Being in the public eye put her on edge. When she was on edge, Bridget tended to shut down and shrink away. That drew withering looks and sudden walls of silence, feeding the cycle of her anxiety.
Thankfully, Eleanor found the words Bridget could not, and quite civilly declined the invitation. “As much as we would appreciate company,” she began, “the three of us have not seen each other for a long while and thought to use the time to reconnect. Perhaps the lords might join us later on?”
Thin brows arched in surprise at the blunt refusal but Lady Eleanor took it with grace. “Of course. Please, enjoy the rest ofthe afternoon. And from an insider, please try the blackberry tarts with your tea, they are utterly scrumptious.”
“We surely will,” Josephine replied with a grimace. “Please, excuse us.”
“Such a pleasure to see you, ladies, but especially Lady Bridget. We really should visit more often now that you are in Town and we are moving in similar circles.”
Similar, but not the same circles. Bridget swallowed the reply like she would do broken glass.I do not belong here anymore.
“Of course,” she said, the lie heavy on her heart. “We shall surely see each other again.”
A ripple ran up the back of her neck, and she turned, trying to catch the spy who was studying her—but found no one. Her eyes lifted to the walls of the grand mansion behind her, her eyes floating to the wide bow window in the dark gray brick—again, no one was there.
I should not have come here.
Swallowing over her remorse, she turned to her friends and forced a smile. “Perhaps we should seek out the hostess, Viscountess Tollerman.”
Stepping away from the window, William took a sip of his rich brandy to moisten his throat. What were the odds that he would come across the same lady he had assured himself he would never cross paths with again?
A day ago, he would have said nonexistent, but now, fate was toying with him. But then again, he never believed fate had his best interests at heart.
“What is my debt down to now, Tollerman?” he asked.
“One thousand and seventy pounds,” the viscount replied. “Down from seven thousand, Your Grace.”
Sticking a hand into his pocket, William considered his options. He could sell another useless portrait… or he could do a night in the Underground Ring.
He took another sip. Selling a portrait would earn him a quarter of that sum, but then… one night in the boxing ring would earn him the full sum with the prize money and the bets rolling in for theMasked Marauder—his alter persona.
It was utterly ironic; a gentleman of the Ton was not one to get his hands dirty. They earned their funds by old wealth, investments, and for those lords who were financially ruined, marrying a rich heiress. They did not lift a finger; God forbidthey operate ashopand they certainly did not pummel others for money.
Pugilism is not savagery, young man, its art, it is control, it is discipline. A man must master himself before he can master others.
The sage words of his old mentor, Mr. Buchanon, from Gentleman Jackson’s, a boxer of seventeen years came back to him. He felt guilty turning the one thing he prized as a gift into a tool to earn money quickly, but what needed to be done, had to be done.
It is either do a quick turn or wallow in debt for years to come. I have only so many paintings of sour-faced hounds to sell.
“I shall pay that debt off by the following sennight,” William promised.
With an exasperated sigh, Tollerman stood and rounded the table. Though in his late forties, he was ruthlessly fit, his silver-gray waistcoat hugging his trim torso, his dark trousers fitted perfectly. His light hair, dark brows, and unlined face gave him an oddly ageless aspect.
“For the last time, you needn’t pay it off at once,” Tollerman pinned William with a steady gaze. “There is no deadline, Arlington.”
“Perhaps not for you, old chap, but certainly for me,” William replied, finding a seat and resting the glass at the end of the table. “I have a limited amount of time to prove myself to my uncle who is watching me dance like a puppet, toeing the line of being the perfect Duke.”
“How much time do you have?” the older man asked.
“Up until this Season ends,” William replied, stretching out a leg and rubbing a tense knot in the back of his neck. The cravat felt like it was cutting off his hair. “I know you are acquainted with the… dissolute life I used to live?”
“I have heard rumors, yes,” the Viscount said.
William gave him a tight smile. “Not the best reputation for a duke, is it?”
“WhenIwas nine-and-twenty, nothing on earth could have kept me in the house,” Tollerman shrugged. “Hunting parties, masquerade balls, racing at the tracks, Rotten Row, you name it, I was probably the ringleader. We all make questionable choices, Arlington, just do not let those choices define your future.”
Reaching for his drink, William chose not to say anything to that. If only his younger self, a dissolute, hellhound debauchee, had once thought to stop; stop from gambling, stop from jumping into the next lady’s bed, stop from drinking himself into the wheelbarrows, William knew he wouldn’t be doing half the things he needed to do now.
