To Seduce a Scoundrel (18 page)

“You will if you don’t marry.”

“I doubt you’ll give me a second thought. I’ll continue to live at Herrick House and put up with Father and,” she shuddered thinking of a lifetime that stretched before her, “
that woman
.”

She turned her head and stared out the window, seeing nothing. Her desire to fight fled with the realization that she didn’t even know what she was fighting for. Her mother’s integrity? Her own reputation? Permission to spend time with Sevrin, who’d made it clear he wouldn’t spend time with her?

After many long minutes during which time Philippa had almost convinced herself she was alone, the coach slowed. Before the door opened, Mother took her hand in a surprisingly fierce grip. Her eyes were bright, her mouth drawn. “Promise me you’ll stay away from Sevrin.”

A moot request since Sevrin had pledged to keep his distance, not that her mother knew that. “I will, if you stay at Herrick House.”

Her mother dropped her hand. “I can’t promise you that.”

“Then I believe we’ve nothing more to say, Mother.”

Chapter Eleven

AMBROSE sat at a table in the back room of the Black Horse Tavern where his fighting club met nightly. The low ceiling and battered wood floors gave the space a small, well-worn atmosphere, like a favorite pair of boots past their prime, but still too comfortable to relinquish. He downed a second glass of gin as he waited for Ackley to arrive.

Hopkins had finally tracked him down that day and invited him to attend the Black Horse this evening. Ackley had been intrigued if only because he’d heard of Ambrose’s private fighting club and knew that invitations were never offered—they were sought.

The boisterous cheering of the club soothed his nerves as much as the gin, but neither was enough to keep him from thinking of Philippa. From lusting after her with every breath he drew.

The club’s second bout of the night finished up. Typically, Ambrose would participate in the selection of fighters for each match, but tonight he just couldn’t muster the will. He couldn’t even watch, for it was torture to see but not feel.

The door from the main room of the tavern opened and in walked Ackley. At last.

He paused just over the threshold and took in his surroundings. Hopkins greeted him and led him to Ambrose’s table.

Ambrose looked up at him. “Evening, Ackley. Glad you could join us. Sit.” He indicated another chair at the table.

Thomas Ackley was young—but not too young. He was of average height and build, but his appearance was deceiving. For buried beneath that unassuming frame was power and stealth and pugilistic grace. He eyed Ambrose as he slowly sat.

Ambrose nodded at Hopkins who fetched two more glasses from a sideboard. He brought them back to the table and took one of the remaining two chairs.

“Gin?” Ambrose offered. At Ackley’s answering nod, Ambrose poured some in both glasses. Then he raised his glass in a silent toast.

After everyone had taken a draught—Ackley’s was more accurately a sip—he got right to the point. “What are your aspirations with regard to fighting?”

Ackley wrapped both of his hands around his glass. His fingers were long, his knuckles bruised and scabbed. His angular face was also bruised, but his nose was straight and perfect. Unbroken as of yet. Ambrose’s had been cracked no less than three times.

“I like fighting,” Ackley answered with a shrug. “You want me to fight here?” He turned his head to look at the two men who were preparing to duel.

“Perhaps. But I’m looking for a different kind of fighter. I’m looking for a champion.”

Ackley’s brown eyes flashed with surprise. “My lord? Aren’t you in contention for the championship?”

“No, I’m fighting on Friday as a favor to someone whose fighter was injured. He’s looking for a permanent replacement. When I saw you at the Bucket of Blood the other night, I thought I might have found that replacement. If you’re interested.”

Ackley’s nostrils flared and his eyes brightened. He sat up a bit straighter. “I might be.” His casual words belied his obvious enthusiasm.

“I need to be sure you’re good enough. I want you to fight Hopkins.” He inclined his head toward their other tablemate. “Tonight.”

Ackley visibly swallowed as he contemplated Hopkins. Ambrose didn’t blame him. Hopkins was huge. His hands alone would make any fighter quake in fear.

