Chapter Nine
Jonathan glared at the back of Franny’s office door.
“Well, bloody hell,” he grumbled since that had not gone as planned.
He’d no sooner asked the duo for assistance and explained that Gen preferred not to speak, when Franny had pushed him out of her office.
He hadn’t even had a chance to confirm with Gen that she wanted to talk to the proprietresses without him.
“Davenport, you look troubled,” Nicolas said from behind him. “Does something have you distressed?”
Swallowing his frustration and adopting his smart-arse grin, Jonathan turned to find that Nicolas, Robinson, and Griffendale were gathered in his space.
“What in the devil are the three of you doing staring over my shoulder?” Jonathan asked. “Don’t you have anything better to do than behave like a brood of nosy hens?”
Griffendale feigned a pout, his bottom lip halfway to the continent. “Poor Davey. The ladies not interested in your charms? At least I assume the dainty bloke you escorted in here like precious cargo is a chit.”
Bollocks! Firstly, Jonathan hated when Griffendale called him Davey because it was always accompanied with the big man’s attempt at a childish voice. Secondly, if Griffendale had figured out that Gen was a woman, had Kilsby?
Surely not. Kilsby had even indicated he thought she was a male servant.
Protecting Gen from dangers he didn’t entirely understand had Jonathan on pins and needles. He needed to calm the blazes down. And he would, right after he rid Griffendale of his self-satisfied smirk.
“I suppose you would think that, Duke, since ladies are always throwing you out of their chambers,” Jonathan shot back, knowing full well that Griffendale could charm a nun out of her habit. However, Jonathan could do it faster. Maybe even twice as fast. But that was a wager for another day.
Griffendale shrugged. “I couldn’t say, because no female has ever thrown me out. Most ladies drag me into their chambers. In fact, you should have seen Celeste Milton the other night after the fight at The Purple Rabbit. Showed up at my door, smelling as sweet as a flower garden and then—”
Nicolas held up his palm. “Wait a minute, Griffendale. You told me you sent Celeste home before anything happened.”
Griffendale’s cheeks flamed as red as his scruff as he sputtered some sort of incoherent rambling about Wentworth misunderstanding, which was not even a tiny bit believable, because the astute Nicolas Wentworth never misunderstood anything.
The future earl was, in fact, the most intelligent, intuitive man of Jonathan’s acquaintance.
Which begged the question, why did Griffendale want him to believe he’d tupped Celeste?
Perhaps he was simply trying to get under Jonathan’s skin.
If the tables were turned Jonathan might do the same thing.
Robinson rolled his eyes. “Moving on… Can I be of assistance in whatever is going on in there?” He thumbed toward his wife’s office.
“No,” Jonathan said. However, since Robinson was a deuce of an investigator, he might be able to discover Gen’s connection to Kilsby. But for now, the only thing Jonathan needed was for Gen to walk out of that office, unafraid and smiling.
As if he’d conjured that very thing, the door opened, and with a massive grin lighting up her face, Gen exited, almost bumping into him.
Thank Christ.
Josie and Franny followed her, halting to address the four of them huddled together like gossiping fishwives.
“Gentlemen,” Franny said. “Meet our new student, Gen. Now, if you will excuse us, Josie needs to take her class back before Bridget coerces the ladies into a rousing game of Smack the Arse of the Debutante standing next to you.”
Nicolas winced. “Josie, you’d better hurry. ’Tis getting unruly over there.”
A glance at the ladies’ class proved Nicolas was correct.
Bridget’s palms were on the ground, and her buttocks were in the air, wiggling.
She looked a lot like the tail-wagging Floppy right before he pounced.
Some of the ladies, the ones young and flexible enough to do so, were also palms on the floor, arses jiggling.
The group of them standing outside Franny’s office broke into chuckles, minus big brother Nicolas and the unfortunate Josie, who growled out an indelicate, but not unexpected, “Bloody friggin’ hell.”
“Don’t let Bridget near fans, walking sticks, or pens,” Nicolas said, his voice firm. “She has a habit of turning them into weapons. Chamber pots, too. Whatever you do, do not stay in the same room as Bridget and a chamber pot.”
“Empty or full?” Jonathan asked, fearing the answer.
Nicolas cringed. “My sister is an equal opportunity chamber pot Samurai.”
A round of gags ensued.
“Warning received,” Jonathan said, thankful that none of his flirtations with the irreverent bluestocking who fancied herself a fierce warrior had come to fruition.
Josie marched to her class, then dragged a frowning Bridget to the back of the bevy.
