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The Earl was up at dawn, setting off shortly thereafter without stopping to break his fast.  He was filled with anxiety about his mother and pushed the horses hard.  Harry had not intimated that the case was desperate, but then he would scarcely have written to his brother were it not serious.

By the time he pulled up in Half Moon Street, his set face and the frown between his eyes owed as much to anxiety as tiredness.

“My lord!”  Brownlow was uncharacteristically bereft of speech when the travel-stained Earl burst into the hall.

“We did not know to expect your return,” he continued in explanation, only to watch in incomprehension as the Earl, who was rarely without a word of appreciation to his servants, ignored him and took the stairs two at a time, still in his driving coat and gloves.  Rounding the landing to the next flight, he stopped as he saw Harry descending.

“How is she?” he asked urgently.

Harry made an instant quieting gesture, which did nothing to calm the Earl’s worst imaginings, and steered them into the nearby drawing room, closing the door behind them.

“Iph,” he started, as the Earl stripped off his gloves.  “The thing is…”

“What?” Iphicles snapped as Harry trailed off.  “Tell me the worst, Harry.  How is she?”

The Captain moistened his lips.  “She’s taken a turn for the better since I wrote to you,” he said at last.

Iphicles drew a breath of relief.  Anticipating his next question, Harry quickly added, “She’s resting.”

 “What ails her, Harry?” Iphicles asked more quietly, seating himself in the nearest armchair.  “What does Cooper say?”

Captain Fairfax remained standing.  “She hasn’t seen him,” he informed his brother.

Iphicles’ brows slammed together.  “Hasn’t seen him?” he echoed.  “Devil take it, he’s one of the few leeches worth consulting!  I’ll call him in even if she don’t want it.”

“It’s not necessary, Iph, she’s nearly better,” Harry insisted.

The Earl looked uncomprehendingly at his brother.  “Better?  Yet it was only two days ago that she was ill enough…”

Iphicles didn’t finish his sentence.  Instead his eyes began to fill with suspicion as they remained on the increasingly uneasy Captain Fairfax.

“Has Mama actually been ill at all?” he enquired in a dangerously soft voice.

“Yes!”  It burst from Harry in indignation.  “She’s not been right since the time you left, Iph.  She’s been in fear that someone might find out where you had gone and ask her about it, and that put her out of sorts, and then Iorweth and I have been recalled from next week, and so she took to her bed with a sick headache.”  He eyed the wrath on the Earl's face.  “Oh don’t look like that, Iph,” he expostulated.  “Damn it, she wasn’t right and she’s not been eating, and I thought if you were back, it would at least relieve her mind of one anxiety.”

Iphicles remained seated.  If he were to stand, he knew he would surely kill his brother.

“So you dragged me up here under false pretences, let me worry myself sick about her, when all along she suffered from nothing more than a megrim and you simply wanted me back here because it suited your own purposes?  Worse still, you don’t scruple to use Mama in that way?”

Harry fidgeted slightly then met his brother’s furious gaze.  “It’s more than that, Iph,” he said at last.  “People are beginning to talk.  Somebody has let slip that you were visiting Aresborough.”  His blue eyes were stubborn.  “You might not care about your own reputation, Iph, but you should think of Mama.”

“As you do when you’re with Iorweth,” Iphicles shot.  “For God’s sake, Harry, don’t play self-righteous with me.  You don’t give a damn about me or my reputation.  All you care about is yourself, and the fact that I went against your advice.”

“That’s not true, Iph.”  Harry looked hurt.

Iphicles’ eyes closed briefly.  He would still happily see his brother’s bleeding corpse at his feet, but he couldn’t ignore the sick lurch as he registered what Harry had said.  People had begun to talk.  Already.  And that was just because he had been known to be visiting Aresborough.  Once Morrison’s tale got out…  Even if the man were to keep his mouth shut, the others at the house party wouldn’t.   Aresborough himself would no doubt delight in spreading the tales with that mocking smile of his.

He got slowly to his feet.  “While I abominate your methods,” he said quietly, “Your intentions were good.”

He put out his hand to his brother.  The Captain, looking startled but pleased, shook it.  Iphicles turned away, ready to retire to his bedchamber and tidy himself after the long drive, when the door to the drawing room opened.

“Iphicles!”  With a cry of joyous delight, his mama flung herself into his arms.  “Iphicles, you can have no idea how glad I am to see you back.  We have missed you so much, have we not, Harry?  And to know you must be having such a horrid time with That Man and his awful friends quite overset me.  Harry will tell you that I have not been quite myself all the time you were gone.  But now you are back in time for the Foxcote’s assembly tomorrow night, and I have the most ravishing new gown you have ever seen, and Sir John Laxom will be present, and - Iphicles!  What has happened to your face?”

Puzzled when the Dowager’s dainty hand reached to his cheek, Iphicles’ face heated suddenly as he realised.

“A branch caught me as I was riding,” he supplied swiftly, aware of Harry’s eyes on him.

“Oh Iphicles, you haven’t changed, have you?  You were so clumsy as a child, not at all like dear Harry.  You would have thought by now you would have learned not to hurt yourself so.  Now come,” she tugged determinedly at her eldest son’s arm, “Sit beside me and tell me how you are.  Harry, come and sit beside me too.  I want to know what Iphicles thought of Oxfordshire - an ungodly place, some call it, but I’ve had a penchant for it ever since the time…”

Iphicles sat obediently where he was bidden, and fastened an expression of polite interest to his face as the Dowager talked to Harry.  There could be no doubt but that he was home.
 
 

The Earl did not follow his usual pattern when in town and ride out the following morning.  Instead, he spent his time in the library, sorting through the papers and bills that had collected during his absence.  The concentration they required allowed him to forget the disjointed dreams that he had suffered last night, waking to find time after time that he was alone, to remember time after time that, in full knowledge of what he was doing, of what the man was, he had gone gladly to Aresborough’s bed.  His stomach had twisted as he realised he would still be there were it not for Harry’s subterfuge.  He would still be pathetically loving every second he spent with the Duke, still unaware that the man was playing him for a fool, his only purpose in continuing with him after that first night the lure of the Earl’s public disgrace.

He had been relieved when the hour was sufficiently advanced for him to rise.  Iphicles had joined his mother at the breakfast table, steeling himself to accompany her to the Foxcote's tonight as she so gaily assumed he would.  The thought of being the centre of gossip there filled him with dread, but to avoid it would only confirm the rumours and allow them to spiral out of control.  To continue in his usual way, ignoring the laceration of his feelings as the ton smirked and gossiped, was his only option.  They would forget this soon enough, he comforted himself, just as soon as the next scandal happened along.  Rumour, that was all it could be; nobody could prove a thing.  The more he continued as usual, the more he was seen out and about in Society before the rumours gathered pace, the less credence would be given to them.  It was just that the introspective Earl loathed the thought of being the subject of others' interest and speculation.

Iphicles looked up startled from the papers before him as the door opened and his brother entered the library.

It seemed that Harry was not here for small-talk.

"There are stories circulating about you and Aresborough."

Iphicles’ heart stopped briefly, then began to pound.

"Indeed?" he asked coolly.  "And you listen to gossip, do you, Harry?"

"This is serious, Iph.  I had it from Iorweth.  Everyone is saying that you and Aresborough…  that you went to his bed.”

The pulse in his head was hammering.  “My private life is no concern of yours, Harry.”

“Your private life may not be, but this is no longer private, Iph.”  Harry had ranged himself in front of the fireplace, standing full-square as he looked his brother over.  “I know you did as they’re saying - I saw your expression yesterday when Mama asked about your face, although how that happened God only knows.  But it’s why you went to stay with him in the first place, isn’t it?  Iph, I told you - “

Iphicles was on his feet.  "Is this offensive speculation leading anywhere Harry?"

