“You’re becoming far too dramatic, Reeves. And besides, your natural father was one of my kind. You conveniently forget that when it suits you. I think you’ve been strutting about like a peacock out in the rings for far too long. I should have put you with better company like poets, actors and artists, ‘course, they would have quickly tired of you. You have a way of wearing thin on people.” Richard wished he could have switched places with the man. He would have liked being his own man. Alas, he had to be Lord Tisbury, he couldn’t lose himself amongst the common masses no matter how much he wished he could. “You might be physically fit, but your wits are lacking. Still, I didn’t enlist you for your intelligence, only your ability to carry it back to me. But then, all animals can be trained.”
That had definitely struck a nerve.
“You trained me to be a killer, you son of a bitch.”
“I did. I also trained you to be a spy who knew how to follow orders and recognize threats. Sadly, my tutoring seems to be all for naught.”
Reeves stepped forward and slapped his large paws down onto Richard’s desk. The man never was good at controlling his temper.
“Step away from my desk, Mr. Reeves,” he said coldly, clearly unruffled by Reeves’s brutish behavior. Reeves’s eyes were filled with rage—he looked fit for murder. “I will say it again. Step away from my desk. I rather like this room. I’d hate for your blood to mess it up, and I honestly wouldn’t want to frighten my dear Mama.”
“Stay away from my fights.”
“I’m sorry, old man, but I simply cannot oblige you on that matter.”
“You’ve always done before. Ah, the little gent I saw you with…you’ve found yourself a pretty little piece.”
Now Richard was the one getting angry. “I would stop right there.”
“No. I don’t think I will. One of me mates said that bloke is known as Jamie Poole. Never thought you fancied the lads, Lord Tisbury. Still, there’s quite a few like you out there.”
Richard formed his hand into a fist.
“Leave now, Reeves.”
“I wonder what little Jamie would look like after I got done with him.”
“If you so much as breathe in Jamie’s direction, I will kill you.”
“Some of me mates have questionable tastes. I’m sure they’d like to have a go with your little love.”
“If you or any of your chums, touch Jamie Poole, you sign your own death warrant.”
“Ah, so he’s that important to you. Going to try to have a vicar marry you, eh? I’ve heard of you lot doing that. Some have had to flee to France after having their sordid assignations discovered. Or will you be respectable and marry Lady Lydia Radcliff and keep Jamie on the side? Ah, that is what you plan to do. You always were a clever bugger, Tisbury. You love them both, don’t you? How very interesting.”
Reeves was a dunderhead.
“You are done here, Reeves.”
“I’m not done until I say I’m done, your lordship. If you won’t stay away from my fights, then I’ll just have to make you a part of them.” He pulled out his pocket watch. “Ah, look at the time. I’m due for an appointment with my tailor. Good day to you, Lord Tisbury. I look forward to when next we meet.”
Richard let out a mental sigh, and watched as Reeves dramatically turned about on his heel, and left the room. For all of his shortcomings, Reeves did know how to work a crowd, though his dramatizations were lost on Richard. Part of that bravado was what had made Reeves such a good intelligence officer. He’d been able to fare well out behind enemy lines, and where some had slipped up and gotten themselves killed, Reeves had thrived. He’d once been a likable enough man.
Even though spies were sometimes forced to do less than honorable things, Reeves had once been what Richard had considered to be a gentleman. He’d once been one of the men Richard had trusted with his life.
Born a bastard, Reeves had been forced to find his own way in life, finally being taken in by a butcher and raised as his son. Despite being rejected by his natural father, he’d been all in for king and country—ready to thump anyone who threatened his way of life and by extension his beloved England. Enlisting in the army first, he’d been plucked from the ranks to make use of his aptitude for picking up new languages, something that had proven invaluable to them.
Reeves’s time spent as a spy had altered him. The wars had twisted him, and made him into what he was now. He had the looks of a haunted man, tortured by what he had done during a time of war. Was it bone-crippling guilt that had turned him into such a wretched fiend?
