To Seduce A Scoundrel

by Darcy Burke

  Saxton moved up to take Ambrose’s other side. “My coach is just there.” He gestured toward the Strand, and a few moments later they’d reached the crest-emblazoned carriage. His footman held the door as Hopkins and Saxton half-lifted Ambrose inside. They helped Philippa in after him, and she took the forward-facing seat beside the slumped Ambrose.

  The other men joined them inside, and they were on their way. She pulled off her mask once more then turned toward Ambrose. He barely resembled the handsome man she’d met at Lockwood House. His eyes were shut, and even in the dim light of the carriage lamp, his pallor disturbed her.

  She wrapped her hand around his, but he flinched and drew it away. He really didn’t want anything to do with her. But that didn’t make sense, given he’d just fought to safeguard her reputation. Even so, he’d continually rejected physical contact with her, which also didn’t signify since she was all but certain their attraction was mutual. Vexed, she turned from him.

  Everyone remained quiet until they turned onto the Haymarket. Saxton looked to Hopkins. “I’ll help you get him upstairs. Philippa, wait here and then we’ll return to Benfield.”

  Though she ought to return to Benfield immediately, she had to talk to Ambrose. She wanted so badly to understand how a man with his background could be her champion. Following Saxton’s example, she adopted her haughtiest tone. “Not until after I ensure Ambrose’s well-being.”

  Ambrose opened his good eye. “The hell you will. Do as Saxton says.”

  Still stung that he’d withdrawn from her touch, she snapped, “You’re in no position to order me about.” She immediately regretted her tone—the man was wounded, for heaven’s sake.

  He closed his eye again. “A quarter hour. Not a minute more.”

  The coach stopped at the mouth of the Black Horse Court. The door opened. Hopkins and Saxton stepped out. She followed them, still clutching his garments, and then watched as they helped Ambrose to the street. He groaned as he climbed out. His movements were slow as they made their way to a tavern bearing a sign with a black horse rearing on its hind legs.

  “Can you get the door?” Saxton asked.

  Philippa did as he bade. The common room was low-ceilinged, and at this hour there were only a handful of patrons seated at the various tables.

  An aproned woman rushed forward. “Is he all right?”

  “Aye,” Hopkins said, readjusting his grip on Ambrose. “Fetch some of Tom’s tonic and some hot water.”

  She nodded and disappeared through a doorway at the base of the stairs. The barkeep stepped from behind the bar. He was a grizzled man of about fifty. “Tell me ye won. I had ten pounds on ye.”

  Ambrose offered a weak smile. “Yes, Tom, I won.”

  Tom gave a single nod. “Get upstairs then. Ye want anything to eat, drink?”

  “Just some whisky, if you please.”

  “I’ll bring it,” Philippa said.

  Tom turned and looked her over with an inquisitive eye. He shrugged then led her to the bar where he gave her a bottle and a glass. “Room’s upstairs on the right.”

  She wove her way through the tables and went up the stairs the men had climbed a few moments before. She turned to the right and went to an open door. She stopped short and surveyed Sevrin’s lodgings.

  The room was small, but comfortably appointed with three stuffed chairs situated around a fireplace, a well-made table cluttered with papers, and a pair of cupboards against one wall.

  She heard commotion from an open doorway in the right wall and followed the sound. Into his bedchamber. Her skin suddenly heated as she caught sight of Ambrose’s bare legs just before Hopkins drew the bedclothes over them.

  “Does he have a valet?” she asked.

  Saxton shook his head. “No.”

  What manner of viscount didn’t have a valet? And lived in two rooms over a tavern? The manner that ruined women and dueled with their brothers. She had to stop forgetting he was anything other than that. Perhaps she could if he weren’t saving her reputation and fighting on her behalf.

  She laid his clothing on a chair in the corner and then deposited the whisky and glass on the table.

  Hopkins poured a generous dose and handed it to Ambrose, who downed the contents, albeit with difficulty. His movements were slow, his face drawn in pain.

  Hopkins went to the door. “I’ll go down to the club and talk to the men. I’m sure they’ll all be headed back here.”