Harry glared at his brother.  "Will you stop being so damned condescending and listen to what I have to say?  I want to help.  I don’t want the family name in some sort of scandal."

Iphicles sat slowly down again.  He was almost trembling.  Word was out even more quickly than he had thought possible.  And Harry was offering to help…

“What can I do, Harry?” he asked quietly.  “It’s true.  They all know it.  What can I do?”

“Do you intend to continue the association with Aresborough?” Harry’s tone was hard.

Iphicles almost winced.  “God, no.”

That won an approving smile from the Captain.  “Well then, Iorweth said you should carry on as normal.  No one can prove anything, and they’ll forget it soon enough.  The worst thing you can do is hide.”

Although he was left smarting by the realisation that Harry and Iorweth had discussed his situation and that they obviously thought him too stupid to work out the need to continue in his usual way, Iphicles held his tongue.  Harry meant well.

Harry’s blue gaze rested on Iphicles’ face.  “Why’d you do it, Iph?  I don’t understand.”

Iphicles shook his head slowly, unable to answer, unable to understand the madness that had driven him to behaviour he now regretted bitterly.  “I don’t know, Harry,” he managed at last, his voice almost inaudible.  “I don’t know.”

“Damned stupidity, anyway,” Harry asseverated.  “And how I’m going to explain to Mama - ”

Iphicles’ head jerked up.  “Mama?   For God’s sake, she must know nothing of this, Harry!  The shock would likely kill her.”

“And whose fault is that?”  Harry paused at the expression on his brother’s face and continued a little more reasonably.  “Look, Iph, she’ll hear it sooner or later.  Best she hears it from me first to get used to the idea.”

“Better still she hears it from me.”  Iphicles’ teeth were clenched so tightly he was not sure how the words squeezed between them.  “I forbid you to breathe a word of it to her, Harry.  If she must be told, I shall tell her myself.”

“Well I lay you odds the Westcourt chit won’t have you now,” Harry sulkily returned.

It dawned on the Earl with a growing conviction that would not be denied.  “That’s what all this is about, isn’t it Harry?"  For some peculiar reason the sudden comprehension hurt him.  "That’s why you want to help - so that my name isn’t muddied beyond what a respectable family would tolerate in their son-in-law.  You don’t want me to spoil my chances of getting wed and producing an heir.  That’s the only thing that bothers you in all this, isn’t it?”

Harry shrugged.  “You’ve brought it on yourself, Iph.  I tried to warn you; it’s not my fault if you’re too pigheaded to listen to me.  How do you think I’m going to feel having everyone talking about my brother’s iniquity, anyway?”  The Captain lounged towards the door.  “Glad I’m going back to Spain is all I can say.”

The heavy oak door closed behind him, leaving the Earl alone to his bitter reflections.
 
 

Iphicles looked at himself in the mirror.  He had dismissed Morrison that afternoon, giving no reason but paying him a sum the man could not protest, and had dressed himself.  He would engage a new valet tomorrow.  He noted with relief that the abrasions on his face were all but invisible now.  He looked pale however, and there were lines of tension around his jaw; he could not be sure whether these were from the anticipation of what was to come this evening, or left over from his unpleasant interview with his Mama.

He had known it to be only a matter of time before Harry felt it his duty to inform her, and so he had taken the unwelcome step of breaking the news to her himself that there were some extremely unsavoury rumours circulating about his reason for staying with Aresborough.  Of course he did not tell her the substance - God forbid that he be indelicate enough to mention such a thing to a member of the fair sex, let alone his mother! - but his father had thought nothing of reading his translations of the classics to his bride, and he was fairly certain she understood the nature of the rumours.  Her face had turned perfectly white and he had had to send for her maid to bring her vinaigrette.  It was some time before she was recovered enough to do more than moan softly.

“But I don’t understand, Iphicles,” she had wailed at last.  “Why would people say such evil things about you?  That man, yes, everyone knows he does wicked things, but why would they say it about you?”

Iphicles had tried to calm her again.  “You know how people gossip, Mama,” he had told her, finding himself quite unable in the face of her distress to admit that it was said because it was true.

 “I knew you shouldn’t have stayed with him,” she lamented.  “I told you Iphicles.  Why won’t you listen to your mother?”  She broke off to uncork her vinaigrette again, and then her eyes raised disconcertingly steadily to his.  “Why did you stay with him, Iphicles?”

Iphicles suddenly realised that she actually wanted an answer.  This, to her, was the least comprehensible part of the whole damnable mess, that her own son should seek out the company of an avowed libertine.

Forced to confront his reasons, Iphicles at length confessed the truth.  “I liked him.”  He shrugged helplessly, remembering.  “I thought we were friends…”

His mother suddenly wailed as awareness of a new disaster dawned on her.  “And how can I possibly face dear Lady Annesley now?  She trusted you with dear Sophia, you know, allowed you liberties in dancing with the girl and conversing with her, and now she will think you nothing more than a hardened rake!  She will never accept your suit now.  Oh Iphicles, how could you have been so stupid?”

The conversation had continued along similar lines until the Dowager had finally declared herself quite exhausted, and had herself put to bed.  She was too overcome to attend the Foxcote's assembly tonight - to which she had been looking forward for an age - and she sincerely hoped that she was not too ill to sleep.  It was only in sleep that she would be able to forget her son's selfishly stupid behaviour.

At least that meant that Iphicles was going to the Foxcote’s on his own, he reflected emptily.  If there were to be gossip, his mother would not suffer it at firsthand.   He had dressed himself with more than usual care; his clothes were of their accustomed sobriety, yet he wore a fob and a ring in a gesture of appeasement  towards fashion.  He would give Society nothing with which to reproach him there.  He glanced down at the ring, the stone of which matched the amber of his eyes, remembering the evening on which Bella had given it to him.  She had been unable to hide her pleasure at having found something special for him, and he had been hard put to it not to question her obvious excitement until she was ready to surprise him with the gift.

His heart was heavy as he left to face the verdict of the ton.
 
 
 

The Earl had purposely timed his arrival so that the evening's entertainment would be well under way and those whom he counted among his friends would be already present.  He knew there would be stares and whispers, and he wished to make his entrance as unobtrusively as possible before swiftly joining a welcoming group.

The silence which fell when Iphicles was announced made mockery of his hopes.  The sudden cessation of noise began with those closest to the door but spread rapidly through the room until all was quiet and it seemed a battery of voraciously speculative eyes was concentrated upon him.  The silence was broken briefly when one young gentleman leaned to his neighbours and said something, too low for Iphicles to hear, but which caused his companions to bray with laughter.

Iphicles stood an instant longer, his colour high at the unwelcome attention, waiting for his hostess to greet him.  Lady Foxcote was not to be seen.  An oversight, no doubt; she must be busy elsewhere.

He stepped forwards into the crowded room, to find that the two ladies closest to him swept their skirts hurriedly aside.  Curious eyes surveyed him from every direction, darting away as soon as he tried to meet them.  He looked around for one of his friends, someone whom he might approach and begin to talk to, fighting down the beginnings of panic as acquaintance after acquaintance dropped their eyes before his.  By the time his gaze at length fell on Jack Holloway, one of his acquaintances from White's with whom he dined on a regular basis, he knew a sense of indescribable relief.  Attempting a smile at Sir Jack, he began to move towards him.

Sir Jack looked straight through him before deliberately turning his back.  Iphicles stopped dead, vaguely aware that others were drawing back from him.  Then shoulder after shoulder was turned, until he stood quite alone.

Iphicles moistened his dry lips, the blood draining from his face.  To leave now would be to ensure that never again could he show his face in Society.  Yet how could he stay when there was none to recognise him?

He turned slowly around once more, looking.  None of them, none of the mamas who had been so assiduous in their invitations to him when they sought a rich husband for their daughters, none of his acquaintances from White's, not one of them would hold his gaze.

His head held high, Iphicles prepared to walk out of the ballroom.

