by Alyson Chase
Recalling where he was, in a friendly sparring match at Gentleman Jack’s, Julius dropped his opponent’s head and stumbled from the ring. He gratefully took the mug of water Summerset handed him.
“I don’t know why you insist on coming here,” Summerset said, pressing a puce silk handkerchief to his nose. “The stench alone would stop any sane man at the doors.”
Sutton rubbed his jaw, his fingers tangling in his beard. “You just don’t want to work up a sweat in your silk pantaloons. That, and you can’t wear your heeled boots into the ring.”
“I like working up a sweat just fine,” Summerset said. “Only I’m smart enough to do it in a more enjoyable manner.”
Julius knew the bickering could go on for ages. He raised a hand. “Gentlemen. And I use that term only in its strictest sense. Why have you come here?”
Summerset turned towards him, all wide-eyed innocence, a look that was pure buggering hogwash but always seemed to have women dropping their pantalets. “Why, because you sent for us. Your most trusted friends. Your closest advisors. Your—”
“I sent a letter stating I had need of your services in the near future,” Julius interrupted. “Not to come bother me this evening.”
Sutton and Summerset shared a look. A look Julius remembered all too well. When he’d arrived back in England after his imprisonment in the Japanese Empire, it had been his constant companion. Each of his friends had worn it, each man tip-toeing around Julius like he’d shatter into a thousand pieces if they said the wrong thing. Made the wrong move. They hadn’t known if Julius’s extended imprisonment had weakened his mind.
Julius hadn’t known, either.
Grabbing a towel, he wiped the sweat from his bare chest and strode to the chair where his coat and shirt lay folded. He fought against the memories, held them at bay through sheer force of will. Even after all these years, he sometimes still forgot where he was, his mind trapped back in that prison.
Like when he almost beat an opponent to a bloody pulp in a friendly sparring match.
“Why are you here?” he asked, his voice gruff. He gripped the ends of the towel and threw it over his head to pull against his neck.
“We were at The Black Rose last night.” Sutton crossed his arms over his barrel chest. “Madame Rose said we just missed you.”
Fingers tightening on the cloth, Julius raised an eyebrow. “And what else did she tell you?”
Summerset waved his handkerchief through the air. “Nothing that would be embarrassing to you in the least. Just a conversation she had with sweet Lucy. She, of course, didn’t tell us that you fled the club. That you left a woman wet and wanting. That never came up in conversation.”
A lick of anger flared before sputtering out. The snide condescension in his friend’s voice masked true concern. It was unheard of for Julius to abandon a rope scene. And any act out of the ordinary would be noticed by his friends. Wondered at. Worried over. Like he was a damn hothouse flower, wilting under the smallest bit of heat.
“It’s sad when men get to that age where they can no longer perform,” Summerset said to Sutton. “Why, if I could no longer please a woman—”
“You’ve never pleased a woman,” Julius growled. “I don’t think you can start now.” He chugged down more water, his mind turning to the last woman he’d pleased. The one woman that could cost him a friendship if her brother-in-law discovered just what Julius had done to her. How much more he wanted to do.
Bloody hell, she liked to be tied up. How was he to resist her now?
But she was the hothouse flower. Yes, she had deep roots, had survived what no person should have to endure, but she was breakable. Delicate. And she needed a man much better than he.
“Was your usual room taken?” Sutton asked. He laid a hand on Julius’s shoulder. “Did you have to use one of the smaller ones?”
Julius shrugged him off. “I was fine. The woman merely didn’t interest me. And there is nothing wrong with my performance.” He needed to get that out there. Damn friends. If they’d heard Amanda moaning last night, they’d be in no doubt as to just how well he performed. But then he’d have to rip their ears off. Her moans were only for his hearing.
And the man she chose for her next lover. His stomach twisted, but he ignored it.
Summerset tossed himself down into a vacant chair and crossed one leg over the other. He bobbed an ivory leather boot up and down. “I must sit. A woman, bound before you, restrained just so you could take your pleasure, didn’t interest you? Has the earth begun to spin in the opposite direction? Are the French now our bosom friends?”
