To Seduce a Scoundrel (22 page)

Ambrose turned and looked up at her, then shifted his gaze to Jagger. He narrowed his eyes.

Jagger nodded and then spread his lips in a wide grin. He pulled Philippa’s hands from her ears. “Come, dearie, time to see your lover.”

“He’s not my lover,” she spat, never taking her eyes from Ambrose.

Saxton and Hopkins practically dragged him from the square. Outside the railing, they helped him don his shirt before leading him through the crowd. They could barely move forward, however, as men rushed to congratulate him.

She turned to look at Jagger who was still grinning. “I knew he’d win,” he said.

“Yet you abducted me to intimidate him anyway.”

Jagger shrugged. “What do you care? No one saw you.”

Though the fight below had sickened her, she wanted very much to punch her captor. Perhaps everyone had a breaking point at which violence became acceptable. Had something happened to Ambrose that made brutality easy? Perhaps he
had
killed his brother. The idea repelled her, but also made her want to know why. She had to see him, ensure he would be well. “Take me to Sevrin.”

Jagger turned to one of his men and said something. Philippa couldn’t hear what they discussed—the sounds around her were far too loud and distracting. Jagger nodded to the two men who’d brought her there, though they were no longer garbed in Holborn livery. They took her arms and guided her out of the box onto the balcony. Up ahead was a staircase that would take them down to the main floor.

The balcony was narrow and choked with men. Swan walked behind her while the other led. Neither let her go. The air was hot and reeked of sweat and alcohol. A surge from behind jostled her forward into the back of the man in front of her. She couldn’t put her hands up to keep from crashing into him. The man behind her pulled her back so she was upright once more, and they continued on in this fashion until they reached the staircase. The rickety wooden steps creaked as she descended, and she worried the stairs weren’t meant to carry so much weight at once.

Finally they were on the floor making their way through the crowd. If the jostling had been extreme on the balcony, it was far worse down here. Large, smelly men fell against her, and she had to struggle to keep her footing. She tripped and stumbled, but a man gripped her elbows and kept her from falling. She looked up expecting to see one of her captors and froze.

Allred stared down at her.

A loud buzz blocked all sound from her ears, and motion seemed to slow around her. Allred cocked his head to the side, contemplating her as if… Did he recognize her? She swallowed with difficulty.

“Ho, ho, it
is
her! By heaven, it’s Sevrin’s mystery woman!” A gentleman—one she recognized from the foyer of Lockwood House—stepped next to Allred.

Allred’s brows drew together.

Finally one of her captors—and she couldn’t believe she felt even a second’s gratefulness, but she did—snatched her against his side. “Hands off!”

They pulled, not that she wasn’t eager to go, her away through the crowd and a few moments later pushed into a corridor. The air was a bit cooler, and no one followed them. This was clearly some sort of back area where the masses were not admitted.

Swan shoved her up against the wall, startling the breath from her in a loud gasp. The blow jarred her spine. He put his face a scant inch from hers so that all she could smell was his stale, fetid breath. She tried to turn her head to the side, but he gripped her chin and forced her to look at him.

“Yer lordship may’ve won, but I’ll still find a way to collect from ye. Maybe not tonight, but soon. Soon.”

“Swan!” The other man pulled Swan’s arm. “Jagger told us not to touch ‘er.”

Swan cursed as his cohort grabbed Philippa and dragged her to a door. He opened it and shoved her inside.

She was shaking from her encounter in the corridor, but her fear of Swan quickly morphed into concern for Ambrose. He sat slouched in a chair with Hopkins dabbing at his left eye, which was puffy and nearly purple. Saxton stood nearby, his gaze now firmly planted on Philippa. Did he recognize her?

She wanted to rush to Ambrose, but given her audience, she moved slowly, demurely toward him. The blood had been cleaned from his face, and now his wounds glared stark against his pale flesh. In addition to the black eye, he sported a split lip, an abrasion on his right cheek, a bruise on his left cheek, and a reddened ear. Somehow they’d gotten his stockings and boots back on his feet.

He looked up at her from his one open eye. He frowned. “Are you all right? Let me see your face.”

She glanced at Saxton, unsure if she ought to remove her mask or even speak. Saxton would surely recognize her voice. They’d been too familiar when he’d briefly courted her last fall. But really, did it even matter now? There was no way she’d escape this night without at least him discovering her identity. “What about him?”

