To Seduce a Scoundrel (9 page)

She forced her pain into her anger. “I’m certain Father would care you were at
Lockwood House
.”

Mother smoothed her skirt with quivering hands. “No one knows. Lockwood House is private, and I can’t imagine you’ll tell anyone.”

Philippa struggled to accept that her mother wasn’t just her mother, but also a woman who was apparently trying to find happiness. Even so, her mother’s actions affected her. How could they not? “Of course I won’t, but doesn’t it matter to you that
I
know?”

Her mother came to stand before her. “You mustn’t be disappointed. Your father wouldn’t be. Our marriage has never been based on love or affection.”

“What was it based on then?” Philippa’s voice sounded as small as she felt.

“A marriage must be based first and foremost on a shared regard. A husband should be kind and likeable, if at all possible.”

Philippa had heard all of that before, but had never thought to ask her mother, “Is that how you found Father?”

Silence descended, and her mother stared at some point beyond Philippa’s shoulder. “No,” she whispered. “I loved your father, but I was a fool.” She blinked damp eyelashes then looked at Philippa. “I don’t want that for you.” Her features tightened. “But neither do I want you at the center of an outrageous scandal. Tell me exactly what happened last night. Did anyone see you?”

Only one of England’s most notorious scoundrels
. Just thinking of Sevrin sent a pleasant shock through Philippa’s frame. She forced her thoughts away from her handsome rescuer and contemplated how to answer her mother. Obviously, she needed to lie. “Once I realized I was at Lockwood House, I returned home.” She had to trust the eyesight-challenged footman and her loyal maid wouldn’t reveal the actual time of her arrival at Herrick House—which was of course several hours later.

Her mother exhaled audibly. “Thank heaven for that. Philippa, if you’d been seen… you’d be finished. No decent man would wed you.” She pursed her lips. “Since you decided to call this tête-à-tête, I must remind you that you
will
marry this Season.”

Philippa ought to have realized her mother would turn the conversation around. Her defenses prickled. “You’ve made it perfectly clear.”

“I hope so. However, after rejecting—what, six?—offers in the past five years, you need to make it known that you’re serious now. That you
will
accept an offer.”

“I’ve always been serious.” Serious enough to risk rejecting suitor after suitor because she hadn’t loved any of them. She knew how her repeated refusals appeared, but she couldn’t enter into a marriage that might be as cold and stilted as her parents’.

Mother sniffed. “I can’t imagine what you’re waiting for.”

To fall in love. However, Mother’s revelations now gave her pause. Mother had fallen in love, and it had brought her nothing but misery. Suddenly Philippa’s dream seemed childish and all but impossible. “Why didn’t Father love you back?”

Her mother blanched just as they heard a commotion from downstairs. It sounded like an arrival, but they didn’t have any appointments today. Philippa would know since she’d managed the household the past few years after her mother had simply stopped doing so.

Her features drawn, Mother went to the door of the sitting room and opened it a hand’s width. Multiple voices from downstairs carried into the chamber. Then a louder voice, just outside the door. “My lady, his lordship has returned from abroad.” Pigeon, their butler paused a moment, then added, “He’s brought guests.”

The door closed and Mother turned. Her face had been pale, but now bright flags of red stained her cheeks. “You want to know why your father didn’t love me back? Go downstairs and see for yourself.”

A thunderous pounding on the door pulled Ambrose from sleep. He opened his eyes, squinting at the daylight working its way around the edges of his curtains, and guessed the time to be well past noon.

The noise stopped a moment then started more vigorously. Ambrose forced his aching body from his bed, cursing whoever had roused him. His head throbbed in time to the smacks on the door as he made his way across the sitting room. At last, he pulled open the door and then had to jerk backward as a massive fist came toward his face in mid-knock.

“Where the hell were you last night?” demanded Hopkins, a wide, heavily-muscled man a decade older than Ambrose’s twenty-eight years. He was Ambrose’s right hand man at his fighting club, which met nightly downstairs in the back room of the Black Horse Tavern, and was one of three people Ambrose tolerated speaking to him like that.

“I was detained.” For the first time since he’d started the club more than two years ago, Ambrose had missed an evening of bouts.

