by Darcy Burke
Ambrose respected Ackley’s effort, but he hadn’t yet built up the ability to sustain his speed against someone as powerful as Hopkins. They’d fix that. Time to let the boy rest. He inclined his head toward Timmons, who rang the bell.
Ackley dropped his hands, clearly fatigued, but he frowned at Ambrose. “The fight’s not over.”
“You really want to keep going?”
“I do.” The fire was there in his eyes—a smoldering need to win that Ambrose knew well.
He nodded in return and shot a glance at Timmons. The bell pealed once more, and the fight resumed. The short break had revitalized Ackley a bit, but he was sluggish and drooping where Hopkins was surefooted and sound.
They circled a few more times, but Hopkins seized the upper hand. He landed a blow to Ackley’s mouth, splitting the lad’s lip. Ackley sent an excellent shot to Hopkins’s chin, but it was too little, too late. Hopkins delivered one final blow to Ackley’s ear, and the younger man went down to the floor.
Ambrose started the count and reached ten before Ackley lifted his gaze and shook his head. Ambrose signaled to Timmons to ring the bell.
Hopkins helped Ackley to his feet as Ambrose announced, “Brothers, our newest member!”
Voices swelled in cheer and camaraderie. The men welcomed Ackley who, though clearly bemused judging by the dazed look in his eye—or probably he was still recovering from that last series of blows—smiled with blood-streaked front teeth.
Ambrose guided a heavily-breathing Ackley to a chair outside the ring. He signaled for another member to hand him a towel and provided it to his new protégé. “Your membership comes with a price.”
Ackley swiped the towel across his face and neck then looked up at him in question.
“You’ll train with me and then you’ll fight for the championship. There will be other fights first, but later this summer you’ll go up against Belcher. Does that appeal to you?”
As soon as he’d said Belcher, Ackley’s eyes narrowed—one of which was rapidly blackening—and brightened with hunger. He was already nodding. “Definitely.” He wiped the towel over his chest and then wrapped it around the back of his neck so that it hung over his shoulders.
“Your footwork is damned fast,” Ambrose said. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were a student of Mendoza.”
“My father was. God rest his soul.”
Perhaps that was behind the boy’s passion. Ambrose thought of his own father who would’ve been ridiculously proud of Ambrose’s pugilistic achievements—as he’d been with everything else Ambrose had done. Ambrose’s chest compressed. “Is he the reason you fight?”
Ackley nodded. “He would’ve been champion, but he was run down by a coach and four.” His eyes grew bright for a moment then darkened with promise.
Ambrose knew from personal experience the mental aspect was often more important than the physical. Would he have fought so well if he hadn’t been driving every painful regret from his brain? “Then we’ll have to make sure you’re the champion.”
Ambrose clapped Ackley on the shoulder then turned and went to Hopkins, who’d deposited himself in a chair. He mopped his face and chest with a towel before looking up at Ambrose.
“He’s better than you. Or at least he will be when you train him up.”
Ambrose’s blood stirred. For the first time in days he’d forgotten about Philippa and her tempting curves. He had something else upon which he could focus. Or obsess, as it were.
“We start tomorrow.”
Friday morning, Philippa suffered the nauseating company of her father and that woman on the ride to Benfield. Thankfully Lord von Egmont’s presence provided a slight buffer, and Philippa turned her attention toward him as much as possible.
Still, Lady von Egmont babbled incessantly about her memories of London while Father smiled—more than Philippa had ever seen him smile—adoringly from the opposite seat. Her emotions jumped from disgusted to jealous to sad (for her mother) and back again.
When they finally arrived at their destination, Lord von Egmont helped Philippa from the carriage and made to escort her away. However, that woman stopped them with her overly high voice. “Just look at it, Pieter!”
Von Egmont turned toward his mother with a questioning, if slightly harassed look.
Lady von Egmont blinked beneath the brim of her large hat, which featured a plethora of silk flowers, a handful of feathers, and a tiny fake bird. “Oh, my goodness, I’ve only been to Benfield that one time.” She’d told them all about her first visit to Benfield at the age of seventeen. “Truly, I’d forgotten its magnificence.”
