Page 60 of The Lyon's Pretty Pugilist

“Did you not enjoy his performance?” Lady Siddons asked. “Nothing compares to his role as Shylock, but I thought this performance was almost as good.”

Bridget shook her head. “I have never seen him perform.” She inclined her chin toward the entrance. “What is she doing here?”

Josie tore her gaze from the iced flower on her cake to gawk at a lacey pink nightmare. She blinked and looked again. She’d been correct the first time.

Miss Lydia Small stood between an older woman and one of the bootlickers who’d accompanied her to the modiste.

Agatha’s expression barely changed, but her knuckles whitened, and her teacup tipped. A dribble of dark liquid spilled onto her sleeve. “Heavens,” she whispered. She stood, gently placed her cup on a side table, and strolled to the three women.

“Bloody friggin’ hell,” Josie mumbled under her breath, earning her a scathing rebuke from the frowning etiquette enforcer in blue seated nearby.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Why today, ofall days, when Nicolas’s temple throbbed, and he craved the dark, did the sun choose to beat down on London? And why was he allowing Davenport to drag him to St. James’s Street when he’d prefer to be tucked beneath his blankets? One could argue that at least White’s was better than The Lyon’s Den. That is if one was inclined to have an opinion, which would take far more energy than Nicolas currently had. Served him right for downing a decanter of brandy when he hadn’t imbibed in years.

He sunk into the carriage squabs, placed his hat over his face, and closed his eyes.

“I dare say, mate, you smell like a tavern floor,” Davenport said.

“You would know,” Nicolas said from beneath his hat.

Davenport chuckled. “By God, Wentworth, are you soused?”

“Could you stop shouting?”

Davenport lifted the makeshift sunshade and peered down at Nicolas. His lips twisted into his insufferable smirk. “I’m not shouting,” he shouted.

Bright light singed Nicolas’s pupils, stabbing pain shot from his eyeballs to his brain, and Davenport’s voice rang and echoed.

“Smart arse.” Nicolas grabbed his hat and laid it once more across his face.

“Chit problems?” Davenport asked as he settled onto the opposite seat.

Nicolas harrumphed. Last night, when he wanted to talk, Davenport hadn’t been around, and today, his head ached too much to form coherent phrases.

“So be it. I’ll just let you stew in cheap ale and misery,” Davenport said.

Nicolas would inform the viscount he’d pickled himself in his expensive brandy another time. However, he suspected Davenport would discover the empty decanter sooner rather than later.

The carriage halted, and Nicolas’s world spun in a dizzying whirl.

“We’re here,” Davenport yelled loud enough to wake the dead.

There was a silver lining to last night’s overindulgence. Nicolas had promised the lord above that if he didn’t die from the hot coppers, he’d never imbibe again. To all that was holy, he had no intention of breaking his promise. He plopped his hat on his head and reluctantly followed Davenport out of the carriage.

The three-story stone building, five bays wide, dominated Nicolas’s ale-stunted view. Using his palm to shield his eyes, he regarded the cast iron balcony and second-floor pilasters so large they could have been forged by Roman gods. Sunlight dappled over the decorative oval relief plaques wreathed with garlands. In the center of the ground floor of the impressive building was the infamous bow window, where men won and lost fortunes. Having a father who had wagered away their family fortune meant gambling held even less appeal than liquor, so Nicolas scowled at the symbolic window.White’s.

Still glowering, he followed Davenport into the establishment, half-heartedly murmuring brain-piercing hellos to the men he recognized. Of course, Davenport bellowed greetings to everyone.

Nicolas had the oddest sensation that the blokes they passed were snickering at him. Could they tell he was jug-bitten? Did they know of his obsession with a hell-on carriage wheels pugilist? Or that he’d been caught in the arms of a cossetted brat who had tricked him into marriage after she’d tossed him into the streets like a piece of rubbish? Perhaps they’d heard that his father had gambled away the family holdings? Did they know his sister had aligned herself with an unpopular cause?

He sighed. Why would any of these men give two shites about him? How arrogant to even think they might. The hot coppers must make one exceedingly paranoid.

He followed Davenport to a large round table. A dozen or so of their peers sat around it, holding lit cheroots and cups of warm drink. Thick cigar smoke wound around Nicolas, filling his nostrils and lungs. He coughed, and his stomach soured. He should have waited in the carriage.

“Excuse me, gents.” Davenport tipped his hat to the men. “I will be back in a moment to discuss our business.” He winked as if he’d just shared some sort of secret and then led Nicolas away from the large group.

What in the blazes was Davenport up to this time?