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hethought he was doing. Chasing after Cosgrove’s plots and machinations had never netted anyone a reward, and he didn’t believe in pursuing anything that held no profit for him. That damned curiosity of his, he supposed. Ah, well. A bit of knowledge rarely served him poorly.
    “I say! Lord Bram!”
    Stifling a sigh, Bram turned around to see the Earl of Abernathy’s only son and heir. At least he hadn’t had to scour the rest of London for the boy. “Lester.”
    The pup grinned happily. “I never expected to see you at Gentleman Jackson’s.”
    Bram lifted an eyebrow. “And why is that? Do you think me incapable of defending myself in a row?”
    Lord Lester flushed. “No. Of course not. It’s merely that you seem more the…sword and pistol sort.”
    “Precisely so. Fisticuffs are messy.” He sent a glance past the lad at Jackson himself, and nodded. With a short smile the boxer continued with the lesson he was delivering. Bram returned his attention to the young viscount. “Since we’ve run across one another, why don’t you join me for luncheon?”
    “Absolutely, old blade. Give me a moment to fetch my coat, will you?”
    While the boy scampered off, Bram hoped this little play he’d discovered would be worth it. He’d originally planned to visit Miss Heloise Blanchard for a bit of sport after the actress’s morning rehearsal. He’d done this to himself, though, and he was the one person whose consequences he was willing to suffer. Even if it meant an afternoon’s celibacy so he could dine with an idiot.
    “White’s?” Lester commented, as they dismounted and handed the horses over to Redding.
    “They serve a fine pheasant,” Bram returned, reminding himself again that he’d instigated this. Considering that, Lester would have to behave in an even stupider manner than usual before he could let his own…displeasure be known. “Where did you think we were going?”
    “I’d hoped you might take me to Jezebel’s. Cosgrove’s been singing its praises for weeks. I attempted to go last night, but apparently there’s a password or secret knock or something involved.”
    Or a payment of a shilling to the fellow at the door. The viscount’s wistful look was almost amusing. “One does not go to Jezebel’s for food, James.”
    “Yes, but the faro tables are legendary.”
    As the doorman collected their hats and gloves, Bram felt a brush of annoyance touch him. He’d been known to wager heavily himself, but he had never lost more than he could afford. Clearly the young fool had no idea of his own limitations. “Do you think we’ll encounter your father here?” he asked offhandedly.
    Lester shook his head. “No. Father’s having luncheon with Cosgrove. He forbade me to join them.” He shrugged as a waiter escorted them to a table by the front window. “I told him I should be there. Cosgrove’s my friend, after all.”
    Cosgrove was no one’s friend; even knowing him for better than a decade, Bram thought of King as a mentor, but more recently as more of an acquaintance with whom he shared some interests and a general penchant for cynical observation and decadence. “Not to intrude, but what does your father want with Kingston Gore?”
    For a moment Lester actually looked embarrassed. “I owe a little blunt to Cosgrove. They’re deciding the terms of payment.”
    “Ah.”
    “I told Father I could win the funds back, but he’d rather treat me like a bloody infant.”
    Bram tried to remember when he’d been as stupidly naive as James Davies, but nothing came to mind. And any inclination to be so had vanished utterly during his sixteenth year. He even knew the date. The seventeenth of May. And he distinctly recalled that it had been two days afterward that he’d first encountered Kingston Gore and knowingly sold his soul to the devil.
    Perhaps that was the difference between how he’d fared in Society’s underbelly and how young James was progressing. The viscount wanted to be seen