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“I have loved pugilism since I was young,” he said with a light grimace and shifted in his seat. Was his injury bothering him? Perhaps she should have insisted on taking a look at it. She still could. She’d do just that when they reached her townhouse, she resolved. She would be able to better assess his cut and apply some salve and a bandage there.

“Sometimes technique wins out over brute force,” he continued. “I practiced it at Eton, and I have kept up with the sport ever since.”

As the grimace eased off his face, and he sat straight in his seat, Beatrice relaxed. She also found it reassuring that he was sharing more of himself with her. “Well, I am quite impressed with your skill.”

“Thank you.” He smiled and then flinched, his finger going to the corner of his mouth. It seemed that more than one cut was bothering him. “I am not the best fighter in my family, though.”

“Is the viscount the one who bests you?” Beatrice asked and was surprised to hear a note of shock in her voice. There was a time she’d thought Viscount Gage was the most handsome and capable of all gentlemen. Of course, that was when she’d been betrothed to him.

Adam chuckled. “No. Don’t get me wrong, he can hold his own. But he is better at fencing. The one who bested us at everything, hand-to-hand combat, firearms, and fencing, was our brother Benedict.”

A note of sadness tinged his tone, and his expression turned somber.

“The soldier,” Beatrice breathed.

“Yes, the soldier.” His voice was hoarse, and he shook his head to dispel the melancholy. “In fact, he—” Adam paused, and his eyes widened as his hand went to pat his pocket. Soon he was patting his entire body as he cursed violently. Punching the roof of the carriage, he yelled, “Turn around. Back to the pub!”

“What’s wrong?” Beatrice instinctively reached for him, but Adam leaned away, his knee jerking with every tap of his foot.

“The pocket watch,” he gritted between his teeth. “I lost my damn pocket watch in the pub!”

Chapter 7

The carriage skidded through the streets of London, shaking the passengers this way and that in its haste. Adam’s side hurt with every jolt, but his anger was stronger than his weakness.

Damn the foolish bluestocking for forcing him to take her to the pub. Damn himself for choosing one of the most atrocious establishments to satisfy her curiosity. And damn the two tankards of ale for making him just inebriated enough to lose his common sense and get into a fight.

Adam wasn’t an impulsive man, so the only reason he could see why he’d gotten so angry over the sailor who’d slapped Beatrice’s rump and insulted her was that alcohol had clouded his reason.

His chest had tightened, and he could only see red until he punched the offending man in the face. The rest of the fight helped him let go of his rage, but it was also meant as a warning to anyone who decided to insult the bluestocking.

Before the carriage fully came to a halt, Adam had already opened the door and jumped out. “Stay here,” he commanded without throwing Beatrice a glance and stalked toward the pub.

Inside, it was empty but for a few workers cleaning up the aftermath of the brawl. Broken chairs, overturned tankards, and even ripped pieces of clothing were strewn about the floor. The bar wench who had saved them earlier looked at him from under her furrowed brows. “I thought you left,” she said and returned to cleaning the pub.

“We did. But I lost my pocket watch and hoped to retrieve it.”

She let out a cackle. “A pocket watch? Look at this place. You couldn’t find a person in here if you wanted. Pfft, a pocket watch.”

“It is very important to me,” Adam clarified.

“Do you want to dig through this rubble?” She raised a brow in challenge.

He would. If this was the only chance for him to find the beloved watch, he’d crawl through every inch of this place on his knees even if it took him the entire night.

Except Beatrice was waiting for him in the carriage, and he needed to get her home. “I would—”

“Of course, we’ll look through the rubble,” a voice sounded from the threshold.

Slowly, as if in a dream, Adam turned to see Beatrice standing in the doorway. Her brown hair burned fiery red in the light of candles, a few errant strands flowing in the draft. She looked like an avenging angel who had just descended from the sky. Then she pushed her spectacles up the bridge of her nose, ruining said illusion.

“I thought I told you to wait for me in the carriage,” Adam growled.

“I saw through the window that the pub was empty,” she started, but Adam stomped toward her.

“Don’t you think you’ve had enough adventure for one night?”

“Yes,” she said emphatically. “Now I want to help you find your watch.”