Never Love a Scoundrel (19 page)

Lydia was rapt, but not because she ever wanted to repeat this. She was wrapped up in their story, in their heartache. “What brought about your fight seven years ago?”

“We hadn’t seen each other in years. I’d heard about his mother’s collapse.” He shifted uncomfortably. “I’m not proud of it, but it made me happy to see that Jason was alone like I was. I went to see him—yes, to gloat—but also to find some letters that my mother had sent our father.”

“And did you find them?” she asked softly, her heart breaking for these two boys who were never given a chance to embrace brotherhood.

“No. We fought instead.”

“I’m sorry.” And she truly was.

“I’m the one who’s sorry.” He exhaled, and she heard the regret in that soft, weary sound. “He tore up his house amidst our battle. He was beyond furious—mad, even. Most of his retainers left his employ that day in fear. Then they related the event and his behavior to everyone who cared to listen. When Jason attempted to return to Society after his wounds had healed, he was shunned.”

What a horrible, tragic tale. For both of them, but the altercation had irrevocably changed Jason’s life—and was perhaps the catalyst for the life he led now as the isolated scoundrel who hosted parties of sin. “Do you understand that fight caused him to lose his standing? Whatever plans he had or dreams he nurtured were destroyed.”

Locke’s stare was steady, intense. “Don’t think for a moment I don’t know what that fight cost him. It’s why I need to make peace with him.”

She understood and appreciated his sentiment. “But why now, after all this time?”

His eyes crinkled briefly with amusement. “So curious,” he murmured. He grew serious once more. “But I’ll tell you. I’m dissatisfied with my current lot and wish to change it. For most people, having family means having someone who cares. Like it or not, Jason is all I have left. I’m hoping it’s not too late.” His voice trailed off and he looked away.

Lydia understood completely, and for that reason she vowed in that moment to do whatever necessary to unite these two brothers. “Jason will come around eventually.”

Locke’s expression was doubtful, but he nodded. “Thank you. Now, there’s one other thing I need to ask you.” His eyes were uncertain, which was odd. He always carried an air of purpose, of power. He actually seemed a bit vulnerable, which had to be her imagination. “I want to learn to dance.”

She hadn’t been expecting that, and her lack of a thoughtful response proved it. “Oh.” She rushed to add, “I can recommend a dance master to teach you.”

“No, I’d prefer not to advertise my inability.”

Perhaps he was vulnerable after all. Lydia felt a chuckle bubbling in her chest, but she kept it buried. “I see. And you want me to teach you?”

“If you could. I’m a fast learner. Just the waltz would be sufficient. Those other dances look dreadfully complicated.” He shook his head in distaste.

She felt as if they were friends now, and decided she could provoke him a bit—as friends ought. “Mr. Locke,” she asked in her most sweetly inquisitive voice, “are you angling for a wife?”

He laughed. Loudly. Richly. Gentlemen didn’t laugh like that. “No. You amuse me, Lady Lydia. I see why my brother likes you.”

“I’ll have to consider how to teach you, but once I’ve puzzled it out, I’ll send a note. I understand you’re at the Bevelstoke?”

“Yes. I see nothing remains secret, not that my address was meant to be.” He then took up her hand, surprising her. “My brother is lucky. I hope he realizes it.”

Lydia withdrew her fingers from his grip. “I don’t know to what you refer, but I’m certain Lord Lockwood appreciates his fortune.”

Locke’s smile was weary. “He never has before, but perhaps like me, he’ll try to change.”

WHEN LYDIA
reentered the ballroom awhile later, Jason decided that was his cue to leave. Staying at the musicale in her orbit was only going to cause a furor as he walked around in a constant state of abject lust.

He pushed away from the wall and departed. An hour later, he was in the back room of the Lamb and Flag Tavern, a place called the Bucket of Blood where one could take in a good fight on any given night. Two men were in opposite corners readying themselves for a bout. The room was dark and smelled of all manner of men: gentlemen, working men, criminals. It was a place where station didn’t matter, where the thrill of the fight lured each and every one of them. And perhaps the promise of a purse from a well-placed wager.

