Chapter Five

L ucien ducked as a hard fist sailed past his head.

Bare from the waist up and covered with sweat, he stepped forward and jabbed two quick punches with his left fist at the brute squared off against him. When the large man staggered back a step, Lucien didn’t pursue. Even marked by bruises and a bloody cut on his lip, he wasn’t ready to end this fight just yet. He hadn’t been beaten enough to exhaust the frustration and unease pounding away inside him tonight.

Around him, the basement of the abandoned Wapping warehouse was alive. A crowd of working-class men and women crowding against the ropes let out both loud cheers and curses, depending upon which fighter they’d placed their blunt. Lamps blazed across the room, and the moving shadows they cast across the gathering only added to the swirl of motion at the periphery of his vision. All kinds of bets had been placed, prostitutes were negotiating their rates, and cheap whiskey was being guzzled from flasks and even cheaper gin from tin mugs. It was a veritable scene from hell.

But Lucien knew from years of training to ignore everything but the subtle movements of the mountain of a man with him in the eight-by-eight foot roped off square of floor. Just as he knew that no one in the cramped basement even considered that he might win. Even as tall, broad-shouldered, and fit as he was, his opponent stood nearly seven-feet tall and could have been confused for a musk ox.

Perfect.

When the man charged forward, Lucien bobbed to the left, then let fly a hard punch with his right arm. His bloodied knuckles caught the brute square in the jaw and snapped back his head. The man stumbled back, then froze, his beefy arms hanging down at his sides and his fists open. The onlookers fell silent as the man swayed on his feet for a few seconds, then fell forward to the floor on his face.

The crowd let out a stunned roar of disbelief, their anger only made worse when Lucien threw up his arms to claim his victory.

His opponent’s knee man rushed forward into the roped area and let out a loud groan of exertion as he rolled the unconscious giant onto his back. He wiped a towel over the man’s face, then began to wave it to fan air over him.

Lucien stepped over him on his way to the rope.

As he snatched up a towel and swiped the sweat off his torso and shoulders, he could still feel anxious threads winding inside him, but at least now they were weaker than before. Perhaps he might even be able to sleep through the night.

Sleep. He nearly laughed at the idea. Because with sleep came dreams, and for the past four days since his encounter with Jessamyn St Claire in the hackney, all his nights had been plagued by dreams of her. The kind of dreams that had him checking the sheets upon awaking to make certain he hadn’t spent himself in the night.

God only knew why she was plaguing him, except that he found himself admiring her. She hadn’t cowered when he’d surprised her in the carriage. Didn’t even scream. No, the gel had given back as good as she got, and that was what had stirred his imagination. Anyone who stood up to him garnered his respect, and her beauty—as unconventional as it was—captured his interest.

So he had avoided sleep as much as possible and would continue to do so until this temporary madness abated, which worked to his advantage. After all, he’d been on a tear to rehabilitate his black reputation and make it even darker than before, and he needed every extra hour of the night he could find to do it. Visits to as many brothels as possible, gambling until dawn, getting foxed to the gills—no matter that he stayed in the brothel rooms by himself, broke even at the end of every gambling spree, and only pretended to be stumbling around like a drunken university student—his apparent behavior was true to the image of the scapegrace he’d always presented himself as being. He’d become very good at it.

After all, as Duke of Crewe, he was nothing but a fraud.

Yet he wasn’t certain any of it was working. Jessamyn St Claire had seriously wounded his reputation. He only hoped he could once again become the scourge of London before anyone discovered the truth about how good he truly was. Or those secrets about his father and brother that he needed to keep hidden from the light.

He shook out his shirt that he’d flung across the rope when the match started and yanked it on over his head. He felt not one bit of self-consciousness as he unbuttoned his trousers and tucked in the long tail of his shirt. The women in the crowd were already intimately familiar with all the private bits of men, unlike Jessamyn St Claire.

A grin quirked at his lips. He’d kissed her only to grab her attention and silence her. Yet when his lips had touched hers, the annoying gel had looked as shocked as if he’d just admitted to attempting to kill the king. What would she have done if he’d given her a proper kiss, one that captured her sweetness yet conveyed all the wicked acts he wanted to do with her if she surrendered?

“My blunt, please, Mr. Fulton,” Lucien called out to the event’s organizer as he pulled his braces into place over his shoulders and tied the trouser string at the small of his back. “All of it, too.” He reached for his waistcoat and shrugged into the smooth satin, then quickly buttoned it. “Don’t make me count it and embarrass you.”

The plump man scowled. He spent most of his evenings eagerly promoting these illegal pop-up boxing bouts while also avoiding the authorities, who were keen to close him down and plop him into prison if he didn’t hand over his winnings to convince them to turn a blind eye. Certainly, having a ringer like Lucien come in and knock down his favorite gladiator didn’t help his business.

“Who are you?” Fulton narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “A soldier?”

“Something like that,” Lucien muttered as he slipped on his jacket and coat. He held out his hand. “My earnings, please.”

Fulton slapped a handful of coins onto Lucien’s palm and blew out a curse that said exactly what he thought of the way his evening was going.

“Thank you.” Lucien leaned toward the man and lowered his voice until he could just barely be heard above the grumblings of the still-angry crowd. He handed back the coins with a sleight of hand that made anyone watching think he was simply shaking Fulton’s hand. “Tell everyone you talk to that the Duke of Crewe fought here tonight and brilliantly pummeled his opponent. In fact,” he added with a grin as he straightened away and placed his hat on his head, “tell everyone I also kicked the man while he was down.”

