by Cara Elliott
“Just in case you could use some extra force. I should like to ensure that these vipers don’t slither away.”
“Yes, so you said.” Bolt lifted a brow. “Any particular reason?”
“My duty as a responsible citizen,” replied Gryff without batting an eye. “Once the crime came to my knowledge, honor compelled me to do something about it.”
“Very commendable,” said the magistrate dryly. His gaze lingered for a moment on Cameron’s features before moving on to the trio of ex-pugilists. “And I take it these are other concerned citizens.”
“But of course.”
A low whistle summoned a quartet of equally beefy men from the shadows behind Bolt. “Follow me, milord.”
The magistrate cut between two crumbling brick warehouses and led the way down a narrow alleyway. “Brady and Miller, you two go around and guard the back exits. The rest of you, come along.”
A thick cloud of smoke hung heavy beneath the blackened beams of the low-ceilinged room, muffling the sounds of men at play. Dice rattled, losers groaned and sloshed their sorrows with flagons of ale.
Gryff squinted through the haze. “There.” He pointed to an alcove, where a half-dozen gamesters were gathered around a table playing vingt-et-un.
The room turned unnaturally still, the grunts and groans quieting as Bolt pushed through the tangle of chairs.
Brighton looked up at the group’s approach, his red-rimmed eyes dilating in dawning alarm as the tromp of boots came closer and closer.
“Sorry, this table is full. Find yourself some other amusement,” said Pearce, trying to muster a show of bravado.
Much to Gryff’s satisfaction, his bluster rang hollow.
“Sir Brighton. Mr. Pearce.” Bolt’s voice was a good deal firmer.
The two men scraped back their chairs.
“What do you want?” demanded Brighton.
“You are under arrest.”
The other players at the table quickly dropped their cards and slunk away into the shadows.
The baronet paled. “On what charge?”
“Theft, selling forgeries, blackmail, assault.” Bolt dropped a sheet of paper on the table. “The rest of the charges are written there. You may read them at your leisure in Newgate Prison.”
“Th-that’s absurd! The charges are false,” exclaimed Brighton. “You cannot prove a thing. Show me one witness who will corroborate such a pack of filthy lies!”
Gryff stepped forward. “Me, for one. And there are others who will back up my testimony.” He added his own packet to Bolt’s paper. “The proprietor of your flash house has made a full confession, along with a detailed list of all the rigs you are running. They are, I might add, quite numerous.” He gave an inward smile as the baronet’s face crumpled in fear. The papers were blank, a mere bluff. “In addition, these gentlemen here…” He gestured at Georgie and his two companions. “Will confirm everything.”
“How…Who…”
As his cousin stammered, Pearce edged back and then suddenly ducked through a narrow doorway. Gryff signaled to Georgie’s two companions. “Go fetch Mr. Pearce and inform him that it would be extremely rude to keep the gaoler waiting.”
Brighton was staring at him open-mouthed, gasping for breath like a hooked trout. “H-Haddan, I don’t understand. S-surely there must be some mistake.”
“The only mistake is yours.”
“But what ill have I ever done to you?” The baronet leaned forward, his hot, heavy breath fouled with the reek of brandy. “Come, we are both gentlemen. Name whatever you want, and it’s yours. Just make this unwashed scum go away.”
Gryff pinched Brighton’s lapel between his fingers. It was made of the finest merino wool, soft as a summer solstice cloud. Drawing the baronet closer, he said, “You can take your gentlemanly offer…” He dropped his voice to a rumbling whisper. “And shove it where the sun doesn’t shine, you loathsome snake.”
It took a heartbeat for the smug smile to vanish from the baronet’s face. Twisting free, he drew a knife from his boot and grabbed for a chokehold on Gryff’s neck, no doubt intending to trade a hostage for his own freedom.
His strike was quick, as was befitting a poisonous viper. But Gryff’s was quicker.
Brighton screamed as his wrist snapped back, the sound punctuated by the crunch of bone and pop of sinew.
The knife clattered to the floor. Bolt kicked it away.