“Royston!  There you are, at last!”

He turned, startled, at the booming voice.  Sir John Laxom was swiftly making his way through the practically silent gathering.

“Come, tell me all - I have heard such wild tales about your unseasonable house party and what you dashing young blades got up to.  I think my favourite is the one involving the bevy of actresses especially imported from Lisbon.  Is it another rumour put around by those who wish they were there, or is it true?”
 
By now Sir John had reached him and thrown a casual arm across his shoulders, turning him back into the room as his head bent close to catch the Earl’s answer.

“I’m sure you know as much as I,” Iphicles managed between bloodless lips.

A brief squeeze of his shoulder, so brief that he was not sure whether or not he had imagined it, and then Sir John’s voice boomed out again into the near silence.

“Linton, Royston is being most close-mouthed and insisting there was no impropriety.  Perhaps you can persuade him to open up.”

The flash of fury in Lord Linton’s face betrayed his realisation of Sir John’s shameless methods.  Refuse to acknowledge Royston, and Sir John would no doubt immediately ask whether his youngest son, whose involvement with Aresborough’s set the peer tried to keep quiet, had yet returned from the house party.  Iphicles could see little of Farraday in his father as he bestowed a false smile upon the Earl and laughed awkwardly.

“Oh, I don’t doubt these young bloods are keeping the warmest tales to themselves,” he got out.

"Deuced unfair, I call it," Sir John agreed, as Linton turned away again.  "Don't you agree, Linton?"

Realising he was not going to be let go so easily, the peer swung back round, ungraciously admitting defeat.  “How is your brother?” he bit out, his eyes still furious.  “The Frenchies must be glad to see him still on leave.”

“As we all are,” Iphicles agreed, his face stiff.  “I am not sure quite when he and Captain Burnage return, but it will be a sad loss to us.”

A buzz of conversation started, swelling in volume as news of Royston being spoken to by one of the most respectable members of the ton began to circulate.

“Ringrose was just telling me that his son is due home shortly,” Linton continued, evidently unwilling to bear the burden alone any longer.

Ringrose, ever eager to talk of his son’s military career, needed no persuading, and it was a full half hour before his enthusiasm began to wane.  By that time, those present had realised that they had been victims of a most improper practical joke played upon them; how could anybody think such a thing of the Earl of Royston, of all men!

Lady Foxcote finally took the plunge.  “Lord Royston,” she trilled, successfully detaching him from Lord Ringrose.  “I am so sorry I missed you when you arrived.  Emilia, you know, was a trifle overcome by the heat.  But I see you have not yet engaged yourself to dance.  May I introduce you to a partner?”

Before the Earl could frame a diplomatic refusal - the very last thing he could afford to do was to put himself in a position where he might be publicly rejected - Lady Foxcote, with the air of one extracting a rabbit from a hat, triumphantly produced her daughter Charlotte.

Almost before he knew it, the Earl was following the familiar moves of the dance with Lady Charlotte, noting a curious look in her eyes as he did so.  He wondered if her mama had placed her under duress to dance with him.  It was only when she held his hand for an instant too long that he recognised the expression for what it was: excitement.  She would not know the details, of course, but she must have picked up on something of the Earl’s disgrace, and her blue eyes held a thrill of illicit pleasure each time she looked at him.

Returning her to her Mama as soon as was decent, he saw the gleam of triumph in Lady Foxcote’s eyes.  She thought she carried the day by seizing the advantage as she had.  She was not to labour under this misapprehension for long.  Lady Annesley bore inexorably down upon him, the obedient Sophia in her wake.

“Lord Royston,” she cooed.

He forced a smile, seeing the peculiar mixture of speculation and distaste in her face.  It seemed that she did not know what to believe, yet she would not risk losing the best prize on the marriage mart when nobody else gave credence to the rumours, and she proceeded to shamelessly dandle her daughter before him like a ripe apple before a horse.

Sophia was suspiciously close to being in a fit of the sullens.  Iphicles realised after a while that he was still unforgiven for his cavalier treatment of her the last time they had met.  His conscience made him uneasy for he had not meant to hurt her, yet at the same time it would not let him repair the damage.  Better for her to continue with a low opinion of him than to have false hopes renewed.

He breathed a sigh of relief when finally Lady Annesley swept her prize off to be displayed elsewhere.  Although he noticed that Lady Trent kept her daughters away from him, most others present continued to dangle after him in the most unsubtle way.  He went through the motions, talking, listening, dancing, but by the time the hour was sufficiently advanced for him to leave without causing comment, Iphicles felt that he had lived through a thousand lifetimes.

He had just descended the steps of the Foxcote’s house when a voice sounded from behind him.  “Hold, Royston, I’ll walk with you.”

Turning, Iphicles saw Sir John Laxom's slightly rotund figure hurrying down the steps.  He had not managed to find him when he had earlier looked for him.  Stopping, he held out his hand to the man.

“I owe you a debt, Sir John,” he said frankly.

Sir John’s grey eyes were shrewd in his good-humoured face as he took Iphicles’ hand briefly.  “I don’t wish to see your mother hurt, Royston.”

“Neither do I!”  Iphicles heard the defensiveness and the guilt in his voice.  He knew how his actions had opened his mother up to that possibility.

The older man hesitated before speaking again.  "Tell me to go to the devil if you wish, Royston," he said at last.  "But your recent behaviour is not what I have come to expect of you."

Iphicles took a sharp breath at the man's impertinence, and was about to make a swift put-down when he saw the expression in Sir John's face.  The man's eyes on him conveyed both his concern for the Earl, and his disappointment in him.  It stung Iphicles as none of the gossip had.

"It was a temporary lapse of judgement," he returned through clenched teeth, turning and beginning to walk.  Sir John kept pace beside him in silence, allowing the Earl to regain some sort of equilibrium.

"There is another matter about which I wish to speak to you, Royston," he said at last.

"Which is?"  He could not hide the wariness in his tone as he glanced sideways to find Sir John's gaze on him.

"I think you are not unaware that I admire your mother."

Iphicles' lips twitched suddenly.  "It does not come as a total surprise to me," he agreed.

The older man’s eyes softened slightly.  “I’m aware of the care you have taken of her,” he admitted.

Iphicles looked startled at him.

"I have admired her for some time," Sir John offered in explanation, before continuing.  “Your care of your mother is, however, a pleasure of which I would like your permission to deprive you.”

Iphicles stopped and offered his hand again, holding the man’s gaze.  “Sir John, there is nobody to whom I would rather relinquish that pleasure.  I hope you make her as happy as she deserves to be.”

“I have every intention of so doing,” Sir John agreed, taking his hand and clasping it firmly.  “Thank you, Royston.”

They walked on a little way further before their paths diverged and, having arranged to receive Sir John the following morning, Iphicles continued towards Half Moon Street.  At least with Sir John offering for his mother, she would be distanced from any subsequent unpleasant consequences of his ill-judgement.  His lips twisted as he recognised that it might well be that consideration which had prompted Sir John’s declaration to him tonight.  Whatever the reason, he could be nothing but pleased for her.

As for himself… his overriding emotion was one of immense gratitude to Sir John from saving him from certain social ruin.  He knew the substance of the gossip would not be forgotten quickly, if at all.  His one consolation was in the cynical knowledge that, whatever tales the Duke and his retinue might put about on their return to town, Society would refuse to believe them, publicly anyway.  They might whisper the shocking tales in corners, but none would repeat them openly.  The members of the ton would do almost anything to avoid looking foolish; to show that the Earl had duped them as to the accuracy of the rumours was unthinkable.  No, the answer must be that the rumours were untrue.

