Page 17 of The Devil and the Heiress
Today was not one of those days. Christian could hear the fool in the laugh of a drunken gambler upstairs and in the belligerent shout of the man standing across from him in the basement’s fighting ring—the dungeon, as it wasknown by most club members. It was where the club held its most important matches. Not the ones for sport, but the ones for money and notoriety.
The ones that mattered.
Christian’s knuckles ached from the blow he had delivered to the brow of James Brody. The man swiped a palm over his eye, smearing a crimson streak of blood across his forehead.
“Ready to pay your penance, or do you need more encouragement?” Christian taunted. They had been at this for at least a quarter of an hour, perhaps longer.
Shirtless and heaving with the same exhaustion weighing on Christian’s shoulders, Brody said, “I owe you nothing, Leigh. Wilkes broke the rules all on his own, because he’s a bloody coward.”
“Wilkes is your fighter. You are responsible for him. You sent him to the fight with Rothschild. You guaranteed his participation. The spikes he put on the bottom of his shoes could have been deadly. He’s paid for that crime. Now it’s your turn. You need to oversee your fighters better.”
The match between Wilkes and Rothschild several weeks ago had been the highlight of the year. Wilkes had cheated when it had been obvious he would lose and had almost maimed Rothschild with the steel spikes. The police had come near the end of the fight, sending Wilkes fleeing into the night. While Christian and his brother had eventually found Wilkes and forced a rematch, it had taken them this long to track Brody down.
Brody’s answer was to let out a growl as he charged Christian. Christian feinted to the right, mindful of his lame ankle, and pushed off on his other foot, swinging a punch that landed in the man’s gut. Brody groaned but was too angry to stop. He swung, landing a blow to the side of Christian’s head, and while he was dizzy, Brody dragged him to the ground.
Christian nearly laughed at the move. It was widelyassumed that because of his ankle, he was not able to hold his own. He had disproven that theory numerous times, but there was always a new man waiting to underestimate him. While it was true that his balance wasn’t the best while upright, Christian was a master when it came to grappling. He had beaten men twice his size, simply because he knew how to manipulate limbs and how far to stretch joints before they popped. It took him less than a minute to gain the upper hand and have Brody on his front, his dominant arm stretched behind him at an awkward angle, ready to crack at Christian’s command.
“I yield! I yield!” Brody yelled, his voice threaded with panic. “I’ll pay!”
“You might have saved us the trouble and come to that conclusion earlier.” Christian let him go and rose to his feet, winded from the fight. Brody pounded on the ground with his palm and then followed at a slower pace, wiping the blood that had trickled into his eye.
“Bloody bastard,” Brody mumbled.
“No, that’s me.” Christian’s half brother and his father’s notable bastard son, Jacob Thorne, stood next to the fighting ring, arms crossed over his chest and a proud smile on his face. The three of them—Christian, Jacob, and Rothschild—owned shares in the club and organized bare-knuckle boxing matches at venues across London.
“Fuck the both of you.” Brody spat out a stream of blood that landed on the packed earth floor, before climbing between the ropes to retrieve his shirt from a servant who stood waiting with a towel. Brody’s two companions stood nearby, helpfully held back by the club’s hired men.
“Let them go,” said Jacob. Brody’s men made a show of straightening their attire as if they had been very put out by their restraints. “If you’d kept your fighters under control, then this wouldn’t have happened,” Jacob taunted Brody.
The man shrugged into his coat and threw back some choice words as he was escorted up the stairs. Their menwould see that he paid what he owed before he left. Brody liked to give them a hard time, but he was generally an honorable man; well, as honorable as criminals ever were.
The door had barely closed behind them before Webb, Christian’s secretary, hurried down the stone steps. “The Crenshaws’ maid has returned to see you, milord. She claims to have new information.”
Christian’s heart slammed against his rib cage. Run away or marry someone of your own choosing. Perhaps she had made her decision. He had already been informed that the Crenshaws held a house party yesterday, which Ware had attended briefly, and that her parents had gone to the theater later that night sans Violet. Unfortunately, no one had heard what went on between Violet and Ware, but their betrothal hadn’t been announced yet, which was good.
“See that she is comfortable and given refreshment.” Christian grabbed a towel and ran it over his face and chest, silently lamenting the fact that he would have to meet with the maid before his bath. But she had likely slipped away while on an errand, so this could not wait.
“This the maid you hired for the Crenshaws?” asked Jacob, the humor he found in the situation evident in his voice.
“The Crenshaws hired her. I am merely paying her for information,” said Christian as he put on his shirtsleeves. Although he and his brother had once had a difficult relationship, they had grown close over the years, and Christian had shared his plan with Jacob.
He snorted. “If I recall correctly, you gave her false references so that they would hire her.”
Christian grinned, shrugging into his coat. “Never let it be said that I don’t do my part to help the less fortunate souls in our fair city. The girl would have gone to the workhouse had I not given her references and instruction.”
“One day, dear brother, you will come across a situation you cannot manipulate or control.” His brother’s brown eyes glowed with amusement.
“Perhaps.” Christian agreed. “But not today.”
Jacob laughed and clapped him on his back before leading the way up the narrow stairs. “I am glad to see you in better spirits today. You’ve been grim ever since the ball.”
“You know how dealing with Ware sets me on edge. The man is a snake.”
They made their way through the rooms of the club, nodding at groups of men who greeted them as they passed. Christian and his half brother were nearly identical in every physical way except their coloring. Jacob took after his mother with his golden brown skin and dark eyes. Christian was paler and had his mother’s gray eyes. However, they both had their father’s solid build, coming in at a couple inches over six feet with wide shoulders, along with his blade-straight nose and high cheekbones. They attracted attention when out in public, even more so in their own club, so the trek upstairs was tedious.
Finally, when they had broken away from the crowd, Jacob asked, “You’re confident that you can take the heiress away from him?”
Christian smiled again. “From Ware? It will be no contest. The bigger issue is that our heiress seems to have lofty ambitions.”
