess. Marrying a certain class of woman who possessed a certain level of money.

No matter what the marquess’s heart might desire.

Simon, on the other hand, could do as he pleased. No, an officer of the law could not woo some high society debutante. But within his own class, Simon could wed whomever he wanted. The only prerequisite was that the woman also want him.

He forced the memory of soft, pink lips and large, expressive eyes from his mind. He was here to observe a club owner, not moon over a trouser-wearing headmistress.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Gideon was saying to Hawkridge. “Let me buy you a glass of wine.”

“I told you,” Hawkridge bit out, his cheeks flushing. “No charity. I’ll buy my own wine or I won’t have any at all.”

“Wainwright!” shouted voices from over near the Hazard table. “Gideon! Come put a crown on Underhill’s next roll. He’s had three eleven’s in a row!”

Laughing, both men rose from the table and disappeared into the milieu to see what the ruckus was about.

Hawkridge remained behind, a single man at an empty table.

Simon presumed the reason the marquess hadn’t moved was the same reason his name hadn’t been called with the others. He didn’t have a crown. He didn’t have tuppence. Every visit to see his friends was likely one more deathblow against his pride.

Blast. Simon rubbed his temples. He couldn’t leave his brother sitting there, alone in a crowded club. Stoic despite the slights.

He was going to have to extend an olive branch.

In all likelihood, Hawkridge would bat away any attempt at patching up the insurmountable differences between them. But Simon had never backed down from doing what was right.

Dahlia had pointed out whether Simon and his brother lived out the rest of their lives as strangers was largely up to Simon. Hawkridge had been in a stormy mood even before Simon had blocked his path to force an introduction. The marquess did not shoulder complete fault for how disastrously that conversation had turned out.

Simon had avoided this moment long enough. A man of strong character would not hesitate to apologize for his portion of the blame. He pushed to his feet with a sigh.

At least Hawkridge had no drink to toss in his face.

Simon approached the marquess’s table well aware of the infinite other possibilities for embarrassment. Unlike last time, they were not in the private enclave between the gaming section and the back office. Hawkridge was seated at a rear table in the primary salon. Halfway between the bar and the Faro tables. In direct sight of anyone entering the club.

In direct sight of everyone currently in the club, as a matter of fact.

Hawkridge glanced up as Simon neared the table. The marquess’s eyes widened in recognition.

Simon cleared his throat to make room for a difficult apology. “I—”

“Sit,” Hawkridge interrupted. “Don’t loom over me like a mathematics tutor when there are perfectly fine seats all around this table.”

Simon blinked. “Your friends—”

“Are betting on the toss of the dice,” Hawkridge finished. “If he wagers a crown a minute, Wainwright will be dead before he runs out of fortune. Sit. If he misses his chair, he can buy another.”

Simon sat.

“I suppose I should be glad you’re here,” Hawkridge continued moodily. “I owed you an apology and really disliked the idea of having to present myself at Bow Street just to deliver it.”

If any other peer had made that statement, Simon would have assumed apologizing in a place as public as the court would have been too embarrassing. Yet here they were, in a far more crowded room, among far more important and well-connected individuals.

Simon tilted his head. “Why?”

“Oh, you know why.” Hawkridge sighed. “I was beastly to you the other day and you didn’t deserve it. In my defense, you could not have possibly had worse timing. But in your defense… I doubt much would have changed. After all, I’ve been jealous of you since the day I learned of your existence.”

A marquess jealous of Simon. The idea still boggled. “When did you learn of me?”

Hawkridge leaned forward, his smile humorless. “I don’t even know. I can’t remember not knowing. Perhaps I heard my parents arguing, or perhaps it was never a secret at all. How about you? When did you find out?”

“I never didn’t know,” Simon admitted. “I suppose it was the same. You were a fact, just like two shillings in a florin or two ten bobs in a pound.”

Hawkridge lifted his brows. “You are like a maths tutor. I thought I was jesting.”

“Is it more fun if I’m a Latin tutor?” Simon asked innocently. “I can have you decline a few verbs.”

