To Seduce a Scoundrel (15 page)

Ambrose surveyed the room. Men, young and old, wealthy and indebted, quiet and verbose—all united in this club that had been founded on chocolate and politics over a century ago. Could his fighting club last that long? Hell, it didn’t even have a name. Sevrin’s? The Black Horse, after the tavern in which it met? The London Pugilism Society? He smiled to himself as he thought of the men in his club belonging to anything with the word ‘society’ in the title.

He’d considered asking one of them if they were interested in becoming Jagger’s prizefighter, but he didn’t want them mixed up with the criminal. Just as he hated Philippa’s involvement in this muddle.

Bloody hell
. What was he doing tangled up with her? If only he’d walked right past her at Lockwood House, none of this mess would be happening. At least to him. Philippa’s reputation would have been ruined while he was happily ensconced with his men at the Black Horse, pummeling Hopkins or someone else into merry exhaustion. He cringed at the thought. His soul might be black, but he couldn’t wish that on her. If he had it to do over, he’d make the same choice. And suffer the same consequences.

He scanned the main chamber for the men on her list. He was only vaguely aware of what the Frenchman and Finchley looked like, but would easily recognize Allred and Vick. Since he didn’t see the latter two, he set about trying to determine if any of the others were the former.

Finchley was within a year or two of Ambrose’s twenty-seven years and pale-haired, if memory served. D’Echely was French, so he was likely sallow and outspoken.

“Sevrin!” called a dark-haired man from a table near the betting book. Ambrose had no idea who he was, but strolled in that direction anyway. He had to start somewhere.

“Evening, gentlemen,” he said, perusing the three faces at the table. His gaze settled on a man with a somewhat handsome countenance, he supposed, though his chin was a bit small and too rounded. He was almost certain that was Finchley.

“How goes it?” the man who might be Finchley asked. “Please sit. Why not give Brock and me the name of your lady?” He nodded his head toward the dark-haired man who’d hailed Ambrose.

Brock chuckled. “Finchley, you assume she
is
a lady.”

Finchely’s identify confirmed, Ambrose took one of the empty chairs and poured himself a glass of whisky from the bottle on the table.

“She’s definitely a lady. Goodwin saw her with him,” Finchley gestured toward Ambrose, “at Lockwood House. And since Goodwin wagered she’s Quality, I’m betting he’s right.”

Ambrose had to assume Goodwin had been one of the men in the foyer that night.

Finchley looked up at Ambrose with a sly wink. “What say you, Sevrin? I’ve got my eye on a new phaeton, and that wager gets me a lot closer to my goal.”

This dolt would never do for Philippa. How had he even made it onto her list in the first place? Whatever the reason, he was officially stricken from it now. “Finchley, you do realize this is a bet no one can actually win? It’s not as if I’ll just give one of you the woman’s name so you can collect. Play your little game until you grow bored.”

Like a child, the younger man stuck his lower lip out. “You’re pissing in our ale. We’re just having a spot of fun.”

Ambrose was saved from having to extricate himself from their table by the arrival of Saxton. He entered White’s with the air of someone who’d been born and bred to command respect and admiration. In other words, someone very like Ambrose had once been.

That similarity wasn’t what had drawn them together, however. Saxton had joined Ambrose’s fighting club last fall after trying out in a street fight in the Black Horse Court. Ambrose held the tryouts regularly, for there was never a dearth of men wishing to join, and had been surprised when Saxton had not only showed up, but then proceeded to demonstrate an enormous amount of skill and fire. Unpredictably, to Ambrose anyway, they’d become friends.

Saxton made his way directly to their table. “Sevrin, I didn’t expect to see you here.” There was a question in his tone. He knew Ambrose was usually at his club at this time of night.

“Just enjoying a drink. Excuse me, gentlemen.” He nodded at his tablemates and stood, glad to be presented with an easy and polite departure from the table.

He walked with Saxton to a smaller table in the corner, where they would have a modicum of privacy. Once they were settled, Saxton signaled for a bottle of whisky and a glass from a footman. It arrived almost immediately, which led Ambrose to believe the staff had readied it as soon as Saxton had arrived.

“You get excellent service,” he remarked as Saxton poured three fingers into his glass.

Saxton took a drink. “I just came from the Black Horse. I hear you’re to take on an Irishman in a prizefight next Saturday. What’s that about?”

