The Duchess Takes a Husband, page 14
The image her mind conjured up for how she might do that was shocking. It involved him in the nude and her kissing every inch of his body. That thrum between her legs happened again. But that was most definitely not what he meant and not what she should be thinking about in public. It made her giggle just knowing her own thoughts were so naughty in the midst of everything.
“You were the most perfect host, dear Jacob,” she teased. “The most handsome and charming and desirable host in the entire world. Your sheer mastery of the room was a sight to behold. If you weren’t already otherwise engaged in your hosting duties, I would engage your services until the end of time.”
He let out a bark of laughter. “These are the sort of accolades I prefer. I’m glad you understand me.”
The butler returned and helped her with her cape and then he was opening the door, the cool wind hitting her face. It felt marvelous. Once they were on the pavement, Jacob’s arm at her waist guided her along. Before she knew it, they were in the delicious darkness of the carriage. She sat far closer to him than was necessary. She told herself that it was the champagne making her behave this way, but the very fact that she was cognizant enough to grasp at the excuse made her realize the lie.
“I haven’t had this much champagne in a long time.” Not since the early days of her marriage at any rate. Then, she had wanted its muting effects. Now, she liked how it helped her be bold. She pressed her thigh against the hard length of his.
He didn’t move away. Instead, his arm went around her shoulders, holding her closer, as if sitting like this were the most natural thing in the world for them.
She let her head fall to his chest. He was the only solid presence in her life at the moment. Maybe at all. Before she could debate the thought, her mind focused on the way his fingers rubbed small circles on her arm.
“I had fun tonight. I can’t remember the last time I had fun,” she said.
He took a wavering breath. “I’m glad.” His lips touched the top of her head.
She closed her eyes, imagining how his hand might feel with no clothing between them. Her breasts tightened and that wonderful fluttery feeling happened in her lower belly. The smell of sandalwood filled her nose. She rubbed her thighs together to relieve the strange pressure growing there.
“Shh . . .” He misunderstood her restlessness. “I’ll have you home soon.”
“No.” She grabbed a handful of his coat and he startled a bit. “I don’t want to go home. I want to be with you.”
His lips pressed together and she had the disturbing feeling that he was trying not to smile. “It’s the champagne.” One hand covered hers and gave a gentle squeeze, while the other tightened at her waist.
“No, it’s not.” But that wasn’t completely true. “Maybe, but only a little. Haven’t you ever . . . had sex”—God, she’d actually said it!—“under the effects of champagne?”
He grinned. “Of course, among other things.”
“Then we should try again. Now . . .” Er, maybe not in the carriage. “We could go to your house.”
“Camille . . .” He cupped her head and dragged the pad of his thumb across her lips. “I want you more than you will ever know, but not tonight. Not like this.” Before she could process that, he pulled her into his lap, where it was readily apparent to her that he was telling the truth. He did want her very much, because he was hard and thick beneath her bottom. Staring into her eyes, he said, “I will be inside you one day soon, and when I am I want you to remember it well.”
She wanted that, too, more than anything she had wanted in a very long time. His mouth covered hers and made her feel hot and overly sensitive. His tongue stroked against hers and her bones melted into him. Her breath became a part of him, so that when the carriage came to a stop and he pulled back, she felt as if he took a piece of her with him.
“Good night,” he whispered.
She bade him a good evening, even though she was disappointed, and he helped her out of the carriage. As she turned away, he called her back.
“Hereford’s heir . . . has he bothered you since the Ashcroft ball?” His brow furrowed in concern.
“No, I haven’t heard from him.” Thankfully, Scarbury seemed content to leave her be.
“Good. You know you can come to me if you need assistance with him.”
She smiled. She had no idea what Jacob thought he might do about the man, but she loved that he cared. “Good night, Jacob.”
She floated down the block and up the steps to her front door. Her key turned the lock and she glanced toward his carriage waiting at the corner. It was too dark to see inside the windows, but she knew he was watching her. Giving a little wave, she hurried inside and up the stairs, not wanting anyone to see her in such a state. After she had undressed and lay in bed, she kept hearing him promise that he would be inside her soon, and she kept remembering how magnetic he had been onstage and how athletic he had appeared in the exhibition matches she had seen him fight at Montague Club. Then she imagined that it was his hands that touched her as she fell asleep in a peculiar state of bliss and frustration.
Chapter 12
Jacob had been in a foul mood ever since turning Camille down a few days ago. He couldn’t stop thinking of her and wondering if she planned to give them another chance. Perhaps she had changed her mind. It didn’t help that every time Webb approached him during the evenings, he’d automatically think it was because she had come. She hadn’t yet. For all he knew, she might choose not to. He had already decided the choice would have to be hers. He couldn’t help her unless she led the way.
Unfortunately, his poor disposition meant he was in short temper and with almost no concentration. He had stared at the column of numbers in front of him for so long the figures were starting to blur. He closed his eyes and squeezed the bridge of his nose. Bloody Turner and his insistence on playing coy. If the man would only agree to invest, then Jacob wouldn’t be sitting here hammering out the details on yet another proposal for En Soirée. The demonstration had gone well. Turner had visited him the next afternoon full of ideas and questions about the cabaret club. Then the notes had begun. They had been exchanging ideas ranging from design to entertainment options to add to the proposal. Not one of the letters had included confirmation that he was definitely planning to invest.