Whether there would be quite as many doors willingly open to the Earl as had previously been the case was another matter however.  Unlike Harry, there were no heroic deeds to counter the allegations, and, far worse, he had committed the solecism of having his name associated with Aresborough’s.  To be seen to be a friend of the Duke’s was shocking, certainly, but to have his name linked with Aresborough’s in this context was well-nigh unforgivable   The very thought of the man caused Iphicles’ chest to constrict in rage and humiliation.  Every time the man caused another scandal the catalogue of his misbehaviour would be told, including the infamous rumours involving the Earl of Royston.  As long as the man breathed, there would be scandal attached to his name, and as long as there was scandal, Iphicles’ moral turpitude would never be forgotten.

Well, it was no more than he deserved, he acknowledged as he climbed the steps to his front door.  He had been foolish beyond belief, and now he reaped the bitter harvest of his stupidity.
 
 

As he dressed himself the next morning, the Earl found that a deep anger was burning steadily inside him.  Those who had called him friend, had wished to call him son in law, had meant none of it when they did so.  He wished nothing less than to spend more time with any of them, yet he knew that in order to consolidate his reputation, he must.

He found he did not care any longer for his own sake.  He would happily tell all those who had been present last night to go to the devil and not give them another thought.  But for the sake of his as yet unchosen new bride and their children, he must not become an outcast.   He would wait upon the Duke’s return, despite the shudder of revulsion which ran through him at the thought of the man, confound any fresh gossip by continuing in his usual behaviour for a time, and then retire to his Estate where he would follow the example set by his father and stay there.  The Dowager could continue to enjoy her way of life under Sir John’s aegis.  Harry would continue to be Harry, alas, yet he would be abroad again soon and would become the problem then of the French.

The thought of the peace of his country home, away from prying eyes and vicious tongues and all artifice, almost destroyed the Earl’s resolve to wait.  He could leave today, ride down himself, and have his household follow as necessary.  For a few moments he indulged in the fantasy, but he knew he could not.  He could not desert his mother so, and his retreat would look to be precisely that.  No, he had somehow to get through the next week or however long it might be until the Duke returned to town, and then his life would be his own again.
 
 

The Earl bade a good morning to Sir John as they passed on the steps.  It was no accident that he left as the man arrived; since their interview, Sir John had been an almost constant visitor and while Iphicles liked the man, there was only so much one could take of one’s mother dimpling and blushing like a girl whenever he was around.  At least in her pleasure at Sir John’s courtship she had forgiven Iphicles his ill-judged behaviour.  The ton too, it seemed, had to all outward purposes forgiven him.  The expressions in people’s eyes, however, and the conversations cut short as he entered rooms informed him that all was not forgotten.

No sooner had the Earl entered the park than Ravenscourt rode up to him.  Iphicles was a little taken aback, as he and the Viscount had never been on close terms.  As always, he found it an effort not to concentrate his gaze on the growth which adorned the man’s nose, but to hold his eyes instead.  He discovered that Ravenscourt’s stare held both triumph and the hint of a challenge.
 
“You must wish me happy, Royston,” the Viscount declared.  “Miss Westcourt has done me the honour of accepting my hand.”

So that was it.  Iphicles was not surprised; he had obediently accompanied his mama to those functions which she had expressed a desire to attend, yet he had been as elusive as manners would permit when it came to dancing with young ladies, including Miss Westcourt.  His character was now tarnished, and it would take only an unquiet tongue to cast aspersions upon the reputation of any young lady to whom he appeared to show favour.  It had become increasingly obvious that rather than pursue what appeared to be a forlorn hope, Lady Annesley would settle for a match that was less glittering, though still highly respectable.

The Earl responded suitably to Ravenscourt.  The challenge in the Viscount disappeared as he realised the Earl was indeed no competitor of his, and almost immediately he retired to where Lady Annesley’s barouche was pulled up beneath a horse chestnut tree.  Iphicles watched for an instant, saw the delicately pink-cheeked pleasure that was Sophia’s at the eager attentions of her swain, and turned away.  That was one ending which he was pleased to see.  Why it left him feeling somehow empty, he could not explain.

Avoiding being drawn into any conversation, simply returning acquaintances’ greetings from a distance, Iphicles rode on.  He nodded stiffly in return to Jack Holloway, whose unanswered invitations had reached embarrassing proportions since that night almost a week ago, but did not check his horse’s stride.  He pushed the horse on, indeed, wishing for nothing more than an invigorating  ride over open country, taking whatever obstacles were in their way.  Soon, he reminded himself.  It would not be long before he could retire to the country and please himself.  Sir John would no doubt become a fixture at Royston too, so he need not worry about his mother’s entertainment.  Harry and Iorweth were due to return to duty almost any day now.  He would not have long to wait.

He was shaken rudely from his pleasurable reflections.  Somebody was on the ride ahead of him, coming towards him.  The exquisitely fitted coat of blue superfine, snowy white buckskins and gleaming top boots could belong to any one of a number of gentlemen, but there could be no mistaking the muscled perfection of the figure, let alone by one who was so intimately familiar with every last inch of it.

Iphicles’ horse began to fret under his suddenly rigid hand as the Earl’s breath came unevenly.  He could not turn away and pretend not to have seen him; he could not do anything which might give any substance to gossip.  Furthermore, he refused to give the man the satisfaction of seeing him turn tail.

So it was that Iphicles was the first to speak as the horses approached one another.

“Aresborough.”  Although it did not sound like his voice, he was pleased to hear how steady it was.  His gaze was fixed firmly between his horse’s ears but at the last moment he could not stop himself glancing sideways to catch a glimpse of Aresborough’s face.

The Duke’s eyes were concentrated on him.  They gleamed as they met Iphicles’ gaze.
 
“Iphicles,” he welcomed, swinging his horse around to accompany the Earl.

Iphicles was breathless for an instant at the man’s temerity.  Then his eyes sparked fury at the Duke.  “I did not invite your company.”

Something flickered in the Duke’s gaze before his lips curved into that familiar, hated, mocking smile.

“Iphicles, I am hurt,” he protested.  “Such coolness towards me.”  He glanced down, and without thinking, Iphicles followed his gaze to find the Duke’s hand rhythmically caressing the handle of his whip.  “Did you not enjoy our last ride together?“

The surge of rage blinded him, deafened him, for an instant perhaps, or an eternity.  When it receded, Iphicles was deadly calm.

“You have had what you wanted from me.”  He held Aresborough’s taunting eyes steadily.  “There is nothing further to be said.”

With that, he wheeled his horse abruptly around and rode away, careless of any possible watchers.
 
 

“My lord?”  Brownlow’s voice at last penetrated.  He was vaguely aware that it had been going on for some time.  “My lord, are you ill?”

His butler’s concerned gaze began to come into focus.  He slowly took in the fact that he was standing in the library, wearing his coat still.  A dull throbbing in his hand began to make itself felt and he looked down to see blood dripping.

He looked back up at Brownlow, not understanding.

“It was the window, my lord.”  Brownlow was carefully matter of fact.

Dim memories of rage, hitting out, the satisfaction of things breaking and smashing.

“May I see to your hand, my lord?”

Brownlow was talking gently and calmly to him as though he was a fractious colt, liable to lash out at the least provocation.  Damn it all, it wasn’t enough for him to make a hideous mull of everything in his life, he now had to add to it by having the faithful family retainer convinced of his madness.

“I’m fine, Brownlow.”  He pulled himself together with an effort.  “Bring me some wine.”

“Yes, my lord.”  The butler looked searchingly at him for a moment, before retreating.

Iphicles stared unseeingly at the smashed pane of glass.  For an instant he could have sworn that the Duke had been pleased to see him, yet the man had gone on to mock him with that reference to the whip.  His cheeks burned as he tried to deny the memories which came flooding back.  Aresborough had been using him, and he had let it happen, doing anything and everything Aresborough had wanted.  Worse still, he had made no secret of his enjoyment of doing so, nor of the fact that he had delighted in the Duke’s company.

He looked up sharply as Brownlow came back into the room, and his lips lifted slightly as he saw the truly estimable man brought not only wine and a glass, but a length of soft cloth as well.

