by Darcy Burke
Sevrin’s hand fisted and he moved to sit beside Philippa in a flash. “What do you want?” His warmth infused Philippa, reducing her bone-deep shaking to a light quivering.
“We told ye. Jagger wants to see ye. We’re on our way there now. Just sit tight.” He glanced at the door and waved the pistol in that direction. “Don’t get any ideas about trying to jump. If the fall doesn’t break your legs, I will.” He cocked the pistol for good measure then laughed before closing the trap door.
Philippa tried to squash herself even farther into the corner, as if the hack would swallow her whole and keep her safe.
Sevrin’s arm came around her. “Shhh. I won’t let anything happen to you. I promise.”
She knew he would try to keep her safe. He had kept her from harm all night, hadn’t he? “It would appear that danger is intent upon us this night.”
He pulled her head against his shoulder. “There’s no need to be melodramatic.”
Melodramatic or not, it seemed to be the truth. She’d been careful to keep herself above reproach in every aspect of her life. Suddenly, with one impetuous decision she’d put everything at risk. Deep shudders wracked her frame. She nestled closer to Sevrin, seeking his warmth to calm her quaking body.
Sevrin stroked her arm. “Take a deep breath. If you can.”
The coach turned once more. She thought they might be traveling along the Strand. Silence filled the interior, and she imagined Sevrin’s mind was churning. “Are you formulating a plan?” she asked.
His body was tense beside her. “Trying to.”
She looked up at him, but he stared at the opposite seat. “Would you care to enlighten me?”
“I would, when I have something to share. It all depends on where we end up.”
“Have you a weapon of any kind?”
He turned his head to glance at her. The barest hint of a smile haunted his lips. “Save my fists? No.”
After watching him fight in the alley, she had to agree his fists qualified as weapons. The hack made two more swift turns—away from the Thames—and then came to an abrupt halt.
“Stay close to me,” Sevrin said against her temple. His warm breath was comforting.
She turned into him and slid her arms around his waist. “They’ll have to pry me off you.”
Something brushed against her forehead. His lips?
The door swung open. The man from the alley stood with a lantern held high. His face looked even worse than before. Sevrin had done quite a bit of damage.
“Get out.”
When they didn’t immediately move, he reached up and grabbed Philippa’s arm and pulled. She half-fell from the hack, but Sevrin came right after and snatched her up against him.
“Don’t touch her.” He bared his teeth at their captor.
The tall man sneered. “I’ll do as I please.” He sent a fist into Sevrin’s gut, causing him to double over and loosen his hold on Philippa. The villain wrapped his hand around her upper arm and tugged her away from Sevrin.
She looked up and around. They were within a very small court surrounded by ramshackle tenements. A woman leaned against the railing of a balcony one story above them. She held a lantern, by which Philippa noted her ragged gown and pockmarked face. Philippa averted her gaze just as two men standing at the door pulled her into the dimly lit interior.
The low-ceilinged room wasn’t large, but it was filled with men. There was a massive rectangular table suitable for a formal dining room—which meant it was completely unsuitable for its current location—at the back. Behind it sat a man in a gilt chair. He was more finely dressed than the others and appeared engrossed in whatever papers were laid out before him.
The two men led Philippa toward the table. She tried to look behind her to see what happened to Sevrin, but the men jerked her forward. Once they had her positioned in front of their apparent leader, she didn’t try looking back again.
After the longest minute of her life, the man finally looked up. A lantern atop the table illuminated his features. He was only a few years older than she, with dark, grayish-brown eyes and nearly jet black hair that waved back from his face with far more style than a man in his position ought to possess. He raked her with unabashed interest, his gaze lingering on her too-low bodice. She cursed her vanity in choosing this dress from Lockwood House.
“This is the girl?”
The man Sevrin had fought stepped forward. “Aye, Jagger.”
Jagger. The man who wanted to see Sevrin.
Jagger turned his attention to his employee. “Where’s Sevrin?”
A commotion behind her drew her to turn, or at least try to. Once again the men tugged her back around, but not before she saw Sevrin tussling with a couple of the men.
