Free The Sins of Lord Easterbrook by Madeline Hunter Page B

teach the young Englishman about meditation, the reason had been unrelated to Christian's ability to sense the emotions of others.
    He had never explained it. Not to her. Not to anyone. It was the sort of thing that sounded insane. For a long time, he had been sure it would eventually make him deranged. A man cannot live like that, invaded atevery turn by instincts regarding others’ private selves. Worse, the temptation to use the curse to his own ends was almost unbearable, and he still occasionally succumbed.
    He tested himself as he walked, blocking the vague energies first with concentration on his thoughts, then with a rigorous pace that provided the peace found in sport.
    All of the strategies derived from the first, however. If he had never found the utter silence of the selfless center, he would have never known what to strive for in experiments that required less oblivion.
    His path eventually brought him to a fine house on the edge of Mayfair, near the park. Like many others it still showed the glow of lamps through its windows. London did not fall silent at night, and Mayfair during the season did not sleep until close to dawn.
    A footman escorted him to the library. The men assembled there looked over when he entered.
    A table of four went back to their game of cards. Christian walked over to another group occupied only with glasses of spirits.
    “What ho, Easterbrook. Did not think you would show this time. We are in need of a fourth tonight too. Been left with naught to do but drink and gossip until now.”
    Drink and gossip were the real purpose of these informal meetings, and games of whist mere filler, so the absence or presence of one or another person really did not matter.
    Christian had inherited this circle along with his title. An invitation to join them had come as soon as hisfather died. For generations, it was explained to him, Easterbrooks had been members of this very small, very private club.
    Six peers and four bishops comprised the circle, all with titles and sees among the oldest in the realm. The club's origins were shrouded in political plots so dangerous that each member was also known by one of the face cards in a playing deck, in the event secret communication were necessary.
    As Easterbrook, Christian was the King of Hearts. The bishops had taken the aces for themselves. Some times members still made use of those designations in their reference to each other, but the club's function now was mostly social.
    Mostly. They still swapped political favors. On a few rare occasions the members decided how to privately punish a peer for crimes that would be too embarrassing to the peerage if he were publicly tried in the House of Lords.
    “I rearranged my plans just for you, Denningham,” Christian said to the tawny-haired, corpulent man who greeted him. The Earl of Denningham was the only member of this club whom he occasionally saw outside these nights. He and Denningham had been friends at school, in part because Denningham was so amiable, so lacking in guile or ulterior motives, that his only emotions were the ones written on his face for all to see.
    “You have had a change of habit. Out and about quite a lot these days, or that is the
on-dit.
Would it have anything to do with the handsome woman seen with you yesterday in the park?” Rallingport said.
    Viscount Rallingport was a regular at these card parties and had been for five years, since he inherited his title. His attendance was so predictable that the meetings now took place in his home. He was basically a good man, just too fond of brandy.
    “Miss Montgomery is an old friend,” Christian said.
    “I wish my old friends looked like that. I am stuck with Meadowsun here, and he resembles an old apple.”
    Meadowsun did resemble an old apple. An older man, his face possessed a pattern of wrinkles much like fruit develops as it begins to dry. Since he was slight of build and sparse of hair, that face was really all one noticed