“I would think he should, so as not to falsely accuse someone.”
“I’ve seen him make a grown man piss his trousers when Gabe was quizzing him.”
And Freddy had seen Blythe’s brother knock a man flat on his back with a single, dizzyingly fast, well-placed punch. In fact, she’d seen him knock three men on their backs with a single hit. One to the eye, one to the jaw, and the other to the nose. She’d been in the cellar of the Orcus Society on three occasions now. Each time Blythe had sneaked her down there and disguised her, she’d said it was for lessons on rookery men. One about pickpockets, one about gamblers, and one about men who imbibed too much.
What Freddy had really learned, though, was that she loved to watch Blythe’s brother fight. He moved with the grace of a swan, but he fought like a wolf. She remembered staring at him and studying him. He was fascinating. His eyes narrowed in concentration when he fought, his square jaw tensed, and the muscles of his arms coiled. And he had a habit of smirking as he playfully waved his opponents toward him, then smashed his fists into their faces. He was a man of contradictions. He clearly enjoyed fighting, as if it were a game, but he also fought to win as if it were life or death.
Freddy touched the locket she always wore, the one that had been ripped off her neck the night she’d met Mr. Beckford. He’d ensured her locket had been returned to her, but he’d not sent a single word or note of friendly correspondence. Of course, he hadn’t. The man had likely never given her a passing thought after sending the locket to her. After all, she didn’t lure men to her. She chased them away with her unladylike behavior, as Mama had long told her. A pox on men. Who needed one, anyway?
Yet, she would have possibly thought a man such as Mr. Beckford, born and bred on the savage streets of London, might have been different, might have been more tolerant of a unique sort of woman. Not that she cared. She did not. Still, she did wonder what sort of woman a man like Mr. Beckford was drawn to. For knowledge’s sake alone, of course. A woman could never be too knowledgeable. So she asked, “Why has your brother never wed?”
“Holy hell. Don’t tell me you’re soft on my brother.”
Heat seared Freddy’s cheeks. She was not soft on him. She didn’t want a man. She’d dismissed the notion she would ever find one who appreciated who she was after her disastrous first Season. Men fled her. She’d been labeled Frightful Frederica, for heaven’s sake. But instead of speaking of things that pained her, she said, “Don’t sayhell. It’s considered vulgar. And according to those in theton, a lady is never vulgar.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Blythe said.
“Yes,” Freddy agreed, “but it’s the world you want to join.”
“I saidpissnot long ago, and you didn’t remark on that.”
Freddy pursed her lips. “I meant to.”
“But you got distracted by thoughts of my brother.” Blythe’s tone was one part mocking and another part surly.
“Not on him, specifically,” Freddy lied, embarrassed and appalled to realize she had.
“I thought you said you didn’t have any interest in love or marrying,” Blythe accused. “I’d have never agreed to this bargain if I thought you might get all moony over Gabe.”
“I don’t, and I’m not. Enough talk of me. Why do you wish to wed a lord?”
They had entered Covent Garden. Oil lamps illuminated the streets, and music and merry laughter seemed to float on the breeze, no doubt from one of the many taverns or brothels. Blythe sighed as she turned down Broad Street, where Belle lived in the house Lord Brooke kept her.
Blythe stopped the curricle in front of the largest townhome on the street and said, “Because. The only way for Gabe to be accepted into Society is if one of us marries into Society.”
“He wants that?” Freddy asked, disappointed. She would not have imagined Mr. Beckford the sort of man to care whether thetonopened their doors to him or not.
“No,” Blythe said. “He doesn’t care. I do. I want him to be welcomed into fancy homes with stiff-lipped servants and make deals with gentlemen who would never hold a pistol to his head or blow up a warehouse they thought him in. And since he won’t ever wed again, not even to secure a less dangerous future, I will.”
Before Freddy could respond, Blythe jumped down from the curricle, the Hessians she was wearing smacking into a puddle and sending water splashing up around the boots. It took Freddy longer to descend with her cumbersome skirts, and by the time she was standing face-to-face with Blythe, the woman was shaking her head.
“I’ll secure you some breeches for next time,” she said. “If we need to run, you’re going to be in trouble.”
Freddy nodded, but her mind was still on what Blythe had said about the pistol and the warehouse. “Did those things really happen to your brother?”
“Yes.” Blythe secured the horses and turned to her. “You ready? I can’t say how long the fight will last, so we need to hurry.”
Blythe started to take a step toward the large, looming house, but Freddy put a hand to her elbow.
Blythe turned back, her large eyes seeming even bigger in the night. “Second thoughts?”
“No. Of course not.” She was here because Belle had insisted Freddy was the only one she truly trusted. Belle wanted to leave Lord Brooke because he was cruel, but she did not want to leave this way of life, no matter how much Freddy had tried to persuade her to do so.
“You gonna stand and stare at me all night, or are you gonna tell me why you grabbed me?” Blythe asked.
“Why won’t your brother ever wed again?”
“Why do you care?” Blythe narrowed her eyes.