Thanking him, Iphicles took this and began to wrap it around his hand.

“May I be of further assistance, my lord?”
 
Without looking up, Iphicles shook his head.  Seconds later, the door closed softly behind the butler, leaving the Earl to survey the redness which began to soak through the white cloth.  He found himself reminded of the time they had fenced, when the Duke’s blade had drawn blood.  His eyes closed in denial at the memories which followed.  The Duke kneeling beside him, his warm breath on Iphicles’ skin…

Hell and the devil take it, he was not going to let Aresborough win.  Next time he saw the Duke, he would be as composed as Aresborough himself.  The Earl found himself caught between dread at the thought of another meeting with the Duke, and a growing desire to show him that he meant nothing to Iphicles.  At least he might be able to preserve a shred of dignity in all this.
 
 

The Earl rode out in the Park the following morning, his heart beating fast as he searched among the riders for the familiar arrogant figure.  He did not wish to see the man again, yet he needed the Duke to know that Iphicles cared nothing for anything that had happened between them.  There was still no sign of the Duke when finally Iphicles decided to return home, somehow both disappointed and relieved.

He found his mother in the drawing room with Harry and Iorweth, hunting through the pile of cards and letters which had been delivered.  The Dowager was growing increasingly distracted by the thought of Harry’s departure and was desperate to make the most of the few days of her son’s company which still remained to her.  Her search for invitations to suitable events to which her youngest son could accompany her had grown relentless and, judging by Harry’s resigned expression, she would not be refused.  Iphicles felt none of the sympathy for his brother’s predicament which might be expected.  Since their conversation in the library, Iphicles had avoided Harry as much as possible, finding that he could barely bring himself to be civil to the Captain.  Harry, if his air of patient forbearance towards Iphicles was anything to go by, appeared to have generously forgiven the Earl for his peccadillo ever since he had asked for, and then followed, his younger brother’s advice.  His tolerant manner, and Iorweth’s too, left no doubt that they believed Iphicles to have learned from his foolish mistake.

Iphicles reluctantly joined the domestic party at his mother’s insistence, managing with the expertise of long practice to tune out most of the running commentary as the Dowager picked through the pile.  Until, that was, she exclaimed at a mysterious letter addressed to the Earl.  He got to his feet and took it from her, frowning slightly as he saw the familiar hand.  He could not immediately place it.

Returning a platitude to his mother’s questions about the sender he regained his seat where he was able to open the discreet billet in comparative privacy.  He found himself informed that Mrs Howarth would be pleased to receive him if he cared to call that afternoon.  Iphicles screwed up the note, cursing under his breath.  Thoughts of Caroline had not crossed his mind once this past week.  She deserved better treatment than that.

It appeared that Caroline agreed with him.  As soon as he arrived he realised the purpose of this interview.  It was to be a polite termination of their arrangement.  He was inordinately relieved, having spent the past few hours wondering how he might effect the same himself without hurt to her.  He was still fond of her, yet he could no longer continue as they had been.

What vexed him, however, was the fact that she gave no reason for her decision.  She treated him the same as ever she had, her concern for him evident when she noticed the makeshift bandage on his hand and asked him if he was hurt.  No, her calm friendliness and fondness towards him made him believe that her decision could not have anything to do with the rumours.  Her dismissal smarted therefore, especially following so close upon the heels of his realisation of the Duke's real reasons for taking Iphicles to his bed.

He got up abruptly to leave.  She hesitated for a moment, then asked him in a most offhand way if he had enjoyed the Duke of Aresborough's house party.  There was an odd tone in her voice as she mentioned Aresborough, which made him realise that she did know of the rumours.  He looked away as he assured her that he had, thank you.

"He is a man of resource, the Duke, is he not?  One who moreover displays a definite singleness of purpose."

"He is certainly unique," Iphicles agreed stiffly, highly uncomfortable at talking of the man, particularly with Caroline.

"But you must now take your leave?" she anticipated, her eyes betraying amusement at his discomfort.

All of a sudden he found himself smiling back at her.  He would miss her, as much for her quickness of mind and her conversation as for anything else they had shared.

It was with a mixture of sadness and relief that Iphicles kissed her farewell and left.
 
 
 
 

The Dowager was desperately disappointed, and did not care who knew it.

"But Harry, you know that I have been looking forward to this for an age!"

"My apologies, Mama, but I cannot refuse a senior officer's invitation."  Besides which, Iphicles mentally supplied, the quality of Colonel Kempsford's cellar was well known, and Iorweth too was invited.  Harry softened the blow with a dazzling smile.  "I am sure my brother will be pleased to accompany you in my stead."

"Of course, Mama," Iphicles agreed automatically.

"But Harry has booked a box and was to spend the whole evening with me, and now it is all spoiled."

The Earl managed to maintain his smile.  "I'm sure you will contrive to have a tolerable evening."

"Oh very well," she allowed pettishly.  "Although Sir John is not able to be present either."

A tactful move on Sir John's part, Iphicles had deduced, allowing Alicia some time alone with her younger son before he returned to duty.

"You know I would wish nothing more than to accompany you, Mama," Harry assured her, as he rose to his feet.  "Let us look on the bright side; perhaps Kempsford will be trampled by a runaway horse before tonight."

The Dowager's laughter pealed out in response to Harry's grin.  "Odious boy!" she reprimanded, her good humour on its way to being restored.  "Well there is always tomorrow night, I suppose."
 
 

By the time they reached their box at Vauxhall Gardens, no one would have suspected that the Dowager had suffered such a crushing blow a few short hours before.  Everywhere she looked there was another of her cronies, or somebody about whom she had heard the most unbelievable news, and she was lit up with enjoyment as Iphicles seated her in their booth situated in the open centre of the gardens, from where she could survey all who passed by.  Iphicles arranged his features into their usual calm politeness and spent his time calculating how much longer it would be before he could reasonably retire to Royston.  Harry and Iorweth would be gone before the end of the week; glancing sideways at his mother, he realised it would be unnecessarily cruel to expect her removal to the country before they had left.  Yet it was soon enough now for him to be able to begin making arrangements.  He was still determined to leave London and all it represented.  It would also remove him from the danger of seeing the Duke again.  Iphicles had seen nothing of Aresborough since the morning ride two days ago, and was now relieved.  To see him again would be only to stir unpleasant memories, best forgotten.  Furthermore, it would have given the ton new food for their gossip.

Eventually even his musings were no longer enough to block out his mother's explanations to every passing acquaintance about why dear Harry was not with her tonight, how duty bade him dine with the Colonel, and how much she would miss him when he went back to face the dangerous French.  "And dear Iorweth too," she would add.  "He is such a comfort to Harry, to have a friend like that in the trials he faces.  I do believe they are closer even than brothers."

It no longer had the power to unsettle the Earl - it was nothing he was not used to - but the frequency of the recitation set his teeth on edge.  Seeing that she was comfortably enjoying the sympathy of Lady Maria Kempe about her younger son's unavoidable absence, Iphicles excused himself to walk through the gardens.  The hot summer night was brilliantly lit by the number of gaily coloured lanterns strung alone the walkways, their light splashing colourfully over the walls of the Grecian Temple at the end of the Long Walk as he passed by, but the Earl noticed none of their effect as he continued to wander slowly along the various pathways.  It was only as his passing disturbed an intently whispering  couple ensconced on a secluded seat that he realised he was inadvertently in Lovers' Walk and intruding upon those who might reasonably expect to be allowed to enjoy the gardens in peace.  He remembered bringing Bella here, shortly after they were married, and her horror when, unable to resist touching her any longer, he had swept her into the shelter of one of the small summer houses that were scattered around the gardens.  She had protested as he held her to him, and when he had tried to kiss her she had slapped him, her sensibilities outraged at his public display of affection.

