To Seduce a Scoundrel (13 page)

Chapter Eight

THE following evening Ambrose went to one of his favorite places to watch a good pugilistic bout. He cut through the main room of the Lamb and Flag Tavern toward the boisterous shouts coming from the back room where fights were held—the notorious Bucket of Blood.

Sometimes he felt a pull to fight, but not tonight. He’d already spent a grueling two hours sparring with Hopkins at the Black Horse, his first bout of training for the prizefight that would take place in a little over a week.

The Bucket of Blood was filled to its walls with spectators. Ambrose recognized only one of the combatants. Presumably the other was new to the sport—and since Ambrose had been a part of London’s pugilistic community the past five years, he would know.

He worked his way through the throng of working class men—and a few women—seeking a better vantage point. A large-bosomed woman stumbled against him. “Pardon me, milord.” She raked him from head to foot and licked her lips. “You here to watch the fight or something else?”

She was attractive, but Ambrose had spent too many years fighting his baser urges. Now that he could recall Philippa’s scent and touch and taste, he didn’t have to work very hard to ignore this woman’s advances.

“I’m here for the fight. Excuse me.” He brushed past her.

“Sevrin.” His name came from a few yards distant, a deep, dark voice he knew well.

Ambrose moved to stand beside the massive speaker. “Lockwood.”

They’d met here a few years ago, but had kept to themselves, each preferring his own company to that of anyone else. It was that shared preference for solitude that had perhaps finally drawn them together several months ago, when Lockwood had invited Ambrose to one of his vice parties. Ambrose had been surprised because while his reputation was rotten, he wasn’t known for bed-hopping or skirt chasing. When Lockwood had quietly informed him that his parties offered opportunities of every flavor, the implication had been clear—Ambrose could indulge his proclivity for male companionship, if that was his choice.

It wasn’t. He’d chuckled, not the least bit offended. His lack of philandering since coming to London had been noted—everyone expected a known ruiner of women to leave a trail of discarded females—and explained by a sudden preference for men instead. At least by some. They reasoned his mistakes in Cornwall had changed him so that he now sought the company of men instead of women, not that anyone had ever
seen
him with a man. The irony was that his mistakes
had
changed him, but not in the way they imagined.

While he wasn’t interested in men, he’d kept himself from being interested in women. Which hadn’t been difficult following the catastrophe that was Lettice. The thought of bedding another woman had sickened him—not physically, but mentally. Fighting was a much less complicated and disastrous way of exercising one’s physical needs.

However, when Lockwood had invited him to his party, Ambrose had wondered if he’d abstained long enough. He’d certainly felt lust for women over the years, but had always tamped it down by beating the pulp out of someone instead.

After mulling over the invitation a few months, he’d decided to go—just to see if he was ready. If not, he’d at least enjoy the high stakes gambling with no harm done. Except within ten minutes of entering the sexually charged drawing room, he’d been propositioned by a woman. A curvaceous blonde who’d borne a striking resemblance to Lettice, even though he couldn’t see her face. Or maybe he’d simply recalled Lettice since she was the last woman he’d lain with. For whatever reason, he’d left immediately and hadn’t returned until four nights ago.

That visit had gone much better, for he’d gone straight to the card room, simply bypassing the drawing room. After an hour of emptying his opponents’ pockets, he’d departed—without thinking—via the drawing room.

Where he’d seen Philippa.

He couldn’t say what had caused him to rush to her side. Her beauty? The lost look in her eyes? Her palpable sense of uncertainty? All of it. But he hadn’t
really
needed to kiss her, had he? A moot question because he’d been powerless to resist. The lust he’d subjugated for five long years had roared back, and he’d indulged for just a moment. With the most unattainable of women. He could no more capitulate to his desire for her than he could ever return to Cornwall.

He turned his mind to the fight, which was just starting. “You see this new bloke—Ackley—before?”

Lockwood shook his head. “My money’s on Locke, though.”

The din rose loud enough to obscure further conversation, so they fell silent to watch the fight. Though clearly less experienced, Ackley was fast. Locke was a heavier man and his punches were powerful and precise. Ackley dodged the first several, but one finally caught him on the side of the head. Ambrose winced.

Dazed by the blow, Ackley stumbled into the rope strung around the ring. Locke pushed forward and drove two more punches into Ackley’s middle.

Ambrose’s gut tightened as he watched the young man struggle to stay in the fight. Ambrose had always been drawn to the weaker, less experienced fighters, which hadn’t always won him much money when he wagered. However, the money was nothing compared to that jubilant feeling when the fighter he backed was victorious—almost as heady as his own win. And it was no secret, at least to him, why he supported such men. Growing up with a brother like Nigel meant he looked out for the weak, the ridiculed, the disdained. Not that such concern had stopped him from dealing Nigel the ultimate injury. He pushed his mind away from the painful memories and focused on Ackley.

He was holding his own now, not fighting offensively at all, but no longer stumbling. Locke was a massive brute who used his weight to try and corner Ackley. But the younger man’s spry frame worked to his advantage as he danced around his bulkier opponent. Suddenly he sent a quick jab to Locke’s chin. His head snapped back and Ackley drove two more punches into Locke’s middle. Locke then leaned forward a bit, which opened him up to receive several more blows to his face. He tried to react defensively, but Ackley was too fast—and Locke too slow.

Ambrose realized his fists were clenched, and he was subtly moving his arms in silent encouragement of Ackley. With a half smile, he crossed his arms over his chest.

When Locke finally got his head up his eyes were unfocused. He shook his head, but Ackley was merciless. He drove his fist up into the bottom of Locke’s chin and then pummeled his ribs. Locke grunted and tried to push Ackley away. Ackley danced to the side and landed another punishing blow to Locke’s face, this time catching him square in the eye. Locke went down on one knee. Ackley threw his fist into Locke’s nose and Ambrose heard the crack. Blood gushed, and Locke went down all the way.

