To Seduce a Scoundrel (20 page)

“Yer lordship. Sevrin. If ye don’t cooperate with me, the boss’ll have his head by morning.”

Sevrin could more than take care of himself. “That’s absurd.”

Swan shrugged. “He’s fighting for Jagger tonight. If he loses, he’s dead for sure. But if he wins, he’ll save his hide—and yers. Unless ye try to get away from me, and then all deals are off.”

Philippa’s mind swam. What deals? Why was Sevrin fighting for Jagger?

“I’m hoping his lordship loses,” Swan said as his gaze dipped down to her chest. “I’m dead certain Jagger’ll let me have ye, and I’ve been dreaming of that every night since we met.” He leered at her again and dragged a callused finger down her arm. “If ye don’t get up, I might take yer dawdling as an invitation.”

She scrambled off the other side of the bed, her gaze never leaving the wicked blade in his hand. “What do you want me to do?”

“Get dressed. Yer coming back to London to watch the prizefight. Jagger’s orders.”

She was finally able to take a deeper breath. Her virtue, at least, was safe for now. But none of this made sense. Sevrin was fighting for Jagger as some sort of deal? Was it about her? “Why do I need to go?”

“Just as Sevrin’s our insurance you’ll come along nicely, you’re our insurance he’ll win the fight.”

Her knees went weak.
What did Sevrin do
?

Swan waved his knife. “Go on then, get dressed. We’re on a schedule, much as I’d like to loiter here with ye.” He raked her again with his vulgar gaze, and she scurried to the armoire where her new ball gown hung.

Think, Philippa, think
. She shuddered before turning to face her captor. “I’m expected downstairs this evening. The entire house party will know I’ve disappeared.”

“Ye won’t ‘disappear.’ Ye’re ill and have decided to go home.”

An unfortunately plausible explanation, and one she’d warrant his boss, the nefarious Jagger, had come up with. She simply couldn’t credit this villain with that much forethought. “Still, I can’t get dressed without assistance.”

“I was hoping ye’d say that.” His tongue darted out and slathered his lower lip.

She had to work to keep herself from gagging. She turned away from him and drew her corset on over her shift, then quickly laced it up the front. Next came her petticoat, which she also fitted herself. Unfortunately she couldn’t fasten the back of her dress and so she’d have to allow him to do it. With quaking hands, she pulled the dress over her head and settled it on top of her undergarments.

He came toward her, but she held up a hand. “I’ll need to see to my hair first.”

Working quickly, she pinned her hair up into a basic knot. She wished she had a hat with a veil—she’d no idea who would be at the fight, but surely there would be men who could identify her. Better yet, she wished she had that hood from Lockwood House.

After donning her stockings and boots—with her back to her captor—she took a wrap from the armoire. She’d use it to conceal her head at the fight.

Gathering her courage, she looked over her shoulder. By the lascivious look on Swan’s face, he’d watched every movement she’d made.

She clenched her teeth together and forced herself to say, “Now you may fasten the back of my gown.”

Though she steeled herself, the first stroke of his fingers against her back came like a snake slithering over her skin. She squeezed her eyes shut as if that would somehow block out the hideous sensation.

“Pity the boss told me not to touch.”

“Then stop touching!” she snapped, unable to keep her emotions in check another moment. “I’d be delighted to inform Jagger how you ignored his directive.”

“Ye’d do that too, ye bitch.” He roughly pulled the sides of her dress together.

“Careful you don’t tear it!”
You great oaf
.

He grumbled, but gentled his grip. It took him several minutes, but she was finally garbed.

She skittered away from him and turned.

“Very nice,” he said, his gaze as invasive as ever. “But I liked ye better in yer underthings. I’ll remember that a long time.” He leered once more.

“May we go now?” She’d no idea how she’d endure the hour-long ride back to town in his presence and was eager to get it over with.

“Not a word when we get downstairs, ye understand?” He’d set his knife on her dressing table, but now plucked it up as a reminder of how he planned to keep her captive. “Remember, yer lordship’s fate rests with him.”

Ambrose
. She understood perfectly. She wrapped the thick, woolen shawl around her shoulders and preceded him from the room.

Her legs quivered as she walked down the corridor and then the massive staircase. It was early for the evening’s activities, so she doubted they’d encounter anyone. Even if they did, what would she say? She could likely save herself, but what would Jagger do to Ambrose if she failed to arrive at the prizefight? Indeed, what was in store for Ambrose anyway? And why had he entered into an agreement with this criminal for her?