It had been their first quarrel.  She might welcome him to her bed, but marital relations were to be kept strictly within the bedchamber.  She had considered him shameless and dissolute for thinking otherwise.  His lips twisted as he reflected that she had been right in her reading of his character.  He had not cared that Aresborough took him where anybody might discover them; on the oak desk in the library, ink spilling under the onslaught to stain the Earl's skin, or on the chaise longue in the drawing room, until Iphicles' creamy white seed garlanded the red velvet seat, or even that first time, on the grass in the rain.  Iphicles' eyes closed momentarily, then he pulled himself together.  Turning abruptly, he made his way back towards the open centre of the gardens.  Perhaps he could persuade his mother to attend the concert due to be held in the pavilion later this evening, where his thoughts could be concentrated upon the music instead of wandering in such a destructive fashion.  Although he had to confess that he held no great hope of this; to sit for so long in silence was not an activity much to the Dowager's liking.

Making his way towards their box, he saw that she was engaged in close colloquy with yet another passer-by.  His heart stopped as he recognised the figure leaning familiarly over the front of the booth to speak to her.

The Dowager’s tinkling laugh rang out, and as she saw Iphicles approach, her eyes brightened still further and she crowed with delight.

“Oh Iphicles, you didn’t tell me how droll your friend is.  I declare, he is much maligned.  Such pleasant company; he has been keeping me so entertained while you have been gone.”

Iphicles had hardly taken his eyes from the Duke.  At length, the man turned and met his gaze, dark eyes unreadable.

“A word with you, Aresborough," the Earl snapped out.

The Duke inclined his head.  “For you, Iphicles, anything.”  He returned his attention briefly to the Dowager and lifting her hand to his mouth, kissed it.  “I look forward to resuming our conversation,” he promised.

She smiled at him.  Biting back a curse, Iphicles turned and walked off, aware through his fury that the Duke was following him, the very laziness of his stride somehow an insult.  Stopping in one of the darker and consequently less-frequented walkways, Iphicles spun round to face Aresborough.  The light from the lanterns did not penetrate here, and he could see little of the Duke's face.

“Why have I never made your mother’s acquaintance before, Iphicles?" Aresborough enquired.  "She is a most delightful lady.”

“Keep away from her.” It was a furious snarl  “I don’t know what game you think you’re playing now, Aresborough, but I will not have you bothering my mother, understand me?”

“You would rather I bothered you, perhaps?”  The invitation in the velvet voice was unmistakable as the Duke moved a step forward.

Iphicles took a sharp step back.  “Stay away from my mother,” he warned, hearing suddenly how ridiculous he sounded.

He wasn’t the only one to see the absurdity of the situation.  The Duke laughed.  “Any moment now, you’ll be demanding to know whether my intentions are honourable.”

“No need for that,” Iphicles bit out.  “I know they will be only dishonourable.”

“You didn’t mind that once, Iphicles,” Aresborough's voice was low.  “Why so proper now?”

Even in the gloom he saw the expression change in the Duke’s eyes, yet he was still unprepared when the man moved swiftly forward and pulled Iphicles to him, his mouth descending on Iphicles', persuading his lips to open and admit his seeking tongue.  Iphicles gasped at the response which rocked his body, focusing in his cock.  Drowning in the kiss, his hands clutched at the Duke, holding him close, ever closer, as the comfort of that well-loved muscular body hard against his swamped his defences.  His mind, his body, his whole being was consumed by Aresborough.  A sound of need echoed deep in his throat, mirrored by the Duke as he pulled Iphicles tight against him and buried his face in Iphicles' neck.  "Iphicles," he whispered, hot breath against warm skin before his mouth buried deep, lips and teeth seeking.

For one heady moment, Iphicles opened himself fully to the Duke.  This was all he wanted, all that mattered.  Then the nagging knowledge at the back of his mind became reality.  This was precisely what Aresborough wanted, to overwhelm him with sex until he could no longer think.  With an incoherent sound of protest, Iphicles' hands thrust hard against the Duke's chest, pushing him away.

Aresborough seemed dazed as he stared at the Earl.  He moved forward a step, his hand reaching to Iphicles' face.  "Iphicles?" he questioned.

Iphicles stepped abruptly backwards.  Allowing Aresborough to touch him would be his undoing.

"Do you really think I'm so stupid?"  His voice was low, but its bitterness lent it strength.  "Do you really think I would fall for your stratagems a second time, allow you to parade me like a lapdog before the ton for your amusement and their disgust?"  His lip curled.  "You may save yourself the effort, Aresborough; my turpitude is already the talk of London.  I should congratulate you, I suppose, on achieving your aim."

Aresborough stood as though rooted to the spot.  "It is not what I meant…" he began at last.

"So you had no intention of destroying my reputation and that of my family?" Iphicles' voice lashed the night air.  "Why else would you do what you did, Aresborough?"

The Duke was silent, his lips twisting oddly under the Earl's burning gaze.
 
"I have already told you, I want nothing more to do with you."  Iphicles' tone was satisfyingly cool and unemotional.  "Do not bother my family again; they are nothing to do with whatever aberration of judgement may have been mine.  I wish you good day."  He executed a sketchy bow and strode away, slightly unnerved by the Duke's continuing silence.

As soon as he reached the Long Walk, he turned blindly into one of the secluded paths that joined it and sank down on the nearest bench, almost trembling.  He had done it; he had let Aresborough know that he meant nothing to him.  The man had no more leverage over him.  He thrust aside the memory of that kiss; whatever it was the man did which spoke to his baser part, he would not admit it.  He would not permit the memories to surface.  All that mattered was that he had seen that arrogant, manipulative character at a loss for words, and that it was he, for once, who had had the ordering of their encounter.  Better still, it was over now.  The whole disastrous chapter was finished, never to be revisited.

He finally got to his feet and made his way back to the booth.  A petulant frown spoiled the beauty of the Dowager’s face when she saw Iphicles entering the box.  The Ladies Foxcote and Linton, seated next to Alicia, took one look at the expressions on mother and son's faces and swiftly excused themselves.

“Why did you whisk him away so suddenly?” the Dowager demanded pettishly.  “We were having such fun until you spoiled it all.  Your brother would never have done such an ill-mannered thing, you know.  It is such a shame dear Harry was not able to come tonight."

“What did Aresborough speak to you of?”

Her frown deepened.  “Oh Iphicles, you’re so abrupt sometimes," she chastised him.  "Not at all like your brother.  No, the Duke was kind enough to enquire after my health.  He seemed to have been under the impression that I had been ill, although he realised of course as soon as he saw me that nothing could have been further from the truth.”  Her frown vanished suddenly and she gave a gurgle of delighted laughter at the memory as she smoothed an imaginary crease in her skirt.  “I told you, did I not, that this gown suited me?”

“Mama…” Iphicles was frustrated beyond belief.  “You yourself warned me from him, and here you are, publicly talking to him!”

“Well, yes, perhaps I did say something of the sort,” allowed his mother.  “Yet that was before I met him.  Such a charming man!  I know he has a rakish reputation, yet handsome young men will be a little wild, you know.  I daresay dear Harry has broken more than a few hearts; he does look so dashing  in that uniform.  But now that I have met Aresborough, I am sure his reputation is mostly undeserved.”

His eyes closing in defeat, Iphicles settled himself again next to his mother.  Damnation but he’d be glad to pass the task to Sir John of protecting her from herself.  At least there was one thing of which he could now be sure, and that was that the Duke would not trouble her, or him, again.
 
 

The Earl woke suddenly, his heart pounding.  It had been a dream, that was all.  Yet it had seemed so real: the Duke and he in the gardens, their kiss holding and deepening until hands searched frantically for one another, tearing open clothing that was in the way until finally they were pressed skin to warm skin.  Iphicles' cock had been hard and desperate as he felt the full hot flesh pushing eagerly against his, and he had moaned into the Duke's mouth, rubbing himself frantically against the Duke's hardness until he whimpered and his seed spattered Aresborough's skin.