“It’s very nice, Mother,” von Egmont said as he guided Philippa along the shell-packed drive.
‘Very nice’ didn’t begin to adequately describe Benfield. Built first during the late medieval period, the house had been enlarged and improved on two subsequent occasions, the last being during the middle of the previous century. The property had been in the possession of the Dukes of Holborn since the early seventeenth century, except for when Cromwell stripped it from the family for its loyalty to King Charles. The house and surrounding parkland—including a large pond, but minus the stables, which had burned—had, of course, been restored to Holborn.
That all of these were facts she’d memorized in preparation for marriage to the future Duke of Holborn didn’t change her appreciation for the diamond-paned windows glistening in the sunlight, or for the pink-tinged sandstone mined from the family’s quarry in Wiltshire and painstakingly assembled into a majestic façade.
Lady von Egmont took Philippa’s father’s arm. “Herrick, I declare this to be the most perfect day.” The two exchanged a look of mutual admiration, and for the first time Philippa felt a pang of sorrow for their plight. Von Egmont had explained to her that his mother had fallen in love with Philippa’s father, but she’d already been promised to von Egmont instead.
Philippa turned away. Their affair was becoming more palatable, which only served to frustrate her. She didn’t want to accept her father’s infidelity. But really, why not? Did she want to go back to the silent dinners with her parents, the (now) obvious discomfort they felt with each other? Why not let them live the lives that made them happy?
Such contemplation only increased Philippa’s anxiety about finding her own happiness in marriage—something she simply had to do in…three weeks. It was as if a clock had been implanted in her brain, and it constantly ticked away the minutes of her freedom.
They rounded the side of the house. To the south, a gentle slope rose and about fifty yards distant stood the impressive stables Holborn had enlarged and refurbished a decade ago.
The Earl of Saxton greeted them when they arrived outside the stables. As Holborn’s son and truly one of the best horsemen in England, he was always present at this event. “Good afternoon, Lady Philippa.”
Philippa felt no regret or remorse upon speaking with Saxton. Indeed, she was quite pleased for his happiness. She’d sensed he’d needed it most desperately. Last fall he’d been tense, but now he appeared relaxed and content. A man in love. She felt a rush of envy.
She dipped a curtsey to Saxton. “Good afternoon, my lord. You remember our guest, Lord von Egmont?”
Saxton nodded. “I do. Welcome to Benfield.”
“I’m delighted to be here.” He gestured toward one of the penned areas. “That’s a splendid bay. Full-bred Arabian, or was he bred with a Cleveland Bay?”
Saxton grinned. “You’ve an eye for horses. Conqueror’s from Holborn’s Arabian stud. His dam is indeed a Cleveland Bay.”
“His sire is Prince?”
Saxton nodded, but then Philippa’s attention was drawn to her left as Sevrin came to a halt beside them. Her heart beat faster, and her stomach fluttered. She hadn’t seen him since the other night when they’d been closeted together.
“Afternoon, Sevrin,” Saxton greeted him. “Lord von Egmont, this is my good friend, Lord Sevrin. Sevrin, this is Lord von Egmo
nt. I was just about to take him to see Holborn’s latest breeding triumph, Conqueror. Would you care to join us?”
Sevrin’s gaze flicked to Philippa, but only for the briefest moment. “I would.” He returned his gaze to Saxton. “Allow me to escort Lady Philippa so you two can continue your discussion.”
Von Egmont gave Philippa a questioning look, which Saxton must’ve also noticed because he said, “Let him. Sevrin couldn’t give a fig about our breeding program. Come.”
Sevrin offered his arm, and she took it. She purposely walked very slowly so that they were several steps behind Saxton and von Egmont when she said, “Why are you participating in a prizefight?” She realized it was Friday. “Goodness, is that tonight?”
He kept his voice low, matching her subdued tone. “Yes. I used to fight a lot. I missed it.”