Ambrose sought to reassure the young man, but not in the way he probably preferred. Hopkins was going to pummel him, and that was all right. “Don’t worry that I expect you to beat him. You won’t.” Ambrose smiled. “It took me a long time to do so. I only want to judge your technique.”

Ackley looked between them. Then he drained the rest of his gin, slammed his glass on the table, and stood. “Let’s go.”

Ambrose admired the lad’s spirit. He inclined his head at Hopkins and they rose from the table in unison.

“Hold,” Ambrose called out to the men in the ring. He made his way to the center. “My apologies mates, you can fight in a bit. I’ve invited a new bloke to try out tonight.” There were murmurs as this was not how men typically came to audition. “This is Ackley. I saw him fight at the Bucket of Blood. Hopkins is going to give him a go.”

Wagers began changing hands immediately. Hopkins had already stripped to his waist and was now removing his boots and stockings.

Ackley paused in the process of drawing his shirt over his head. “Why is he baring his feet?”

“We fight barefooted here,” Ambrose explained. “You’ll soon see the difference.”

A few minutes later both fighters were bare-chested and barefooted.

They entered the makeshift ring—which was only a chalk outline in the middle of the room—and met at the scratch, a chalk-drawn square yard in the center.

“Now, we don’t have seconds or referees here,” Ambrose said. “We fight. No kicking or hitting below the waist—we prefer our manhood intact.” A few men chuckled. “And when you go down, we only count to twenty.” Ackley nodded.

Ambrose took a step back. Hopkins was a good head taller than Ackley and half again as wide. But what Ackley lacked in bulk, he could more than make up for with skill and speed. Precisely what Ambrose had learned to do.

He left the ring and assumed a position just outside the chalk. Then he nodded to Timmons, who held the bell. A loud peal filled the room, and Hopkins delivered a quick blow to Ackley’s cheek, knocking his head back. He hadn’t been expecting such a rapid attack. Hopkins grinned.

Ackley danced away, employing the neat footwork he’d used at the Bucket of Blood. Fighters used this method instead of standing in place as they once did, but Ambrose hadn’t seen anyone—save himself and he really couldn’t testify to what he looked like—who’d learned to move the way Ackley did.

Hopkins was also good on his feet. Though not as fast, he moved with precision and surprising grace. He landed two more punches to Ackley’s middle before Ackley was able to defend a third.

The members of the club cheered and continued to wager—all of it good-natured. Ambrose immersed himself in the comfort and familiarity of being amongst his passion, his very livelihood. He couldn’t imagine where he’d be today without this club. Without the fight.

Ackley sent a jab toward Hopkins’s face that was easily deflected. But then he moved left and connected his fist with Hopkins’s gut. It was a bold, nimble move, and exactly the reason Ambrose had chosen him in the first place. He leaned forward, anxious for Ackley’s next attack.

Hopkins advanced on his opponent and delivered two hits to Ackley’s shoulders. Ackley moved away, but Hopkins kept after him and continued punching. Ackley deflected most, but Hopkins’s speed overcame him. He landed one good blow to Ackley’s eye, then his ear, finally a bruising jab to his middle.

Ackley retreated, but his rhythm had been broken. Hopkins mercilessly followed him and punched him again. And again. And again.

A cut formed near Ackley’s eye, and blood trickled down his cheek. He swiped at it—he’d have to work on focus—and it was all Hopkins needed to deliver several vicious blows to Ackley’s torso. Ackley stumbled backward, but, to his credit, didn’t fall. However, neither did he advance. Normally, Hopkins would’ve continued, but he glanced at Ambrose who shook his head.
Keep going
.

Hopkins went after Ackley anew, swinging wide at Ackley’s sides and connecting once, twice—then Ackley skittered out of the way. A bit graceless, but he’d regained at least a little speed. He kept moving around the edge of the ring. Hopkins cut across the middle and headed him off. Ackley tried to get his hands up in a defensive position, but Hopkins cut them down with two swift blows.

Ambrose respected Ackley’s effort, but he hadn’t yet built up the ability to sustain his speed against someone as powerful as Hopkins. They’d fix that. Time to let the boy rest. He inclined his head toward Timmons, who rang the bell.