The Duke had finally released his mouth, allowing him to slide down until he was on his knees, eagerly taking the Duke's thick cock into his mouth.  He used every refinement of the skill that he had learned from Aresborough, intent only on the Duke's pleasure, until Aresborough's head went back and he groaned as he shuddered and came into Iphicles' mouth.  The Earl had released him afterwards, to rest his head against the Duke's hip, one hand lightly tracing a muscled thigh through the soft material of the Duke's breeches.

"I love you, Aresborough," he had whispered.

The Earl's eyes closed as he tried desperately to dispel the recollection of the Duke's mocking laughter at his declaration.  Turning abruptly in his bed, he tried to leave the memory behind him, only to encounter damp evidence that his release had not been only in his dream.  He turned sharply back the other way, hauling the covers up over himself, desperate to forget.
 

Iphicles returned from his customary ride in the Park later that morning, and found Harry alone in the Drawing Room, the scattered pile of cards and invitations beside him on the sopha evidence that the Dowager had enlisted his help in identifying suitable functions at which he might spend his last few evenings of leave.  It had become their daily ritual, and was one with which Iphicles found no fault, meaning as it did that he did not have to sort through a mound of billets in order to find the bills.

Harry rose swiftly to his feet at his brother's entrance, his hand tightening angrily to crush the billet in his hand as he glared at the Earl.

"Devil take it, Iph," he accused furiously, "What madness has got into you?"

Iphicles paused momentarily as the door closed behind him, wondering quite what it was that his brother referred to now.

"You may care nothing for your own name, but to introduce a man of such reputation to Mama goes beyond anything!"

Sudden guilt made Iphicles defensive.  "I did not introduce them!" he threw back.  "God above, Harry, do you really think I would do such a thing?"

Harry's blue eyes were stormy.  "Frankly, Iph," he confessed, an edge to his voice, "I find I no longer have a notion what you will do next, only that the consequences will be damned unpleasant for your family."

Iphicles teeth were gritted.  "Aresborough will not bother Mama again.  I have made sure of that."

He turned to leave.

Harry snorted.  "If not for you, she would not have been subjected to his attentions to begin with."

Iphicles swung back on his brother.  "Stow it, Harry," he flashed.  Breathing heavily he determinedly reined in his temper.  "He did not go beyond the line with her, as well you know," he pointed out abruptly, "and it would have been peculiar behaviour in her indeed to cut one of her son's acquaintances.  I have made sure that it will not happen again.  You have said more than enough on this matter."

The Captain stepped forward, shoulders squared.  "It seems to me I have not said enough.  Damn it Iph, you told me that you would have nothing more to do with him, yet not only do you arrange this assignation but you must needs drag Mama into it."

His jaw dropping, Iphicles stared at his brother.  "I suggest you return to whatever asylum is currently missing an inmate," he said at last.  "Last night's meeting was coincidence, no more."

A harsh laugh escaped Harry.  "Why else would he approach Mama if not to speak to you, Iph?  Do you think me a half-wit?"

"Frankly, Harry, I do."

As the Captain's brow darkened still further, Iphicles turned and walked out, nodding curtly to Iorweth as they passed in the hallway.  It was only the knowledge that his mother was in the house that had prevented the Earl from delivering some unpalatable home-truths to his brother.
 

He did not see Harry again that day, nor the next.  The gallant Captain was engaged elsewhere, and Iphicles could not but welcome the fact.  The worst of it was that Harry had been justified in his anger with his brother; were it not for Iphicles' friendship with Aresborough, his mama would never have been placed in such a position.  The galling knowledge that he had given Harry something else with which he might legitimately reproach his older brother did not help to reanimate any feelings of fraternal amity within the Earl's breast.

Iphicles was relived to find the following night that he was dining alone.  His mama and Harry and Iorweth were gone somewhere; he had lost track of which particular event it was that enjoyed their presence tonight.  He sat at the dining table long after the covers had been cleared, steadily making his way through the port.  He was reluctant to move, for to move would be to go to yet another empty room, where there was nothing to be done and nobody to talk to.  The possibility of going out for the evening had fleetingly occurred to him, but had been as swiftly discarded.  He no longer wished to pass his time in the company of those who, however briefly, had revealed to him their true colours.

Sitting in the brightly lit room, the abundance of candles somehow emphasising its emptiness, he tried not to make the mental comparison between this and the dinner times at the Duke's country seat where the company had been relaxed and the after dinner conversation when the port did the rounds usually became riotous.  Those times when he had stayed, that was; there were several occasions when he and Aresborough had left early to be by themselves.

Damnation, why had he allowed himself to remember that now?  He ignored the beginnings of desire, as he had managed to do ever since returning to London, and poured himself another glass of port, vaguely surprised to see how far the level in the decanter had lowered, desperately tearing his thoughts away from the memories of the Duke's velvet mouth moving over his skin.  Surely those long nights together must have meant something to the man…

What if they had, and Iphicles had somehow hastened to a wrongful conclusion about the Duke's motives, misled by Harry's dislike of the man?   Although, the Earl hesitated, if that were the case, why had not the Duke defended himself against Iphicles' accusations at Vauxhall?  Because what he had said was true, he surmised cynically.  He splashed more port into his glass, his slightly unsteady hand causing crimson drops to spoil the purity of the white linen cloth, and swiftly downed the wine, as swiftly refilling his glass from the depleted decanter.  Or perhaps it had been that the Duke had been too angry for words at the Earl's wild allegations.  For the first time he regretted the darkness of their encounter, which had prevented him from seeing the man's face clearly.  His eyes closed briefly as he considered the dreadful possibility that he had wronged the Duke.

Yet whatever Aresborough's motives had been in seeking him at Vauxhall did not change the fact of his behaviour when Iphicles had been called home by Harry.  There he hesitated again.  The Duke knew now that the Dowager had not been unwell.  If nothing else, Iphicles owed the man an apology for Harry's clumsy subterfuge.  He turned the glass slowly in his hand, watching the way the ruby liquid reflected the brilliant candlelight and realised that he also needed the Duke to know that he had not been party to his brother's games.  Tossing off the remains of the port, he got determinedly to his feet.
 

The Earl took a hackney to the Duke's residence.  He would not call for his carriage and have the entire household know of his destination, and when he began to walk, he found that his gait was not entirely steady.  He stumbled out at the end of his journey, and made his way determinedly up the steps to the Duke's town house.  The front door opened almost before he had finished beating an uneven tattoo on it.

He unceremoniously pushed past the footman.  "Where is he?"

The man scrambled backwards in an attempt to block the inebriated Earl's way.  "His Grace is not receiving visitors, sir," he said.

Iphicles' head cocked; he had heard a familiar voice.  "The devil he isn't," he returned and strode to the door from behind which he had heard the sound.  It was slightly ajar, and so he pushed it further open to stand in the doorway, unnoticed by those in the room.  The Duke was seated in a chair with Ogborne knelt between his open legs, Aresborough's hands wrapped relentlessly in his blond hair as he pushed the man's head down on his cock.  Iphicles stood unmoving, seeing the way Aresborough's head fell back against the chair, his eyes lidding as Ogborne's head moved up and down on him, deeper and faster, until the Duke was groaning, just as he had groaned for Iphicles.

Iphicles stumbled away towards the front door, pushing blindly past the footmen who had been summoned as reinforcements to expel the intruder.  He got out onto the street and around the corner, out of sight, before he stopped and clung to the nearest set of railings, his breathing ragged as he convulsively clutched at the metal and tried desperately to deny what he had seen.

Sickened, he finally moved on, not wanting anybody to see him here, to know what a pathetic fool he had been.  He walked for miles, no idea in his head of where he was going, knowingly only that he had to keep walking in order to stop himself thinking.