She wasn’t surprised at his background given the skill he’d exhibited the night she’d met him. “That’s it? You simply decided to take up fighting again?”
“I never really gave it up. I operate a private fighting club.”
“You do?” Her voice had climbed, so she hushed herself before adding, “Where?”
“At the Black Horse.” The tavern where he lived.
They entered the cool, dim stables. Saxton and von Egmont were completely lost in their discussion, oblivious to her and Sevrin.
“Are you staying for the entire house party?” Sevrin asked.
“I am. Will you be returning after your fight?” She tried to sound nonchalant, but she would be worried all night. And tomorrow—until she knew he was safe.
“No. I only promised Saxton I would come by. A house party focused on horses isn’t my favorite pastime.”
She frowned. “What’s wrong with horses? Wait, I just realized I’ve never seen you ride in the park. Or anywhere else. In fact, I think I asked you about riding the night we met and unless I’m mistaken, you never answered me.”
“I don’t ride.”
For the first time, she mentally gave a point to Allred over Sevrin. She loved to ride and couldn’t imagine a mate who didn’t.
Blast! When had she begun to consider Sevrin as a potential mate? Since she’d started looking for a husband. Since Sevrin had rescued her and kissed her. Depressingly, she wondered if she’d compare them forever. She couldn’t. Not if she hoped to build a better marriage than her parents had. Marrying Allred while wanting Sevrin made her no better than her father.
It was past time for her to put Sevrin from her mind. He’d already stated his intent to do the same when he’d rescinded his help. No more comparisons. No more recollections of the way he kissed her, or the way he made her feel—like a valued partner.
She gently withdrew her hand from Sevrin’s arm with the knowledge that she’d never touch him again. “I wish you good luck tonight.” Be safe, her mind screamed, but she didn’t voice the words.
“Thank you.” He looked deep into her eyes, as if he might communicate more, but he said nothing.
They’d reached the center of the aisle between the stalls. Corridors branched between the stalls to exterior doors placed at the midpoint of the stable. Sevrin bowed to her and left through the right-side door.
A cool breeze from the door closing wafted across her neck, icing her flesh. Her chest felt hollow. Though their acquaintance had been brief, their meeting had been profound. At least for her.
A half hour later, Philippa left von Egmont to meet Audrey and Lydia who were strolling in the rose garden. She joined them with a smile, resolved the day would end better than it had started.
“Good afternoon, isn’t it a beautiful day?” The sky sparkled a brilliant blue, and trees bloomed pink and white all around them. The scent of hyacinths and roses filled the air.
Lydia linked her right arm through Philippa’s and her left through Audrey’s. “Yes, it’s a spectacular day. I daresay this has been the best week of my life.” She was clearly enjoying her newfound popularity, and Philippa only hoped it continued. Perhaps she and her friend would get married this Season, and then they need only find a husband for Audrey. She peered around Lydia at Audrey.
Taller than most girls—she had at least three inches over both Philippa and Lydia—Audrey wasn’t what one would call dainty. She possessed beautiful hazel eyes and a thick head of light brown corkscrew-curly hair that was almost impossible to capture in a hairstyle, but Audrey did try. Though often termed “unremarkable,” Philippa found Audrey quite lovely. And she was certain she wasn’t the only one who thought so.
Audrey caught her gaze and smiled. “I saw you with Sevrin a bit ago. I’m glad to see he’s here.”
“Unfortunately, he’s already gone,” Philippa said.
Audrey’s smile faded, and her eyes clouded with disappointment. “Oh. That’s a pity.”
“It isn’t,” Lydia said with a firm shake of her head. “Philippa, whatever were you doing with him again? First you danced with him, then there’s talk you might have left the ballroom with him at Lady Anstruther’s, and you were with him today?”
Philippa bristled. She didn’t need Lydia telling tales. “You know there’s nothing between Sevrin and me. Allred is courting me, and I’m quite pleased with that.”
“I’m glad to hear it, but you must be careful. Rumors can ruin someone, whether they’re true or not. I was lucky to have escaped scandal. Do you think anyone actually verified the story that paints Sevrin as such a scoundrel? It’s not as if anyone can ask his brother what occurred, and who knows what happened to the girl.”