Sutton dropped down on a chair next to him. “Why does it take you a hundred words to say what needs only a few? And leave the man alone. If a Rose doxy no longer holds his interest, that is no one’s business but his own.” He shifted about, trying to settle comfortably on the narrow seat. “No matter how unusual that lack of interest might be. Now, why have you sent for us?”
“I didn’t—” Julius bit his retort off. It didn’t matter what he said to his friends. They’d still be arseholes. Dragging a chair around to face them, he sat. “I’ve been assigned another task by our mutual friend.” He glanced around, but no one was close, and the sound of fists pounding into flesh ensured no one would overhear their conversation.
“I grow tired of our mutual friend and his requests.” Sutton rested his elbows on his knees. “Do either of you sometimes wish that we were typical swells, where our biggest concerns were managing our country estates and producing an heir?”
Summerset’s mouth opened and closed. He blinked and drew his fair brow down low. “Why would you wish to rusticate on a country estate when London provides so many more diversions?” He tugged on the hem of his waistcoat. “No, I am quite thankful to our friend for relieving us from a life of boredom.”
“Of course, you are,” Sutton muttered. He slowly straightened his muscular body. “What is the task this time?”
Julius told them of the Widow Westmont, of Liverpool’s worry over a larger blackmail ring.
Summerset examined his nails. “Did Liverpool say who else had been blackmailed?”
“When does Liverpool ever say more than he needs to?” Julius scanned the large room, cataloging every man he was acquainted with, and every man he was not.
Sutton leaned forward, his chair creaking. “But you have a name.”
“How …?”
“Because I know you,” Sutton said. “It’s why you’re here, is it not? There’s someone you wish to speak with.”
Julius narrowed his eyes. He shouldn’t be surprised anymore by the baron's intuition. The man had the uncanny ability to read his friends. And his enemies.
Inclining his head towards the far corner of the gymnasium, Julius agreed. “Roswell Audley.”
“The Duke of Roxburn’s son?” Summerset whistled. “It takes a bold man to blackmail anyone in that family. It is said that the duke single-handedly fought off fifteen men in the Siege of Savannah. That it was only because of his blood-thirsty attacks under the cover of night that the rebels failed.”
“His three sons are supposed to be just as deadly,” Sutton added. The three friends watched as the young man stepped into the ring with an opponent. Audley was shorter than the other man, but his well-defined muscles more than evened the match. In less than twenty seconds, Audley was standing over his unconscious adversary. “Four blows. Usually takes him less.” Sutton turned back to Julius. “What’s he being blackmailed over?”
Julius took a last swig of water. “Don’t know.” He stood. “That’s what I’m here to find out.”
His friends trailed him to the ring. “You plan to beat the information out of him?” Summerset asked. “That’s not quite your style.”
“I would hope that beating the victim of blackmail wouldn’t be any of our styles.” Sutton placed his hand on Julius’s shoulder. “What’s your plan?”
“An introduction in the ring. Nothing more for now.”
Sutton looked him up and down, eyeing the bruises on his body. “Perhaps I should be the one introducing myself in the ring. You look a bit worse for wear.”
“I’m fine.” Julius entered the marked-off circle and waited as the unconscious man’s body was dragged out. “Ready for another?” he asked the duke’s son.
The man lifted a hand, palm up, and curled his fingers. Julius met him in the center of the ring and nodded. “Rothchild.”
“Lord Roswell Audley.” He bobbed his head and stepped back. “I hope you can give me a better showing than my last opponent.” The words were pompous, aggressive, but his tone hinted of despair. His hands shook the slightest bit. Lines, much too deep for his age, bracketed Audley’s mouth and the pink tinge to his eyes spoke of sleepless nights. This was a man on the edge, needing to pound out his frustrations.
Julius knew just how he felt.
