Page 11 of The Viscount's Silent Pugilist

Those invisible fists wrapped around her throat and squeezed.

“Parlez-vous français, Bleue?” Jonathan asked.

Not any better than she spoke English most days. She shook her head.

“¿Habla usted español?”

She slid her head back and forth.

“Sprichst du Deutsch, Blaue Augen?”

Her German was rather abysmal, but she knew enough to realize he’d called her Blue Eyes. How lovely that, as repulsive as she currently was, he’d noticed and focused on the color of her eyes. Perhaps he sensed an earl’s granddaughter beneath the muck and disguise. Be still her pirouetting heart.

“Me either. I fooled you with my stellar pronunciations, didn’t I?” He sighed. “Actually, those are the only words I know.”

His deep chuckle warmed her from the inside out.

“I have a confession,” he said. “And since you won’t understand what I am saying, it shall be quite easy to admit it to someone. Finally.”

As curious as she was, she vehemently shook her head, trying to dissuade him from trusting her with secrets she had no right to hear.

He didn’t seem to understand what she was trying to communicate because he leaned forward and whispered, “The truth is, I can’t speak all those languages. Hell, my English is questionable some days. I was a terrible student. Would have been thrown out of Bedford and Cambridge if it weren’t for my best friend. And another thing, I spent most of today staring at ledgers. They give me a blasted headache. Every single time.” He waggled his finger at Horatio. “Don’t you tell anyone, Floppy, or no bacon for you.”

Horatio’s lips quirked upward as if he were smiling.

Jonathan leaned back against the squabs. “Damnation, it felt good to admit that out loud.”

Genevieve swallowed a lump of guilt. This man was being so kind to her, and she’d deceived him. Not on purpose, but still. Why was she so defective?

“Let me see, what else have I been itching to get off my chest?”

This felt so wrong, like treachery of the worst sort. If he chose to confide in her once he knew she understood every wordhe said, that would be different. She had to find a way to tell him she’d lost her voice. Well, mostly lost it. When no one was around she could whisper to Horatio. And she could talk to her siblings. If only they were here. She swiped at the tears suddenly dripping down her cheeks.

“Don’t cry, Blue,” he said. “You’ll get soil, and lord knows what else, in those pretty eyes. And besides, we are home.”

*

Jonathan helped Genevievedown from the carriage as if she were a genteel lady, which she supposed she no longer was. Of course, if she were, her carriage ride across town with a gentleman without a chaperone would destroy her reputation. But no one cared about a filthy street woman’s reputation. Tragic, truly. What a cruel world this was.

“May I present Greenpark House,” he said with a gentlemanly bow.

Swallowing another lump in her throat, Genevieve sniffled. How was she to get a hold of her emotions when he’d referred to Greenpark House ashome? Especially since the white four-story brick townhouse reminded her of a larger, grander version of her family’s Terrace Place. It even boasted an ornate second-floor bowed window, and a wrought iron fence spanned the length of the elegant building.

The front door opened, and a man in his middling years, wearing a banyan and holding a candle, stepped to the side so that they could enter. Genevieve and Horatio padded into a grand foyer of polished marble, fresh flowers, and softly glowing wall sconces.

“Peters, my good man, I’ve told you that you don’t need to wait up for me. But tonight, I’m glad you did. We have guests.”Jonathan swept his arm, presenting the filthy duo. “Miss Blue and Floppy.”

Peters, who must be a stellar butler, regarded her without a hint of emotion on his face. Genevieve didn’t detect even the slightest questioning brow, or an offended nostril sniff.

“Put them in the front room,” Jonathan directed. “Wake whoever you need to assist you and see that they both have a bath. Have Diana deliver some of Caroline’s old dresses to Miss Blue, and make sure she also has a pair of clean breeches and one of my shirts.”

“Yes, sir,” Peters said. “Should I wake the dowager viscountess?”

It seemed Jonathan Davenport was a viscount, which did not surprise Genevieve in the least.

“Not this time,” Lord Davenport said. “Let my mother sleep. But as soon as she wakes up in the morning, let her know that we have guests. We shall have a formal breakfast.”

“Yes, sir,” Peters said.