Page 9 of Devoted to the Duke (The St. Clairs 1)

Chapter Four

Jeremy stood conversingwith an acquaintance from his Cambridge days. He’d seen Cor settled with her friend and had wandered into the ballroom when he’d run across Neville.

“You simply must try Gentleman Jack’s while you’re in London, Sather. You were quite the boxer at Cambridge. I placed bets on you on several occasions and won every time.”

He’d taken up boxing in his youth because it interested Timothy and anything that Timothy wanted to do, Jeremy wanted to do even more. The brothers had sparred with one another, perfecting their skills over the years. After Timothy was gone, Jeremy thought he might never box again. Then someone had challenged him to a match his second year at Cambridge and he’d accepted. Word of the bout spread across the campus from college to college and a good number of young men turned out.

Jeremy had knocked his opponent out in the third round.

In boxing, he found an outlet for the pent up rage that had swirled through him ever since he’d lost his brother. Never one to back down from a challenge, he’d gone on to fight several times over the next couple of years, losing only once. He’d eaten something that violently disagreed with him the evening before and had spent most of the night bent over his chamber pot, puking his guts out. In a weakened state the next day, he should never have fought. Still, the fight went a good six rounds before he succumbed to his fatigue.

“I may investigate that, Neville, though I haven’t boxed in over a year.”

“I’d be happy to introduce you to the man himself,” his companion said. “Oh, is that Morefield? You two were friends, weren’t you? From your Eton days, I believe.”

He looked across the room and spotted his fair-haired friend—and the luminous beauty Morefield stood in front of. She wore a dress of deep blue and a sapphire necklace around her neck. Her auburn hair was artfully arranged and a contrast to her pale, smooth skin. In all his travels, he’d never seen a more beautiful woman.

“Who is that with Morefield?” Jeremy asked, unable to take his eyes from her.

Neville laughed. “That divine creature is Lady Catherine Crawford, older daughter of the Earl of Statham. She’s proven quite popular during her come-out. I hear she’s already been made three offers. Or it might be four.”

He tore his eyes from the beauty and stared at Neville. “Has she accepted any of them?”

“Not from what I’ve heard.Tongossip says the lady refuses to entertain any more offers of matrimony until after the Season ends.”

An urgency to speak to her filled him. “Do you know her, Neville? I’d like to be introduced. Now.”

“Afraid not, Sather. She’s a bit out of my league, so why bother? Why don’t you ask Morefield to do the honors?”

He would. The viscount owed him.

“Good talking with you, Neville,” he said abruptly and made his way toward his old friend, who now headed in his direction.

As they crossed paths, Morefield caught sight of him and smiled. Pumping Jeremy’s hand enthusiastically, he said, “You’ve returned home. It’s very good to see you, Sather.”

“The same, Morefield. I only arrived in London a few hours ago. What have you been up to?”

The viscount had only recently finished his studies and spoke of that before he launched into a discussion regarding a pair of horses he was considering purchasing at Tattersall’s.

“Why don’t you come with me, Sather? You’ve always had a keen eye for horseflesh. Or are you going to bury yourself in the country or some other such nonsense?”

Jeremy’s closest friend had been his brother. After Timothy’s death, he found it hard to be around other friends and, gradually, most of them had fallen away. He was no longer a lighthearted boy but a man filled with guilt for having survived. He’d become something of a loner during his time at Cambridge, concentrating on his studies. Morefield was one of the few he’d spent time with, though not often, and he regretted letting their friendship lapse.

“I’d like to call in a favor,” he began.

Morefield stilled, his face growing serious. “You have every right to. I told you, years ago, I would do anything for you. You saved me, Jeremy. I wouldn’t be here today but for you.”

The viscount referred to when they were schoolboys. Morefield was a year younger and quite small for his age. When he’d arrived at school as one of the new boys, the older ones had bullied him unmercifully, reducing the newcomer to tears while their blows kept him covered in fresh bruises. Jeremy had little tolerance for bullies but hadn’t known Morefield and stayed out of the fray.

Until the night he couldn’t sleep.

Though against school rules, he left his bed in the wee hours of the morning. He found walking quieted his mind when it was racing. If he moved about, it calmed him and once he returned to his bed, he would be able to fall asleep easily. It happened at least once a month and he’d come to learn all the nooks and crannies of the school during these late night treks.

On one occasion, he’d moved through the halls, silent as a ghost, and longed to have some fresh air. Knowing he couldn’t leave the building, for a reason he would never know, he ventured up to the bell tower, a place he’d never been. As he ascended the stairs, he heard weeping as he never had. As if someone’s heart was being torn from his chest. When he reached the top and found the trap door to the belfry open, he climbed through it—and found Eric Saunders with a sheet knotted around his neck, his face ravaged with pain.

The younger boy’s eyes grew wide when he saw Jeremy.

“What are you doing here?” he said, choking on his words.

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