Never one to answer a question he didn’t want to, Ambrose instead asked, “How long will you be in Town?”

Saxton stretched his legs out to the side of the table. “A few weeks. Olivia prefers Yorkshire, and we have preparations to oversee for the baby.”

Ambrose had already congratulated him on their impending parenthood, but decided it bore repeating. “Congratulations, again.” He lifted his glass, and they both drank.

Saxton set his glass down. “Let me try another tack. What was that stunt with Lady Philippa about the other night?”

“I told you. Dancing with a paragon like Philippa will elevate me in the eyes of Society.”

One of Saxton’s brows arched high on his forehead. “‘Philippa?’”

Ambrose gripped his glass tightly and emptied the contents down his throat.

Saxton drummed his fingers atop the table. “If you’re not careful, you’ll soon be married like me.”

Ambrose poured more whisky. “Never. And certainly not to her.” She deserved someone who could love her, and Ambrose had utterly failed at that emotion.

“Why not? If it can happen for me, it can happen for you.”

“I’ve told you before that we are not that alike,” Ambrose said. Saxton believed that because they’d both ruined girls and not married them, they shared some sort of black-hearted connection. Ambrose didn’t argue they were both scoundrels, however Saxton had loved his girl and his failure to marry her was through no fault of his own, but due to his father’s ruthless machinations. Ambrose’s crimes were far worse than stealing an innocent’s maidenhead.

Saxton’s brow furrowed. “Nonsense, we’ve plenty in common. Aside from the whole scoundrel business, we’re both spares who inherited. Tragic, that.”

Yes, tragic. Ambrose didn’t want to think about Nigel. That way lay stark pain and soul-crushing regret. “I never mention him for a reason, Sax. Leave it.”

Saxton’s fingers stopped their rhythmic tapping. He lowered his voice. “I understand what it’s like to be second. Never good enough, never expected to succeed.”

Ambrose curled his fingers around his glass with a tightening grip. “And that is why we are not alike. I was plenty good enough.” Better, in fact. Everyone at Beckwith and on the Roseland Peninsula remarked at how Nigel should’ve been second born. His lesser intelligence, his physical weakness, and his awkward manner resulted in a viscount who engendered nothing but pity, while his younger brother reaped all of the attention and all of the praise.

Saxton’s gaze turned to frost. “I’d no idea. And here I thought we were cut from the same cloth. Clearly I was mistaken.”

Bloody hell
. “I didn’t mean it like that, Sax. Just… don’t ask me about my brother.”

Saxton drummed his fingers again. “All right, I surrender. But I’m afraid that leaves me just my original topic. Why are you fighting the Irishman? If you don’t tell me, I’ll beat it out of you. And I don’t give a damn that you’ve got a prizefight in six days.”

Ambrose knew he’d try it, too. “Since you’re proving to be so persuasive, I’ll tell you. Though it’s not very interesting. I was asked to fight and said yes.”

Saxton arched his brow. “Hopkins said he’s to be your second. I’m affronted you didn’t ask me.”

“I would’ve, but you’ll be in the throes of your father’s annual house party at Benfield.”

Saxton frowned. “Which you were supposed to attend.”

He’d never committed to any such thing. Horses, which he avoided like the pox, a woman (Philippa would be there) he couldn’t touch, and the anxiety of competing in a prizefight that night. He couldn’t think of a worse way to spend a day. “I’ll try to come by for a brief while. Will that stop you from conducting this inquisition?”

“I suppose. Though I should point out that participating in a prizefight may impress some gentlemen, but it won’t improve your social standing.” He frowned again, as if he were trying to deduce Ambrose’s motives and failing miserably.

Making a trip to Benfield, which was just an hour outside London, would give Ambrose the opportunity to ensure Philippa’s safety the day of the fight. He wouldn’t put it past Jagger to try something nefarious.

Saxton was staring at Ambrose’s hand, which, due to his firm grip around his glass, had gone quite pale. Ambrose tossed back the last of the whisky and deposited the empty glass on the table.

A gentleman swaggered toward their table. He stopped beside them and grinned at Ambrose. “Lady Lydia, eh? Don’t know how you managed that, but I suppose you’ll have to marry the chit.”

Ambrose looked up at the man, who, like most of London, seemed to know him while he doubted they’d ever been introduced. “I don’t marry anyone, or don’t you know that about me?”

