Page 31 of The Counterfeit Scoundrel
Another hesitation, this one longer than the first. Finally, he straightened and, with a flick of his wrists, sent the beasts into a trot. She was grateful to note that they weren’t traveling in the direction from which they’d come. It was silly to worry about a man who was fully capable of taking care of himself, but she’d never before seen that sort of anger, anger that had the power to destroy. She feared what he might do with it.
Chapter 11
Bishop had paced outside the Cerberus Club for more than half an hour. He was far too familiar with the dangers that awaited a man who was not in control of a situation, and he’d needed for his world to return to its proper colors rather than the bright red that had invaded his vision the second he saw Mrs. Mallard’s injured face. While she’d initially blamed it on a door, he recognized a beating—no matter how light—when he saw one. The fear and worry mirrored in her eyes had merely confirmed what he knew to be true: her husband had smacked her about. It was an action that never failed to bludgeon Bishop’s gut and chest, as though he possessed the ability to feel every slap, every punch, every blow.
He’d thought the walking required before he found a hansom would have done the trick and reduced his fury somewhat, but he was still livid when he’d leapt out of the conveyance, and so he’d begun the task of directing his thoughts toward serene avenues: walking through fields of clover; looking up at blue skies, spotting a rainbow. But his usual haunts had failed him, and so he’d begun to think ofher. Marguerite. At first, he’d gone to his favorite memories of her: at hisside, wandering through the Fair and Spare; her soft voice; her fragrance; her dumping chocolate on him. He’d chuckled low at the last recollection, and while the heat of anger that had accompanied him to his destination wasn’t totally gone, it had cooled enough that calculating control had been restored to him.
Now he strode into the dimly lit club, with its smoky haze, and carried on to the far end of the foyer where a tall man with his arms crossed over his chest was leaning casually against the jamb of an open doorway, giving the impression that he wasn’t watching every table with the intensity of a hawk. Bishop stopped beside him. “Aiden.”
Aiden Trewlove slid his gaze over and arched a brow. “Bishop. Been a while since you’ve honored my establishment with your presence. I’ve heard you prefer the posher clubs these days.”
“I’ve heard your dealers cheat.”
Aiden barked out his laughter. “They don’t cheat anyone who doesn’t deserve or can’t afford to be cheated. How are you, mate?”
“Too many irons in the fire. You know how it is.”
“I do indeed. One of those irons bring you here tonight?”
He gave a curt nod. “Do you know if Bertram Mallard is about?”
Aiden jerked his head to the right. “Table in the far corner, gent with the toothy grin. What’s your interest?”
“He did something I don’t tolerate. I’m going to relieve him of that grin.”
Aiden nodded. “Break anything other than him and you’ll be paying for it.”
“Send me an accounting of what’s owed.”
“With pleasure.”
Focusing all his attention on his quarry, Bishop skirted around numerous occupied tables and tried to keep a grasp on the calm he’d finally achieved outside. But it was a challenge knowing what this vile excuse for a man had done to his wife. He’d never understood how any man could deliberately strike a woman, but then he’d never fathomed what was to be gained by being unkind in any manner. He reached his mark and came to a stop practically hovering over the scapegrace. “Mallard?”
His grin bright, the man looked up. “Yes?”
“I’d like a word.”
His smile disappeared; his brow furrowed. “Not now. I’m winning, man.”
“It won’t take long.” He waved his hand over the table and stared down every player. “You gents don’t mind halting your play for just a minute, do you?”
The inflection he’d used signaled that he wasn’t truly asking. They would cease their activities. After each had nodded and lowered their cards, he turned his attention back to Mallard. “If you’ll get up now.”
“Who the devil are you and what’s this about?”
“I’ll explain once you’re standing.”
Mallard sighed in obvious exasperation. “Make it quick.”
Once the man was completely out of his chair, Bishop brought his arm back and then sent his balled fist flying straight into the bastard’s jaw. His false teeth soared over several heads as he crumpled to the floor. Bishop bent down, grabbed his shirtfront, and lifted him slightly. “I’m known as Bishop. Strike yourwife again, and I’ll see you delivered straightaway to hell. She’s under my protection now.”
Mallard was blinking, his eyes wobbling about as though he couldn’t focus. Blood dribbled from his mouth and nose. Bishop released his grip and let the man fall back to the floor. His lids closed and he went absolutely still. But he was breathing, the air whistling through his nostrils that were no longer properly aligned.
Tugging on the hem of his waistcoat and then straightening his coat, Bishop met the circle of horrified gazes and gaping mouths. “I have no tolerance for those who harm women. If you’re his friend, ensure he understands that when he awakens.”
Dismissing the stares, he turned toward the entrance—
And staggered to an abrupt stop. She was there. Marguerite. Standing two tables away. Watching him. Studying him. Her face a mask of confusion and worry. He didn’t bother to hide his annoyance that she would have witnessed his inability to control his anger and the precise level of hurt he was capable of inflicting. Even if the fellow had deserved the punch, it brought Bishop no joy to have delivered it. “What the devil are you doing here?”