Heavy hearted, Richard thought back to all that he’d lost. Had he pushed Lydia away thinking he didn’t deserve being happy? Many men he’d known walked that path—some lost themselves in laudanum or the drink, while others gambled away their life. And then there were men like Mandeville and Reeves. Men who literally fought to forget what they’d done.
Sighing, he stood up, and went for the hidden drinks cabinet in his study. He wouldn’t drink away his troubles, but a tipple would do well to lessen his own guilt.
t was the morning of the rematch between Pip and Reeves.
After Reeves’s defeat he’d challenged Pip to meet him once again in the ring, and as it was printed in the newspapers for all to see, Pip could hardly refuse, lest he look like a poltroon.
Nervously, Lydia sat nibbling on toast and drinking her now cold tea. She was alone in the morning room. Her mother was taking breakfast in bed, as was Rose, and her brother was out for a morning ride.
The newspapers had been delivered hours ago. Having ignored them for days, she decided to start working through what she’d missed. Cracking one of them open, she quickly flipped to the page she was looking for. Expecting to see Pip’s advisement that would serve as his response to Reeves’s challenge, her eyes settled on something else instead. Dread started to curl within her belly. The toast was dry in her mouth, and she started coughing. Once she stilled her cough, she gulped down more tea in an effort to wash the bitterness away. Reeves was a villain. If her eyes did not betray her, he was now calling Richard out for a fight. Any man or woman who knew Richard and wasn’t a dolt would quickly realize that Richard was the aforementioned Richard Castleton.
This could not be happening. How would Richard react? Furthermore, why would Reeves challenge him to a bout? They didn’t know each other—or did they?
The wool was slowly being peeled away from her eyes. She felt as if she’d been sleeping through life. There had always been more to Richard than met the eye. She’d always known it, she’d recognized his potential for great things long ago—and she realized quite jarringly that maybe Richard had accomplished great things whilst she was still in the nursery.
He’d lived a whole life away from Castleton village during the conflict with Napoleon. His time away had been shrouded in secrecy, and while her brother Micah sometimes told old war stories, Richard never mentioned anything of his life away from Castleton. Many just believed he’d been safe and sound in London, doing what he could for the war effort, but what if that wasn’t the case? Everything seemed so simple—and yet, now, now, she was betting it was anything but.
The pieces were gradually falling into place. Past things Richard had said to her like knowing when to stop and having courage in holding back. What if he’d deliberately chosen not to fight, fearing what he might do if he did engage in some sort of duel, fisticuffs or otherwise. Her brother had also spoken of men who tried to live a quiet life now that the wars were over. He’d told mama once that they stayed away from conflict because they themselves were lethal weapons—their hands could kill, and they feared themselves as much as others feared them.
With her right hand shaking, she placed her teacup back on its saucer. There was only one thing left for her to do. Going to Richard to talk him out of this mess was pointless. Richard was stubborn—probably as stubborn as she. He would not back down from this fight, and if he entered that ring and fought that devil—and…no, she coul
d not allow it. No matter how capable Richard was, Reeves was built like a behemoth. Richard would never have a hope of fighting that—he didn’t have the skill. At least Pip had been trained for it. Even if Richard had seen action during the war, he would hardly know how to hold his own in a boxing ring.
Slowly, she put down the newspaper. She was doing it again. She was attempting to protect Richard. It wasn’t her place. He could stand on his own two feet. He knew more about surviving in this cruel world than she could ever begin to fathom. Indecisiveness plagued her. She wanted to go to Richard, beg him to call it off. She wanted to do all sorts of things that she couldn’t do. If she’d doubted still loving Richard before—she could not doubt it now. Thinking that he could be pummeled into a bloody mess in the ring knocked enough fear into her to steal her breath away. She pushed away from the table and stood up. Her legs felt weak. There was no one else to turn to. Her mother’s counsel would not change her mind, and Rose would hear her out and then run to Micah. There was only one other man she could turn to now.
