Chapter One
After a brutal day of staring at ledgers whilst the letters and numbers changed directions and positions every time he blinked, Viscount Jonathan Davenport deserved this night out.
Wagers, ale, a mill, and cunny—what more did a man need?
He, for one, required nothing else. Well, no, not exactly.
He might like to read his blasted ledgers and estate documents without his mother or best friend Nicolas Wentworth’s assistance, but apart from that, this night at The Purple Rabbit, watching pugilists pummel each other, and drinking himself silly while a voluptuous dowager countess clung to him, was the perfect panacea.
Unfortunately, shaking off his day—make that his month if he included the death of Ralph Kincaid, his family’s loyal man of business—was proving difficult since his friend, Tristan Keats, The Duke of Griffendale, was behaving like an unholy arse.
If the duke made one more pass at Jonathan’s date, he’d have to punch the larger man’s teeth down his throat.
On the other hand, after staring at circles, and lines that were akin to hieroglyphics, he didn’t have the energy to compete for Lady Celeste Milton’s attention or to deal with Griffendale’s temper.
His friend might not realize Jonathan was frustrated with him, because everyone, including his best mates, thought him incapable of foul moods or serious thoughts.
Jonathan liked it this way—most of the time.
Currently, Roseanna Chapman—Thorny Rose, to the boxing Fancy—had Clementine O’Reilly against the ropes. Her alternating hooks slammed into Sweet Clementine’s obliques.
“Uppercut, Roseanna,” Griffendale hollered.
Roseanna dipped, then sent her fist up and through Clementine’s jaw. Clementine wobbled, then slid down the ropes.
Celeste dug her fingernails into Jonathan’s arm.
“One. Two. Three. Four. Five…” the umpire counted as Clementine grabbed the rope and slowly hoisted herself onto her feet.
“Shite,” Griffendale grumbled, as he shoved another overenthusiastic bloke away from him and into Jonathan. That made at least half a dozen fits of temper tonight. “I just want this fight to be over.”
“Griffendale, what is your problem?” Nicolas asked.
“My Frosty Set-to is only a few weeks away and Clementine backed out of it,” Griffendale grumbled. “Claims she needs to rest. She and Roseanna were to start off the afternoon.”
This was hardly a reason to be so insufferable, but Griffendale had become obsessed with hosting mills and female fighters in particular.
The Frosty Set-to must be another of the duke’s pugilism projects.
Not that Jonathan would inquire, because Celeste’s warm body was all he cared about at the moment.
“Ask another fighter,” Jonathan said as he buried his nose in Celeste’s hair and inhaled. Delicious.
“Easier said than done,” the duke said. “Franny and Josie turned me down, and Lady Paulsgrove will be touring the continent. Ruth the Jewel is rather a pain in the arse. We need more female blood.”
Not Jonathan’s problem.
The fighters took to their corners, plopping their arses onto their coaches’ knees. Roseanna’s coach happened to be Franny, a fiery red-headed woman whom Jonathan considered a dear friend. Josie, who was both the bottlewoman and Nicolas’s wife, handed Roseanna a drink.
“Jonathan,” Celeste purred in his ear. “Shall we get some fresh air?” She dragged her fingers along his forearm.
Fresh air was the dowager countess’s code expression for finding an intimate corner. Desire jolted through Jonathan. What a devil of a decision. To stay in this smoky, overloud basement and put up with Griffendale’s foul mood, or have his cock sucked in his carriage?
Jonathan snorted. What an easy choice for a randy-as-hell rake who’d had a trying month.
“Round three,” the ringmaster called through his speaking trumpet.
Jonathan grabbed Celeste’s hand and dragged her up the stairs and out of the questionable establishment.
“Shall we retire to my townhouse?” Celeste asked as they strolled to his carriage.
If they made it that far. Jonathan nipped her ear. “Sounds delightful.”
A loud commotion stopped Celeste in her tracks. “What was that?”
Sounded like fisticuffs to Jonathan. “Nothing.” He tugged Celeste toward the carriage.
An angry growl pierced the dark.
Celeste dug her heels into the cobblestones. “Jonathan, that sounded like a wolf. Why would a wolf be in the city?”
Since ignoring the cacophony hadn’t worked, he might as well be honest. “I believe ’tis just an angry hound.”
“Give it here ye scraggly rat,” someone yelled.
“Hand it over or we’ll kill ye, ye bloody son of a bitch,” someone else demanded.
The dog howled.
“Charge!”
Celeste squeezed his arm. “Jonathan, that sounds like they might be hurting a poor, defenseless animal. What should we do?”
They should ignore the sounds in the alley, climb into his carriage, head to her townhouse, then tup like wild animals. He placed his palm on the small of her back and nudged her forward.
“Jonathan.” Her normally smooth brow scrunched into sharp lines.
This is what he got for bringing a lady to a rough part of the city. If he’d wanted to bed her, he probably should have just shown up on her doorstep with flowers. Exhaling loudly, Jonathan strolled to the alley, then peeked into the semi-darkness.
A fire blazed in an iron brazier that had seen better days, illuminating a group of street lads who couldn’t have been more than fourteen and fifteen years old.
