Chapter 6

CHAPTER 6

D rake had never apologized for the life he'd lived. It had been harsh but it had not been without the benefits of learning how the world truly worked. It wasn't some fairy tale unless it involved titled peers. Even then, it was damned hard. There was so much expectation put on those that lived in their gilded palaces to carry on the line while keeping the coffers full. Many noblemen he knew were inclined to drink and gamble to sustain the pressure they were put under to be perfect. Although Drake didn't have to suffer begetting an heir in a loveless marriage.

He fought for one reason alone.

To survive.

There were many times he'd lost himself in the bottom of a bottle, trying to forget his circumstances.

As he looked at the sympathy on Miss Davies' face, he hated the map of hardship on his body and decided that once this match was over, he could deal with a strong Scotch. The raised disfigurements on his arms and torso told the sorrowful tale of a man who had escaped death from a sharp blade too many times to count.

Oddly enough, his face had escaped too much trauma. His nose had only been broken once and had healed rather evenly. His hands, however, bore the violence that he'd endured over the years.

After stripping down to nothing but his trousers, he handed the discarded articles to Amos and then he headed for the pit without another glance back at Miss Davies. He didn't want to see her pitying expression when she saw his back. The crisscrossed scars were always good to remind him of his true place in this world, of what he was. A killer, a criminal.

A fighter.

He didn't have to push his way through the crowd. They patted him on the back as he passed with encouraging shouts. It wasn't his first time here and no doubt, it wouldn't be the last. He was destined for this sort of existence even though he tried to live better. His past was difficult to ignore when it kept showing up on his doorstep with such pristine determination.

He jumped down into the pit and moved his neck in a circle, attempting to rid himself of the tension that was starting to tighten his muscles. He had never blinked about entering into a bareknuckle match before but knowing that Miss Davies was looking on made the tendons in his shoulders and back tense with awareness. He had hoped to be spending his evening exerting himself in a different manner but he supposed it was all for a good cause. Amos's son, Devon, was a young man with a hot temper but not quite enough stamina to back up his actions. He could be tough when the situation warranted it but in the case of fighting Bear, there were very few men who succeeded.

Drake had won a match against him but not without a couple of broken ribs and a finger to show for it. As he faced the dark-skinned man now, he had to wonder if he would be so lucky this time. Nevertheless, he wouldn't back down from any fight, even if it might kill him. Some had lost their lives in the pit and the only recompense they received was a disgruntled crowd who had placed their bets on the poor sod—and lost.

Standing tall and proud, Bear gave a broad smile when he saw who would be standing in the place of Devon. Drake answered with a formal bow. "We meet again."

"Indeed," Drake returned smoothly, and then he ran toward the man.

In this battle there was no defining bell when the match was to commence. This was a game without rules and the violence was all too real.

As Drake ran his right shoulder into Bear's torso at full speed, the only thing he managed to do was cause the giant of a man to stumble. He was easily a head taller than Drake and filled out enough for two men. And when the first blow came at his ribcage, he was prepared for the strike. The breath instantly escaped his lungs. As he tried to regain his full capacity for breathing, he countered with a stiff uppercut that sent Bear's head backward. He added another left cuff to the side of his face.

Bear just smiled wider, blood staining his teeth as he came back at Drake with a devastating blow to his solar plexus—if it had made contact. Drake was familiar with his fighting style so he quickly dropped down, kicking out his leg against the other man's thigh as he did so. The grunt of pain was not enough to stop Bear as he lunged for Drake. He put his huge arm around Drake's neck and began to squeeze.

Spots danced before his eyes but rather than give in to lack of oxygen, he allowed his body to go completely limp, temporarily taking his attacker off guard. It was enough for him to loosen his grip while Drake slid to freedom. Jumping up, he kicked off of the edge of the pit and with a roundhouse, his shin made contact with the side of Bear's temple.

Again, the man staggered, but he didn't fall. It wasn't going to be easy to fell a tree like Bear but as Drake allowed his smile to widen, he offered the man a wink as he threw out an elbow to his throat as the true battle began.

* * *

She couldn't watch. The noise inside the room was so loud that Fleur could hardly maintain her own thoughts. Or rather, the horror that was taking place.

It wasn't as though she particularly cared for Mr. Porter—Drake—but neither did she want to see anyone hurt. And faced off with such a burly man there was surely no way that he could win a match. It was like David facing off with Goliath. And unless Mr. Porter had a slingshot, then the odds were decidedly not in his favor.