Hopkins eyed Ambrose’s battered face. “I can see that. Tom take care of you?”

Ambrose nodded and then stepped aside to allow Hopkins to come in. Tom was the owner and operator of the Black Horse Tavern, though Ambrose owned the actual building. In addition to making the best ale in London, Tom was a skilled healer, but he confined his “practice” to the members of Ambrose’s fighting club.

Ambrose closed the door. Hopkins went to the table situated at one side of Ambrose’s sitting room. His apartment consisted of two chambers. The first was the sitting room where he greeted very few guests, and the second was his bedchamber, where he greeted no one save Tom’s daughter who cleaned it. That a viscount lived in such lodgings was scandalous. Or it would be, if anyone knew.

Hopkins deposited himself in one of the four chairs that surrounded the table. Covered with letters from his steward, correspondence from his secretary, and various other business materials, it was rarely used for dining. Ambrose piled the papers in a corner. “You want a drink?”

Hopkins nodded. “Ale, if you have it.”

Ambrose always kept a jug of Tom’s ale in his cupboard. He poured two cups and handed one to his friend before joining him at the table.

After they’d both taken large draughts, Hopkins shook his head. “Don’t suppose you’re going to tell me where you were last night.”

Ambrose preferred to keep his private matters private, even with Hopkins, who was his closest friend in London. Despite that, he recognized he’d have to tell him what happened. He needed Hopkins’s help. “Actually, I would like to discuss it, and in fact I require your assistance.”

Hopkins had been raising his cup to his mouth, but now his arm froze in mid-drink and he peered at Ambrose disbelievingly. “You want my help?”

Ambrose grinned at him even as he knew Hopkins’s reaction was genuine. “Surprising, I know. I’m to fight in a prizefight in less than a fortnight.”

Hopkins clanked his cup onto the table. “Thought you gave that up.”

He had. Though he could have sought the championship, he couldn’t bear the praise. Even so, he missed that kind of fighting. His club was a decent replacement, a necessity for his sanity, but a truly visceral bout where winning or losing was everything? Nothing could compare.

Ambrose only said, “I’m doing a favor for someone. Bloke called Jagger.”

Hopkins’s eyes widened. “That gutter rat? How’d you get mixed up with the likes of him?”

“You know him?” Ambrose’s first order of business today had been to learn all he could about the jackanapes. To have information fall readily into his lap was most convenient. He wrapped his hands around his ale cup and settled back in his chair. “Tell me everything.”

“I don’t know him personally, mind you. He runs a group of thieves, pickpockets, and the like. Plus a band who’ll obtain an object for a price.”

“I could hire them to steal something?”

Hopkins nodded. “I heard he owns a brothel or two as well, maybe an interest in an opium den.”

“Sounds like a charming fellow.” Plenty of criminal interests and now he wanted to back a legitimate prizefighter? Something didn’t make sense.

As if he’d heard Ambrose’s thoughts, Hopkins said, “Never heard of him backing a prizefighter before. Why do you owe him a favor? What’s he got on you?”

Ambrose should’ve expected Hopkins to figure that much out. He was far more astute than most people gave a huge brute like him credit for. Still, he wouldn’t mention Philippa. The fewer people who knew about his connection to her the better. “Nothing. Believe it or not, I’m actually looking forward to fighting.”

And he was, save the part where everyone cheered and heaped glory upon him when he won. He’d grown up with an overabundance of such distinction, as his father’s favorite, the district’s pride, and his brother’s hero—all roles he’d felt entitled to. And all roles he’d proven he didn’t deserve.

Hopkins regarded him with an expression of disbelief. “Well, you must have a reason beyond that. Can’t see you getting into bed with the likes of Jagger unless someone needs your help.”

Again, Hopkins was smarter than Ambrose wanted him to be—at least about this. “You’re giving me far too much credit.”

Hopkins shook his head. “No, you’ve helped plenty of men. Like me. This club has saved a lot of blokes.”

Ambrose shifted in his chair, uncomfortable with Hopkins’ words. He’d never said anything like that before. “Don’t fool yourself. This club is my little hobby. I just let all of you in so I have someone to fight.”