“He broke my arm,” moaned Brighton, writhing in pain.
Gryff shoved him toward Bolt’s men. “Take him away, before I crack every vertebra in his cowardly spine.”
Georgie bent down to retrieve the weapon from under the table. “A fine bit o’ workmanship, milord,” he said, running the blade lightly across his thumb. “De ye mind if I pocket it?”
“It’s yours,” said Gryff. He added a few coins to the ex-pugilist’s hand. “My thanks to you and your friends for your help.”
“Anytime, milord,” said Georgie with a tip of his cap.
Turning to Cameron, he said, “Had enough entertainment for the night? Or would you care to make one last stop with me?”
“Oh, please, lead on. I haven’t been this amused since the time Connor blackened the eyes of the three brutes who thought it was a great lark to break Sally Fielding’s spectacles.” His friend cocked his head. “The Wolfhound’s temper was no surprise, but I must confess, I’ve never seen you flex your muscle like that.”
“Flex my muscle?” Gryff curled his fingers into a fist. “Trust me, Cam, that was just the first little twitch.”
“God save the next miscreant we meet.”
“I doubt the Almighty will care to lift a finger to help these miserable slugs,” said Gryff. The gamesters in his way quickly cleared a wide path as he stalked by the tables. “I think He’ll not object if I continue to play the Avenging Angel.”
“My, my, this is yet another face of the devil-may-care Marquess,” said Cameron. “Fun-Loving Rogue, Lyrical Writer, and now the White Knight in Shining Armor.”
“As you said, we all have hidden facets. It just takes the right situation to bring them out.”
“What’s next?” As was his wont, Cameron kept up his needling. “The Stalwart Spouse?”
Gryff swung his gaze around. “Are you looking to have your earlobes twisted off?”
Cameron fingered his diamond earring in mock horror. “A fate worse than death!”
“Ass.” A smile twitched on his lips. “I don’t know why I’m friends with you.”
“Who else would have gifted you with a dragon tattoo?”
Gryff kicked open the door and stalked into the night. There was, he realized, something else indelibly imprinted on his skin. A lady’s laugh, an artist’s spirit, a woman’s passion.
“Right—I knew there must be some reason. Be assured, you have my undying gratitude.”
“I thought so.” Cameron grinned, then swore as he tripped over a hunk of rotting cabbage. “Where are we going?”
“To Newgate Prison,” replied Gryff. “I’ve a few things to wring out of Brighton before I’m done with him. If he wishes to save his neck, he’ll decide to be agreeable.”
“And then?”
“The next task will have to wait until tomorrow,” answered Gryff. “However, you ought to stay abed and rest your injuries. I won’t need any assistance.” His palms slapped together. “I’ll handle it quite easily on my own.”
Chapter Twenty-One
The cavernous room of the boxing saloon echoed with the rhythmic slap of leather against leather. Gryff slid his bare feet across the rough canvas, twisting just enough to dodge the padded fist aimed at his jaw.
“Well done, milord. That was one of my better punches.”
He acknowledged the compliment by flicking a jab at “Gentleman” Jackson’s kidney.
“That’s enough for the day,” said the famed boxing instructor as the blow grazed his stocky body. “I may have to stop going a few rounds with you, sir, lest my re
putation suffer.”
Gryff laughed as he caught the towel tossed to him by one of the assistants. “When you go at three-quarter speed, I can land a few blows. But I’m under no illusion that my skills rival yours.”
“Seven-eighths,” said Jackson with a foxy grin. “You make me work damn hard, milord. I shall have to charge you extra.”
“With pleasure,” replied Gryff, drying the rivulets of sweat from his chest. “Thank you for the exercise.” His smile hardened as he looked around and spotted Leete and two of his friends in the practice area. The trio was taking turns punching one of the large sawdust-filled leather bags under the watchful eye of a trainer.
Indolent fribbles. Like all the other patrons of Gentleman Jackson’s Boxing Saloon the three young men were stripped to the waist—a fact that laid bare their fleshy softness. Their skills were equally unimpressive. But rather than work with any diligence, the trio was teasing and taunting one another, their loud banter drawing glares from the regulars.
