Chapter Four
Nicolas stared at this enigma of a woman, her shoulders thrown back in defiance, her chin held high.
Had she seriously just asked the Black Widow of Whitehall to make a match between her and Tristan Keats?
Didn’t she understand they were not of the same class?
The duke might tup everything with breasts—from dowager countesses to milkmaids.
But he would never—not in a million years—court a female pugilist who had a mouth like a drunken sailor.
Not even if she was the most alluring, beautiful woman in the world. Which Josephine Martin just might be.
“I told ye to close your mouth, guv,” Josie said.
Upon realizing that his mouth was so wide that salvia might cascade forth at any second, Nicolas clamped his lips together. He suspected the widow grinned beneath that insufferable veil.
“Although I would like to help you,” the widow said, “I think that would be an impossible match.”
Impossible, improbable, and utterly ridiculous.
“If ye are as good a matchmaker as ye claim to be, ye ought to be able to do it,” Josie declared.
Jabbing Josie Martin might be beautiful and spunky, and she might smell like sweaty, passionate bed sport, but she was delusional. Nicolas scoffed.
Josie whirled on him and jammed her finger in his chest.
He held up his hands in submission. “I didn’t say anything.”
“But ye are thinking loud enough to wake the dead.” Her nostrils flaring, she leaned so close that her breath blew across his cheek.
“Do not test me patience, guv. I’ve had a miserable evening.
I just lost the blunt for me new boxing gymnasium.
And not that it’s any of yer bloody business, but I don’t want to court the man.
I wanted to win the purse in the mill he sponsors.
And since you’ve ruined that, I want to meet with him and persuade him to change his mind. ”
“Ah,” Nicolas murmured. Although unlikely, a woman wanting to open a gymnasium wasn’t delusional. In fact, he’d gift her the money himself if he had any to give.
“Truly admirable, Miss Martin. For a moment, I thought you meant to marry the duke.” Nicolas chuckled.
She stiffened. Her eyes widened and then narrowed to slits. “What are ye saying?”
Mrs. Dove-Lyon crooked her finger, calling the guard to her. She whispered something in his ear. He nodded and left the room.
Meanwhile, Nicolas reviewed their conversation. He’d given Josie a compliment, so perhaps she’d misunderstood.
He met her gaze, willing away the anger in her emotion-filled brown eyes. Brown eyes bespeckled with hints of emerald and gold. “Admirable means praiseworthy. Laudable. That I respect—”
Josie snarled. “You bloody arrogant arse. I know what ‘admirable’ means. What’s wrong with me? Why wouldn’t the duke marry me? Do ye think I’m a dolt? Or are you toffs intimidated by a woman who speaks her mind?”
Nicolas simply stared at her. Did she want him to lie? It seemed unkind to pretend she could marry one of the wealthiest men in England.
Josie turned her back to him. “I’ve changed me mind, Mrs. Dove-Lyon. I want ye to make a love match between me and the duke.”
Nicolas choked, trying to keep his opinion—no, not an opinion, but the God’s honest truth—from coming out of his mouth.
“I see,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said. “Do you realize my fee is more than your winnings tonight? And if you are trying to come up with the blunt to invest in your gymnasium, perhaps you are better served to use your money for that.”
Since Nicolas couldn’t seem to say the right thing around Josie, he bit back his, I wholeheartedly agree.
“’Tisn’t even close to enough blunt,” Josie said, her voice sounding defeated for the first time since they’d met.
“It seems the two of you have the same problem.” The widow pointed at Josie, then at Nicolas. “Cash.”
“But he’s a bloody prince or earl or viscount or something,” Josie said. “He’s as rich as the crazy king himself.”
Not at all. He was the second son of a mad, destitute earl. Nicolas squirmed in his seat.
The door opened, and the bouncer shoved Jonathon Davenport into the room. The viscount stumbled and then righted himself. He looked at Nicolas and smiled. His gaze traveled to Josie and grew slightly lecherous. Then it slid to the widow, and he winced.
“Mrs. Dove-Lyon.” Davenport bowed as if she were the queen instead of some infamous match-making gaming hell owner. “I assure you all of my wagers were sanctioned by you tonight.”
Jonathon was known to make crazy and often dangerous proclamations.
Once, he’d bet an arrogant buffoon that he couldn’t eat an entire raw pig in one night.
Not only couldn’t the bloke eat every bite of hog, but he’d gotten some sort of intestinal infection and had spent weeks in the school infirmary.
Another time, Davenport had bet a chap that he couldn’t shoot an arrow into an apple on top of his drunk mate’s head. Nicolas had halted that one before anyone died. Left unchecked, his best mate’s propensity for insane bets made him a menace.
“What about your wager tonight with Baron Hardstone?” the widow asked.
“Hell’s teeth.” Davenport rubbed his jaw.
How in the devil had his best chum gotten himself in this much trouble when the fight had only ended an hour ago?
“What bet was that?” Josie asked.
Despite more serious issues requiring attention, Nicolas wondered the same thing.
“’Cause if you made some wager about me, I’ll knock those pretty teeth of yers down your throat,” Josie groused.
“You think I have pretty teeth?” Davenport grinned at her. “I like your honesty, Miss Josephine. ’Tis refreshing in a woman.”
She softened like melting butter. Davenport had a way with women. But Josephine Martin was not for the likes of him, so he should cease smiling at her before Nicolas helped knock his pretty teeth down his throat.
Nicolas checked his emotions. What did he care if Davenport flirted with an insane woman?
“This time the viscount bet the baron he couldn’t drink a bottle of gin in five minutes,” the widow said. “Needless to say, the baron is lying under the table at this very minute. Which means he is not playing cards. Which means I am losing blunt.”
“Yeah, but Hardstone can be such a bloody blowhard,” Davenport said. “We are all better off without him for the rest of the night.”
The widow tilted her head slowly, looking more otherworldly than human. “Although true, I’ve told you before that if you make the wager under my roof, fifty percent of the purse is mine.”
The viscount sighed. “I intended to make you aware and share the winnings. I just hadn’t gotten around to it yet.”
Davenport had always been a master at turning the tables in his favor, so the fool would probably walk out of the stifling little room with all of the ill-begotten coin and Josie’s affection.
Not that Nicolas gave a shite about any of that.
His annoyance was over other things. Like losing his home.
His brother’s death. His fiancée tossing him aside.
The widow yanking him around as if he was on leading strings.
And having to spend his night in a gaming hell when he’d prefer to be just about anywhere else.
“You are lucky I find you charming, Viscount.” The widow leaned forward. Her gaze skimmed over her captives. “It seems all three of you are in the same position. You owe me money. Some of you owe me more than others.” An accusatory finger pointed at Nicolas.
“I have mine right here.” Davenport reached into his waistcoat.
The widow halted him with an outstretched palm. “’Tis too late for that.”
The never-serious Davenport blanched.
“Let me tell you exactly what is going to happen over the next few weeks,” the widow declared, her voice ominous.