Hopkins rolled his eyes. “Right then. You don’t help anyone. Except Tom. You’ll at least admit you helped him?”

He supposed he’d “helped” Tom when he’d purchased the building that housed the Black Horse from a brutal, money-grubbing jackass. But Ambrose had also bought it for his own selfish reasons. He’d just started using the Black Horse’s back room for his fighting club when the landlord had threatened to evict Tom. Since Ambrose preferred to deal with Tom, he’d just bought the damned building.

“Fine, I surrender. But keep that to yourself. Back to Jagger.” Ambrose wanted to learn all he could about Jagger—assess the true depth of his threats. He didn’t doubt the man would socially ruin Philippa, but would he take things further? He’d certainly implied that he could, without fear of meeting the hangman. “Sounds like he’s not a brutal criminal? I like to know what sort of man I’m getting involved with.”

Hopkins cleared his throat. “Mayhap you should’ve thought of that before you agreed?” At Ambrose’s quelling stare, he shrugged. “Haven’t heard of him to be a murderer, if that’s what you’re getting at. Though he’s pretty tight with Gin Jimmy, and he’s a nasty sort. Wouldn’t want to cross him.” Hopkins took another gulp of ale.

Now Gin Jimmy Ambrose had heard of. He was one of the largest gin producers in London and owned several opium dens and brothels. He preyed on people’s vices and addictions to their absolute destruction, and never looked twice at the bodies he left in his wake. If Jagger was a bosom friend of Gin Jimmy, Ambrose had cause to worry.

Hopkins set his empty cup on the table. “What does this mean for the club? You disbanding it?”

“Lord, no. Last night’s absence was a one-time occurrence. Though, I suppose I’ll miss the night of the prizefight.”

“Won’t matter. All the men will go to watch it anyway. When and where?”

Ambrose had received the specifics of the bout from Jagger before leaving last night. “Dirty Lane. Friday the sixteenth.”

“You need me to help you train?”

“Probably.” One couldn’t be too prepared. “You ever see this Irishman—Nolan’s his name—fight?”

“That your opponent?” At Ambrose’s nod, he continued, “No, but I’ve heard of him.”

Ambrose had heard of him too, but was hoping someone had actually seen him. Nolan had lost only three fights in his entire career, and none for the past two years. He had his eye on battling Belcher for the title, which was why Jagger needed Ambrose to win. Why he’d recruited Ambrose in the first place.

Recruited
. More like forced. Jagger had dragged Philippa—an innocent—into this, and it was up to Ambrose to ensure her safety. He felt compelled to see her—something he hadn’t planned to do.

Hopkins stood. “I’d best be on my way. Just wanted to make sure you weren’t dead.”

Ambrose smiled. “I appreciate that. I’ll need a few days to recover, but then you can start drilling me in the evenings, if you don’t mind?”

“It’s not as if I need to get home to my family.” Hopkins was a confirmed bachelor, though unlike Ambrose he partook of female company from time to time. One of the reasons Ambrose counted him among his few friends was his complete silence regarding Ambrose’s lack of skirt-chasing.

Speaking of friends… the Earl of Saxton, Ambrose’s sole friend outside the working class, had returned to London the week before. He could certainly arrange for Ambrose to be invited to select events that would allow him to observe Philippa and ascertain her safety and well-being. He could even speak to her without drawing notice.
Hell
. No, he couldn’t. They hadn’t been properly introduced. Well, Saxton could arrange that, too.

After Hopkins departed, Ambrose cradled his mug and outlined his priorities. Protect Philippa. Fight the Irishman. Find a prizefighter.

What would he have said to Jagger’s men if he hadn’t been with Philippa when they’d come looking for him? He would’ve declined just the same, and without Philippa, Jagger never could have forced him into agreeing.

Philippa. The crux of all of this. Ambrose frowned into his mug. His reaction to her was quite troubling. Kissing her to shield her identity? Sweeping her into a thoroughly debauched embrace? Five years he’d kept himself from women. Five years of well-deserved penance threatened by a genteel miss on the hunt for a husband.

He drained his cup, wishing he’d poured something stronger.

Chapter Six