However, all that was about to change, thought Gryff with savage satisfaction.
Jackson followed the marquess’s gaze to Eliza’s brother. “Don’t know that I should continue to allow young Leete and his friends in here. They strike me as bad ton, if you know what I mean. A lot of prancing and posturing…” The former champion flexed a muscled biceps. “But when push comes to shove, not one of them could break an egg with a punch.”
“Very bad ton,” agreed Gryff after a fraction of a pause. The afternoon sun slanted in through the high-set windows of the saloon, catching Leete’s pause to primp at his sidewhiskers with a heavily gloved hand. “But you need not worry. They will not be pestering you for very much longer.”
“Then I shall not have to waste my time tossing them out on their fancy arses?”
“No,” replied Gryff. “Leave the matter to me.”
Draping the towel around his neck, he strolled to the corner of the boxing ring.
Leete looked up and hailed him loudly, as if they were friends. “What-ho, Haddan.” Preening for his friends, he gave a cocky salute. “You were in fine form with Jacks, heh?”
Gryff nodded and flashed a quick show of teeth.
Taking it for a smile, Leete puffed out his chest. “Saw you land a few punches on the champion.” He gave a jab to the bag. “I’m getting to be quite handy with my fives as well—any gentleman worth his snuff must be able to defend his honor, eh.”
“Quite right.” Gryff thumped his padded gloves together. “Jackson had to cut my sessions short. I don’t suppose you would care to step into the ring and have a friendly little hit.”
Leete’s face lit up with pride. “By Jove, yes!” he exclaimed, shooting a surreptitious look around the saloon to see who was observing his social triumph. “Vestry,” he crowed, waving at one of his cronies. “Be a good fellow and come tighten the lacing of my gloves before I trade a few blows with my friend Haddan.”
This time, Gryff’s smile was sincere. You will soon be eating those words—along with several of your teeth.
They moved to the center of the canvas.
“Ready?” Gryff assumed position while Leete was still making a face at his cronies.
Thump. Eliza’s brother staggered back a step.
“Pay attention, Leete,” growled Gryff.
Thump. The next blow was just hard enough to bloody the viscount’s nose.
“You are going to learn an important lesson this afternoon.”
Leete’s swagger was swallowed by a look of confusion. He essayed a wobbly smile. “Demme, you’ve a sharp right cross milord.”
“Keep your hands up,” warned Gryff. “Remember—a gentleman must always be prepared to defend his honor.”
“R-right-ho.” Leete threw a weak punch, which Gryff swatted away while driving his other fist into the viscount’s belly. The force of it knocked the viscount to the canvas.
“Get up,” he said pleasantly.
Grunting in pain, Leete levered to his feet.
“Hands up,” warned Gryff again, landing a blow to the chin that snapped Leete’s head back. “Show some backbone.” With that he began a systematic pummeling of Eliza’s brother. Ribs, chest, chin—all were starting to sprout mottled purple bruises.
“A—a break, sir?” gasped Leete through swollen lips.
“No, no, let’s keep at it,” said Gryff, landing another hard punch to the body.
A look of fear now flooded Leete’s blackened eyes. To cry surrender would brand him as a coward, but the unyielding punishment had him close to panic. Crabbing back, he tried to ward off the blows. He was gasping for breath, sweat slicking his carefully curled hair to his skull.
Gryff finally relented, only because he needed the fellow to be conscious. “Come, let’s cool off.” Taking the viscount’s unresisting arm, he marched him into one of the side changing rooms.
Seeing Gryff’s expression, the two other occupants hastily gathered their clothing and fled.
“Oh, God,” whimpered Leete. “I think you broke my nose.”
Grabbing the viscount by the scruff of his neck, Gryff thrust his head into a barrel of water and held it under for several long, long moments before jerking it out.
Leete was sobbing now, the tears streaming down his wet face and mixing with the dark blood from his battered nose. “I don’t understand, I don’t understand!”