Blast, Philippa had forgotten to ask Lydia about Sevrin’s past, but she at least knew his brother had died. “Why would anyone want to talk to his brother?”
“Because the girl he ruined was his brother’s fiancée.” Lydia blinked at her. “Didn’t you know?”
Speechless, Philippa blinked in return.
“I didn’t know,” Audrey said, her eyes wide.
He’d ruined his own brother’s fiancée and refused to marry her? That didn’t sound like the Sevrin she knew, but how well did she really know him? Her flesh chilled.
“I’ve also heard he and his brother fought a duel,” Lydia added.
Oh, God. Philippa’s stomach dropped to her toes. “Is that how he died?”
Lydia shrugged. “No one seems to know for sure, but Aunt Margaret insists Sevrin killed him. And you know how seldom she is wrong.”
It was true. Aunt Margaret was the premier gossip of the realm for a reason—unparalleled accuracy.
Philippa thought of all the self-deprecating comments Sevrin had made during their acquaintance. His insistence that he wasn’t a hero, despite his actions and behavior to the contrary. Did a man who ruined his brother’s fiancée and killed him rescue hapless females? Did he ask wallflowers to dance?
Apparently he did.
She struggled to refute it, but reason told her he was guilty of those crimes. If only because of the remorse he’d evidenced in the subtle things he said and did. A man without regret didn’t live in a tavern or hide on the fringe of Society.
It was good she’d severed their acquaintance, particularly if speculation about them was mounting. Furthermore, her mother’s dire prediction that she’d be discovered as Sevrin’s mystery woman could hopefully be put to rest. While all of this was quite sensible and cautious, she still couldn’t help regret what might’ve been.
Just then Allred entered the rose garden. He strode toward them with a charming smile lighting up his handsome face and offered a deep bow. “Good afternoon, ladies.”
Lydia giggled demurely. “Good afternoon, Lord Allred. I presume you’re here to collect Philippa.”
He regarded Philippa and presented his arm. “Indeed. It is time for our ride. I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve invited some others to join us.”
Philippa saw a small group of people standing just down the path. She’d thought they would be going for a private ride. However, given the weight currently burdening her head and heart, she d
idn’t particularly care.
Chapter Twelve
THOUGH invigorating, the ride did nothing to ease Philippa’s anxiety about Sevrin. She still couldn’t make sense of him killing his own brother. Over a woman. For any reason!
That Allred had paid more attention to his two male friends than to her on their ride had been a blessing since Philippa’s conversational skills had fled upon hearing Lydia’s pronouncement. She had to get herself together before dinner. Perhaps a nap would help restore her composure.
After a brief, troubling sleep, Philippa woke to the sounds of someone treading upon the carpet. She stretched beneath the coverlet and opened her eyes. She froze.
A filthy hand tasting of she-didn’t-want-to-know-what slapped over her lips. The despicable visage of Swan—the man who’d accosted her in the alley outside Lockwood House—filled her view. With his free hand, he brought a long knife to his mouth, urging her to silence.
“Best be quiet now, else this blade’ll slip right between your ribs.”
Her heart throbbed painfully, but at least it reminded her she was alive. For now. She nodded, and he slowly withdrew his hand.
“That’s a good girl.” The villain was wearing Holborn livery.
A hundred scenarios about what this intruder could want invaded her mind, but only one rang true. Given their last encounter—when he’d ripped her dress and grabbed at her flesh—she had to assume he meant to rape her. She forced herself to take a breath, but it was shallow and inadequate. “What do you want?”
“That’s no proper greeting.”
Her mind scrambled for a means of escape.
He shook his head. “Now, now. I see ye looking around, but don’t think to run. I’ve insurance to keep ye in line.” He grinned, revealing a disgusting array of brown teeth, as his gaze dipped to her chest.
With shaking fingers, she clutched the coverlet tighter. “What does that mean? What sort of insurance?”