They surrounded a scrawny younger boy clad in threadbare rags, a loaf of bread tucked beneath his arm.
A large, mangy beast stood protectively in front of the boy, saliva dripping from its mouth.
“Give me that bread or I’ll knock yer teeth down yer throat,” one of the older lads said.
“My goodness,” Celeste said as she came up alongside Jonathan. “They are going to kill that boy over food.”
They weren’t going to kill him; however, they’d probably bloody his nose. This was the way of the streets. Survivors had to learn to feed and protect themselves.
The younger lad handed the loaf to the dog and stepped around the beast. The gang of boys closed in. Then, the lad’s fist shot out, catching the closest bully in the gut.
That was a twist Jonathan hadn’t seen coming. “Bravo. Capital shot,” he yelled to the scrappy striker.
Celeste gasped. “My God, Jonathan. Help him.”
While the bully-boy dramatically stumbled about holding his stomach, the minikin, who might be older than Jonathan initially thought, lunged, delivering a cracking jab to the next closest bully. Taking advantage of his opponent being off balance, he then kicked his assailant in the crotch.
“Ouch,” Jonathan murmured, hunching forward as a sympathy pain slammed him in the bollocks. This fight was even better than the one going on inside the underground mill. “I don’t think he needs my help,” he assured Celeste.
Unfortunately, this is when the gang leaped upon the lad. Seven to one really were hapless odds, still, this brawl was none of Jonathan’s business.
Throwing her hands in the air, Celeste charged toward the fray.
“Foolish woman,” Jonathan murmured as he followed her.
“Shoo,” she said, flicking her fingers at the brawling youths as if they were gnats. “All of you, go home. Leave him alone.”
They ignored her, and continued to pound on the unfortunate lad, who was giving them quite a fight. Meanwhile, the dog had abandoned the loaf to snarl and nip at flailing limbs, as well as a protruding arse or two.
Jonathan grabbed one of the older jackanapes by his waist and yanked him from the pile. His prisoner whirled, punching him in the gut.
Sucking up the pain, Jonathan pinned the wriggling adolescent’s hands behind his back. “Settle yourself, and I’ll give you some blunt.”
The lad stilled. Jonathan fished in his pocket for a coin and handed it over as promised.
“Shoo,” Celeste said with her non-threatening finger flicks.
The thieving bugger stared at the coin with wide eyes. Smiling, he then sprinted down the alley, disappearing into the dark.
Jonathan grabbed another rascal from the unruly pile, handing him a coin. Then he waded into the fray. The gang might turn on him, but even if they did, this was the release he’d been seeking after fighting with numbers and figures all day. At least he felt like he was accomplishing something.
It took a while, and Jonathan suffered a few thwacks to his person as he emptied his pockets, but eventually, he rid the alley of the thieving buggers.
The unfortunate youth he’d just saved lay on the ground, gasping.
Blood spatters dotted his filthy rags, although Jonathan suspected the red blotches belonged to his assailants because miraculously, the lad appeared to be uninjured.
Panting hard, the dog stretched out beside him.
The lad brushed his stringy brown hair from his eyes and searched for something, perhaps the bread, which unfortunately had been smashed into the cobblestones.
Now that Jonathan could see his features clearly, it was apparent this was no child. Perhaps the waif was close to twenty years old. But damnation, he was so scrawny and underfed, he almost looked like a girl. The unfortunate gamin was in desperate need of a haircut, a bath, and food.
Ignoring him, the victim leaped to his feet and rushed to a mud-covered cap that sat a few yards away. He plopped it on his head and began shoving his too-long hair into it. The bloke’s gaze met his, and he sucked in a gasp, reminding Jonathan of the way women reacted when they first noticed him.
Odd indeed.
However, that wasn’t the most shocking thing happening in that alley, because a bolt of something that felt a lot like lust shot through Jonathan. Horrified, he took a step back, putting space between himself and the tatterdemalion.
Celeste rested her hand on Jonathan’s shoulder.
He sighed in relief. His odd reaction was not due to this filthy, feminine man who fought like a warrior; it was simply Celeste’s presence making him react lecherously.
“Are you injured?” Celeste asked the man.
His big blue eyes blinked, and his dark lashes fluttered but he didn’t answer.
“Here.” Celeste offered him a coin. “For the bread.”
The man hesitated before reaching out with his dainty, dirty fingers, accepting the gift. Celeste smiled. The man smiled back.
The devil take Jonathan. What kind of street beggar had a mouthful of straight white teeth?
But he had no more time to ponder because the man turned, and then sprinted down the alley. The mangy dog trotted after him.
Celeste swiped her palms together as if the situation was done and over with. “That poor man is starving to death. Did you see his hollow cheeks?”
Jonathan had noticed them all right. Those high cheekbones could have cut glass.
“Shall we head to my place now?” she asked.
Truthfully, he wanted to go home, have his staff prepare a hot bath, scrub the stink of the alley from his body, and then go to sleep. But Viscount Jonathan Davenport did not crawl into bed alone, befuddled by some guttersnipe he didn’t know. He pushed his feelings deep.
With a growl, he drew Celeste into his arms and peppered kisses down her neck.