Page 50 of Indecent
Chapter11
Bennet walked into the Phoenix Club on Saturday evening, eager to find Lucien. Last night, he’d introduced Bennet to two ladies, one with a considerable dowry and the other a widow with a substantial fortune. The former was the daughter of a baron with ancient holdings and a lineage that was oft entwined with members of the Royal Family. And the latter also brought two children into the bargain, which Bennet saw as beneficial—then he wouldn’t feel any guilt at not giving her any of his.
When Bennet had heard the pedigree of the baron’s daughter, he’d wondered why he ought to even try. She could certainly snare someone who wasn’t currently the subject of ridicule about town.
But then he’d met her and understood. She was homely and quiet, almost frightened of her own shadow. Dancing with her had been like dancing with a newborn foal who hadn’t yet learned to balance. Except Bennet suspected the horse would have stepped on his feet less.
He felt rather uncharitable in his thoughts of her, but he compared every single woman he met now to Prudence. And the baron’s daughter couldn’t hold a candle to his former faux betrothed.
The second woman was the widow of a banker. She now ran the bank, an astonishing feat in itself, and had seemed quite eager to meet Bennet. During their dance, she’d made it clear that her interest had only to do with his title. He ought to have had no quarrel with that, but she seemed a severe woman. There were lines at the corners of her mouth that suggested she frowned more than she smiled.
There had to be other options.
And so here he was to speak with Lucien. Perhaps there was a way Bennet could avoid marriage altogether. If he could only cobble together enough money to make a sound investment, he might be able to keep everyone safe.
After handing his hat and gloves over to the footman, Bennet climbed the stairs to the members’ den. He ran into Lucien’s older brother, Constantine, the Earl of Aldington.
Aldington was another person Bennet would have described as severe; however, he’d seemed to lighten up of late. Bennet could have sworn he’d seen the man smiling at Westminster a few times.
“Evening, Glastonbury,” the earl said with a nod. “I’m just on my way out. Say, I was speaking with one of the men who works at your boxing club. He asked if you were here this evening. He’s over in the corner.” Aldington inclined his head across the large L-shaped room to one of the two corners Bennet could see.
It was Mortimer Dodd, thank goodness, not the man’s older cousin, Fred, who owned the boxing club and who likely planned to toss Bennet out if he hadn’t already.
“I’ll go and say good evening,” Bennet said with a smile. He bid good night to the earl and crossed the room to where Mort sat at a small round table. The man’s grizzled features were rather implacable—Bennet wasn’t sure if the man was pleased to see him or not.
“Evening, Mort. I understand you were asking about me.”
“I was.” Mort’s voice was deep and rough, a perfect complement to his oak-tree arms and athletic build. Though he was fifty, the man could take down someone half his age—and twice his size. “You haven’t been to the club in weeks.”
Bennet took one of the chairs at the table opposite Mort. “I was at my estate.”
“So I heard. But you’ve been back now nearly a week.”
“You’re well informed.”
“Not me. Fred.” Mort sipped his ale and set it back on the table. “He’s been waiting for you to show up so he can throw you out on your arse.”
“I expected as much.” Still, it stung. Bennet had begun training with Fred as a young man fresh from Oxford. Fred had pushed and encouraged him, instilling the confidence and discipline Bennet had needed to become an accomplished fighter—and a man. In some ways, he’d been the father Bennet had been missing and hadn’t realized he’d needed.
“You aren’t surprised that Fred would toss you out?” Mort squinted one blue eye at him. “What happened at the match in Croydon? You weren’t yourself.”
Bennet tensed. “I was not. I’d just learned that my financial realities were about to be exposed. I’d hoped winning the fight would solve some of my problems.” He assumed Mort knew all this since his cousin did. “I’m afraid I was so desperate to win that I performed exceedingly poorly.”
“It wasn’t just that. There was something wrong. You seemed…wild.”
Gripping the arm of his chair, Bennet tried not to think of the emotions of that night. He mostly kept them at bay. Indeed, fighting helped him do that. He’d sparred at Aberforth Place—one of the grooms fought with him when he was at the estate—but not since he’d been back in town.
“There’s nothing more to it,” Bennet said evenly, hoping Mort wouldn’t continue to question him. “I suppose I will need to find a new club.”
“You will. But for what it’s worth, I would’ve let you stay—because Wexford said we should. However, he resigned his membership the other day. Apparently, he’s given up the sport.” Mort sounded rather disappointed, which wasn’t surprising. He’d worked just as closely with Wexford as Fred had done with Bennet.
Bennet was touched that Wexford would speak on his behalf. Touched and perplexed by the man’s kindness and generosity of spirit, just as he was with Prudence.
“But it’s not up to you whether I’m allowed to stay,” Bennet said. “The club belongs to Fred, and he’s likely furious with me for losing.” They’d already had a falling out before the fight over the scheme that Bennet had proposed.
Mort gave him an earnest stare. “Fred never cared who won. He didn’t agree to your scheme to help you. He’s motivated by money and money alone.”
“I know that now.” Bennet had put his trust in the man he’d known for many years. The man he’d thought cared about him.