Ackley, breathing heavily, watched his opponent, but gave him space. The referee started the count to thirty. Locke wasn’t unconscious, but blood ran so freely from his nose that Ambrose doubted he could continue the fight if he wanted to.

The count finished, and Ackley was declared the winner. He nodded to the spectators, but Ambrose didn’t see satisfaction in his gaze. He saw hunger. God, how he remembered feeling that way.

When he’d first come to London after Nigel’s death, he’d done his best to immerse himself in the worst the city could offer. He’d drunk and gambled excessively, but the hollow ache in his chest never dissipated. He’d considered tumbling a woman, but the thought of touching one after what he’d done… he couldn’t do it. Didn’t want to do it.

Then he’d gone to see a fight, and a new lust had been born. He’d seen fights before—in Cornwall—but he’d never wanted to be in one. He’d been so enraptured by what he’d witnessed, he’d promptly started a fight outside the pub. That was the first time his nose had been broken. Still, he’d felt alive in a way he hadn’t in months. He’d glimpsed a future that contained more than despair and unworthiness. Oh, he’d still despised himself for what he’d done—still did now—but he could focus on something besides regret.

Ackley possessed that same desperate, searching look. Add that to his natural talent and clear commitment to winning, he might make a hell of a professional fighter. And Ambrose needed a professional fighter.

He was considering how and when to approach the young man when Lockwood nudged his arm. “Good fight.”

“You lost.”

Lockwood shrugged. “A few pounds, but I was entertained. Ackley’s good. I won’t make the mistake of betting against him again.” He directed his attention to Ambrose, his gaze assessing. “Speaking of wagers, you created quite a stir with your masked ingénue at my party the other night.”

“So it would seem.” He struggled to appear uninterested when he really wanted to demand why Lockwood was mentioning it.

“I heard about your dancing with Lady Philippa—”

Ambrose turned toward him, perhaps too abruptly. “How do you know about that?”

“The paper this morning. You’re quite the interesting topic this week. You had to know dancing with her—with any young deb—would draw notice and speculation. She bears a resemblance to the woman—”

“Don’t.” Heat spiked up Ambrose’s spine, making him anxious and unsettled.

Lockwood held up a hand. “I only mean to warn you that if I might be wondering, others may be too.”

He knew he shouldn’t have danced with her. And if he were smart he’d go to the nearest ball—except his invitations were sparse—and dance with a handful of other debs just to distract the masses.

Ambrose narrowed his eyes and gave a slight nod. “Point taken.” He pivoted away just as Jagger entered the Bucket of Blood, flanked by two impossibly large men.

Lockwood exhaled what sounded like a curse. Ambrose turned his head. Sure enough Lockwood’s already fearsome visage had darkened.

Ambrose leaned toward him. “Do you know him?”

“Barely,” he said through gritted teeth.

Intriguing
. “How do you know a criminal like him?”

Lockwood’s tension was palpable. “I like boxing. Apparently he does too. I see him around. More and more it seems.” The animosity in his tone was unmistakable.

“You know anything about him?”

Lockwood tore his gaze away from Jagger and planted it on Ambrose. “Why?”

Ambrose weighed whether or not to tell him the truth, but reasoned there was no point hiding it. Very soon everyone would know. “I’m fighting for him next week.”

His dark grey eyes reflected surprise. “A prizefight? I thought you quit years ago.”

Ambrose had shared all he meant to. He only shrugged and gave an enigmatic smile. “What can I say? I love a good fight.”

Lockwood’s gaze was intense, serious. “Be careful with him. He’s not to be trusted.” And then he cut into the throng and disappeared.

Ambrose turned his attention to Jagger who was now moving directly toward him.

“Sevrin, good to see you here.” Jagger turned to address a younger man trailing him. “Put those up on the walls.”

Ambrose watched the lackey post an advertisement for the prizefight: the Vicious Viscount vs. the Irishman. He considered saying something to Jagger about Ackley’s potential, but decided to wait until after he’d spoken to the young man.

“You here scouting?” Jagger asked.

“A bit.”

“Shouldn’t you be practicing? I expect you to win. I should hate to think of what might happen to your lady if you don’t.”

Ambrose wanted to practice right that moment. By driving his fist into Jagger’s face. A thousand times. “You’ve made yourself clear. I’ll win.”

“Excellent. I’d hate for her escapades with you to become public after the lengths you’ve gone to protect her.”

Was he behind the wager
? Ambrose had his hands curled around Jagger’s throat before he could censor himself. The two burly henchmen pulled him away leaving both his hands and his need for satisfaction quite empty.

Jagger pulled at his cravat, his eyes flashing. “Don’t hit him. I need my champion in perfect condition.” He narrowed his gaze. “Besides, I know how to hurt him in other ways.”

The implication was clear. Ambrose fought to keep his hands at his sides as the men let him go. “I’ll win your goddamned fight and you’ll leave
my lady
alone.”

“After you get me a fighter. Until then,
your
lady’s a nice piece of insurance.”

Ambrose glared at him a moment before quitting the Bucket of Blood. Jagger’s laughter echoed in his head as he made his way outside into the damp night. He’d taken a hack earlier, but now he walked, letting the darkness close in around him. He’d walked a lot those first long months in London, when his pain and regret had been too much to bear. Now the familiar sensation of moving but going nowhere was back, and he cursed Jagger anew for foisting this fight upon him.

But no, it wasn’t Jagger and it wasn’t the fight. It was Philippa and his desire for her. He couldn’t have a woman, and especially not her.

Much later, he approached the small Black Horse Court off the Haymarket. He stopped short as a liveried footman greeted him in the street. He recognized that livery…