by Darcy Burke
“Shame I’ll be at Benfield. I would’ve liked to see you. I’ve heard tell you were quite the contender a few years back.”
“So some say.”
A couple danced between their lines.
“Don’t be modest, man.” Allred gave him an admiring smile, which made Ambrose more uncomfortable than he already was watching Philippa with him. “I recognize a superior sportsman when I see one. You’re obviously quite fit.”
The whole while they conversed, Philippa clearly strained to hear. When they reached the top of the line she stepped out with Allred, but nearly stumbled as her gaze was still pasted on Ambrose.
This wouldn’t do. He sent her a stern glare as he took Miss Cheswick’s hand.
Philippa pursed her lips, but shifted her attention to Allred with a smile. A captivating smile that sent an envious stake straight through Ambrose’s gut.
“I’m pleased to hear you’ll be at Benfield, my lord,” she said. And now Ambrose was the one hanging on her every word. “I so look forward to His Grace’s annual party.”
Allred smiled dashingly, damn the man. “His horse flesh is a wonder to behold.”
“Most definitely. My father has a stallion from His Grace’s stud. He’s going to breed him this year.”
Horses. Which normally wouldn’t interest Ambrose at all—he despised thinking of the creatures, wrapped up as they were in his own transgressions—but from her lips, they became as fascinating as the strategy of boxing.
“We shall take a ride on Friday,” Allred said. “I can’t resist sampling Holborn’s finest mounts.”
She nodded demurely, flirtatiously. “I should be delighted.”
And suddenly it became imperative that Ambrose attend that infernal house party.
This obsession with a woman he could never have was becoming troublesome. But going to Benfield would allow him to verify her safety, he reasoned. Surely no one could fault him for doing that.
Afterward, he’d beat the Irishman to a pulp and recruit Ackley to be Jagger’s champion. Then Philippa would truly be out of his hair, and they’d have absolutely no reason to cross paths.
How disappointing that sounded.
Philippa worked very hard to concentrate on her conversation with Allred and on the dance—a typically easy endeavor that had become nigh impossible with Sevrin dancing behind her. With every turn and tip of her head, she saw him and remembered the way he’d fitted so deliciously against her just a quarter hour ago. How he smelled of sage and sandalwood and man, and how she regretted not kissing him in that closet.
How could she possibly kiss someone else now?
She looked at Allred. With dark russet-colored hair and bright hazel eyes, he was pleasing in his regard, but he simply didn’t spark the sensations that a mere glance from Sevrin ignited into a full conflagration.
She shook her head and tried to focus on what Sevrin had told her. He’d reminded her countless times in word—and in deed because no gentleman would have kissed her like that—that he was an unrepentant scoundrel unworthy and unwanting of her company.
Fine.
And he was right. She shouldn’t want his help. She should’ve run as far away from him as possible, and she certainly shouldn’t have risked being caught alone with him. If only he hadn’t written that provoking note.
It didn’t matter. She had to marry, and Sevrin was nowhere in that equation. He was correct that Allred was her best choice, and she resolved right then to pursue the match with everything she had. It was that or embrace spinsterhood.
The dance came to a merry conclusion. Philippa was a bit out of breath from the last series of turns. Allred—the consummate athlete—was an excellent dancer. Sevrin, she noted, was every bit as skilled. More importantly, Audrey was smiling giddily. Philippa couldn’t remember the last time her friend had danced. She covertly watched Sevrin as he led Audrey from the dance floor. He could’ve danced with anyone in the ballroom—or no one. Yet, he’d chosen Audrey. For a man who swore he wasn’t a hero, he certainly performed his share of chivalrous acts.
Allred drew Philippa away and she had to turn from Sevrin. “I confess I’m quite looking forward to Benfield now that I know you will be there. Are you staying for the entire party?”
The party was due to last four days. “Yes.”
“How fortuitous.” He gave her hand a squeeze as he wrapped it around his arm.