“He won’t say anything,” Ambrose growled. His voice sounded as bruised as he looked.

She untied the mask and slipped it from her face. “I’m fine.”

“Blood of Christ,” Saxton swore. “What in the bloody hell is she doing here?”

Sevrin waved a hand as if he couldn’t be bothered to respond.

Philippa supposed breathing took effort at this juncture, so she answered Saxton. “Jagger abducted me from Benfield.”

“Who’s ‘Jagger?’”

“The man Sevrin fought for,” Hopkins supplied.

Saxton looked from Ambrose back to Philippa. “Why would he take you from Benfield? And how? Someone’s about to be sacked, I can promise you. You shouldn’t be here at all.”

“She wasn’t supposed to be,” Ambrose managed. “Jagger brought her here to entice me to win.” Saxton still looked furiously perplexed, but Ambrose sent him a single-eyed glare that silenced further questions. “Now that she’s here we can go,” Ambrose rasped. “Let’s be quick about it.” He turned his gaze toward her. “Put your mask back on.”

“Go where?” Saxton asked. “You need to get home, and Lady Philippa, good God, what are we going to do with you?” He stared at her as she fumbled with retying the mask around her head.

Her fingers wouldn’t work and strands of her hair kept getting tangled in the ties of the mask. “I told one of the footmen I was ill and returning to Herrick House. You could take me there.”

He shook his head then took over tying the mask. “Not if you want to avoid a scandal. I heard the men talking before I left the box.” She’d seen him with his father and the others when she’d first arrived. “They think you’re Sevrin’s mystery woman. If any of them connect you with her—your hair is completely uncovered for Christ’s sake. No, you have to be seen at Benfield. We’ll pretend you never left. That the footman was mistaken. You were merely ill tonight. Tomorrow you’ll arrive for breakfast as if you were at Benfield the entire time. I’ll have Olivia and my sister say they visited you.”

That could work. She prayed it would work. She nodded. “Thank you.”

Saxton wrapped his hand around Ambrose’s upper arm. “My coach is outside.” He inclined his head toward Hopkins who helped him pull Ambrose out of the chair. Ambrose winced and his hands went toward his middle.

Philippa spotted Ambrose’s other clothing draped over the back of another chair and plucked the garments up. She folded the coat, waistcoat, and cravat over her arm.

She opened the door for them but two burly men stood in the corridor. One held up his hand. “Can’t leave till Jagger gets here.”

They started forward once more, but the two men stepped together, blocking their departure. Saxton snarled. “You don’t want to fight us. I’m nearly as good as Sevrin and this one,” he pointed at Hopkins, “is better.”

He was nearly as good as Ambrose? And Hopkins was better? Were they all fighters?

The men looked at each other then stepped apart and allowed them to leave. The corridor was—thankfully—almost entirely devoid of people.

Saxton left Ambrose in Hopkins’s care and took Philippa’s arm. He stared down at her, his eyes like shards of ice. “What is between you and Sevrin?”

Despite what they’d shared and the friendship they’d forged, the answer was still, “Nothing.”

“That can’t be true or Jagger wouldn’t have been able to
entice
Sevrin to do anything.”

Philippa looked straight ahead as they neared the end of the corridor. They left the building and stepped into the cool night air. The dank smell of the nearby Thames filled Dirty Lane, which was little more than an alley that ran off the Strand. They made their way toward the thoroughfare, but Ambrose stumbled.

Philippa cringed. “Help him,” she said to Saxton.

Saxton moved up to take Ambrose’s other side. “My coach is just there.” He gestured toward the Strand, and a few moments later they’d reached the crest-emblazoned carriage. His footman held the door as Hopkins and Saxton half-lifted Ambrose inside. They helped Philippa in after him, and she took the forward-facing seat beside the slumped Ambrose.

The other men joined them inside, and they were on their way. She pulled off her mask once more then turned toward Ambrose. He barely resembled the handsome man she’d met at Lockwood House. His eyes were shut, and even in the dim light of the carriage lamp, his pallor disturbed her.

She wrapped her hand around his, but he flinched and drew it away. He really didn’t want anything to do with her. But that didn’t make sense, given he’d just fought to safeguard her reputation. Even so, he’d continually rejected physical contact with her, which also didn’t signify since she was all but certain their attraction was mutual. Vexed, she turned from him.