Lydia was about to pay a call to Alex Mandeville.
ichard stood on Alex Mandeville’s doorstep.
The townhouse located on Charles Street was grander than what Richard believed Alex could afford to rent in London. He had a hunch it was owned by a relative of Alex’s, or owned by Lord Ravensbourne himself.
There was only one way to deal with Reeves. He’d have to take Pip’s place in the ring. Convincing Mandeville to have his fighter step aside might be tricky. No man wanted to look like a coward, but Reeves was now an unpredictable force, Richard was no longer his master. If Pip engaged in a bout of fisticuffs with the man, he would end up six feet under. Reeves would pull no punches with him and there would be no telling how hard he’d treat Pip. Richard knew all too well that Reeves was a killer, and putting a killer against the ropes was an ill-advised business indeed.
With a grim sigh, he reached for the bell pull. A few seconds later, a stern looking butler opened the door. The man looked as if he hailed from George II’s time, and Richard now knew why he was kept waiting so long—it had probably taken him ten minutes to walk to the front door. The butler stood regarding him with shrewd stone-gray eyes. Well, Richard didn’t really know if it could be considered standing, he was teetering from side to side, the only thing that kept him upright was the cane he leaned on heavily. Richard gave the man his card and waited while he struggled to read it. Letting out a harrumph, he beckoned him forward. Shuffling along, the butler slowly led him through the grand entrance hall, halting to catch his breath every so often and even to take a rest in a hall chair for the space of almost five agonizingly long minutes, during which the butler sneezed, farted and loudly blew his nose. He finally delivered him to a room that looked as if it served as Mandeville’s study.
“I shall fetch Master Alexander,” he drawled out in his hoarse, barely-there voice. With those fragilely spoken words, the butler left Richard to his own devices.
Sighing, Richard sat down in one of the two available chairs, and looked idly over at the bookshelves that lined the walls. Mandeville had always been fond of literature, and had a particular weakness for novels of the romantic nature; amongst his collection was The History of Tom Jones, a Foundling and Pamela: or Virtue Rewarded. Perhaps that’s why the ladies were so attracted to Mandeville. Despite his somewhat imposing frame, he possessed romantic ideals that most men railed against. He also had an artistic touch, and the sketches that littered the top of his desk told Richard that he was still drawing scenes of everyday life. He started flipping through the stack of sketches, stopping when he reached one of himself, except this wasn’t a serious drawing. It was a rather vibrantly colored print. A caricature lampooning none other than…Richard. He never supposed that Alex possessed such a keen sense of humor. That struck him almost as hard as seeing himself satirized did.
Setting his jaw into a grim line, Richard seized the rather well-drawn caricature. He hated to admit it but Mandeville possessed a talent. Of course, he’d always known of Mandeville’s artistic talents as Mandeville had successfully sketched portraits of the enemy to include in his intelligence reports. Here Mandeville had portrayed Richard as a lily-livered fop, and instead of wearing the attire befitting a gentlemen he had drawn him wearing a frock in the style that was so popular at the end of the last century, complete with mobcap and a little doggie in his lap; to add to the humiliation of it, he’d placed a fan in his right hand. The bounder had painted him to look like his mother!
Is this what Mandeville now thought of him? Had he retreated from life to such an extent that those whom he had once called friends were now ridiculing him behind his back?
“Mr. Arkwright, I told you not to show anyone to my private study,” Mandeville said sternly.
As the door opened to the study, Richard spoke, “I do hope this has not been publicly displayed in any shop window.”
“That was not for you to see. I’ve told Mr. Arkwright time and again that my study is for my eyes only. I usually put away my things before the maid comes to clean. Alas, the man still insists on calling me Master Alexander, old habits die hard and all that rot. My father believes he needs to take care of him, you see, he’s been with the family for over fifty years. Be a good sport, and put the print down.”
“I see.”
“Do you?” Mandeville asked. “I say again, Tisbury, put the print down.”