Franny half-chuckled, half-sighed—the typical reaction people usually had to Bridget. “Gen and I are going to start our session.”
“Miss Gen, are you taking the ladies’ exercise class or training to be a prizefighter?” Griffendale asked with his wolfish grin, which would someday be his demise. Maybe even tonight.
“Not that it’s any of your business, Griffendale, but she is participating in the ladies’ class, as well as learning some additional offensive and defensive techniques,” Jonathan declared.
Later, when the women were not around, he’d tell Griffendale in no uncertain terms to curb his grin and keep his hands off her.
Catching Jonathan’s gaze, Gen shook her head.
Utterly befuddled, he tried to recall the last few seconds of their conversation, to no avail. He had no choice but to confess his confusion. “Gen, I don’t understand.”
Gen formed fists, crouched low, and feigned that she was boxing.
“Lord Davenport, you are mistaken,” Franny said. “She is training to be a pugilist. She was concerned about the cost, but I told her we would work it out.”
He knew he should have stayed in the office with Gen to help her communicate. Obviously, Josie and Franny had taken her silence as acquiescence.
“I don’t mind paying for her lessons,” Jonathan said. “Add whatever she owes to my account. However, I think you misunderstood her.”
His lips pursed, Griffendale flicked Jonathan in the bicep. “By God, man, let the lady talk for herself.”
“Not that it’s any of your concern, but she chooses not to talk,” Jonathan said. Or perhaps, she couldn’t talk. Hell, if he knew, but there seemed to be no point in pretending otherwise, since they would all discover soon enough. Perhaps Franny and Josie already knew.
“I don’t think there were any misunderstandings,” Franny said. “She wrote it down for us. Her penmanship is lovely. Her exact words were, ‘I want you to teach me to be a champion pugilist like the both of you.’ That seems as clear as day to me. I understood correctly, correct, Gen?”
Smiling, Gen nodded her agreement.
Well, strip him naked, hang him upside down, and smack his arse. Obviously, something had changed her mind.
“Congratulations, Gen,” Nicolas said. “You’ve come to the best boxing school in London.”
Gen beamed. Throwing her shoulders back confidently, and all signs of her nervousness gone, she followed Franny.
“Damn pretty chit,” Griffendale said. “Where did you find her, Davenport?”
“Hands off her,” Jonathan snarled. “She isn’t one of your conquests.”
Griffendale smirked. “I dare say, Davenport went and fell for a skirt.”
“It isn’t like that,” Jonathan said.
Griffendale exaggerated a gentlemanly bow as he circled his hand. “Then pray tell, my lord, what is it like?”
As much as he wanted to tell Griffendale that it was none of his business as he knocked his perfect teeth down his throat, Jonathan did not like how grumpy he’d been the last few days. If he kept this up, people might forget how fun-loving and charming he was.
Hell, he was forgetting it himself.
“She is my mother’s house guest,” he said nonchalantly. “A friend of the family.” An indigent, homeless, nervous, vulnerable, beautiful, slightly odd woman who was absolutely off limits.
Franny and Gen approached Roseanna, who was still pummeling a sandbag. Franny said something. Roseanna halted her barrage and faced the women. Franny swung her palm in Gen’s direction, and Roseanna nodded.
Gen took off her coat and then sat on the ground. Franny and Roseanna crouched beside her, both of them animatedly talking as Gen removed her boots.
The women stood, then Franny and Gen engaged in gentle stretches as Roseanna wove around them, throwing combinations.
“I believe Roseanna is demonstrating as Gen warms up her muscles,” Nicolas declared.
Jonathan had deduced this as well.
Griffendale rubbed his hands together. “Nothing quite as titillating as watching women exercise.”
Normally, Jonathan would be behaving as lecherously as Griffendale, but not tonight. Not with Gen. In fact, he should stop spying, peel off a few layers of clothing, and exercise. However, he was enthralled with Gen’s athletic prowess and nothing else.
He barely noticed how the strands of hair falling from her updo curled the more she sweated.
Or that the visible patches of her skin were pale and porcelain smooth, especially her neck.
He definitely was not staring at her lips parting ever-so-slightly as she exhaled.
No, he didn’t notice these things at all, because he was more interested in her flexibility and agility. Besides, he had to observe so he could ensure that Griffendale didn’t ogle Gen with lecherous eyes as he said indecent things about her.
One fist poised to protect her cheek, the other prepared to strike, Franny dropped into her fighter stance. Roseanna followed suit. Gen imitated them, her stance perfect on her first try.
Jonathan’s chest puffed with pride.
Maintaining their stances, the three women slid forward and back, and then side to side.