But Jason wasn’t betting tonight. He wasn’t even sure he’d enjoy the fight. He was tense, pensive, and he kept watching the door.

The fighters moved to the center of the room. Jason lingered near the wall. It wasn’t the best vantage point, but seeing the fight was only part of the reason one came here. The other part was simply the atmosphere: electric, alive, heady.

The bout started with the clang of a bell. Instantly, the temperature in the room spiked along with the noise. The smell grew sharper as everyone’s excitement surged.

“I wondered if I would see you here.”

Jason turned at the sound of Ethan’s voice. How the hell had he moved so close without Jason realizing? He’d been watching the door just to see if Ethan would enter.

Tossing him a wary glance, Jason said, “I wondered the same.”

“Did you?” Ethan sounded surprised. He was angled toward the fight, but he was watching Jason.

“This seemed a neutral enough place to perchance meet.” Jason hadn’t realized until that moment that he’d come here
hoping
Ethan would show up.

Ethan laughed. The sound was rich and deep. It reminded Jason of their father. Or maybe it was just that they were watching a fight together, as Father had made them do on countless occasions in their youth.

Jason shifted uncomfortably. “What do you want?”

With a shrug, Ethan turned his attention to the match. “Nothing specific. I thought we might enjoy the fight together.”

Though Jason was watching the bout, he wasn’t seeing anything but the many ways in which this encounter with Ethan could resolve, starting with a rematch of the other night at Lockwood House. Indeed, Jason expected to feel a rush of anger and an urge to pummel Ethan into the filthy floor. But, strangely, he felt only a skeptical weariness and found himself trying to discern his half brother’s emotions. “You aren’t looking to reenact what’s going on over there, here in our little corner?” Plenty of fights broke out in the Bucket of Blood, and a tussle between two gentlemen—or at least two men who
looked
like gentlemen—would be more than welcome.

“I didn’t come here to fight with you, no.” Ethan was quiet a moment and the sounds of the fight and the noise of the spectators threatened to smother Jason’s tumultuous thoughts. At length, Ethan looked toward him again. “Do you remember coming here with Father?”

“Of course.” Jason heard the snap in his tone, but couldn’t moderate his emotions when it came to his perfidious father.

Ethan nodded. “I loved those nights. Except, you never paid me much attention.” His smile was tinged with regret. Had he wanted Jason’s attention? Worse, had he wanted Jason’s affection?

Jason inwardly squirmed. He didn’t like the direction this conversation was taking. They weren’t brothers in the true sense of the word. Still, how would it have been to experience these fights with a younger brother? Someone with whom he could laugh and carouse. Someone with whom he could share the trials and troubles of becoming a man. “I couldn’t. You were an affront to my mother. To me.”

“Your mother despised me. As if it were my fault I’m the bastard of her husband’s mistress.” His tone was resentful.

Jason turned toward him, his mind blocking out the sights and sounds around him. “It was your fault that you were a jackass. You were always disrespectful to her, and you marched around Lockwood House as if you could be the heir.”

Ethan stared at him and shook his head. “I was jealous of you. You were—
are
—the heir. Your mother made it clear I would always be beneath you.”

It sounded awful coming from Ethan now, but Jason understood his mother’s bitterness and anger. “She was devastated by your very existence, and for Father to parade you in front of her and treat you like a member of our family was a gross insult. I won’t debate you as to whether that’s right or wrong. It’s how she felt and I can’t disrespect that.”

Ethan’s gaze was steady, his mouth set in firm lines. “And I can’t respect it.”

Jason looked toward the fight. “We’re the products of our stations. I can no more enjoy your presence than you can tolerate mine.”

“You’re wrong.” The determination in Ethan’s voice drew Jason to turn his head back. “My parents don’t define me. I’m my own person, and I thought you were too. I was hoping we could reach an . . . accord.”