Not thinking slowly became increasingly difficult, and he impulsively hailed a passing hackney, demanding to be taken to the nearest drinking shop.  The jarvey demurred briefly, looking at the finely-dressed gentleman so obviously out of his way in this part of London, but a few choice phrases from the Earl made him shrug and do as he was bidden.  He left the Earl in Tothill Fields, a haunt of some of the more adventurous young bloods who, in a search for excitement sadly lacking in the staid parties of the ton, patronised insalubrious establishments peopled by those who might not be counted among the most wholesome of the capital's population. Iphicles had never before been anywhere like this, but he barely noticed the grim exterior of the place; paying off the jarvey he strode inside, checking for an instant at the atmosphere thick with the emissions from countless clay pipes, before demanding whatever was their strongest drink.

It was some considerable time before anything disturbed the Earl in his estimable aim of drinking himself unconscious.  He had set himself with gusto to the task of forgetting his reasons for being here; forgetting, indeed, most everything.  He had not once considered how he might find his way home again from wherever here might be.

"Royston!  What the devil are you doing here?"

He slowly looked up from his fierce concentration on his drink to find Asbury standing there, looking decidedly odd.  Pleased to see a friend, he blinked, trying to work out what was different about the man before his brain gave up the unequal struggle.

"Drinking," he explained, taking an illustrative gulp before pushing his beaker in the Viscount's general direction.  "Want one?  S'good stuff."

Asbury picked it up and sniffed, recoiling suddenly.  "God man, that stuff will send you blind if you put it away like that without being used to it."

"Used to it," Iphicles responded smugly.  "Been drinking it f'r hours.  Blue Ruin, tha's it."

Asbury was suddenly wrestling him to his feet.  "If that's Blue Ruin, I'm a parson's aunt.  Bad brandy, that's what that is.  Come on, I'm getting you out of here.  How in hell did you come to be here anyway?"

"Hackney," Iphicles helpfully supplied.

He didn't resist as Asbury moved him towards the door and out into the street, although he did offer the observation, "Only jus' 'rived - can't wanna leave."

"I'm getting you out of here.  Look at you, man, it's a wonder you didn't have your throat slit for that diamond in your cravat."

Iphicles looked down at himself before turning his eyes back on Asbury, who was dressed anonymously, a kerchief rather than a cravat around his neck, and boots which lacked their usual high polish.  That's what was different about him, he realised.  "Look better'n you."

"Yes, and that's the whole point.  Who in God's name pointed you to such a place on your own?"

He was pulling the Earl onwards, regardless of the difficulty Iphicles was having in negotiating the uneven cobblestones underfoot.

"Don't need pointing," Iphicles informed him pugnaciously.  "Do what I want."

"Yes, and don't we know it.  God, I don't recall when I last saw Aresborough in such a taking as when you left.  He was not best pleased."

Iphicles knew a stab of satisfaction.  "Spoiled his game."

"I don't know about that," Asbury returned, "You certainly spoiled his temper.  It got so we were all ready to return to town long before he was."

Iphicles had pursued his own train of thought.  "Bastard."

"You'll thank me in the morning," his companion assured him.  "Come on, I'm finding you a hackney and sending you home."

"Not you.  Him.  Bastard's fucking Ogborne.  Saw 'em."

"Is he?" Asbury responded without interest.  "Well, he's had everyone else over the past week; no doubt he's started at the beginning again."

 The Earl lurched suddenly as Asbury let go of him to signal to a hackney, which stopped.

He helped Iphicles up into the carriage, ignoring the jarvey's protest that the gentleman looked as though he was about to cast up his accounts.

"There you go, Royston," he said, assisting the unsteady Earl to sit upright.  "I hope to God you remember where you live because I haven't got a clue, and I have to go back to meet Appleton."

Iphicles blinked up at him.  "Like you, Asbury, even if y'are interfering nuisance."

Asbury stood looking at the Earl for a moment.  "Oddly enough, Royston, I return your regard.  Call on me when you're recovered - if you remember a word of this conversation, that is."

He closed the door on Iphicles and instructed the driver to take his passenger towards a more godly area of the capital.
 

Iphicles remembered nothing of getting out of the hackney, just that suddenly the world was spinning around him and he was bending over, a burning stream through his throat and mouth as his stomach voided itself, sourly wrenching even when there was nothing more to follow.  Finally it stopped.  Wiping his mouth on his sleeve, Iphicles staggered on, the flagstones under his feet damnably uneven, until all of a sudden the pavement was cool beneath his cheek.  He was suddenly reluctant to move.  To do so would be to cause everything to start spinning again.  No, better to lie here and sleep.
 

Voices, someone shaking him.  "Royston, for God's sake, man."

Blurred faces looking down at him, then he was being pulled up, his arms put around people's necks as he tried to support his own weight with his legs, but they would not work properly.  That was the last he remembered.
 

He awoke slowly the next morning to a pounding in his skull and a stirring in his stomach.  Opening his eyes, he saw the empty bowl placed beside him on the bed and leaned over just in time before his stomach expelled its meagre contents.  He lay back, shivering, his arm flung across his eyes.

It was some time later, after his stomach had rebelled again, that there was the sound of curtains being drawn and a familiar voice.  "Drink this."

His eyes opened a painful amount against the light, and he could see Sir John thrusting a glass at him.   Carefully propping himself up, he waited for the expected wave of nausea.  Knowing a sense of relief when it didn't come, he clumsily reached for the glass of water.  He drank it all and handed the empty glass back to Sir John, slowly letting himself back down against the pillows.

The man put it to one side and stood looking down at him, his arms crossed disapprovingly.

"Tell me, Royston, have I been deceived in your character all these years?"  His eyes betrayed his distaste as he looked at Iphicles.  "I thought you the epitome of responsibility, yet first you go to stay with Aresborough, and I have heard more than I wish to about your behaviour while you did so, and then Lionel and I find you rolling in the gutter, drunker than a brewer's cat.  Certainly in too reprehensible a condition to be taken to your home where your mother would hear of it."  He shook his head slightly.  "God knows we all dip too deep sometimes, but not drink ourselves to oblivion.  How did you end up like that?"

Iphicles' eyes closed.  He could not remember how he got there, just the reason for it, which he emphatically wished he could forget.  And he really was not in a state to deal with lectures.  God, his head hurt.

"Is this behaviour I am to expect regularly from my son-in-law?" Sir John pursued mercilessly.

He turned his head away.  "No."

There was a pause, then the bed dipped and creaked as Sir John sat down on the edge of it.  "I thought I was not wrong in my reading of you.  And you certainly seemed to find no pleasure in it last night.  Mind telling me why you did it?"

The sudden sympathy in his voice was too much for the Earl in his weakened condition. He shook his head slightly, keeping his face averted.

"Very well."  Sir John hesitated slightly.  "If I can be of help, Royston, let me know."

He got up and quietly left the room, leaving the Earl to his humiliating reflections.  He did not deserve the man's sympathy.  The stupidity of his port-driven imaginings left him mortified; how could he have been feeble-minded enough to believe even for a minute that the Duke had not been using him?  God, the thought of going around to the Duke's like some moon-struck idiot was enough to make his stomach turn even without the brandy.  His only hope was the possibility that the Duke's footmen did not know the identity of the intruder.  And that Asbury kept his mouth shut.  Iphicles all but moaned at the memory of their conversation, informing the man that he had gone to Aresborough's.  Compared to that humiliation, the possibility of his drunken stupor being witnessed by various members of the ton paled into insignificance.  After all, it was no more than they had come to expect from him.  At least it might keep some of the matchmaking mamas from his back for a while.

He lay there for a while longer, before the foul taste in his mouth drove him to brave the soreness in his head long enough to get to his feet and rinse out his mouth.  He was too ashamed to hold his own bloodshot gaze in the looking glass for long; all he could think was how desperately he needed to return to the country, where he would never again run the risk of seeing the Duke.
 
 

On to Part Five