Page 13 of The Viscount's Silent Pugilist

Sights, sounds, and smells whirled around Genevieve as servants charged in and out of the room, delivering hot water, food, and drinks. Someone even started a fire in the hearth. Someone else scrubbed the muddy paw prints from the carpeting. Once the action quieted, Diana and another maid peeled away the filthy rags that mud and dirt had adhered to her body, but not before she saved her precious letter and deposited it in the escritoire in the corner.

Once she was alone, Genevieve nibbled on a delicious almond biscuit while sinking into the steaming bathwater. After she scrubbed layers of filth from her body, massaged a rose-scented soap into her skin, and washed her hair, she closed her eyes and relaxed.

One thing had become quite clear—her handsome savior had a habit of bringing home strays.

Chapter Five

Jonathan dismissed Stevens,his valet, then downed a couple glasses of whisky. Once the tension left his body, he stripped and completed his ablutions. Having rid himself of the stink from the stifling basement and the muddy alley, he slid beneath his counterpane and contemplated his day.

Decoding documents, a dirty dog, bruises from a group of heathens, and trying to fall asleep while his prick ached for warm cunny left a lot to be desired. So much for feeling relaxed. What a failure of a day.

How was a man with his responsibilities supposed to handle things without a trustworthy man of business? Kincaid had been aware of Jonathan’s academic shortcomings and had kept them secret. He knew to read important documents aloud, so that Jonathan was kept abreast of everything having to do with his properties and tenants.

Within weeks of Kincaid’s death, Jonathan was drowning in unread missives, contracts, and ledgers. His half-arsed made-up picture code that helped him keep track of wagers was not enough to organize his two estates, the currently uninhabited dowager house, his farms, and his tenants. Add his timber, the grazing rights, and the bloody coal mine that required a lot of attention, and his brain spun like a child’s toy top. Additionally, he and his mother were benefactors for The Silk Knuckles Saloon. It was a lot for a man who couldn’t read and with the attention span of a hyperactive toddler. Despite the occasionalassistance from Nicolas and his mother, Jonathan’s luck was running out. His pile of unread documents was growing, and he didn’t want to disgrace his family the way the Earl of Shiredale had his.

Nicolas—unlike his rotter of a father—was so resilient that he could turn a mountain of shite into priceless jewels. After the Earl of Shiredale gambled away most of his holdings, Nicolas took a job as a reporter to support his family. The bloke never complained, and he seemed quite happy in his new career and marriage.

Over the years, Griffendale had caught on to Jonathan’s shortcomings. Occasionally, he pretended he was perusing Jonathan’s papers because he was nosy. Although he was exceedingly intrusive and obnoxiously rumbumptious, Griffendale sometimes offered helpful advice. He’d even recommended a “trustworthy young steward” who was searching for a new position. Fretting that this “young” man might discover his limitations, Jonathan hadn’t done anything with the information other than tuck the card in his desk.

The duke might mercilessly goad everyone, but he’d never mentioned Jonathan’s intellect or academic skills. However, he wasn’t above trying to best Jonathan in a wager. And obviously, as tonight had proven, flirting with his date.

His mother guarded Jonathan’s secret with a fierce maternal protectiveness. Years ago, she’d mentioned that her late brother had a condition where numbers and letters seemed to move and change directions. “Still, he was quite intelligent,” she’d said. “He could draw and paint like a master.” Then, she let her comment hang between them without another word.

Whenever Jonathan sat at the table with the newspaper spread out in front of him, his mother didn’t shame him or talk down to him. Sometimes he pretended to read the paper. Other times, he stared at the letters, silently cursing them. SinceKincaid’s death, she’d made a habit of wandering into his study, nonchalantly picking up a ledger, and reading it out loud as if it were for her benefit. Truthfully, he feared what thetonwould say about a viscount who had been born with every advantage and was still too stupid to read. No matter how intelligent his mother inferred he might be.

Jonathan lifted his head and beat on his pillow, both fluffing the feathers and taking out his frustrations on the inanimate object. Better than thrashing a human, he supposed.

Enough was enough! His hesitancy to hire a new man because he feared they’d discover his embarrassing secret was for the birds. To the devil with the headaches and his pride. Tomorrow morning, he would contact the man Griffendale had recommended and ask him to come in for an “urgent interview.” He needed to stop fretting. Surely, this man wouldn’t discover he couldn’t read.

But first, he had to introduce the woman in his guest room to his mother.

He winced. As kind-hearted as his mother was, and as much as she loved company, bringing home a bedraggled woman and a flea-ridden animal might be pushing her generosity. His gut instincts told him Blue was no thief, but what if he was wrong and she disappeared with the silver?

His mother would forgive him, but would he forgive himself?

The devil take him. He could be such a sapskull. He should have taken his guest to a lodging house, paid the bill for a few nights, and then sent her on her way. Instead, he’d thrust her onto his servants and referred to Greenpark House as “home”. It had been as if he were telling her his home washerhome.

Which it wasn’t.

He had too many people counting on him, he couldn’t speak without thinking and continue with his impulsive ways. He was a peer of the realm after all. Albeit a mere viscount whocouldn’t read, drank too much, gambled too much, slept about indiscriminately, and missed his father.

Maybe it wasn’t entirely his fault that he was such a scoundrel. When one walked around half their life with a headache, they were bound to do stupid arse things like bring home a pathetic waif with pretty eyes. But what was he to have done, leave her to freeze to death? Ignore that the adolescent rapscallions might come back and torment her? Or worse, pretend he hadn’t noticed there was a dainty woman beneath the disguise?

He sighed. Maybe he had made the correct decision. However, before she got too comfortable, he needed to tell Blue, or whatever her name was, that she could only stay a few days. Unfortunately, he supposed, he should discuss this detail with her before he presented her to his mother.

Jonathan rolled out of bed and slid into his trousers, stockings, and shirt, then grabbed the bedside candle and made his way to the guest room.

Michael and Robert, two of his footmen, stood outside Blue’s door. Michael had his fist poised to knock, and Robert held a rope tethered to Floppy.

“My lord,” both men said with a bow.

Part ratter, part golden bear, and one-hundred percent adorable, the dog jumped, placing its now clean paws on Jonathan’s hips.

He patted the mutt’s head. “You did a fine job, gentlemen.”

“He is a good dog, my lord,” Robert said.

“I’ll take him from here,” Jonathan said. “Thank you for your assistance. Go get some sleep.”