The rest of the ball passed without note. After her dance with Allred, she’d tried to find Sevrin in the ballroom, but he’d disappeared. Later, she’d spoken with Audrey who’d waxed besottedly about dancing with him. He was so handsome and urbane and witty, and she couldn’t understand how he could still have such a bad reputation. Surely people could forgive him his past behavior if he was reformed?
But was he reformed?
Philippa had become consumed with this thought for the remainder of the evening. The real question was what he was reforming from. She sensed there was more to the story than simply ruining a girl and recalled that Lydia had been about to tell her. She looked over the ballroom for Lydia.
Her mother came up beside her. “Are you ready to leave, Philippa? I am.”
Philippa turned toward her mother, annoyed at being interrupted. “I’m not quite ready. But please feel free to go on without me. I can ride back with Father.”
“Your father has already left. Besides, I’ve a matter to discuss with you.”
Since “a matter to discuss” meant suffering a mountain of criticism, Philippa would’ve rather walked home. But alas, that wasn’t an option. “I suppose.”
Once they were ensconced in the carriage, Mother wasted no time launching her offensive. “You disappeared for a while this evening.”
Philippa’s breathing quickened. What did she know? “Yes.”
“I couldn’t help but notice your departure from the ballroom came directly after Sevrin’s. You assured me there was nothing between you.”
Philippa placed her shaking hands on the cushion beside her legs and hid them beneath the folds of her skirt. “There isn’t. I went to the retiring room. I’d no idea he left at the same time.”
Mother’s eyes flashed. “Don’t lie to me! Walter—that is, Mr. Booth-Barrows—saw you fleeing down the hallway just before Sevrin stepped from a closet. He is an exceptionally smart man, and he put one and one together. You’re Sevrin’s mystery woman. That is how you knew I was at Lockwood House.”
Finally. Though she hated that her mother knew the truth, she was—in a peculiar way—relieved. She was also ready to defend herself. “I didn’t go there with him.”
“But you don’t deny being there with him.” She frowned deeply and folded her arms over her chest. “Tell me everything.”
Her mother’s outrage was more than a bit sanctimonious. “Including the part where I saw you go into that room with three other people? Good heavens, Mother, what’s happened to you? Why are you treating me like I’ve done something hideous when you’ve gone beyond the pale?”
“This is not about me! And you can’t compare our situations.” Her face was flushed and her light brown eyes spat fire. Philippa had seen her disappointed, irritated, frustrated, but never this livid. “What were you doing with him at Lockwood House?”
“I told you why I went there. I followed you. But I had no idea where I was. How was I to know you’d gone to a vice party? I went inside, and Lord Sevrin was kind enough to help me escape without my identity being discovered.”
“Yet! We’ve no idea how this will play out.” She sucked in a breath and pressed her hands to her cheeks. After a moment, she spoke more evenly. “Your tale might be believable if not for the fact that you were with him in the prop room.”
“Only so I could change into a new dress.” Oh, this didn’t even sound believable to her, but then the entire evening had been fraught with events one might expect to find in a novel instead of real life. And though it was the truth, inviting a known scoundrel to play the role of lady
’s maid was scandalous regardless of the location. But she’d done the best she could, and she wouldn’t apologize for it.
Mother’s stern gaze brimmed with censure. “You’re ruined.”
She suffered a moment’s panic. Her chest felt tight, and she worked to draw a deep breath. “I’m not. No one knows.”
“Then it seems you’ve more than one reason to seek a hasty marriage. Mark my words Philippa, this will not remain secret forever. Someone else will figure it out, especially if you keep drawing attention to yourself with Sevrin. Dancing with him at Lady Dunwoody’s? Leaving the ballroom tonight in close proximity to him? These mistakes may yet prove fatal.”
“Forgive me if I find your counsel hypocritical, given your own behavior.” Even so, Philippa couldn’t deny she was treading dangerously close to indiscretion. She liked Sevrin, was attracted to him, would encourage his suit if he offered it.
Her mother sucked in a breath and then shook her head. “Your lack of respect is horrendous.”