  The fighting club.

  “Sax, go check on the tonic, will you?” Ambrose asked.

  Saxton frowned, clearly reluctant to leave her alone with him.

  Ambrose arched the brow over his uninjured eye. “Just what exactly do you think might happen in my current state?”

  With a gusty exhalation and a parting glare, Saxton quit the bedchamber, though he didn’t close the door. A moment later, she heard the outer door close.

  Philippa moved his clothing to the other side of the room where he had a small dressing area. She then came back and drew the chair to the side of the bed. A branch of candles on the bedside table cast enough light to illuminate his beaten face. Her chest constricted.

  “It’s not that bad,” he croaked.

  She looked up to see him regarding her with his good eye. “Oh, Ambrose.” How long had she been thinking his Christian name? “Why did you do this?” Tears threatened the backs of her eyes. Scoundrel or not, she owed him so much. “I know why—Jagger told me—but, I’m just…humbled by your efforts to protect me from scandal.”

  He glanced away from her. “I’ve fought before.”

  Why? How did a viscount become a prizefighter? After he killed his brother, her mind answered. But she wanted to hear it from him.

  “Do you want any more whisky?” she asked as she took the empty glass from his fingers.

  “No.”

  Her gaze fell to his hand, the knuckles were red and scraped, the flesh stained with blood. Suddenly she knew why he’d pulled his hand away in the coach. She’d hurt him. But no more than he’d hurt himself. “You like to fight. Tell me why.”

  He rested his head back against the pillow and closed his eyes. “It’s complicated.”

  “You stopped engaging in prizefights for a reason and then did so again tonight. Was it just to save me, or do you plan to fight again?”

  He kept his eyes closed. “I was to find Jagger a permanent fighter.”

  “And did you?”

  His eyes opened—the uninjured one anyway—and he regarded her with a pupil as dark as midnight. “Yes.”

  “So you’re done fighting?”

  “In prizefights. I will always fight in my club.”

  She still couldn’t fathom why men would do this to each other willingly. “Is it like this?” Her gaze flicked to his injured hands before resettling on his battered face.

  “No. We’re friends. We spar, but we don’t beat each other mercilessly.”

  Friends who fought for fun? “Why?”

  “It’s different for everyone.”

  He was doing his level best to discourage her, but she wasn’t having it. “I want to know what it is for you.”

  He was silent several moments. The candlelight cast shadows across his face, drawing her to the intricacies of his wounds, the marred beauty of his features. “It’s a release. A comfort. It’s home.”

  There was no mistaking the wistfulness in his tone. She’d never heard him speak like that. The door to the outside chamber creaked, followed by footsteps and the appearance of the woman from downstairs.

  “Come in,” Ambrose called.

  She entered with a tray and set it on the bed. She removed a stack of towels and placed them next to the tray, then put the bowl of steaming water and a jar of tonic on the bedside table.

  Philippa picked up the jar and glanced at the woman. “What is this?”

  “Apply that to his wounds. It will help him heal.”

  Ambrose wrinkled his nose then grimaced. “Hopkins coated me wi
th that noxious brew earlier.”

  The woman sniffed. “Good, then you’re about due for another dose.” She looked at Philippa. “Don’t take any rubbish from him.” After a nod from Philippa, she took her leave.

  Philippa dipped a cloth into the water and resumed her seat. “May I?” she asked and gently lifted his hand.

  His good eye regarded her steadily. “Yes.”

  She began to wipe away the stains of blood on his fingers and on the back of his hand. He winced a bit as she moved the cloth over his abraded knuckles.

  She glanced up at his face before returning her attention to his hand. “Is Saxton a member of your club?”

  “Yes.”

  “That explains a few things.”

  “It does?” Ambrose arched a brow, and she smiled.

  “I noticed he sported a few bruises last fall. It was odd.” She bent her attention back to her work, finishing up his first hand and moving on to the next one.

  She felt alarmingly at ease, alone with him in his bedchamber, when she ought to have been scandalized. As she cleaned a nasty scrape, he drew in a sharp breath. Pausing, she looked up at his face. “Are you all right?”