Fear for his safety was joined by a ridiculous thrill at the risks he continued to take on her behalf. For a scoundrel, he was deceptively wonderful. At least to her—she couldn’t forget what Lydia had told her that afternoon. Still, her mind couldn’t equate the man who’d stolen his brother’s fiancée and likely killed his brother in a duel with the man who’d gone above and beyond what any gentleman might do to protect not only her honor, but her life.

At last, they reached the foyer where a footman greeted them with a bow. She forced herself to smile at the young man and noted that behind her Swan kept his head bent. She paused in front of the footman. “Will you please convey my apologies to Lord and Lady Holborn and inform Lord Herrick that I’ve returned to London? I’m afraid I’m not feeling well.”

“Indeed, my lady. Godspeed to you.” He bowed again.

“Thank you.” She darted a glance at Swan, adorned in his certainly-stolen Holborn livery. She returned her gaze to the footman, who had absolutely no idea she was being abducted under his very nose.

She could scream right now and consign Ambrose to who-knew-what, perhaps death. Surely he could defend himself. But doubt prevented her from opening her mouth, and soon she was through the doorway and in the drive where a coach awaited them.

“Took ye long enough.” Another presumed criminal in another set of stolen livery opened the door of the coach.

He helped Philippa inside, crushing her elbow in a bruising grip. She sat in the forward-facing seat and pushed herself into the corner. When the door closed leaving her alone, she audibly exhaled in relief. Following that came deep, bone-shaking chills.

What would happen to her? To Ambrose? The ruin of her reputation was—at last—guaranteed, but that paled beside other concerns. What if Ambrose failed to win this fight? What if her captor failed to follow his employer’s orders?

Though it provided no warmth—nothing could—she pulled her wrap closer about her shoulders. And prayed.

At half eleven that night, Ambrose and Hopkins exited a hack in the Strand and made their way to Dirty Lane near the Thames. Ambrose had attended many pugilism bouts at this address before, including a few he’d fought in, when he’d first come to London.

“This it, Sev?” Hopkins asked, gesturing toward a large warehouse with peeling whitewash. Men loitered about the entrance, and a few women hawked their bodies.

One slattern winked at Ambrose and sashayed to greet him. “Evenin’, milord.” She smiled, but didn’t show her teeth—likely to keep him from seeing how many were missing. “Two pence.”

“No, thank you.” He strode past her into the warehouse. Hopkins followed. Two burly men stood sentinel at the entrance to the main fighting room. A slender fellow pushed away from the wall and approached them.

“Follow me, my lord.” He led Ambrose and Hopkins down a dark corridor to the right. It turned and ran parallel to the fighting room. Ambrose could hear the gathering crowd.

The man opened a door to the left, and light spilled into the corridor. They walked inside.

“You left it a bit late, didn’t you?” Jagger stood from a chair in the corner. He was dressed in a fine wool coat and gleaming Hessians. If he removed just one of the four gold rings he wore on his fingers, he might pass for a polite London gentleman.

Ambrose shrugged. “No reason to arrive too early.”

“I take it that means you haven’t brought my future prizefighter.” He frowned. “A week with nothing to show for your efforts?”

Ambrose didn’t look at Hopkins, but could see from the corner of his vision that his second was regarding him with curiosity. “You presume much. As it happens, I’ve found your prizefighter.”

“You should have told me sooner. For incentive, I invited a special guest this evening.”

Ambrose’s stomach plummeted to his feet. Hadn’t he feared this very thing? “You didn’t bring her here.”

Jagger nodded, and Ambrose advanced on him with a snarl. “You son of a bitch.” Hopkins grabbed his arm and held him back—not that Ambrose couldn’t have broken free in a trice if he really wanted to hurt Jagger. God, how he wanted to hurt him. But not now.

Jagger grinned. “Absolutely. Now, win me this fight. I put five hundred pounds on you.”

Hopkins sucked in air between his teeth, creating a soft whistle.

Jagger looked to Hopkins. “Get your man ready. The fight’s in less than half an hour.”

Ambrose clenched his fists. “Where is she?”

“My private box.”

Where everyone would see her. His took another step toward Jagger. “I made this bargain with you to keep her safe, and yet you’re parading her in front of countless gentlemen who will gleefully spread news of her presence.”