Audley didn’t waste time circling Julius. Springing forward, he threw three jabs in quick succession, then tried to take off Julius’s head with a roundhouse.
Julius blocked the jabs and ducked under the wide swing. “Audley?” he said conversationally. “You’re Roxburn’s son?”
Audley grunted and landed a body shot to Julius’s ribs.
Julius retaliated with a right cross. Trying to keep the wheeze from his voice, he said, “I saw your father with Prinny and the Marquess of Hanford at White’s last week, placing some bets. The duke seems to have the ear of the Prince Regent.”
Audley clenched his jaw and threw a left hook.
Dropping under the punch, Julius planted his fist in the young man’s ribcage. See how he appreciated the treatment. “You must be pleased with the influence your family wields.”
Eyes narrowed, the young man came down center line, swinging hard.
Julius ducked. The kid didn’t like to be reminded of his relations. A definite sore spot. He needed to see if he could make the sore fester. “Although with that power comes great scrutiny.”
Audley halted his approach, his chest heaving. “What in the blazes are you driving at?”
“I’ve heard rumors.” Wiping his forehead with the back of his wrist, Julius took the man’s measure. Angry. Combative. Most likely unwilling to reveal his predicament when pressed. But perhaps to commiserate with a fellow victim …
Julius stepped close and threw a hook. Audley easily blocked it and grabbed the back of Julius’s neck. The men grappled, heads locked together. “What rumors?” Audley snarled.
Julius tossed an elbow. “You think you’re the only one being drained? There are several of us in the same position. We talk.”
Audley pushed away. “I don’t know what you’re speaking of.”
“Of course, you don’t.” From the corner of his eye, Julius noticed a crowd gathering around their ring. His friends were in the front row, watching him intently. Most likely waiting to see if they’d need to intervene if Julius forgot where he was and began fighting in earnest. He lowered his voice. “But if you did, you should know that not everyone is content to keep paying. Some of us wish to fight back. Remove the threat.”
“That’s absurd.” Audley swung so hard he spun around when he didn’t make contact.
“Is it?” Julius ducked his head and rained blows to the man’s gut. “You struck me as the type of man to take action. Not passively accept his fate.”
“I don’t passively accept anything.” Audley quick-stepped back and licked at a small trickle of blood from his split lip. “And you have incorrect information.”
Julius shrugged. “As you say. But ask yourself why I’m here. I don’t need any more money. I’ve not come to drain you further. I’ve only come because we share a mutual problem.”
Audley furrowed his brow. Stepping close, he wrapped his arms around Julius, and they pretended to wrestle. “It’s not only myself I have to think of,” he whispered. “My family would become pariahs.”
“As long as the blackmailers are out there, the threat will always exist.” Julius blocked a knee to his stomach. “Only by finding them and eliminating them is the risk to your family removed.”
“Less talking, more fighting!” someone from the crowd yelled.
Julius twisted his lips and pushed off the young man. “The men want a show.”
Audley just stared at him, panting. He was torn, Julius could tell.
He needed to make the man’s decision easier.
“I have a proposition.” Julius circled to the left, shuffling backwards to avoid a jab. “If you win this match, I walk away, never to bother you again. But if I win, we talk.”
Audley puffed out his chest. “You think you can beat me, old man?”
Julius was maybe fifteen years his senior. Hardly doddering. His own chest expanded. “Is that a deal?”
A muscle in Audley’s forehead twitched. For a moment, Julius thought the kid would turn away. Then, slowly, Audley nodded and held out a fist.
Julius bumped it with his own and got down to business. He could box with the best of them. The straightforward technique was useful to burn off his frustrations. But boxing wasn’t his preferred fighting style. When he fought to win, he turned to the arts he’d learned in the Orient. Their system was ingenious, efficient, and infinitely more dangerous. Men of his station would consider it impolite. It had no place at Gentleman Jack’s.
Audley was focused on Julius’s hands, so Julius shot out a leg and swept the kid’s feet out from under him.
