“Are you well, sir?”
“Well? Well?” A ruddy, splotchy flush rushed to his cheeks, the skin by his collar an unpleasant peppered, purple shade.
“Which word was confusing?” Sinclair asked with a sarcastic note in his voice.
Eliza spun in her seat to deliver a warning glare before facing Hughes again.
The man shot to his feet, throwing his cards across the table. “These chits’ve been cheatin’ me all night. And now you’re helpin’ ’em. They’re whores and you’re a lobcock!”
“I assure you, I’m anything but flaccid.”
Eliza choked and whirled around at him once again. “I beg your pardon?”
“It’s a compliment?—”
“Where’re you hiding ’em?” Hughes interrupted.
“My lord, calm yourself,” Bash ordered from where he’d stepped between Sophie and the drunkard.
“Hiding what?” Eliza asked.
Hughes’s hand clamped around her wrist and yanked. “The cards! You daft cunt! Te?—”
The smack of Sinclair’s chair hitting the floor shocked the man into silence. Quicker than Eliza could comprehend, Sinclair was between her and Hughes, and her wrist was free. He shovedthe foxed lord back, and Bash used the opportunity to catch the man by the shoulders and restrain him.
“What the hell is going on?” her father’s familiar voice rained down from upstairs.
“They’re cheatin’ me! And now they’re assaultin’ me! What kind of establishment allows whores to play?”
Without warning, Sinclair’s fist found the man’s stomach. Eliza couldn’t identify his tell, but Bash had thrust the man out to meet the punch.
Hughes collapsed to his knees as Bash dropped his hold. The man cradled his stomach with a pathetic whimper.
Papa was down the stairs by the time Eliza fully comprehended the scene in front of her. He grabbed both of his daughters, inspecting each for injuries. Once he was satisfied, he rounded on Bash.
“Where the hell were you?”
“He was right here, Papa. We were perfectly safe,” Sophie interjected.
He didn’t spare her a glance, still glaring at Bash. “If you cannot perform the primary function of your job, you’ll not have it. Go review a ledger or something. Get out of my sight.”
“But, Papa?—”
“No, Sophie,” he snapped.
Bash swallowed, loud in the quiet club before nodding. Eliza offered him a sympathetic look as she mouthed,sorry.
On the floor, Hughes groaned as he struggled to roll to his knees, dry heaving all the while. Sinclair planted a boot on him. “Stay down.”
“And who the devil are you?”
“Benedict, Lord Sinclair,” he said, thrusting his hand out.
Eliza’s father eyed it with a raised brow. “And the man groaning on my carpet?”
Rebuffed, Sinclair retracted his hand, using it to brush through his waves—not one of which was out of place.
“He touched your daughter.”