“She’s mine. No one touches her.” His voice reverberated off the low ceiling, sending a thread of hope into Philippa’s shriveling insides.
Jagger leaned back in his chair and settled a hard-edged stare toward the opposite end of the room. “Bring him.”
Philippa heard more struggling noises and then Sevrin entered her line of sight. Blood trickled from his lip. Her legs threatened to collapse from under her, but she held herself upright and even pulled her arms from the too-tight grasps of the men beside her.
Sevrin looked over at her and gave a little nod—a tiny bit of encouragement, which she greedily accepted.
Jagger frowned at him. “You’ve caused me quite a bit of trouble this evening. You should’ve just come with my men earlier.”
Sevrin curled his lip. “I was otherwise engaged.”
“So I see.” Jagger rolled his gaze to Philippa and regarded her with heavy-lidded appreciation. “I might’ve ignored me, too. But,” he slapped his palm on the table and sat upright once more, “you’re notoriously unencumbered when it comes to females. In fact, I’d heard a rumor you might prefer men… Any truth to that?”
“Let her go,” was all Sevrin said.
Sevrin purportedly liked men? Preposterously, she wanted to voice her opinion—based on empirical evidence of course—that Sevrin most certainly did not prefer men, but what did she really know about the bounds of his depravity?
Jagger turned to a man standing just behind him and Philippa realized it was the man who’d attacked her in the alley, only now he sported a bandage wrapped around his head. He stepped forward, leering at her. A tremor shuddered through her frame.
Jagger spoke to her attacker. “Swan, take her upstairs while the viscount and I discuss our business.” He looked back at her. “Let’s hope your lover is amenable to my business arrangement. If he’s not… Well, there are other business arrangements I could make with you.” He gave her a thoroughly wicked grin.
Before Philippa had a chance to voice her dissent or her bone-piercing panic, her assailant grabbed her forearm and dragged her toward a rickety staircase, passing in front of Sevrin. She tried to dig her feet into the floorboards and struck out at Swan.
“Tell your lady to go along nicely. Swan won’t touch her.” Jagger lowered his brows. “Yet.”
His dark gaze met hers. “I’ll come for you.” His voice was low, with a menacing quality that made her shiver. Not for her safety, but for their captors. She’d seen him fight, and if the rage in his eyes was any indication, he was eager to do it again. She went along, taking hope from Ambrose’s promise.
The men who’d flanked her followed behind, one of them pushing her up the narrow stairs, while Swan pulled her. The wood creaked and bent as they climbed up one story, then two, then a third. She was breathing heavily by the time they reached the third landing. They went to a door at the end of a short corridor and threw it open.
Swan cocked his head to the side. “Better hope yer gentleman does what Jagger asks. Otherwise, I’ll get me way.” His gaze dipped lewdly over her form and his grip tightened on her arm. “I like yer new dress.”
Her stomach heaved as the criminal laughed. Roughly, he shoved her into the room. The door closed and the he
avy, sinister sound of a bolt being thrown filled the small space.
The room was dark, save slivers of light sneaking in through the battered shutters over the lone window. Philippa peeked through the slats, seeking the light source. She made out a lantern hanging just outside the window. A shadow passed by and she jumped back, her heart thundering.
She turned and made out a chair near the window, a small, wooden affair that looked as if it might hold something as insignificant as a mouse. Against the far wall was a cot. Narrow, low to the floor, strewn with a few scraps that were perhaps meant to serve as blankets. Her blood ran cold. The bed represented what could very well happen to her if Sevrin didn’t rescue her. Again.
Chapter Four
AMBROSE struggled against the three men holding him as he watched Philippa’s forced ascent up the staircase. His body teemed with frustration and pent-up violence. He threw his arms out, hands fisted, uncaring who he hit, so long as he damaged someone.
“Sit.” Jagger waved a hand and a chair appeared.
The men pulled and shoved Ambrose until he sat. One delivered a blow to the side of his head that ought to have clouded his vision, but Ambrose only saw red.
Jagger inclined his head toward the staircase. “Who is she?”