Fulton’s mouth fell open.

With a chuckle, Lucien wove his way through the crowd toward the steps that led out onto the footpath and beyond into the darkness of Wapping High Street. If he were lucky, he might just beat the dawn home.

Despite his casual confrontation with Miss St Claire in the carriage, he knew the troublemaking woman was slowly inverting his world, and if he wasn’t careful, the truth about him might just be revealed. The dukedom itself could come crashing down around him, with even prison a distant possibility for the crimes his father had committed, crimes in which Lucien was still willfully participating.

“Crewe!”

Lucien stopped and slowly turned back toward the warehouse. A man hurried toward him through the damp shadows. Automatically, Lucien tensed, but he didn’t reach for the knife he carried in his greatcoat pocket. Years of fighting had taught him the difference between a threat and…well, whatever it was this man wanted from him.

The bald man huffed to a stop in front of him, nearly doubled over from the exertion. Recognizing the rotund man from his clubs but not remembering his name, Lucien waited silently while the man caught his breath.

“By gad,” the man puffed out, “it is you! Couldn’t be sure with all that blood and sweat.”

Lucien touched his split lip with the back of his gloved hand. He should have been glad a blueblood was there to see him fight and spread word of how basely he spent his evenings. But tonight, of all nights, the meeting grated.

“What do you want?” he demanded.

“Right to the point, then, eh?” The man grinned. “You probably want time to swing by a stew or two on your way home.”

Lucien impatiently repeated, “What do you want?”

“Baronet Thompson.” The plump man nodded his bald head in introduction. “I’m sure you’ve heard of me.”

“Not at all,” he drawled. One of the benefits of being a nasty blackguard was that he didn’t have to give empty pleasantries. To anyone. Ever.

The man blinked, then laughed and rocked back on his heels, as if Lucien were joking. “Is it true you own a little property west of Ealing? I’m looking to buy a country box out that way and thought you might be interested in selling.”

Lucien’s heart stopped. No one knew about the Ealing farm…Phillip’s farm. No one. He’d done everything in his power to keep it that way.

“Pardon?” Lucien narrowed his eyes. How the devil did this fop find out about Ealing? The man smiled, oblivious to the icy tone of Lucien’s voice. “I’m looking for a small property, you understand. Only a hundred acres or so. That’s all I need. I’m a rising voice in Whitehall, and I need a property to match my status. As a duke, I’m certain you understand the importance of public image.”

Lucien’s blood ran cold. “You are mistaken.” He bit out each word, emphasizing them so this man would be left with no misunderstanding and could tell whoever had given him the information that he was wrong. Dead wrong. “ I do not own any property in Ealing.”

That was the God’s truth. His disinherited brother possessed every square inch of it, and always would, if Lucien had his way. Giving the farm to Phillip when he’d inherited the dukedom was the least Lucien could do for what their father had done by casting Phillip from the family.

Lucien turned on his heel, flipped up his coat collar, and stalked away without another word. He could almost feel the baronet’s baffled stare on his back as he walked on into the dark city night along the Thames, but he didn’t stop to give any kind of explanation or look back.

With every long stride, his heart pounded brutally against his ribs, and his muscles knotted as he hurried along the black ribbon of river winding its way through the sleeping city. The tension boiling inside him wasn’t because of the fight or bruises from any lucky punches his opponent managed to land. It was because, for the first time since he was eighteen, he felt exposed. Not even during the years when he fought as a mercenary in Spain and Prussia had he felt his life had been in as much danger as it was now.

And all because of that annoying slip of a meddling miss who had so thoroughly inverted his life.

Damnation. He was in trouble.

Hunching his shoulders against the night, he welcomed the cold and damp as he followed the river past London Bridge along its wide sweep toward Westminster in the distance. He knew he should hire a boatman at the next set of steps to take him upriver, but the miles of walking would do him good and give him time to plan his battle strategy. Besides, he wasn’t afraid that an opportunistic footpad might emerge from the shadows and attempt to rob him— Just try it. I’ll bury you if you do. In fact, he’d welcome it.

Two miles and half an hour later, he reached the Strand where Somerset House stood like a sentinel beside the bend in the river curving away toward Westminster. From here, his path would cut inland to follow the most direct route toward Mayfair. So he jogged across the deserted street to the opposite side.

His eyes landed on the bills posted on the brick wall and the large banner flying overhead, and he halted to a dead stop, stunned. Then he let out a fierce curse.

Everywhere he looked up and down the street, bills and banners announced the annual autumn art and book exhibition, a special event hosted between the end of the season and the winter holidays, whose proceeds went to help the widows and children of men killed in the wars. In the past, Lucien had anonymously donated money to sponsor it, but this… Christ.

Every bill and banner announced in large letters that this year’s exhibition was proudly sponsored by the Duke of Crewe.

His double life had been made public in the most spectacular, grandest way imaginable. He would never be able to claim there had been a mistake, not with something this big. Not with men like the baronet eating into his privacy. God only knew how long it would be before his crimes were revealed.

Enough. He clenched his jaw and ripped one of the bills off the wall, then crumpled it in his fist and shoved it into his coat pocket.

Jessamyn St Claire had finally gone too far.