Over the past few months, Desdemona Pettigrew had taken to retiring by nine thirty each evening. Fitz did not typically make a habit of knowing the routines of his friends' wives, but given that this particular wife did not like him overmuch, he had made an exception. Besides, he did indeed need a chat with Art.

The events of that afternoon had been surprising, to say the least. Had they not been interrupted when they had, Fitz might now be still entangled in his bedsheets with Miss Gallivan rather than sat across the kitchen table from his closest friend. Good company either way, but Art would never be a pleasurable companion in quite the same way.

But he had not said anything about the interlude right away—he wanted to, yes, but there was an unspoken understanding that a gentleman did not kiss, grope, or fuck good girls at all, and when he ignored that understanding, he certainly did not tell people about it.

"I'm going to ask you a question of a personal nature," Fitz said rather than asked as their conversation reached a natural lull and the bottle of whiskey between them—expensive, brought by Fitz—reached its halfway mark. "Mrs. Pettigrew—she was a virgin when you married, yes?"