Bewildered at why this man would seek him out now and try to repair an insurmountable breach, Jason shook his head.

A sharp elbow caught Jason in his back and he pitched forward. Ethan caught him and as quickly let him go. Angry that he’d fallen into his half brother, Jason spun around in search of the miscreant who’d collided with him. “Watch yourself,” he snarled.

“Wot’s ’at?” A scruffy-faced young man wearing a too-large coat with a cut that was far too fine for his ratty person swiped a dirty finger across his nose. He shoved Jason again. “Mind yerself.”

Jason launched forward and pushed him back, the emotion he’d restrained during his conversation with Ethan erupting forth. The lad bared his teeth and took a swipe at Jason’s face, but Jason easily ducked. When he brought his head back up the young man’s face had turned ashen. His dark brown eyes were affixed to something. Jason pivoted.

Ethan was staring the lad down. He looked none too pleased. In fact, he looked downright enraged. But where Jason felt like his anger was a living, breathing thing that sometimes broke out of its cage, Ethan’s seemed cold and resolute, something he kept leashed—but just barely.

“Jagger,” the young man croaked.

Ethan moved to stand beside Jason. “Don’t touch this man again. He deserves your respect, if not your admiration.” His words could’ve frozen the Thames.

“Yes, sir.” The lad straightened, cast a nervous glance at Jason, and then turned to go.

But Ethan grabbed him by the shoulder of his coat, the wool bunching up in his fist. He spun the young man around. “Apologize.”

His dark brown eyes were wide with fright. “Beggin’ yer pardon, sir.”

“My lord,”
Ethan prompted darkly.

“Beggin’ yer pardon, m’lord,” the young man choked out.

Ethan let go of the lad’s coat and brushed his palm over the wool. His lips spread in a malevolent smile. “And my name is Mr. Locke, not Jagger. Make sure your friends know that too.”

He nodded vigorously and scampered away into the mass of bodies. A few people had turned to watch the altercation, but now they returned their attention to the fight. Jason stared at his half brother.

Ethan’s expression was placid. He was seemingly unaware of what he’d just done, but then maybe he was. It wasn’t any man who could scare the breeches off someone with only a frigid stare. But perhaps Ethan did it with such ease and frequency that he simply didn’t realize how it appeared.

“I’m quite capable of defending myself,” Jason said.

Frustration etched into the lines around Ethan’s mouth. His eyes narrowed again, but this time with ire. “Is it wrong to want to help my brother?”

“No.” It seemed Jason wasn’t able to say anything without being provoking. He forced the next words between his lips. “Thank you.” And then he had a hundred questions about why the lad had seemed so afraid and why Ethan had instructed him to address him differently. Then everything Sevrin had told him earlier came back to him in a flood, and Jason’s questions were answered. Sevrin had said Ethan lorded over people. In his criminal role, he commanded fear and respect. He was, perhaps, the head of his own little kingdom the way that Jason was the ruler of vice among Society.

There was one question, however, he did want to ask. He pressed closer against the wall, knowing Ethan would move with him. “Why did you tell him not to call you Jagger?”

“That’s not my name any longer.”

Jason couldn’t keep himself from shaking his head in disbelief. “Calling yourself something different doesn’t change who you are.”

Ethan slid him a hooded look. “And who am I?” His voice was soft, but sharp as a finely honed blade.

Jason studied him a long moment. “I’m trying to figure that out. I understand you’re a criminal. What other kind of man can inspire fear in people with a well-focused stare?”

“A lord?” Ethan offered sardonically. “That Duke of Holborn could scare the piss out of a gent who’s just used the privy.”

A smile broke over Jason before he could censor it. Holborn was a formidable old son of a bitch. He sobered. “Do I need to be afraid of you? Not that I would be, of course.”

Ethan inclined his head. “No, you do not.” He lowered his voice so that Jason had to lean in to hear him. “It’s best if you don’t ask me anything else.”

“Best for whom?”

Ethan’s stare was dark and deliberate. “You.”