“What the hell?” Audley rolled to his hands and knees, and Julius let him climb to his feet. No need to completely humiliate the boy.
Tucking his chin to his chest, Audley lunged at him, a volley of jabs and crosses aimed for his face. Julius dropped to one knee and grabbed his opponent’s front ankle. He pulled it towards him while pressing his shoulder into Audley’s hip. For a second time, the man went down.
Using Audley’s leg as leverage, Julius flipped him over to his stomach and vaulted up Audley’s prone body. Before the man could catch his breath, Julius had one hand at the nape of his neck and one knee on the nerve that ran down the back of his arm.
“Son of a bitch, that hurts.” Audley struggled to push himself up, but ended up just increasing the pressure on the nerve. He flopped back down.
“So where should we talk? My house or yours?”
***
They’d ended up at Simon’s, another club Julius was a member of. The respectable one. The boy had sulked, let Julius know he didn’t think his fighting style was proper, but Julius had no doubt the conversation would happen. Lord Audley had made a deal, and the son of the Duke of Roxburn didn’t renege on a promise.
Julius had managed to convince his friends that their presence would only impede Audley’s tongue, so it was just the two of them in the corner of the billiards room, snifters of brandy on the side table between them, cigars in their hands. Audley had wanted to go into one of the private rooms in the back, but Julius had told him that nothing looked so suspicious as two men secreted away together.
“What do they have on you?” Audley asked. He stared into his glass as he swirled the brandy. “I’m not discussing my situation unless you do, as well.”
Fair enough. Unfortunately for Audley, Julius wouldn’t be imparting anything truthful. He had plenty of skeletons in his closet, but, as he wasn’t being blackmailed, saw no need to shake their bones. A useful lie would suffice.
“I belong to a club,” he began.
Audley stretched his arms wide, brandy sloshing over the rim of his glass. “Who doesn’t?”
“Not this type of club. A club that can’t be spoken of in polite society.”
Audley drew angrily on the cigar and blew out a long stream of smoke. “Again, who doesn’t?” he muttered.
“Something unfortunate happened in that club one night,” Julius said. “A woman was hurt.” That was true enough. Women were hurt there every night. For coin and pleasure.
Audley followed his statement to its logica
l conclusion. “And you covered it up, but not well enough.”
Julius raised his glass in assent.
“How long have you been paying?” Audley asked.
“Long enough.” Julius puffed on his cigar. A group of men, old enough to know better, stumbled into the room at the far end, laughing uproariously. A longtime member started, jerked his cue along the felt covering the table, and shot the group a disgusted look.
Dangling his elbow over the armrest of his chair, Julius tipped his glass to the side until the liquid almost spilled over the rim. “They’re very good. I’ve never seen one of my blackmailers. Mysterious notes show up on my doorstep.”
“Lucky you. I appear to have a personal representative who is always willing to remind me of the consequences if I don’t pay him on time each month.” Audley’s fingers whitened around the stem of his glass. “Although the man might as well be invisible for all I know of him.”
“You know what he looks like,” Julius said. “That’s a start.”
Audley ground out the end of his half-smoked cigar on the bottom of his boot, ash falling to the carpet. “He looks like any other lower-class shit sack. Unkempt. Unwashed. Rude beyond tolerance.”
“Of course, he’s rude.” Julius stared at the ceiling, resting his head back. “He’s extorting money from you.” And he wondered how ‘unkempt’ the man truly was. To the son of a duke, Julius most likely looked like a vagabond. Sutton would appear a hardened ruffian. And he didn’t even want to consider how Audley would see their friend Sinclair, the Marquess of Dunkeld. Even to Julius’s more forgiving eye, that man looked two steps from bedlam.
“Can you give a more specific description?” At this point, anything would be useful. “Hair color, height, weight? Accent?”
“Average size. Brownish hair. Middle-aged. A lower-class accent.”
Julius had been wrong. Not everything was useful. “You just described over half the men in London. Anything distinctive about him?”