“I’m happy to give respect where it’s due.” She narrowed her eyes, having had enough of her mother’s needling over the years. “For you to behave as you have after alternately ramming propriety and grace down my throat and ignoring me… It’s unconscionable. Would you at least do me the courtesy of leaving off being critical? I think we’re quite past that. Either way, I’ll no longer be your problem in less than thirty days.”
“You will if you don’t marry.”
“I doubt you’ll give me a second thought. I’ll continue to live at Herrick House and put up with Father and,” she shuddered thinking of a lifetime that stretched before her, “that woman.”
She turned her head and stared out the window, seeing nothing. Her desire to fight fled with the realization that she didn’t even know what she was fighting for. Her mother’s integrity? Her own reputation? Permission to spend time with Sevrin, who’d made it clear he wouldn’t spend time with her?
After many long minutes during which time Philippa had almost convinced herself she was alone, the coach slowed. Before the door opened, Mother took her hand in a surprisingly fierce grip. Her eyes were bright, her mouth drawn. “Promise me you’ll stay away from Sevrin.”
A moot request since Sevrin had pledged to keep his distance, not that her mother knew that. “I will, if you stay at Herrick House.”
Her mother dropped her hand. “I can’t promise you that.”
“Then I believe we’ve nothing more to say, Mother.”
Chapter Eleven
AMBROSE sat at a table in the back room of the Black Horse Tavern where his fighting club met nightly. The low ceiling and battered wood floors gave the space a small, well-worn atmosphere, like a favorite pair of boots past their prime, but still too comfortable to relinquish. He downed a second glass of gin as he waited for Ackley to arrive.
Hopkins had finally tracked him down that day and invited him to attend the Black Horse this evening. Ackley had been intrigued if only because he’d heard of Ambrose’s private fighting club and knew that invitations were never offered—they were sought.
The boisterous cheering of the club soothed his nerves as much as the gin, but neither was enough to keep him from thinking of Philippa. From lusting after her with every breath he drew.
The club’s second bout of the night finished up. Typically, Ambrose would participate in the selection of fighters for each match, but tonight he just couldn’t muster the will. He couldn’t even watch, for it was torture to see but not feel.
The door from the main room of the tavern opened and in walked Ackley. At last.
He paused just over the threshold and took in his surroundings. Hopkins greeted him and led him to Ambrose’s table.
Ambrose looked up at him. “Evening, Ackley. Glad you could join us. Sit.” He indicated another chair at the table.
Thomas Ackley was young—but not too young. He was of average height and build, but his appearance was deceiving. For buried beneath that unassuming frame was power and stealth and pugilistic grace. He eyed Ambrose as he slowly sat.
Ambrose nodded at Hopkins who fetched two more glasses from a sideboard. He brought them back to the table and took one of the remaining two chairs.
“Gin?” Ambrose offered. At Ackley’s answering nod, Ambrose poured some in both glasses. Then he raised his glass in a silent toast.
After everyone had taken a draught—Ackley’s was more accurately a sip—he got right to the point. “What are your aspirations with regard to fighting?”
Ackley wrapped both of his hands around his glass. His fingers were long, his knuckles bruised and scabbed. His angular face was also bruised, but his nose was straight and perfect. Unbroken as of yet. Ambrose’s had been cracked no less than three times.
“I like fighting,” Ackley answered with a shrug. “You want me to fight here?” He turned his head to look at the two men who were preparing to duel.
“Perhaps. But I’m looking for a different kind of fighter. I’m looking for a champion.”
Ackley’s brown eyes flashed with surprise. “My lord? Aren’t you in contention for the championship?”
“No, I’m fighting on Friday as a favor to someone whose fighter was injured. He’s looking for a permanent replacement. When I saw you at the Bucket of Blood the other night, I thought I might have found that replacement. If you’re interested.”
Ackley’s nostrils flared and his eyes brightened. He sat up a bit straighter. “I might be.” His casual words belied his obvious enthusiasm.
“I need to be sure you’re good enough. I want you to fight Hopkins.” He inclined his head toward their other tablemate. “Tonight.”
Ackley visibly swallowed as he contemplated Hopkins. Ambrose didn’t blame him. Hopkins was huge. His hands alone would make any fighter quake in fear.