Ackley dropped his hands, clearly fatigued, but he frowned at Ambrose. “The fight’s not over.”

“You really want to keep going?”

“I do.” The fire was there in his eyes—a smoldering need to win that Ambrose knew well.

He nodded in return and shot a glance at Timmons. The bell pealed once more, and the fight resumed. The short break had revitalized Ackley a bit, but he was sluggish and drooping where Hopkins was surefooted and sound.

They circled a few more times, but Hopkins seized the upper hand. He landed a blow to Ackley’s mouth, splitting the lad’s lip. Ackley sent an excellent shot to Hopkins’s chin, but it was too little, too late. Hopkins delivered one final blow to Ackley’s ear, and the younger man went down to the floor.

Ambrose started the count and reached ten before Ackley lifted his gaze and shook his head. Ambrose signaled to Timmons to ring the bell.

Hopkins helped Ackley to his feet as Ambrose announced, “Brothers, our newest member!”

Voices swelled in cheer and camaraderie. The men welcomed Ackley who, though clearly bemused judging by the dazed look in his eye—or probably he was still recovering from that last series of blows—smiled with blood-streaked front teeth.

Ambrose guided a heavily-breathing Ackley to a chair outside the ring. He signaled for another member to hand him a towel and provided it to his new protégé. “Your membership comes with a price.”

Ackley swiped the towel across his face and neck then looked up at him in question.

“You’ll train with me and then you’ll fight for the championship. There will be other fights first, but later this summer you’ll go up against Belcher. Does that appeal to you?”

As soon as he’d said Belcher, Ackley’s eyes narrowed—one of which was rapidly blackening—and brightened with hunger. He was already nodding. “Definitely.” He wiped the towel over his chest and then wrapped it around the back of his neck so that it hung over his shoulders.

“Your footwork is damned fast,” Ambrose said. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were a student of Mendoza.”

“My father was. God rest his soul.”

Perhaps that was behind the boy’s passion. Ambrose thought of his own father who would’ve been ridiculously proud of Ambrose’s pugilistic achievements—as he’d been with everything else Ambrose had done. Ambrose’s chest compressed. “Is he the reason you fight?”

Ackley nodded. “He would’ve been champion, but he was run down by a coach and four.” His eyes grew bright for a moment then darkened with promise.

Ambrose knew from personal experience the mental aspect was often more important than the physical. Would he have fought so well if he hadn’t been driving every painful regret from his brain? “Then we’ll have to make sure you’re the champion.”

Ambrose clapped Ackley on the shoulder then turned and went to Hopkins, who’d deposited himself in a chair. He mopped his face and chest with a towel before looking up at Ambrose.

“He’s better than you. Or at least he will be when you train him up.”

Ambrose’s blood stirred. For the first time in days he’d forgotten about Philippa and her tempting curves. He had something else upon which he could focus. Or obsess, as it were.

“We start tomorrow.”

Friday morning, Philippa suffered the nauseating company of her father and
that woman
on the ride to Benfield. Thankfully Lord von Egmont’s presence provided a slight buffer, and Philippa turned her attention toward him as much as possible.

Still, Lady von Egmont babbled incessantly about her memories of London while Father smiled—more than Philippa had ever seen him smile—adoringly from the opposite seat. Her emotions jumped from disgusted to jealous to sad (for her mother) and back again.

When they finally arrived at their destination, Lord von Egmont helped Philippa from the carriage and made to escort her away. However,
that woman
stopped them with her overly high voice. “Just look at it, Pieter!”

Von Egmont turned toward his mother with a questioning, if slightly harassed look.

Lady von Egmont blinked beneath the brim of her large hat, which featured a plethora of silk flowers, a handful of feathers, and a tiny fake bird. “Oh, my goodness, I’ve only been to Benfield that one time.” She’d told them all about her first visit to Benfield at the age of seventeen. “Truly, I’d forgotten its magnificence.”