The man’s smile faded. “Someone’s just entered Lady Lydia Prewitt’s name in the book. Are you refuting she was your mystery woman at Lockwood House?”

Ambrose’s body tensed, but he forced himself to appear impassive. “Most certainly.”

Saxton shot the intruder a quelling stare. “This has gone too far. It’s one thing to make ridiculous wagers, but quite another to slander a young, unmarried woman. Who wrote her name down?”

The man who’d so gleefully delivered the news now looked quite pained. His face flushed, and his forehead glistened in the lamplight. “Some bloke called Tweedy.”

Saxton’s eyes narrowed as he scanned the room. “Who the hell’s Tweedy?” he asked in a loud, commanding voice. Conversation wilted and died. Heads turned—first to Saxton and then to a young, slight man standing off to the side of the betting book. His face reddened beneath a smattering of freckles. Ambrose almost felt sorry for him.

“Come here,” Saxton bellowed, and of course the lad wobbled his way to their table. “Everyone else go about your business,” Saxton directed to the room at large. The men immediately turned their heads, but conversation was stilted and slow.

“Now,” Saxton began, his frigid gaze impaling the poor young Tweedy, “why did you write Lady Lydia’s name in the book?”

“I-I w-w-was at the Pinnocks’ rout earlier. It w-was just a rumor I’d heard. I thought I’d be the f-first to get to the b-book.” And bask in the praise for such a wager. He blinked and Ambrose caught the moisture in the lad’s eyes. “So it’s n-not her then?”

Ambrose interceded before Saxton delivered a set-down that would likely cower the boy until he was middle-aged. “No, and you must be careful about bandying young women’s names about. Lady Lydia doesn’t deserve to have her name sullied by some baseless wager.”

Tweedy nodded, his eyes still damp and his cheeks bright red. “Yes, my lord.”

“Sevrin, you could be lying about the gel’s identity to protect her.” Finchley, simpleton that he was, had approached the table and apparently overheard their discussion, despite Saxton telling everyone to mind their own business. “How’re we to know the truth?”

Saxton opened his mouth, but Ambrose held up a hand. “Please, allow me.” He turned his attention to Finchley. “How do you know it’s not the truth? If I start a wager about who you shagged last Tuesday, would I be wrong if I entered the name of a Covent Garden whore?”

Finchley sucked in a breath. “You most certainly would.”

Ambrose curled his lips into a taunting sneer. “Prove it.”

There were a few snickers—clearly more than just Finchley had ignored Saxton’s directive—and one loud bark of laughter. Finchley reddened then turned and went back to his table.

Again, Ambrose wondered how such a featherbrain had found his way onto Philippa’s precious list. If she hadn’t enlisted his help, would she have found Finchley adequate? After all, she was only looking for the bare minimum. And passion, she wanted passion.

Suddenly his blood returned to the boiling point. It took everything he had not to stalk to Finchley’s table and smash his fist into his face.

Saxton was watching him again with that same narrow-eyed concern. He quickly turned to the young Tweedy. “Remove your wager and take yourself off. I don’t want to see you betting on anything again, do you hear me?”

Tweedy nodded, his carrot-colored hair flopping across his forehead. He turned and went directly to the book where he scratched out his wager. Then he left the club as quickly as his matchstick legs would carry him.

Normally Ambrose would’ve teased Saxton about the manner in which he’d frightened the boy, but he was too angry. Too pent-up. Too in need of physical release. He stood abruptly.

Saxton also stood. “Where are you going? You look… well, I’ve never seen you like this before.” As loud as he’d spoken earlier, his voice was now nearly a whisper.

“Where’s your favorite brothel?” At Saxton’s shocked gaze, he added, “From before you were married?”

“I’ve never known you to visit a brothel.”

“You’ve also never known me to dance with debs. I’m feeling adventurous this week. Give me the name of a brothel.”

“The Red Door.”

“Excellent. Evening, Sax.” He turned and strode away from the table, his body teeming with frustrated energy.

He knew everyone turned to watch him leave, but he didn’t care. He’d grown used to condemnation and scorn. Indeed, he’d feel strange without it. Maybe that was what was wrong with him. For the first time in five years someone was treating him like he was some sort of hero—and he absolutely was not. He really ought to disabuse Philippa of her belief, but he couldn’t walk away from her now. Not until after the prizefight.