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if spring is even here.”
    Lancelot removed his hat and cloak, hoping he wouldn’t haveto go through this routine much more this evening. By now he was beginning to know Harold’s favorite haunts.
    He paused on the threshold of the upstairs drawing room and scanned the tables. The men gathered around the tables didn’t even look up.
    He could understand why his brother favored Mrs. Smith’s establishment whenever he was tired of the play at Brooks’s, Boodle’s, or White’s.
    The four-story town house on Duchess Street, though not in a fashionable part of town, was nevertheless tastefully furnished within. Its interior was warm and well-lighted. A buffet of varied dishes was replenished frequently by a couple of footmen.
    In return for the convivial atmosphere, gentlemen came to spend their money, and Mrs. Smith, a lady of indeterminate years, was able to live comfortably and in a style she desired without compromising her standards. A young gentleman’s losing his parents’ money was not considered a sin, merely a rite of passage.
    The fair-haired woman, who was still quite attractive, approached him with a smile. “Ah, Mr. Marfleet, how nice of you to join us this evening. Care to try your hand at a bit of whist or faro?” She chuckled, knowing he didn’t play faro nor whist at the stakes played at her establishment.
    “Thank you, no,” he said, summoning a polite smile. “I’m simply looking for my brother. Ah, there he is.” Pretending an affability he didn’t feel, Lancelot excused himself and crossed the carpeted room.
    Reining in both exasperation and relief at seeing Harold hunched over one of the tables, Lancelot cast about in his mind what reasoning to use to drag him away. Several other gentlemen ringed the round table, their eyes intent on the player sitting in the curved indented space reserved for the banker.
    Lancelot’s jaw tightened. Baccarat. Judging by the pile of chips in front of Harold, his brother would not be leaving anytime soon. It would be useless to remonstrate. He consoled himself that at leasthe wouldn’t have to track him down to a cockfight or rat-catching ring in less savory neighborhoods.
    Harold didn’t glance up at Lancelot’s approach, his gaze fixed on the cards laid out on the green baize.
    With a sigh of resignation, Lancelot looked around for an empty chair. He retrieved one along the wall and placed it near his brother, nodding to those present who chose to acknowledge him. Most were too intent on the cards being dealt.
    Upon his return from India, Lancelot had been grieved to see Harold had not changed from the man he’d left two years ago. He continued to live the life of a young gentleman about town rather than a married man of thirty with an estate to learn to manage.
    Even though he knew he could do little to influence his older brother, still he kept hoping his presence might compel his brother to get up from the gaming tables before he lost everything.
    As the hour dragged on, Harold’s pile of counters diminished then grew high again and now was once again on the ebb. He wouldn’t leave unless convinced he was on a losing streak.
    The wait gave Lancelot ample time to relive his earlier fiasco with the two young ladies at Lady Abernathy’s rout. If Harold hadn’t matured in two years, Lancelot acknowledged ruefully that neither had he himself grown any more attractive to the fairer sex.
    Lancelot imagined the scene with Miss Barry and Miss Phillips if Harold had been there in his stead. With his dark blond curls arranged à la Brutus and his innocent blue eyes, Harold had inherited all the looks in the family. With a mere lift of his lips, he would have had Miss Barry gazing in adoration.
    Lancelot shifted in his chair to ease the stiffness in his legs. He had long ago stopped railing at the fate that had brought him into the world with a thatch of pale-red hair. No one in his immediate family had it—only his paternal grandfather whom Lancelot had