Ambrose sought to reassure the young man, but not in the way he probably preferred. Hopkins was going to pummel him, and that was all right. “Don’t worry that I expect you to beat him. You won’t.” Ambrose smiled. “It took me a long time to do so. I only want to judge your technique.”
Ackley looked between them. Then he drained the rest of his gin, slammed his glass on the table, and stood. “Let’s go.”
Ambrose admired the lad’s spirit. He inclined his head at Hopkins and they rose from the table in unison.
“Hold,” Ambrose called out to the men in the ring. He made his way to the center. “My apologies mates, you can fight in a bit. I’ve invited a new bloke to try out tonight.” There were murmurs as this was not how men typically came to audition. “This is Ackley. I saw him fight at the Bucket of Blood. Hopkins is going to give him a go.”
Wagers began changing hands immediately. Hopkins had already stripped to his waist and was now removing his boots and stockings.
Ackley paused in the process of drawing his shirt over his head. “Why is he baring his feet?”
“We fight barefooted here,” Ambrose explained. “You’ll soon see the difference.”
A few minutes later both fighters were bare-chested and barefooted.
They entered the makeshift ring—which was only a chalk outline in the middle of the room—and met at the scratch, a chalk-drawn square yard in the center.
“Now, we don’t have seconds or referees here,” Ambrose said. “We fight. No kicking or hitting below the waist—we prefer our manhood intact.” A few men chuckled. “And when you go down, we only count to twenty.” Ackley nodded.
Ambrose took a step back. Hopkins was a good head taller than Ackley and half again as wide. But what Ackley lacked in bulk, he could more than make up for with skill and speed. Precisely what Ambrose had learned to do.
He left the ring and assumed a position just outside the chalk. Then he nodded to Timmons, who held the bell. A loud peal filled the room, and Hopkins delivered a quick blow to Ackley’s cheek, knocking his head back. He hadn’t been expecting such a rapid attack. Hopkins grinned.
Ackley danced away, employing the ne
at footwork he’d used at the Bucket of Blood. Fighters used this method instead of standing in place as they once did, but Ambrose hadn’t seen anyone—save himself and he really couldn’t testify to what he looked like—who’d learned to move the way Ackley did.
Hopkins was also good on his feet. Though not as fast, he moved with precision and surprising grace. He landed two more punches to Ackley’s middle before Ackley was able to defend a third.
The members of the club cheered and continued to wager—all of it good-natured. Ambrose immersed himself in the comfort and familiarity of being amongst his passion, his very livelihood. He couldn’t imagine where he’d be today without this club. Without the fight.
Ackley sent a jab toward Hopkins’s face that was easily deflected. But then he moved left and connected his fist with Hopkins’s gut. It was a bold, nimble move, and exactly the reason Ambrose had chosen him in the first place. He leaned forward, anxious for Ackley’s next attack.
Hopkins advanced on his opponent and delivered two hits to Ackley’s shoulders. Ackley moved away, but Hopkins kept after him and continued punching. Ackley deflected most, but Hopkins’s speed overcame him. He landed one good blow to Ackley’s eye, then his ear, finally a bruising jab to his middle.
Ackley retreated, but his rhythm had been broken. Hopkins mercilessly followed him and punched him again. And again. And again.
A cut formed near Ackley’s eye, and blood trickled down his cheek. He swiped at it—he’d have to work on focus—and it was all Hopkins needed to deliver several vicious blows to Ackley’s torso. Ackley stumbled backward, but, to his credit, didn’t fall. However, neither did he advance. Normally, Hopkins would’ve continued, but he glanced at Ambrose who shook his head. Keep going.
Hopkins went after Ackley anew, swinging wide at Ackley’s sides and connecting once, twice—then Ackley skittered out of the way. A bit graceless, but he’d regained at least a little speed. He kept moving around the edge of the ring. Hopkins cut across the middle and headed him off. Ackley tried to get his hands up in a defensive position, but Hopkins cut them down with two swift blows.