Ambrose glared at him.
Jagger threaded his fingers together and set his clasped hands on the table. “Ah, no matter. She clearly means something to you, which is helpful to my cause.”
She meant nothing to him, at least not personally. Never mind his body’s reaction to kissing her. But he’d dragged her into this dangerous scenario, and he wouldn’t turn his back on her. “How could she possibly help you?”
“She’ll ensure you help me.”
Ambrose itched to fight. Any of them would do. “Leave her out of it. What do you want?”
Jagger rested his elbows on the arms of his gilt chair. “Yes, let me get to it. Perhaps you’ll readily agree. You look as though you want to throttle me, so my request may be more than palatable. Shame you didn’t just come with my men earlier.”
Throttling the criminal held infinite appeal. “Out with it.”
Jagger inclined his dark head. “I need a prizefighter. I watched you fight four or so years ago in Dirty Lane. You were unbeatable. You could’ve taken the title. Why’d you quit?”
Because while he’d thrived upon the physical punishment—both giving and receiving—he’d hated the accolades and the admiration. He didn’t deserve to be cheered or lauded for any reason. “I was bored.”
Jagger gave him a skeptical look, but didn’t press him. “My prizefighter was to fight the Irishman Patrick Nolan a week from tonight, but he broke his hand. I need you to take his place.”
A dark thrill shot up Ambrose’s spine. Fighting at that level had been brutal. He missed it. He dug his fingernails into his palms. “I don’t fight anymore.”
“The hell you don’t.” Jagger’s stare was piercing. “I know all about your little club off the Haymarket.”
Ambrose gritted his teeth. “I don’t fight for profit.”
Jagger curled his lips in a snarl and narrowed his eyes. “What the hell do you fight for then?”
Ambrose pressed his heels against the chair legs. He couldn’t explain how fighting kept the demons at bay, how the physical pain kept him from falling into the abyss of his tragic, reprehensible mistakes, how without it, he withdrew to the point of bare existence where misery and regret ruled his soul.
The muscles of his shoulders bunched into tight knots against the back of the wooden chair. “My answer is no.”
The villain arched an ink-black brow. “I have your woman. Surely a single fight—something at which you excel—is nominal in exchange for her well-being.”
Put like that, it seemed a simple choice. But of course it wasn’t. “What do you mean ‘her well-being’? Speak plainly about your intentions.”
Jagger shrugged. “I’m using her as leverage. Agree to my terms or she’ll suffer the consequences.”
What consequences? “You can’t mean to kill her. You’ll hang.”
“Who said I was going to kill her? I needn’t do anything so messy. I have only to inform a few key newspapers of her whereabouts this night.” His stare was charged with innuendo. “Lockwood House. With you.”
Ambrose wasn’t certain Jagger possessed the misjudgment to murder Philippa, but knew he’d ruin her in a trice. Over a prizefight. “You can’t.”
Jagger exchanged looks with the men surrounding Ambrose. They broke into laughter. After a moment, Jagger wiped a finger over his left eye. “Of course I can. I could even kill her if I chose, but I don’t have to. I’m sure you’ll agree social murder for someone like her is devastating enough. Go on, run to the magistrate and say you were kidnapped from one of Lockwood’s orgies with Lady Philippa Latham. The papers will love that even more.”
It took every scrap of self-control not to throttle the son of a bitch. If Ambrose went to the authorities, the entire evening would have been for naught. She’d be ruined. “How did you discover her identity?”
“You were kind enough to provide her address. Only one young woman like her resides at Herrick House. The Earl of Herrick’s daughter.” Jagger’s eyes narrowed. “I’m quite serious. Think carefully before you answer.”
The chair seemed to melt from under Ambrose. He’d spent the entire evening trying to keep her safe and he couldn’t stop now. He’d abandoned a woman once—God, how could he even compare the two situations? Still, he had a chance to save someone now, and he’d be damned if he failed her. “I’ll fight the Irishman, but no one else.”
“That’s not what I’m negotiating. I require your prizefighting services indefinitely. I want you to fight Belcher this summer when he returns from Derbyshire.”
