As Roslynn approached the inn, she barely noticed the sixteen-year-old lad standing on a stool lighting the lamp above the door, but he unfortunately noticed her. Hearing the husky chuckle that was so different from any sound of humor he’d ever heard before, he glanced over his shoulder, then nearly fell off the stool, he was so boggled by the sight of her. Lit up like a flame, she was, in the reddish glow of the setting sun that streaked across the yard, and getting closer by the second, until he could make out every feature of her heart-shaped face, from the finely molded cheekbones and small tapered nose to the firm little chin and generous, full lips. And then she passed through the door, and his head craned around it to follow her inside, until a sharphumphsnapped his head back around and he stared at the stern-faced abigail looking up at him, his cheeks flushing hotly.
But Nettie took pity on the lad and didn’t dress him down as she usually did anyone caught gawking at her Roslynn. It happened wherever they went, for Lady Roslynn Chadwick had that effect on the male species, and no age seemed to be immune, from small tykes to old men, and everything in breeches in between. And this was the lass to be turned loose on London.
Chapter Two
“And you wondered who his tailor is?” the Honorable William Fairfax snickered aside to his young friend. “Told you his tailor had nothing to do with it, didn’t I? You want to turn yourself out in a reasonable facsimile, best take up the gloves. He’s been at it for more’n a dozen years, so I hear.”
William’s young friend, Cully, flinched at the sound of leather connecting with solid flesh again, but squinted his eyes open this time. He had closed them tight a few minutes ago when the first dribble of blood had appeared from an abused nose. He shuddered now, for that same abused nose was gushing blood, and so was the swollen mouth below it, and so was a split brow above it.
“No taste for it, Cully?” William grinned, eyeing his friend’s green pallor. “Imagine his partner don’t either, not today leastways.” He chuckled here, thinking that funny. “Now if Knighton would just climb in the ring with him, we might have something to wager on. He trained him, you know. ’Course, Knighton ain’t come out ahead in the last ten years, so I hear, though he does give the lord a better showing. But then Malory’s winded now, so that’d even the odds some.”
But as they watched along with a few dozen other gentlemen surrounding the boxing ring, Sir Anthony Malory relaxed his stance and turned to glower at the owner of the sporting hall. “Blister it, Knighton, Itold you he wasn’t ready yet. He hasn’t healed from the last time.”
John Knighton shrugged, though there was a definite spark of humor in his dark eyes as he gazed back at the disgusted pugilist he considered a friend. “I didn’t hear any other takers, my lord, did you? Maybe if you let someone else win for a change, you’d find more partners to choose from for your exercise.”
There were a good many chuckles over that remark. Everyone there knew it had been a decade since Malory had lost a match or let anyone get the better of him even in a few rounds of sparring. He was in superb condition, muscles honed to perfection, but it was his skill in the ring that made him so remarkable—and unchallenged. The promoters, Knighton among them, would give their eyeteeth to get him in the ring for a professional fight. But to a rakehell like Malory, boxing was no more than a means of exercise to keep him fit and counteract the life of dissipation he enjoyed. His thrice-weekly visits to Knighton’s Hall were treated in the same vein as his morning rides in the park, simply for his own pleasure.
Half the gentlemen there were pugilists as well, awaiting their turn to exercise in the ring. Some, like the Honorable Fairfax, just dropped by to watch the experts work out, though occasionally there was the opportunity to do a little gambling if any serious challenges were issued. A few others who were present were Malory’s cronies; they frequently showed up to watch him demolish the sparring partners Knighton had the misfortune to provide, being wise enough themselves never to get in the ring with him.
One of them ribbed Anthony now. Nearly of the same height, but more on the lean side, Lord Amherst was a devil-may-care fellow whose gray eyes weremore often than not crinkled with humor. The same age, but fair where Anthony was dark, he often shared the same interests, mainly women, gambling, and women.
“The only way you’ll get someone to put his heart into it, Malory, is if you cuckold some young Corinthian your size and force him to issue the challenge.”
“With my luck, George,” Malory shot back, “he’d call for pistols instead, and what fun is that?”
