Chapter 25

One month later

The Rapier Club

Evening

London

It had never occurred to Jack that his wife would play dirty. She’d seemed so honorable, so sporting, so above it all. He’d been so mistaken.

A gorgon. He’d married a merciless gorgon who wouldn’t accept what was best for her. And as a result, Jack Eversleigh, The Duke of Hunt was cowering. . . Yes, cowering in his brother’s rapier club because it was the one place she could not track him down.

The blasted woman was a bloodhound. She’d followed him from ball to ball, party to party. She’d attempted to meet him on morning rides and had even had the gall to try to intercept him on the way to his club. The determination was terrifying and he’d only narrowly avoided being engaged in conversation by a hair’s breadth.

His family was also in cahoots. His sister, his mother, and god help them all his grandmother, were all attempting to get him into the same room as his wife and he was having none of it.

It didn’t matter that he longed, yes longed, to speak with her. To hold her in his arms and to allow himself to have her.

Jack cradled the bottle of brandy in his arm, like a long lost child and desperately attempted to focus on the two men fencing. One, his brother, and two. . . A total unknown, but a fellow that was keeping up with Charles’ flying blade with admirable aplomb. Perhaps someone out there in the world was indeed Charles’ match for swords.

At that moment, the two men, sweating, but neither out of breath bowed, conceded the match a draw.

Charles strode over, the younger man in toe. The fellow was quite big really. Not quite as big as Charles, but he was a pup. In a few years, the black haired grey eyed man would no doubt be a veritable giant. “Meet your match?” Jack drawled.

“Possibly,” said Charles, as complimentary as he could become. He turned to his opponent. “Have you met my brother?”

“I’ve not even officially met you, sir. Someone simply pointed at you and said you were the best fight in the club.”

Charles smiled dryly. “So I am. . . Until now. I finally have someone to duel with, thank god.”

Jack lifted the crystal decanter. “Care for a drink?”

The young man smiled. “Don’t mind if I do.”

He was awfully familiar this pup. Jack narrowed his eyes, his brain slightly fuzzy, as he attempted to discern where he might have set eyes upon him.

Charles clapped the young man on the back. “Shall we proceed to one of the common rooms?”

Jack hauled himself up from the floor, staggered slightly and led the way, the two behind him speaking of ripostes and masters that his befogged mind couldn’t discern. Perhaps another drink would fill the hole in his heart? Heart. What nonsense. When had he started thinking so morosely?

Light poured in from the tall windows overlooking St. James Park and Jack plunked himself down in a leather chair, studded manfully with brass tacks. The entire rectangular gathering place was a refuge of all that was manful, point in fact.

Dark wood, green lamps, heavy furniture, and dead animals graced the walls. A woman would turn tail and run. Its why he’d chosen Charles’ club, he’d known there was no way Cordelia could inveigle herself into his brother’s sanctum.

And he couldn’t see her.

Charles and friend sat with a good deal more composure but before either could truly settle back, a butler had appeared out of nowhere, as all Charles’s staff did, immediately bringing two more glasses. The older man gave one look to the dwindling amber liquid sloshing around in Jack’s decanter, turned on his heel and marched off, no doubt to rectify the sin of depletion.

Charles cocked his head to the side and studied the younger man. “Now, why have we never met?”

“I’m new to London. Just arrived actually.”

“Indeed,” Charles drawled. “A virgin?”

The young man shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Hardly.”

“Good then.” Charles clapped the boy on the shoulder. “You’ll come out with us tonight. If you’re as good with your sword as you are with a blade my ladies will love you.”

Jack caught himself about to say that he was going nowhere. That he was hunkering down until he’d heard confirmed reports that Cordelia had taken off for parts unknown. He couldn’t risk seeing her again. He’d crack if he did. But before he could make such a declaration, the pup had leaned forward, excitement bridling his muscled frame.

“Your ladies?” the stranger asked.

Jack eyed his drink. Would it be bad form to continue drinking the dregs of the bottle whilst supplies were being foraged for? “Charles has a string of women at his command. Rather like a harem.”

“Harems aren’t all they’re cracked up to be,” the young man said, holding out his glass.

Realizing it would be far better if he could get the young stallion sozzled, he poured the remnants of his decanter into the outstretched glass. Drinking alone really was the devil.

Charles leaned back in his chair, his body casual, but there was an undeniable spark of interest in his gaze. “And you know this first hand.”

A devilish smile confirmed that indeed their young visitor did have first hand knowledge.

“Where in god’s name were you in a harem?” Jack asked, an unwelcome feeling conquering the barely tolerable sensation the scotch had invoked.

“Africa.”

Jack stilled. “Africa?”

“Yes. Lived there most of my life if you must know, except for one failed attempt at groom and polish. They took one look at me when I arrived at Eton and sent me back.”

Jack snuck a glance at Charles, who was also sneaking a glance back.

“What?” the young man asked, swinging his attention from one Eversleigh to the next. “It really wasn’t anything. The harem business—”

“Never mind the harem.” Jack ignored the growing feeling of dread pooling in his stomach. “What did you say your name was?”

The young chap’s gaze widened, sensing something was afoot. “Basingstoke. Anthony Basingstoke. We’re guests of the Duke of Darkwell.” He started to point over his shoulder. “My brothers are—”

“Why?” Jack groaned.