“I am about to explain. So listen carefully, for I don’t intend to repeat myself.”
Shoulders slumped, Leete sunk down to his knees. At Gryff’s command he looked up, one eye completely swollen shut and turning from purple to a ghastly shade of green.
“First of all, repeat after me—a gentleman’s responsibility is to look after his family. He protects them.”
“A-a gentleman’s r-r-responsibility is to take care of his f-f-family. He p-p-protects them.”
“Again.”
Leete stammered out the two sentences between his low moans.
“Commit that to heart, Leete.” Gryff took his coat down from a peg and fished out a handful of paper. “I have purchased your gaming debts, and I have had a little chat with Brighton about a certain unwritten wager. It is now null and void.”
The viscount’s tears were now ones of relief. “Oh, dear God in Heaven, thank you, sir!”
“Don’t thank me,” snarled Gryff. “I didn’t do it for you. I did it for your sister, who deserves better than to have a miserable little slug like you for a sibling.”
“I—I swear,” stuttered Leete. “I shall be more careful at The Wolf’s Lair from now on.”
“In fact, you will not.” Gryff separated a sealed packet from the papers in his hand and tossed it onto the floor. “You will be embarking on a new life shortly—the details are in there, and you will have ample time to read them over during the voyage.”
“Voyage?” whimpered Eliza’s brother, his unblackened eye widening in alarm.
“Yes. One of the assistants here will be escorting you to your rooms at the Albany, where your servant has already packed your trunk. On tonight’s tide, you will be departing for Bombay, where I have arranged a position for you with the East India Company.”
“India?” cried Leete. “I—I don’t want to go to India.”
“No, I imagine you don’t. But be assured, you will be on that ship.” Gryff shoved the other papers back into his coat pocket, save for one sheet. “And you won’t be returning to England until I am satisfied that you’ve become a man, rather than a sniveling, selfish piece of dung.”
Leete started crying, the soft, snuffling sounds gurgling in the back of his throat.
“And know that if you try to bully your sister, or set foot back in England without my permission, I will call you out and put a bullet through your worthless brain,” he added. “Do you understand me?”
Cringing, Leete nodded.
“Good. There is one last thing you will do for me. A solicitor is waiting in your rooms. He will officially witness and notarize
your signature on this document.”
“W-what is it?”
“It gives the legal power of decision-making over all your family property and finances to your sister while you are out of the country. She is a far more worthy steward of the land than you are.”
Leete’s mouth opened and then closed without making a sound.
“You see, you are already becoming wiser. Now get yourself dressed. I’ll send Georgie in to assist you in making it to the docks without delay.”
Leete’s only response was to fall forward and curl in a fetal position.
Grimacing in disgust, Gryff turned on his heel, anxious to escape the foul stench of sweat and fear that pervaded the air.
Brighton. Pearce. Leete. Three obstacles were now cleared from the path to Lady Brentford’s happiness. Whether he could smooth all the bumps and twists remained to be seen.
But at least it was a start.
“What’s that noise?” Augustina raised her pruning knife and peeked through the garden bushes. “If that is you, Lord Brighton, come to harass Lady Brentford, be warned that you are not welcome here.”
Mouse arched against her skirts, adding his own fierce hiss.
“My intentions are entirely honorable, Miss Haverstick.” Gryff ducked under the branches of forsythia and brushed the pale petals from his sleeve. “Forgive me for appearing again unannounced. I hope you will hear me out before employing that blade on any portion of my anatomy.”
“Hmmph. Certain parts deserve to be snipped.” She lowered the tool. “Like your brain and your tongue. You jumped to conclusions, young man, and said some very unfair things about Eliza.”
He bowed his head in contrition. “Feeble though my mind is, I actually figured that out on my own.”
“Well then, perhaps there is hope for you yet.”
“I should like to think so.” Shifting the large, paper-wrapped package in his arms, he gave a tentative smile. “Might I be permitted to have a word with Lady Brentford?”
Augustina made a face. “I’m afraid you have come a few hours too late, Lord Haddan. She left at dawn this morning.”