The lack of firm commitment wasn’t a surprise. He knew Turner well enough to understand that the man took his time when evaluating a potential investment opportunity, and he had expected nothing less. Still, it was an exercise in frustration running new numbers every time he sent over an idea. Jacob could have his accountant handle the legwork, but the idea was too precious to allow anyone access to it just yet. No one except for Blanchet and Jacob knew everything. Simon Cavell knew the basics, though not the details. Evan and Christian would find out only after Jacob had secured funding and knew for certain the club would proceed. They would likely have mixed feelings, since neither of them were very fond of Turner. The man had made himself a nuisance trying to invest in Montague Club. Which was why he was working so late this evening. He’d had to wait until Christian went home to bring out the ledgers associated with En Soirée.
A brief knock at his study door interrupted his ruminations. Webb looked around the door, and Jacob’s heart leaped as it always did, hoping the man would tell him Camille was here. “Cavell requires your assistance, sir.”
He sighed, torn between disappointment that she hadn’t come and relief that he had an excuse to put the numbers aside for a bit. He went with relief. “Thank Christ,” he muttered, pushing himself back from the desk. Any interruption from the infernal number tallying was welcome.
Webb’s brow quirked up only the slightest bit in surprise. “He’s belowstairs, sir.”
“Belowstairs?” The only reason he’d be down there was either because a new stock of liquor had come in that needed to be put away in the stone cellar or there was a brawl scheduled. Neither of those was marked on the calendar for this evening. The liquor had come in yesterday. “There’s no fight tonight.”
Webb cleared his throat a bit awkwardly. “There was none scheduled, sir.”
“Fucking hell!” Grabbing his coat from the rack inside the door, he was stalking down the corridor before he had properly shrugged into it. Webb was right behind him.
“One of the stock boys alleges that several of Brody’s men attempted an attack on Cavell back in the mews.”
“Then who’s in the dungeon?” They were at the back stairwell. Jacob took them two at the time, half running to get there before the whole place was a literal bloody mess.
“It appears that he caught one of them, sir.”
“He caught one and brought him to the dungeon?”
“Correct, sir,” answered Webb.
Jacob muttered a series of expletives and sped up.
Montague Club was known for hosting bare-knuckle brawling matches. Many of the club’s patrons participated in what was typically a sparring match between gentlemen. Those were held in the fighting ring in the club’s gymnasium. The dungeon’s fighting ring was a different matter altogether. That was where they held the matches that really mattered, the matches fought for notoriety and outrageous amounts of money. Sometimes, however, the matches were fought for honor and retribution. He figured the current match it hosted fell into the latter category. The idea caught flight when Evan had come into the dukedom and realized how bare his coffers really were, and he’d had to fight for prize money to keep his family afloat. Jacob had gone along with the plan because it had been good business for the club.
A gust of cold air raised the hair on his arms when he opened the door to the cellar. The thumps of fists hitting flesh interspersed with grunts met his ears as he hurried down the stone steps. He turned the corner to the room that housed the fight ring, not surprised to see it full of men watching the entertainment. Eight metal rods had been driven into the ground with twin lines of thick rope stretched tight between them to form a square of fifteen feet on each side. Cavell and another man were in the midst of what looked like a fight to the death.
“What the bloody hell is going on here?” Jacob yelled.
Cavell dodged a blow aimed at his chin by ducking down and charging his opponent, a man who was smaller by at least a stone but had the look of someone who had seen more than his fair share of scrapes. The other man growled in frustration and brought his knee up to land a blow to Cavell’s stomach that had to have knocked the breath out of him. Jacob winced and glanced to the others in the room. Three of the club’s hired security along with several of the kitchen staff, men off the street he didn’t recognize, and the stock boy, who had probably seen the whole thing, lounged nearby on crates and chairs.
“Did you bloody well charge admission?” he asked Cox, their head of security.
The older man shrugged, raking a hand over his balding head in a rare display of nerves. “Only a bit of fun.”
“Break this up,” Jacob ordered.
“Right away, sir.” Dunn and Sanford, the other two security men, jumped to their feet and quickly breached the fight ring.
“Did you at least relieve him of his weapons?” Jacob asked as he watched the two grapple with Cavell, who wasn’t taking too kindly to having his fight ended early.
Cox scoffed as if the question was an insult. To be fair, the man did his job well, so Jacob already knew the answer. He was simply annoyed the fight had been allowed to happen. Cox indicated a crudely made clasp-knife on the floor at his feet. “That’s all he had. We meant to let him go, but he exchanged words with Cavell and then this happened.”
“Do you think Brody sent them?”
James Brody had been a thorn in their side ever since they had conceived of the prizefighting events. Brody had his own brawling club in a seedier area of London, but his operation was known far and wide, so he was able to draw large crowds. When Montague had started holding matches, and especially when Evan had quickly gained notoriety as one of their best fighters, Brody had taken exception to the business they took from him. It hadn’t helped when Evan had beat one of Brody’s best fighters.