It didn't help that Amos was looking on as if he hadn't just sent Mr. Porter to his demise and would sleep soundly knowing that he had his death on his conscience. Frustrated with it all, she moved toward him. "Aren't you going to do something about this?"

He ignored her completely. He didn't even glance over at her to acknowledge that she had been speaking.

With a huff, Fleur started to pace. She held the dagger in her grip and wondered who she might hit over the head with this to cause this insanity to cease. She despised violence of any sort and this was the worst kind—fighting for the pure sport of it.

Another roar erupted from the crowd and she felt sick to her stomach imaging what might be taking place in that miserable pit. No doubt it wasn't going well to the man she had come there with. The question was, dare she try to go ahead and make her escape now? But at the same moment the thought entered her mind, she had no idea where she might go. She had no family to turn to other than her brother and he was more or less being held hostage by Harriette.

Anger boiled up within her at the memory of the courtesan's betrayal. She had believed her to be a true confidante if not a friend and to be treated in such a manner made her wonder if she could trust anyone—especially Mr. Porter.

Fleur supposed she should be thankful that she wasn't lying with the scoundrel. Instead, he was being pummeled to death in an illegal fighting pit beneath an illicit pub in the darkest part of the West End of London. She shook her head, wondering how she managed to get herself in such a situation.

And then she remembered. She hadn't done anything.

Flavian was the reason she was standing here in a concealing shroud, for fear that if anyone actually saw her, she would have to worry about more than Mr. Porter's lewd advances.

Strangely enough, although he had every right to her body since he'd paid a veritable fortune for it, Mr. Porter had been nothing but considerate thus far.

She cringed when she heard the sound of more cheers.

Yes, quite the gentleman…

She rolled her eyes and told herself that if Amos wasn't going to stop this nonsense, then she would be forced to do so.

She stomped toward the pit intending to throw the dagger at something or someone when she halted midstride. A break in the crowd showed the larger man lying on the ground while his sweat glistening opponent, with blood running down his chest, had his hand lifted into the air by a congratulatory onlooker.

Fleur would have been furious if not for the calm expression on Mr. Porter's face. He didn't look as though he'd just won a losing battle. Instead, he looked rather uninterested in all the well wishes as he climbed out of the pit and headed toward Amos to retrieve his things.

As the larger man was lifted and carried away by no less than four sturdy men, Fleur watched with a mixture of horror—and fascination. She couldn't believe that he had been felled by a man like Mr. Porter. However, when she recalled the scars that had covered Mr. Porter's torso, she realized that he hadn't won every fight and he did so now because he had learned to win the hard way.

A hand touched her shoulder and she jerked back to the present. Her escort was standing before her with his shirt and shoes back on, although he held his jacket in his hand. "Time to go."

She nodded her head, not about to argue.

He took her hand as they made their way back up the steps to the first floor of the pub and if possible, it was rowdier than before. Men that she wouldn't want to see in the bright light of day were gambling, drinking as if the ale was made of water, while half-dressed whores graced many of their laps.

She closed her eyes momentarily, trying to blot out the scene from her mind. Although she liked to believe that she had lived a difficult life until that point, she realized that it was nothing more than what the man at her side had witnessed. She was shocked by the improper manner of these people when the pub in Greenwich had held better morals.

Fleur could feel her head starting to spin and as Mr. Porter led her out the back door of the pub, she wrenched her hand from his grasp and pulled the concealing shroud from her face. Leaning against the brick wall in the dismal alleyway, the dagger still clutched in her other hand, Fleur wretched. She would have felt bad if it wasn't for the other refuse that was present there as well.

After the worst had passed, she took great heaving gulps of air in an effort to calm herself. She didn't know she was shaking until she tried to wipe her mouth and her hand trembled.

A blurry, masculine hand came into view as the dagger was gently removed from her grasp. She was grateful that he didn't say anything, just allowed her the time to recover.

Fleur wanted nothing more but to tumble into bed somewhere, to sit in the silence of the darkness and forget that this day had ever taken place. She straightened and said firmly, "I'm ready."

Rather than speak, Mr. Porter grasped her hand. She found she was grateful for the warmth and the support as he led her along until they saw a passing hackney. He quickly waved it down and they climbed inside.