  “Fine,” he ground out through clenched teeth.

  “Ambrose,” she said softly, wanting to take all of his pain away.

  He exhaled slowly and seemed to relax a bit. He stared at her intently, intimately. Her body tingled with awareness. She returned to her ministrations, careful to dab gently at his wounds.

  Time for another question. “Why is my reputation so important to you? That you’d fight to protect it?”

  He shrugged, but grimaced for the effort. “Jagger would’ve found a way to get me to fight.”

  She peered askance at him. “So my reputation means nothing to you? I don’t believe that. You protected it before you even met Jagger.”

  He wrapped the fingers of the hand she was tending around hers. “You don’t deserve to be ruined.”

  His touch was warm, wonderful. She shivered beneath the dark intensity of his stare. “But the girl in Cornwall did?”

  He looked away and removed his fingers from atop her hand.

  With slightly shaking fingers, she resumed her work. She finished with his other hand then studied his face. “Is anything broken?”

  “I don’t think so. A surgeon looked me over after the fight. Before you arrived.”

  “Was this a reputable surgeon?”

  “I’m fine. Aside from the way I look.” His mouth quirked up, and despite his injuries, her heart still flipped over.

  She fetched a clean towel from the foot of the bed and dipped it into the water before retaking her seat. Slowly, carefully, she cleaned his facial wounds again. Quiet settled over them as she worked, binding them in a silent, intimate cocoon. Every part of her was hyper aware of every part of him. Did he feel the same?

  When she was finished, she got a fresh towel and the tonic. First, she soaked a corner of the cloth and held it over his swollen eye. “Does it hurt?”

  His one good eye met hers. “Yes.”

  “I’ll be gentle.”

  “I know.” The dark timbre of his voice heated her blood.

  He was right—the tonic smelled awful. Like day-old cabbage the head groom liked to feed the horses at Wokeham Abbey. She dabbed at the swollen flesh and summoned the courage to ask, “That scar on your shoulder, what’s it from?” She held her breath, wondering if it was from the duel he’d purportedly fought with his brother. The one in which Ambrose had killed him.

  He scowled. “It’s an old wound. Leave it. Please.”

  She didn’t want to let it go, not now. This was as close as they’d ever been, might ever be. And she wanted to know. “There must be more to it than that. No, there must be more to you than everything I’ve been told. I simply can’t reconcile your reputation with the man I know. I can’t believe you killed your brother.”

  His gaze sharpened. “Can’t believe it or won’t? I’ve told you innumerable times I am not your hero.”

  Her emotions tumbled over into anger. “Why won’t you defend yourself?”

  His eye flashed. “Because the things I’ve done are indefensible. Including ruining you.”

  She held her hand poised next to his face. “I’m not ruined.”

  “Not yet.”

  Oh, he was maddening. “Saxton’s plan is sound. I’ll return to Benfield shortly, and no one will know I was gone.”

  He turned his head from her. “You have far more faith than I do.”

  She dabbed at his eye. “I suspect you lost yours somewhere around the time your brother died.” He stared stoically ahead, and she knew he would say nothing more. What did it matter? They had no future together. This—right now—was all they may ever share. She didn’t need to know his secrets, but how she wanted to.

  She finished with his eye and then doused another corner of the cloth. With great care, she tended to his other wounds, finishing with his knuckles.

  “You should go now. You’re right—Saxton’s plan is good. You’ll be fine.”

  She folded the towel and set it on the table. “Do you really think so?”

  He turned his head and the intensity of his gaze startled her. “I do. You’ve a wonderful life before you. Our acquaintance is finally at an end. I’ve satisfied my bargain with Jagger. You’re safe. Free.”

  She gently laid her hand atop his. “Thank you.”

  And then because it was the right thing to do, the thing she’d been raised to do, Philippa stood to go. She plucked the soiled towels from the table to take them downstairs. “Good night, Sevrin. Take care of yourself.”