Hawkridge shuddered. “At least figures are useful. I haven’t conjugated Latin since Oxford, and I aspire to keep it that way, if you don’t mind.”

Simon grinned despite himself…and suddenly realized he was bantering with a marquess in the middle of an exclusive gentlemen’s club as if they were equals.

Something they could never be.

“You deserve an apology from me as well,” he said, before he lost sight of the reason he’d approached the table.

“Do I?” Hawkridge’s smile was crooked. “I thought so, when I was younger. When it felt like you got everything.”

“What ‘everything?’” Simon burst out in disbelief. “You got his name. His title.”

“But you got him,” Hawkridge said simply. “We weren’t his real family. You were.”

“It doesn’t get realer than inheriting a marquessate.”

“Doesn’t it? We had him for stolen moments here and there, when he wasn’t busy with the House of Lords…or whisking you and your mother off to the countryside.”

“Holidays like that were rare.” And, ultimately, fatal. Simon pushed away the memory. “He took you riding every day.”

“I took daily rides with a horse he purchased me,” Hawkridge corrected. “It’s not quite the same as having company on the ride.”

“I was so jealous of you.” Simon raked his fingers through his hair as he stared at the marquess. “So jealous.”

“You’ll probably think I’m lying if I say I used to dream of switching places with you.” Hawkridge scoffed self-deprecatingly. “Poor little rich lad, and all that.”

“Except you aren’t rich,” Simon said softly.

Hawkridge inclined his head. “I am not.”

Simon leaned back. What if the line that had always separated them was as much their own fault as society’s?

“Our births were so close, we were practically born twins.” He hesitated. “Why do I feel like we’ve wasted every moment of the two-and-thirty years since that day?”

“Not every moment.” Hawkridge lifted a palm. “We’re here now, aren’t we?”

“At a questionably legal gaming establishment,” Simon said, deadpan.

“Where neither of us is gambling,” Hawkridge agreed, neither denying nor confirming the questionable legal status of the venue. “Next to a bar possessing some of the finest wines in London.”

“Which neither of us is drinking,” Simon finished. He motioned to the barmaid. “I can fix that, at least.”

Hawkridge snapped up straight in obvious offense. “I hope you’re buying yourself a drink.”

“I don’t drink on duty. That would be irresponsible.” Simon glanced up at the approaching barmaid. “Please bring this prickly sot your finest glass of whatever he’s having.”

“Nothing,” Hawkridge bit out. “I’m having nothing. I won’t accept charity from my friends and I won’t accept it from you.”

“That’s right. I’m not your friend. And this isn’t charity.” Simon slammed his palm to the table. “I’ll buy you all the bloody drinks I want. You’re my little brother. What else is family for?”

Hawkridge stared back at him for a long moment without blinking.

“By accepting a drink, I’m either accepting charity…or a brother.” The marquess lifted his nose. “I refuse to accept charity.”

Simon shrugged a shoulder. “Stay thirsty, then. Have it your way.”

“I will.” Hawkridge smiled up at the barmaid. “Two cups of tea if you would, Jemima. My brother doesn’t drink when he’s on duty.” The marquess lowered his voice to an exaggerated whisper. “He thinks it’s irresponsible.”

Jemima winked and set off in search of a teapot.

“Next time, it’s wine,” Hawkridge warned Simon. “Sipping tea in the middle of a gentlemen’s club is bound to hurt my image.”

“It’s not hurting your image,” Simon protested. “I’m helping you. Now the heiresses will think you can afford tea.”

Hawkridge stroked his chin. “That’s a fair point. Ladies do like tea. Perhaps Jemima is a secret heiress.”

“She also knows you can’t afford tea,” Simon reminded him. “To her, I look like the better deal.”

Jemima returned with a steaming tea service. “Anything else, gentlemen?”

“Just one thing.” Hawkridge raised his china teacup and grinned at Simon. “To the next thirty years?”

“To the next thirty,” Simon agreed as he clinked the painted rim of his cup with his brother’s.