“I think I just might like to bring it back to my Mama. The resemblance is quite uncanny after all. I do believe she might get quite a chuckle from it. I’m certain you’ve had a laugh at my expense. Do you receive monetary compensation for these?”
“I have had people privately commission prints, yes. My father believes it to be a vulgar enterprise, as does my brother.”
“And has this one been commissioned by someone masquerading as my friend, eh? I suppose that’s one way to stab me in the back.”
“That information is kept private, between my client and myself.”
“So, that’s a yes,” Richard mused. “I would hazard a guess that our mutual friend asked you to draw this. What does Reeves intend to do? Show it to the crowd at tonight’s fight? Public humiliation is his forte, after all.”
“Tisbury, is there a point to your visit other than to pester me about that devil Jack Reeves?” Mandeville’s voice was cold, and edged with steel. If Richard hadn’t already suspected, he knew now. Mandeville did hold him responsible for all that had happened with Maria. That’s why he’d put so much distance between them for the last decade. Sometimes, even Richard couldn’t believe that ten long years had gone by. The three of them, Mandeville, Richard and Reeves, had been the bright young whippersnappers who were going to come in at the end of the wars with Napoleon and save them all. They’d been as thick as inkle weavers once. They’d believed they held the world in their hands, when they’d really just been boys looking to do a man’s job. Now he knew why those from his uncle’s generation had resented them so vehemently. Looking at the way he was portrayed in this picture made Richard feel like an old war horse well past his prime—someone who had become resigned to resting on his laurels far too much and delegating too much of the work he should have done himself.
Gadzooks! He’d become the very thing he’d always used as his disguise to throw people off the scent of what he really was. But now…now, he’d become the thing he’d created. Over the ten long years since the wars, he’d…he’d become lazy. He had become the lackadaisical lord. His mother was right—and Lydia was well justified for thinking him to be a man without a spine. He suddenly disliked himself immensely. He dropped the prints, and groaned.
“I shouldn’t have been poking my nose where it didn’t belong. Carryover from our days fighting Napoleon, I suppose.”
“I should start realizing that my sorry excuse for a butler is stone deaf. I keep telling him not to let people into this room, and he keeps doing it. Fortunately, he led my other guest to my rather quaint library.”
“Other guest?”
“None of your business, Tisbury.”
Richard sighed and set aside the prints. “I’m here to tell you that I intend to accept Reeves’s challenge. Pip shan’t be fighting him tonight.”
“If Pip doesn’t show they will think that Pip is a coward.”
“Let them think what they want,” Richard said, waving his hand dismissively. “It only matters that we keep that pipsqueak of yours alive. Reeves has murder on his mind, and he’ll take whoever steps into that ring with him.”
“You think too badly of Jack. He is no murderer. Merely a killer of your own making. You’ve always known how to make or break people.”
That was a hit below the waist and Mandeville knew it.
“You and Reeves seem perfectly chummy.”
“We have always remained friends. We might fight in the ring but outside of the ring, we are allies.”
“Indeed?”
“Indeed,” Mandeville replied. “For priding yourself on knowing everything, you seem to know very little. Reeves likes to sport a disquieting appearance and so he makes himself look rough and uncouth. In truth, he’s become the perfect gentlemen and wouldn’t hurt a fly. Beneath his hardened exterior the rogue has a heart of gold. He does, however, delight in making others uncomfortable because it keeps them away from him. That’s his biggest fear—having people care about him, and caring about others in return. His heart is—well, quite fragile. He did things he wasn’t proud of during the war—and not being able to save Maria was…one of those things. As such, he believes he owes me a debt to this day; you feel no such obligation.”
“I thought your heart was the fragile one.”
“Maria’s death wrecked me. It’s certainly ruined me for other women.”
“Sometimes those we love turn out to be not worthy of our love. I am sorry for that.”
Mandeville shrugged his shoulders. “Sorry won’t bring her back, Tisbury.”
Delightfully Dangerous (Knights Without Armor Book 1) Page 18