  She turned to leave, knowing she’d never be alone with him again, never share this closeness. Her throat constricted, and her legs felt wooden. As she made her way to the door she heard him murmur, “I liked it better when you called me Ambrose.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  THE following day, Ambrose managed to get himself bathed and dressed, despite the lingering pain of his wounds. He hurt in places he hadn’t injured, given the effort he’d exerted. Though he fought regularly, he rarely fought that long and never that hard.

  He’d just donned his second boot when there was a knock on his door. Slowly, agonizingly, he made his way to the outer chamber and answered the summons, splaying his hand against the jamb to support his weight. Upon seeing his caller, he cursed his decision to leave his bed.

  Jagger swept his hat from his head. “You’re looking better than when I saw you last.”

  Ambrose gripped the jamb as if he’d pull it from the wall. “What the hell do you want?”

  “Better, but you still look like shit.” Jagger raised his brows. “May I come in?”

  Ambrose threw the door wide and stepped to the side.

  Jagger strolled inside, lightly swinging an ivory-handled walking stick. “You live here?” he asked, perusing the meager furnishings. “I live better than this.”

  Ambrose strode to the middle of the room where Jagger stood judging. He turned to say something else, but Ambrose silenced him with a fist to his mouth.

  “Christ, Sevrin.” Jagger lifted his fingers to his mouth and wiped his lips.

  Ambrose shook out his hand. God, that hurt. But it was worth the pain. “That’s for Philippa.”

  Jagger stroked his jaw. “I’m surprised Nolan lasted as long as he did if you hit him that hard.”

  “Oh, I could hit you much harder.” And one day he just might.

  “Then it’s just as well you’ve found a prizefighter and our association is nearly at an end. Who is he, and when can I meet him?”

  “Ackley. Perhaps you’ve seen him fight.”

  Jagger thought a moment and shook his head. “Doesn’t sound familiar. But he’s good?”

  “Quite, but more importantly his potential is excellent.”

  “Brilliant. Who’s to train him?”

  “Me.”

  Jagger’s obsidian eyes flashed with surprise. “Y
ou’re willingly going to continue our affiliation?”

  “Not because I’m particularly fond of you—I still haven’t decided if I’m going to beat you senseless yet. That depends on what happens with Philippa.”

  “Ah, such tender feelings you bear this girl. One might wonder why you don’t marry her.”

  God, how this bastard’s needling rankled, especially because his taunts hit far too close to the mark. He cared far too much for Philippa. “That’s precisely the kind of blathering that will see you thrashed. Do it again, and I’ll show no mercy.”

  Jagger held up his hands in supplication—one of them still clutching his hat and walking stick.

  Ambrose continued, “I’m training Ackley to be a champion, but not due to any desire to help you. My involvement is solely about Ackley’s potential and my personal interest in his success.” Ambrose had drafted the lad into this, and he wouldn’t abandon him to the likes of Jagger.

  Jagger’s eyes narrowed. “What do you want?”

  “Calm yourself. I don’t want a share—I’m not foolish enough to think you’d part with that. I merely want control of his training, and you’ll leave me and my associates—including Philippa—entirely alone.”

  Jagger’s forehead relaxed, and he sprouted a conceited smile. “Done. Since you’re in charge of his training, I’d like for him to fight in an upcoming bout.”

  Ambrose had been thinking of whom to pit his protégé against. He needed to acquire more experience before he faced Belcher. “Who, when, where?”

  “Isling, May 12, Truro.”

  Bloody, bloody hell. Truro. Isling would be an excellent opponent to prepare for Belcher. They had a similar fighting style. Ackley would learn much from the event. But go to Truro? Ambrose had avoided Cornwall and his responsibilities there for five years. He’d be as welcome at his estate, Beckwith, about as much as he wanted to return there, which was to say not at all.

  He felt ready to break into a thousand pieces. He supposed he’d known he’d have to return some time, and why not now? There would never be a “right” time to face his mistakes, to seek forgiveness from those he’d left behind. Perhaps he never could. But didn’t he owe it to Nigel to try? Anguish filled what was left of his soul. “We’ll go.”