Tuck made a soft, dissatisfied noise in the back of his throat as Briar pretended as if she had weight to throw around, as if she had any right to refuse to leave the table that he had so graciously invited her to. And then, on top of that, accused him of impropriety (as if she still deserved his respect!) and then dared to hamfistedly ask for gossip about Rosier as if it were something he owed her.
All of it taken together deepened his sneer, and, since the band was horrid anyway, he made the executive decision that if she wasn't going to do him the sevice of leaving his company, he'd have to take the initiative himself. He threw the rest of his martini back in a quick, practiced (and strangely elegant) motion. "Wrong, Miss No-Name," he drawled, surreptitiously checking his pockets to make sure all he'd brought was accounted for before he rose from the table. "The least I can do is to end this lovely little chat myself. I've got an adoring fiancee to return to, after all. Good evening."
He betrayed no hint of the lie, and sounded nothing it if not believable on his lips. But as he turned in the direction of the coat check, gin and vin coca buzzing up into his head, his plastered-on smile grew dim as as the stage lights flickering out behind him.