Page 21 of The Viscount's Silent Pugilist

Instead of staring at him as if buzzing bees had taken up residence in his cranium, she grinned. Reflected sunlight glittered in her eyes and danced in her thick lashes. He should probably tell her that her disguise, if that’s what her clothing preferences were, was not working. No one in their right mind would think she was a man—not with her glissading down the street, oozing feminine charm. But he couldn’t just now when she seemed to be enjoying herself. He would rather bang his head against a wall than steal her smile.

“Someday, we could stop in Clifton’s Confectionery, and you could choose some sweets. That is if you would like to.”

Her shoulders lifted with her sigh.

He’d take that as ayes.

They turned onto Berkeley Square, and she stopped short. Floppy kept walking, dragging her behind him.

She dug her heels into the cobblestones. “No,” she whispered.

Jonathan startled at the sound of her lone meek and quivering word. He searched their surroundings, looking for what had terrified her.

Lovely houses. Servants bustling. Ladies in fine dresses.

Call him befuddled.

He followed her gaze to the townhouse one building away. The deplorable Lord Kilsby’s spindle-shanked stature and signature striped breeches—today they were turquoise and black—made him easy to identify. He stood on the front stoop, walking stick in hand. He was too far away to know for sure,but judging by the butler’s caved shoulders, Jonathan wagered Kilsby was an unwelcome visitor.

As if proving his point, the butler shut the door. Kilsby turned on his heel and started toward them.

“Bloody hell, I do not fancy that bloke,” Jonathan grumbled. “Wagers big and cheats like a son of a bitch.”

Gen whimpered, then squatted. Hugging Floppy, she buried her face in his hair.

“Do you know him?” Jonathan asked.

She peered up at him, her eyes wide. Oh, she knew him all right, and obviously, he terrified her.

“Davenport,” Lord Kilsby said as he approached.

“Kilsby.” Jonathan failed to temper his sneer or the sound of disgust in his voice. If Gen weren’t cowering against the dog, he would hurry past the obnoxious bloke. As it was, he was stuck conversing with him.

Kilsby glared at Gen and the mutt.

Floppy drew his lips back, baring his teeth in a threatening snarl. Meanwhile, Gen’s face remained hidden, pressed against the dog’s neck.

“Damnable dog needs to be taught a lesson.” Kilsby lifted his walking stick as if he meant to strike Floppy.

Jonathan stepped between the dog and the rat. “Hit the dog and I’ll kick your bollocks up inside your arse.” This was no idle threat. Men who hurt animals were no better than the devil.

Kilsby snorted. “By God, Davenport, you’ve never had control of your staff. Why is your servant not addressing me properly?”

Kilsby could go to the devil. What made him think Gen was Jonathan’s servant? She could be his chum. Or his betrothed.

Gen’s palpable terror radiated, sinking into Jonathan’s bones. Perhaps she was a servant Kilsby had abused. A pretty maid he had tried to force into his bed. No wonder she worea disguise and lived on the streets. A sane woman would avoid Kilsby at all costs.

Red-hot anger obliterated Jonathan’s reason. Who cared that Kilsby outranked him? The man was an unpopular mooncalf. “Move along, Kilsby,” he said between clenched teeth. “The hound knows a rat when he sees one. Snacks on them for fun. Bites their heads off, sucks their blood out, and then eats their bodies whole.”

Kilsby snorted. “Such indecent behavior in the middle of the street.”

“Bugger off,” Jonathan said.

“Well, I never,” Kilsby said. “You are no gentleman, Davenport.”

“Put a cork in it. You are as ungentlemanly as they come.” Jonathan thumped the rat arse in the chest. “I said, move along.”

Kilsby harumphed. “You will be sorry.” Lifting his nose in the air, he pushed past them, his walking stick clicking on the cobblestones. His threat was idle; the man was an insufferable coward who hid behind his pedigree.