Everyone remained quiet until they turned onto the Haymarket. Saxton looked to Hopkins. “I’ll help you get him upstairs. Philippa, wait here and then we’ll return to Benfield.”

Though she ought to return to Benfield immediately, she had to talk to Ambrose. She wanted so badly to understand how a man with his background could be her champion. Following Saxton’s example, she adopted her haughtiest tone. “Not until after I ensure Ambrose’s well-being.”

Ambrose opened his good eye. “The hell you will. Do as Saxton says.”

Still stung that he’d withdrawn from her touch, she snapped, “You’re in no position to order me about.” She immediately regretted her tone—the man was wounded, for heaven’s sake.

He closed his eye again. “A quarter hour. Not a minute more.”

The coach stopped at the mouth of the Black Horse Court. The door opened. Hopkins and Saxton stepped out. She followed them, still clutching his garments, and then watched as they helped Ambrose to the street. He groaned as he climbed out. His movements were slow as they made their way to a tavern bearing a sign with a black horse rearing on its hind legs.

“Can you get the door?” Saxton asked.

Philippa did as he bade. The common room was low-ceilinged, and at this hour there were only a handful of patrons seated at the various tables.

An aproned woman rushed forward. “Is he all right?”

“Aye,” Hopkins said, readjusting his grip on Ambrose. “Fetch some of Tom’s tonic and some hot water.”

She nodded and disappeared through a doorway at the base of the stairs. The barkeep stepped from behind the bar. He was a grizzled man of about fifty. “Tell me ye won. I had ten pounds on ye.”

Ambrose offered a weak smile. “Yes, Tom, I won.”

Tom gave a single nod. “Get upstairs then. Ye want anything to eat, drink?”

“Just some whisky, if you please.”

“I’ll bring it,” Philippa said.

Tom turned and looked her over with an inquisitive eye. He shrugged then led her to the bar where he gave her a bottle and a glass. “Room’s upstairs on the right.”

She wove her way through the tables and went up the stairs the men had climbed a few moments before. She turned to the right and went to an open door. She stopped short and surveyed Sevrin’s lodgings.

The room was small, but comfortably appointed with three stuffed chairs situated around a fireplace, a well-made table cluttered with papers, and a pair of cupboards against one wall.

She heard commotion from an open doorway in the right wall and followed the sound. Into his bedchamber. Her skin suddenly heated as she caught sight of Ambrose’s bare legs just before Hopkins drew the bedclothes over them.

“Does he have a valet?” she asked.

Saxton shook his head. “No.”

What manner of viscount didn’t have a valet? And lived in two rooms over a tavern? The manner that ruined women and dueled with their brothers. She had to stop forgetting he was anything other than that. Perhaps she could if he weren’t saving her reputation and fighting on her behalf.

She laid his clothing on a chair in the corner and then deposited the whisky and glass on the table.

Hopkins poured a generous dose and handed it to Ambrose, who downed the contents, albeit with difficulty. His movements were slow, his face drawn in pain.

Hopkins went to the door. “I’ll go down to the club and talk to the men. I’m sure they’ll all be headed back here.”

The fighting club.

“Sax, go check on the tonic, will you?” Ambrose asked.

Saxton frowned, clearly reluctant to leave her alone with him.

Ambrose arched the brow over his uninjured eye. “Just what exactly do you think might happen in my current state?”

With a gusty exhalation and a parting glare, Saxton quit the bedchamber, though he didn’t close the door. A moment later, she heard the outer door close.

Philippa moved his clothing to the other side of the room where he had a small dressing area. She then came back and drew the chair to the side of the bed. A branch of candles on the bedside table cast enough light to illuminate his beaten face. Her chest constricted.

“It’s not that bad,” he croaked.

She looked up to see him regarding her with his good eye. “Oh, Ambrose.” How long had she been thinking his Christian name? “Why did you do this?” Tears threatened the backs of her eyes. Scoundrel or not, she owed him so much. “I know why—Jagger told me—but, I’m just…humbled by your efforts to protect me from scandal.”

He glanced away from her. “I’ve fought before.”

Why? How did a viscount become a prizefighter?
After he killed his brother
, her mind answered. But she wanted to hear it from him.