Lover?
What was he thinking? Yes, he’d sensed passion in her, but he doubted she’d recognize it—and if she ever did, he doubted she’d let it come out. No, she was the last lady he wanted for a lover or for anything else.
Bray scoffed out loud, and the other gentlemen at the table looked at him with surprise. He went still. That was a hell of a thing for him to have done as the other players were sorting the cards they’d just been dealt. He never made a sound, twitched an eye, or changed his expression when he was playing. No doubt, the other gentlemen thought that his hastily issued sigh meant he had yet another losing hand.
And he probably did, but he didn’t want the other players to know. And once again, it was the unforgettable Miss Prim’s fault. It would probably thrill her to know she had gotten under his skin and irritated him like a burr under a horse’s blanket.
Bray picked up his cards and looked at them. His spirits lifted. For the first time that night, he had a winning hand. Now all he had to do was take advantage of it, which might very well be difficult, considering his gaming faux pas.
He tripled his bet. The other players bought in to his high-stakes maneuver, and each man raised his bet even higher in turn. Bray didn’t back down as they thought he would, and he upped them again. One by one, the other three men bowed out of the game. Bray smiled as he collected his considerable winnings and rose from the table. He knew he owed that quite hefty bag of winnings to the inspiring Miss Prim.
The night was still young at only a couple of hours past midnight. He once again considered the possibility of heading over to the Heirs’ Club or to White’s to see if he’d have better luck there, but decided against it. The reason he’d come to this side of Town was because he knew he wasn’t in the mood to be hounded about Miss Prim by the likes of Lord Sanburne, Mr. Hopscotch, or any other bloke who didn’t have the good sense to leave him alone.
Thinking about the lovely and bold miss was enough. He didn’t need to talk about her, too.
The gambling hell had been hot and crowded. The chilling night wind felt good when Bray stepped out of the club, so he left off his cloak and hat. He glanced up and down the street, looking for his landau. There were two other carriages waiting down the street for their owners to emerge, but his wasn’t in sight. Carriage horses were well schooled to stand still for long periods of time, but most drivers would take a ride around the block at least once or twice an hour and give the horses a little exercise to keep them from getting restless. Bray expected his own driver to do that if he was ever gone for more than an hour.
In the opposite direction of the carriages, Bray saw what seemed to be a commotion of some kind going on underneath one of the streetlights. His first thought was that some poor fellow must have been caught cheating at cards and was getting the beating he rightly deserved. Looking closer, though, he wasn’t so sure.
There were a total of four men in the fight. One was dressed as a gentleman, and the other three appeared to be common footpads out to rob whatever they could from him. The gentleman must either have been a greenhorn, in a drunken fog, or perhaps he’d been looking for a fight, because Bray didn’t know anyone who would be out alone on the east side of Bond Street at night unless he was looking for trouble.
The gentleman was doing a fairly good job of holding his own against the three, throwing some jabs any pugilist would envy, but the gentleman soon grew tired. Two of the thugs grabbed him and held his arms behind his back while the other man started laying into his midsection with his fist. Bray wasn’t usually one to get mixed up in anyone else’s fight, but the gentleman had obviously tired and was no longer a match for the three ruffians.
If he’d heard it one time, he’d heard it a hundred times while growing up that he had to be tougher, stronger, quicker, and smarter than any other man. His father demanded it of him. Bray couldn’t just be better than anyone else; he also had to be the best: the best rider, the best marksman, the best swordsman, and the best grades in school. His father never gave him a pass on anything and never accepted weakness or failure, and the old duke had made sure Bray’s masters at school knew that, too.
Bray hadn’t been in a fight in a long time, and he didn’t really want to get in this one. Over the years, he’d had his share of drunken brawls, fisticuffs, and a few pugilists’ rounds at the fighting clubs. He’d been thrown out of more than a few taverns and gaming hells for challenging card cheats. So far, he’d managed to keep all his teeth. Now that he was older, he knew he’d like for it to stay that way.
Besides, he no longer had the itch to fight that he’d had when he was younger. But Bray didn’t like it that the gentleman was outnumbered one against three. It just wasn’t in Bray’s nature to walk away without helping the man.
Bray dropped his hat and cloak to the ground. He wanted to be prepared in case he had to join the fight. He felt around his waist and slipped his dagger from its scabbard. He then bent down and pulled his pistol from the top of his right boot. Thankfully, he didn’t have to use his fists tonight. Unlike the gentleman getting pounded into the ground, Bray knew better than to come to this side of Town unprepared.
Staying in the shadows, Bray quietly and quickly walked down the street toward the scuffle. By the time he edged up close, the gentleman was on the ground and the three robbers were huddled over him, picking his pockets clean. Bray pointed the pistol at the men and held his dagger in striking position.
“That’s enough, boys,” he said in a deadly cold voice. “Lift your hands in the air and stand up slow.”
The ruffians stilled, looked up at Bray, and then eyed each other. Their hair and beards were long and shaggy, their clothing worn and dirty.
Bray knew they were trying to decide if they wanted to take their chances and go against a man with a pistol and a knife—they could get lucky and rob two gentlemen in one night—or if they should make their getaway with what they’d been able to glean from the man on the ground.
It made no difference to Bray which avenue they took.
“Step away from the gentleman, or one of you will get the ball I have in this pistol and another will feel my blade.”
The men didn’t move. Bray pointed the gun at the chest of the ruffian who looked to be the youngest of the trio and pulled back the hammer with his thumb.
“Your choice, men,” Bray said. “But make it quick. I’m not going to stand here the rest of the night while you take your time deciding whether you want to be a hero to your fellow footpads or a dead man.”
The roughest-looking character inclined his head to the left, and said, “We don’t want trouble from a gent with a weapon.”
“Wise choice. Now, I suggest you drop the gentleman’s coin purse, the buttons you cut off his waistcoat, his hat, and anything else you might have pinched from him and get the hell out of here.”
The ruffians looked at one another again, but finally the man who’d spoken rose and the other men joined him, dropping the gentleman’s belongings as they stood.
“Get out of here and count yourself lucky if you don’t feel a ball or a blade in your back as you run away.”
The footpads turned and fled. Bray replaced his weapons and bent down to see how badly the man had been hurt, and immediately recognized him. “Harrison, is that you?”
“Bray?” The man grunted, trying to raise himself up on his elbows. “Give me a hand, will you?”