He glared at Jagger. “One fight.” He prayed he could manage one fight without falling back into the abyss that had claimed him three years ago, but more than that he didn’t dare.
“Perhaps I should just take the woman.” Jagger nodded at a man in the corner who nodded in return then started toward the stairs.
Goddamn Jagger to hell. “I’ll find you a prizefighter,” Ambrose blurted loudly. He hated that he sounded strained, almost desperate.
The villain steepled his hands on the table before him and contemplated Ambrose over the points of his index fingers. “Who?”
“I don’t know, but there are dozens of fighters who would grasp at the chance.”
Jagger laid his palms flat. “I’ve watched them all. None are as good as you.”
“I’ll train him to be.”
He stared at Ambrose a moment then held up a hand at the man who was poised at the base of the stairs. “I accept your proposal, but this prizefighter must be acceptable to me. And you’ll fight for me until you satisfactorily train him. If you don’t, I’ll ensure Greater London knows she accompanied you to Lockwood House.”
He should’ve felt at least a moment’s relief at settling things, but until Philippa was safely in his keep, he was ready to spring into violence. “Is this to be a fair fight or will I win easily?”
Jagger’s mouth ticked up. “A reasonable question. Yes, this is a fair fight, one I expect you to win. Keep an eye on your woman. Until you fight Nolan and deliver me an acceptable prizefighter, I will be watching your every move.” His lips spread in a cold smile. “And hers.”
God, Ambrose wanted to hit someone. He thought of simply starting in on one of the men beside him, but knew a half dozen or more would descend, and he’d hurt worse than he already did. The wounds he’d suffered from resisting his captors were more numerous than he’d thought. His lip had stopped bleeding, but was now swollen, as was one of his eyes. He was fairly certain his ribs were bruised. If he was going to fight in ten days’ time he’d need to allow himself to heal, which meant no fighting in the interim.
“Your days are numbered, Jagger. You can’t threaten a gentlewoman and not expect repercussions.”
Jagger smiled his infuriatingly smug smile, but his eyes were pure malice. “There will be no repercussions for me. But the damage to her will be incontrovertible. Her reputation rides on you. Fighting for me.”
“God damn it, just bring me the woman!” Ambrose thundered, his tolerance past its limit.
Jagger chuckled. “Impatient bastard, aren’t you? I would be too if I had her at my fingertips. And what a cheeky fellow you are—shagging a respectable girl right under the ton’s noses. But then that’s what you do, isn’t it?”
Ambrose leapt across the table and slammed into him. They hit the gilt chair, knocking it backward. The top just cleared the wall, but he and Jagger went crashing into the paneling. Before he could land a punch, Ambrose was viciously pulled away. A fist drove into his lower back and he grunted in pain.
“Stop,” Jagger gathered his balance. “Don’t hurt my new prizefighter. I see I salted a wound, Sevrin. I’d no idea you were a man of such strong emotions.”
He hadn’t been in a long time. Though Jagger’s account of Ambrose’s history was true, it wasn’t the entire truth. Regardless, he was as surprised by his reaction as Jagger had been. Apparently there was at least a scrap of honor buried somewhere inside him. There had to be, or he never would’ve helped Philippa tonight.
Jagger brushed off his clothing. “Take him upstairs to get the woman and then put them in a hack to Upper Grosvenor Street.”
The men holding Ambrose pulled him toward the stairs. He wrenched his arms free as they passed the bastard who’d attacked Philippa in the alley. He gave Ambrose a sharp, sinister stare. “Keep hold of yer girl. Never know when something bad might happen.”
Ambrose lunged toward him, but the other men grabbed him and pushed him toward the stairs. One led the way while the other kept shoving him in the back as they climbed the creaking stairs. The smell of rotting wood and cloying dust accompanied them. On the third landing, he was led to a door at the end of a short corridor.
The first man threw the bolt and opened the door. The room was pitch black save weak light filtering in through the closed shutter over the single window. Ambrose strained to see, but couldn’t make out a figure in the small chamber.