Cox shook his head. “It appears they know each other.”
It did seem the fight was personal. Cavell never fought angry, and he was spitting mad if the rage on his face could be believed. Jacob’s security had the other man in hand now, but he wiggled out of their hold and lunged at Cavell again. Cavell had given up the fight, having reached for his coat, which hung over one of the ropes, so he wasn’t prepared when the man landed a fist to his temple. A gash split open and Cavell’s balance faltered, nearly sending him to the ground, but he caught himself with a knee.
Jacob cursed under his breath and bounded over the ropes. He took the man down with a right hook that left him stunned long enough for the security men to drag him out of the ring and toward the stairs without resistance. “Throw him in the alley and tell him if he comes back here he’ll stay the night in our dungeon.”
He glanced at Cox to show his displeasure. The older man dipped his head in guilt as he pocketed the weapon and began herding the spectators out of the cellar.
“Back to work,” Jacob said to the kitchen staff who still lingered. They scurried up the stairs behind the others. By that time, Cavell was shrugging into his coat, effectively hiding the ripped seam in his shirtsleeves, but not the blood that had dribbled crimson stains at his collar. Withdrawing a handkerchief from his pocket, Jacob held it out to him. Cavell accepted it and pressed it to the open wound above his brow line.
“It’s going to scar,” said Jacob, nodding toward the wound. “The ladies aren’t going to appreciate that.”
“Ladies like to shag danger.” He grinned.
He wasn’t wrong. Now that Cavell had taken over Evan’s place as their best fighter, his fights were swarmed by women hoping for a night with him.
“Care to explain what the fight was about?”
Cavell’s jaw clenched and unclenched, his eyes still bright with unresolved anger.
“An old friend sent his regards.” His tone dripped with bitterness.
“Do you mean Brody?”
He nodded as he brought the cotton square down. It was soaked in blood, so he folded it over and pressed it back to the cut. Head abrasions bled profusely, but they weren’t generally dangerous as long as there was no concussion.
“Tell me what happened.” Jacob walked over to check Cavell’s pupils, guiding him out of the ring and toward the gas sconce on the wall. They were nearly the same height, and though he had filled out from the skinny runt he’d been with steady meals over the years, there was still a hunger about his face, a wariness, as if he was always on edge.
Cavell swallowed several times, clearly reluctant to talk. It had been this way ever since he’d appeared at the club’s back door years ago. With a few cracked ribs, a broken jaw, and severely concussed, he hadn’t been able to say very much for days. Thanks to his fevered ravings and the little he did say afterward, they had been able to piece together that he’d run afoul of Brody and had nearly been killed for it. He had been little more than a boy then and had disappeared as soon as he’d recovered enough to run, only to return in a similar condition months later. It had taken a couple of years, but Jacob had gained his trust. Now Cavell lived at Montague Club and had shown himself to be smart and capable, so that he ran the club when Jacob and Christian were away.
“I was on my way back from . . . visiting a friend.” Cavell’s hesitation likely meant that he had been with a woman. He was dressed in his more casual clothing of dark brown trousers and a wool coat. Not the fine fabric of the suits they wore when working at the club. “I first noticed them following me in Clerkenwell around King’s Cross Road. Thought I’d lost them between there and here, but they knew where I was going and waited for me in the alley. There were three of them. Two ran off when Cox came running out, but the last one stayed.”
Assured that his pupils were dilating as they should, Jacob stepped back. “What’s his name?”
Cavell hesitated again. “Butcher.”
“Butcher?” Jacob laughed. “Charming.”
Cavell grinned, cracking the scab that had started to form over his bottom lip. “He’s a charming bloke.”
Jacob wasn’t surprised by the name. He was no expert on the underbelly of London, but he did know that the gangs that ran the seedier parts of the city were vicious bastards. The fact that Cavell had been one of them and had dared to leave had upset their sense of loyalty and fair play. They wanted him back or they wanted him dead.
“This is the first time they’ve come so close to Montague. Do we need to be concerned?” Jacob asked.
“They know the club is secure. They wouldn’t try to break in, and assaulting any of the patrons would have the police sweeping every mews and warren in the city. They want me.”
“Might be a good idea to not go out visiting any friends for a while.”
Hurt mixed with fury passed across Cavell’s face. “She’s not a friend anymore. She must have tipped them off I was visiting. It’s the only way I can think they found me to follow me.”
“Probably for the best.” Jacob had been subtly guiding him away from the friends he’d known before working at the club. They were not good for him. More than once his prize winnings from fighting had disappeared because he’d given them away to people who only wanted to use him.
Cavell nodded. “I need a few minutes to clean up, but I’ll be down soon.”
“No, you’re not working tonight.” When Cavell looked stricken, he added, “Take tonight to recover. You’ll scare the club members with that bruiser.”
Cavell opened and closed his mouth a couple of times, before he finally said, “I’d rather not be alone tonight.”