Fleur didn't ask questions as to why they weren't returning to his residence on foot, but neither did she care. She just wanted to go to sleep and then wake up and pretend that what had happened today was nothing more than a bad dream. She wanted to wake up, safe and sound, in her little cottage in Greenwich. She wanted to go back to the orphanage and teach Latin. And she wanted to see her brother. She had never missed him as much as she did in that moment. Since they were twins, she had always felt a strong attachment to him. She knew the feeling was mutual. At least, most of the time.

She had carried them through too many storms to count, and yet, she was afraid that she wouldn't be able to make it through this one. Already she was starting to feel as though she was drowning. She wished she'd never dared to come to London to rely on a woman's help she hardly knew. Her memoirs should have been enough for Fleur to know that no one was spared from Harriette's determination. While she might not have given her a reason to retaliate against her, she had given Harriette the means in which to regain some of her luxurious life back.

For years, Fleur had been strong, taking the whole world onto her shoulders so that she might be able to fulfill her promise to her parents. Now she wondered if she hadn't made a mistake by trying to safeguard Flavian. She certainly hadn't done herself any favors.

Fleur jumped in surprise when a handkerchief was handed to her. She blinked. Until then, she hadn't realized a single tear had slid down her cheek. She hastily wiped it away and lifted her chin in defiance, refusing the offering. "Thank you, but I'm fine." She was upset with herself that she'd given in to a brief moment of vulnerability. No doubt Mr. Porter believed her to have a weak constitution, that she was unnerved by the fight. She hadn't liked it, certainly, but it was her life that had suddenly erupted in shambles that bothered her more than anything else.

He didn't seem concerned one way or another, just took the handkerchief and tucked it back into his jacket pocket. He had yet to put the garment back on and while they were sitting there, Fleur found her attention drawn to him. She hadn't allowed herself to appreciate his strong physique earlier but now she recalled that his arms and torso were quite defined. After such a fight, he didn't appear to have any lasting effects. He wasn't groaning in pain or breathing heavily. He was just calm and sitting there as though he didn't have a care in the world. But that is what concerned her the most.

This man not only knew the meaning of danger. He laid down next to it every night. It was his constant companion. "How do you do it?"

Those silver eyes slid to her. "What?"

Fleur hadn't really meant to speak aloud but now that the words hung in the air, she couldn't resist knowing the answer. "How do you live each day with such nonchalance when it is obvious that you have lived a harsh reality? Doesn't it bother you?"

He hesitated, as if considering his reply, and then said evenly, "There is no point in bemoaning what is lost. The past is where it shall always be and nothing I can do will ever change that. I prefer to look ahead to the future instead of dwelling in a dark place that won't become any brighter."

She pondered his words for a time. "That is very insightful."

He glanced out the window at the darkness beyond. His expression showed nothing of his innermost thoughts, although his jaw clenched visibly, proving that he wasn't completely without emotion. "I have had many years to ponder about my existence and my purpose for being here."

"Does there have to be a reason?" she asked, curious as to his answer.

His gaze shifted back to her and she shivered. Again, it wasn't entirely to do with apprehension. "It seems pointless to endure all of this for nothing."

He was cynical but Fleur wasn't surprised. If she had grown up with the hardships he had faced, there was no doubt she would be the same. "I don't agree that it's for nothing. I believe it's for the people we meet and the lives we touch along the way."

"Oh?" he snorted. "And you think I shall touch your life in some magical way?"

She paused and then shook her head. "Perhaps I am the one who is meant to help you."

* * *

It was one of the few times that Drake was speechless—on purpose. Generally, he didn't have much to say and preferred the silence to mindless chatter.

But with one statement, Miss Davies had struck a chord in him that he'd thought dead and buried long ago—hope, faith in humanity. Both were qualities that he had never witnessed often. Then again, the places and people he'd normally frequented had no reason to cling to either. They considered it a success if they reached the morning without being six feet underground. There were many days when Drake was grateful for the same until he remembered death would probably be a blessing to such a miserable existence.

As he looked at the woman across from him, he wondered if she was right. There had been something that had drawn Drake to her from the first moment they met, and it wasn't about the coin her wastrel brother owed him. He'd seen a fire in her green eyes that he hadn't observed in a long time. Most of the people he met had a glazed look due to excessive drink or large amounts of opium. If not, then it was the look of destitution, the truth that there was nothing left in the world to live for any longer.