Jagger held up his hand. “I’m a man of my word. She’s masked.” He leaned forward and curled his lip, meeting Ambrose’s attempt at intimidation. “You’d best fulfill your part of our bargain.”

Jagger quit the room, closing the door behind him.

Ambrose growled and turned toward a bewildered Hopkins who asked, “How the hell did you get mixed up with a lowlife like Jagger?”

“Unfortunate circumstances.”

Hopkins shed his coat. “Who’s the skirt you were talking about?”

“An innocent.” Ambrose’s mind worked. The need to brutalize Jagger overwhelmed him.

“Come on, we’d best get out there.” Hopkins reached to help Ambrose out of his coat.

Ambrose suddenly had to see Philippa as soon as possible. He handed Hopkins his coat, waistcoat, and cravat. He’d wear his shirt and take it off out there. He ought to remove his boots, but he was too anxious to get to Philippa.

Hopkins laid Ambrose’s clothing over the back of another chair. “You’re wearing boots?”

“Not sure they’ll allow bare feet, and anyway, I want to get out there.” Ambrose shifted his weight, anxious to see Philippa.

“Fair enough. You can always change your mind.” Hopkins said. “What happens if you don’t win?”

“An innocent will be ruined.” Ambrose pushed the thought from his mind, vowing it would never come to pass. “Ready?”

With a nod, Hopkins picked up the bag he’d brought with him. Inside were towels, a large flask of water, a bottle of gin, and perhaps the most important item: a vial of Tom’s healing tonic. Applied to bruises and cuts, it repaired injuries twice as fast as without. Tom’s recipe for the tonic was as secret and effective as his recipe for ale—and Ambrose’s club survived on a steady diet of both.

Hopkins led him from the small, dingy room into the narrow corridor. They turned left and after a quick right, entered the arena. The place had changed since Ambrose had last been to a fight.

The fighting stage was still in the center, but wooden railings had been erected around the square. In addition, a balcony had been constructed around the perimeter of the arena with boxes built into the center of each. They were not luxurious by any means, but they contained chairs, whereas the rest of the balcony did not. Ambrose immediately caught sight of Philippa, clad in a pale coral gown and a dark mask that covered her face from her hairline to her upper lip, in one of the boxes on the opposite wall. Beside her, Jagger looked down at him smugly. Ambrose dug his fingernails into his palms.

His gaze surveyed the other boxes and arrested.
Bloody hell
.

The Duke of Holborn held court in the box on the opposite side of the ring from Philippa. Around him were several gentlemen Ambrose had seen at Benfield that afternoon: Allred, Finchley, even Philippa’s bloody houseguest from the continent. He searched for Saxton but couldn’t see him. He was more than a bit surprised his friend hadn’t come since the rest of the damned house party had.

Hopkins had continued on, breaking his way through the crowd. Ambrose hastened to catch up. Men turned to look at him as he passed and he heard several murmurs of “the Vicious Viscount” and some of the names of his past opponents.

He’d fought in a half-dozen prizefights and had won four of them. The first two had been brutal losses, but he’d learned how to better defend himself, and more importantly who not to fight. One of his opponents had been an incredibly dirty fighter, throwing rabbit punch after rabbit punch to the back of Ambrose’s head. The bout had ended with Ambrose tossing up his accounts over the side of the ring.

Shortly after that had been his discovery of barefooted fighting. He’d practiced his movements and had steadily improved. The first victory had been cathartic, effectively banishing his regret and despair. With his subsequent wins, he’d all but forgotten what he’d done in Cornwall.

Which was bad.

He didn’t want to forget. He didn’t deserve to forget. And he sure as hell didn’t deserve to be a celebrated pugilistic champion.

He’d set up his own fighting club at the Black Horse. A haven for miscreants, failures, and sinners alike. A place where fighting meant physical and mental release, not glory. A refuge for Ambrose to bury the painful mistakes of his past.

He reached the side of the fenced square, where Hopkins was already arranging their things on a small table.

Ambrose looked up at Philippa whose head was turned toward him. He could imagine her ale-colored eyes wide with concern, her flesh pale with apprehension. His gaze flicked toward the box of Benfield men. Had Philippa seen them? Of course she had. How could she not? Ambrose wanted to choke the life from Jagger for bringing her here.