“Jack,” Charles said sotto voce. “Keep your damn mouth shut.”

But Jack couldn’t. The dam had been opened. Not by the woman herself, but by the gods who clearly enjoyed watching mortals act like idiotic ants without a jot of control as they scurried over this moron infested earth. “She follows me everywhere and now her damn brothers—”

Anthony Basingstoke straightened, his joviality diminishing with the same sort of speed of a gambler who had just lost his last sou. “I beg your pardon, sir?”

“That woman. She is the devil. A conjurer or just mad.”

The color drained out of Anthony Basingstokes's face and he vaulted to his feet. “Its you.”

“How original,” Jack drawled.

“Bloody hell,” sighed Charles.

“Get up, you bastard,” Anthony hissed.

Jack lifted his glass in a mock salute. “I’d rather not, young pup.”

“Get up,” Anthony gritted.

Jack defiantly lifted his glass and drank.

“You sodding—”

Jack held up his hand, finishing off the brandy before he smacked his lips as rudely as he could. “You were saying?”

Color flushed Anthony’s cheeks showing his age. “I said, you are a sodding—”

“Bastard, blah blah blah.” Jack dropped his head back to rest against the chair, propped one leg over his knee and grinned. “You clearly haven’t been at this very long.”

Anthony drew in a righteous breath. “You sir, are a cad.”

“And proud of it,” Jack replied, lifting up the decanter scowling at its emptiness then bellowing, “Where the hell has the brandy gone?”

“Are you not listening?” Anthony demanded.

“Indeed, I am. But,” he let out a burp, pounded his chest, then continued “because you are related to her, you have managed to miss the essential.”

Young Anthony paused. “Which is?”

“The liquor is gone. Where is it? We might have well gone to France ourselves.”

Charles groaned and covered his eyes with his palm. “Jack why can’t you simply shut your pie hole.”

He glared at his twin. “This from you? Master of Say What I Want When I want.”

“Yes,” Charles acceded. “But I do so in such a way as too—”

“Excuse me, but you both seem to be missing the point entirely.”

Jack and Charles glanced at the whippersnapper.

“Which is?” Jack asked, more out of sympathy for the pipsqueak than curiosity.

Anthony’s grey eyes narrowed. “Your arse is about to be handed to you upon a platter.”

Jack looked back to Charles. Simultaneously, they threw back their heads and bellowed with laughter. The boy did of course have a right to his indignation, but he was no match for the Eversleigh twins. Jack slouched further down his chair. “And I thought I’d had a spot too much to drink. Clearly, you’re a bottle on me, pup.”

“I am not a pup and neither are my brothers.”

Brothers? That gave Jack pause. He knew Cordy had brothers. Now, how many had there been? Surely no more than two?

“What brothers?” Charles asked.

Anthony gave a jerk of his chin toward the back corner of the room at a rather large group of brawny looking men, clearly not from London.

Jack’s laughter subsided and a good dose of sobriety grabbed his guts as he spotted two black haired pates turn, seemingly as one, his way. Jack smoothed a hand down his front. They were male pictures of Cordelia at different ages. “Those brothers, eh?”

“Yes. So, I think you will be on a platter and very soon.” Anthony smiled a wicked grin. “A nice, rare bit of meat.”

Jack blew out a frustrated breath. He loved a good brawl as much as anyone, but not with his wife’s brothers. “Now look here, this just isn’t done. Is it Charles?”

“A terrible cliché, and all that.” Charles added. “Fisticuffs with the in-laws.”

“Get up,” Anthony ordered.

Jack held up his hands, well one hand, since the other sill firmly gripped the decanter. “Now, can’t we be civilized, old boy? Cordelia will have a fit if we break heads.”

One of the Basingstoke men, a barrel chested devil with red streaks in his black hair and a slightly crooked nose, suggesting an intimate acquaintance with boxing, crossed the room in slow even strides. “Have a fit?” he echoed. “You’ve got it wrong, old boy.”

“Have I?” Jack’s vision swam ever so slightly as his sense of bravado did a quick exit. Things were about to get interesting.

“She won’t have a fit.” The boxer gritted. “She’s already bloody had one.”

“Has she indeed?” Jack asked, forcing a lightness to his tone that belied his sudden curiosity. It was all he could do to stop his drunken tongue from asking if she was alright. If she was well. And if she. . . Jack swallowed, hating himself for a fool. Because what he really wanted to know was beyond all her mad, determined pursuit business, was if she truly missed him. As he missed her.

“She has. And now we’re going to beat the lights out of you.”

“I don’t think you will,” Charles said calmly.

“And why not?” The bigger, older brother demanded.

“This is my premises and I will personally see you evicted if you don’t behave in a calm rational—”

A fist flew. A Basingstoke fist and before Jack knew what was happening, he was up on his feet, knuckles raised. Charles took his back and they squared off against the invaders, ready to go down swinging if necessary. “Five to two. Hardly sporting,” Jack drawled.

The biggest one shrugged. “She’s our sister. We don’t give a rat’s arse about sporting.”

Jack gave a tight nod, ready for a good and welcome beating. Anything to drive that damned woman out of his head. “Understood.”