George Amherst laughed at the dry tone, for if not everyone knew that Anthony was unbeatable in the ring, they did know he was nonpareil on the dueling field. He was even known to quite nonchalantly ask his challengers on what luckless part of their anatomy they would like to receive their wound of honor, which naturally set the poor fellows trembling in their boots, if they weren’t already.
As far as George knew, Anthony had never actually killed anyone in a duel, since nearly all his were fought over women, rake that he was, and he firmly believed there wasn’t a woman born worth dying over—well, that was excluding those in his family, of course. Malory was devilish touchy about his family. He might be a bachelor, confirmed positively, but with three older brothers with offspring aplenty, he didn’t lack for nieces and nephews to dote on.
“Looking for competition, Tony? You should have sent your man round to find me. You know I’m always happy to oblige you.”
George swung around sharply, disbelieving his ears at the sound of a voice he hadn’t heard in more than ten years. And then his brows shot up incredulously, for he hadn’t been mistaken. Standing in the doorway was James Malory, older certainly, but looking every bit as dangerous as he ever had ten years ago whenhe had been London’s most notorious rakehell. Big, blond, and still handsome too, by God! Incredible!
And then George swung back to see how Anthony was taking this unexpected appearance. The two brothers had been close before, being only a year apart in age and inclined toward the same interests, though James was assuredly the wilder of the two—at least he had been. But then James had disappeared, and for some reason or other that the family never spoke of, the other brothers had disowned him, Anthony included, and wouldn’t even mention his name. As close as George was to Anthony all these years since, and he liked to think they were best friends, Anthony had never once confided what it was that James had done to be ousted from the family.
But to George’s surprise, Anthony was showing no signs of his formidable temper. In fact, no emotion whatever crossed his handsome countenance for those in the hall to remark on. You had to know him well to recognize that gleam in his cobalt-blue eyes for what it was: pleasure, not fury.
And yet when he spoke, you’d have thought he was addressing his worst enemy. “James, what the bloody hell are you still doing in London? You were to sail this morning!”
James did no more than offer a bored shrug. “Change of plans, thanks to Jeremy’s newfound stubbornness. Since he’s met the rest of the family, he’s become impossible to handle. I swear he’s been taking lessons from Regan in manipulation, for he managed somehow or other to talk me into letting him finish his schooling here, though I’m deuced if I know exactly how he did it.”
Anthony wanted to laugh at James’ expression of bafflement at being outmaneuvered by a seventeen-year-old whelp who looked more Anthony’s son than James’, and he would have if James hadn’t slipped the name Regan into his explanation. The name always rubbed Anthony on the raw, as it did Jason and Edward, their older brothers, and James knew it, which was why he used “Regan” instead of “Reggie,” as the rest of the family called Regina Eden. But as far back as Anthony could remember, James had had to be different, going his own way and doing as he bloody well pleased, and to hell with the consequences.
As James had spoken, he had walked forward, casually slipping out of his coat to reveal the sort of loose-sleeved shirt that he preferred when captaining theMaiden Anne. Since he gave every appearance of being about to oblige Anthony in the ring, Anthony refrained from taking him to task over his “Regan,” which would have started their usual argument and likely jeopardized a little friendly sparring.
“Does this mean you’ll be staying as well?” Anthony asked as James handed over his coat to George and accepted the gloves a grinning John Knighton helped him into.
“Only long enough to get the youngun settled and togged up, I think, at least for now. Though Connie has pointed out that the only reason we were willing to set ourselves down in the islands was to give Jeremy a home.”
Anthony couldn’t help laughing this time. “Two old sea dogs playing mother. God, I wish I could’ve seen it.”
“I wouldn’t talk, Tony,” James said, unperturbed by the taunting. “You played mother yourself each summer for six years, didn’t you?”
“Father,” Anthony corrected. “Or more like bigbrother, which is neither here nor there. I’m surprised you didn’t marry like Jason did, just to give Jeremy a mother. ’Course, with Conrad Sharp willing to help you raise the lad, I suppose you didn’t think it necessary.”
James leaped up into the ring. “That’s my best friend you’re disparaging.”
Anthony bowed slightly. “Point taken. So who gets the dear boy while you and Connie are deciding whether to come home for good?”