Every time Drake was faced with the identical empty glances, he knew he was starting to fall into the same sort of numb acceptance, that although he had finally obtained his wealth over the years, it was just coin. He had believed it would make him content, to feel his vindication against those who had wronged him but he'd been wrong. He might have all he'd ever wanted at long last, but it was a vapid victory. There was no outpouring of joy. Instead, there was the outpouring of drink as he consumed bottle after bottle of spirits, hoping to quiet the voices in his head that were always present, reminding him of his failings.

Miss Davies had changed all that. Finally, the voices had become silent and in their place was an enchanting feminine lilt and eyes that still held the true wealth he had been missing.

As he looked at her, he knew he would have spent everything he'd had just to have her sit across from him, if only for one night. It was fascinating just feeling… something again, other than the dreadful void of emptiness that promised nothing.

He noticed her glance out the window at the passing scenery, the gas lamps of the West End starting to come into view. "Where are we going?" she asked.

"I thought you might like to spend the night somewhere a bit more pleasant."

She frowned at him. "Are you taking me back to Harriette?"

"She wouldn't have you should you decide to request it," he returned matter-of-fact. "It's my other residence."

"You have more than one?"

He reached into his vest and pulled out a cheroot, taking a moment to light it before answering. As he blew out a slight puff of smoke, he said, "I have several in London, as well as a few others in the countryside."

She looked him up and down curiously. "I see."

He smiled slowly. "I'm sure you do. And no doubt you are right about whatever conclusion you have arrived at in that pretty head of yours."

She shifted her gaze away and he realized that he hated confirming her fears and casting himself in such a poor light but it was best that she learn what sort of man she had unwittingly tied herself to for however long their association might last. If it was up to Drake, he wasn't willing to let her go anytime soon, not until this infatuation had waned.

As the carriage stopped in front of his townhouse in Chelsea, he waited for recognition to strike and he could see the moment it did. Some of the blood receded from her face, "Isn't this the same street that?—"

"Indeed." It was all he would offer by way of confirmation before he opened the door and led her inside. He shut the door behind them and lit a lantern near the entrance on the solitary table in the foyer.

She glanced around the cavernous expanse. "You aren't much of a decorator."

"No." Again, he didn't choose to elaborate as he led the way to the stairs and up to the second floor. "But I can promise you will sleep in comfort."

He walked down the hall, his footsteps echoing all around them. Drake had never thought of the sound being eerie before but he wondered if it bothered his guest. He looked at her but she seemed to be taking note of her surroundings with an innocent curiosity.

He reached the master chamber and opened the door. Inside was a bed, wardrobe and washstand. A copper tub set in one corner near the fireplace. It was the most furniture he had in one place.

As he walked over to start a fire, she remained standing. Then again, other than the imposing four poster dominating the middle of the room there wasn't anywhere else to sit. No doubt she did find that rather disconcerting.

"Have you never slept in here before?"

He hesitated in his task. He turned his head to the side but didn't fully turn to face her. "What makes you say that?"

"The bed is made rather… perfectly." There was a pause and he imagined that she was running her hand slowly along the counterpane. It was not an unwelcome image. "I don't see you as the sort who makes their bed every morning, especially when, as you say, you have so many other places to stay."

He returned his attention to the coal and wood in the grate. "I employ a housekeeper to come and check on things once a week. She is responsible for the upkeep. But you are correct. In truth, I have never slept in that bed. When you are used to a crude cot in a workhouse you find such luxuries are unnecessary."

"Then why have it at all?"

"Because I can." He straightened and turned back to her. The fire was blossoming with life, the logs crackling now and then with purpose. He glanced at her shroud and then walked over and withdrew a white lawn shirt out of the wardrobe. He handed it to her. "So you can sleep in something clean."

"Thank you." She held the shirt to her chest as if it was a shield. "But what about you? Don't you want to change?"

"I will after I bathe."

She looked at the tub in the corner and back to him.

He was already heading out the door. "I have spare clothes and a washtub in the servant's quarters as well."

She blinked. "You are prepared for every eventuality, aren't you?"

He took one step toward her. He wanted to inhale the fresh scent of her, so that he might dream of something sweet and pure this night. "I leave nothing to chance, Miss Davies." He allowed his focus to travel slowly down and back up her form. "Especially auctions."