Page 26 of The Viscount's Silent Pugilist

Chapter Nine

Jonathan glared atthe back of Franny’s office door. “Well, bloody hell,” he grumbled since that had not gone as planned. He’d no sooner asked the duo for assistance and explained that Gen preferred not to speak, when Franny had pushed him out of her office. He hadn’t even had a chance to confirm with Gen that she wanted to talk to the proprietresses without him.

“Davenport, you look troubled,” Nicolas said from behind him. “Does something have you distressed?”

Swallowing his frustration and adopting his smart-arse grin, Jonathan turned to find that Nicolas, Robinson, and Griffendale were gathered in his space.

“What in the devil are the three of you doing staring over my shoulder?” Jonathan asked. “Don’t you have anything better to do than behave like a brood of nosy hens?”

Griffendale feigned a pout, his bottom lip halfway to the continent. “Poor Davey. The ladies not interested in your charms? At least I assume the dainty bloke you escorted in here like precious cargo is a chit.”

Bollocks!Firstly, Jonathan hated when Griffendale called him Davey because it was always accompanied with the big man’s attempt at a childish voice. Secondly, if Griffendale had figured out that Gen was a woman, had Kilsby?

Surely not. Kilsby had even indicated he thought she was a male servant.

Protecting Gen from dangers he didn’t entirely understand had Jonathan on pins and needles. He needed to calm the blazes down. And he would, right after he rid Griffendale of his self-satisfied smirk.

“I suppose you would think that, Duke, since ladies are always throwing you out of their chambers,” Jonathan shot back, knowing full well that Griffendale could charm a nun out of her habit. However, Jonathan could do it faster. Maybe even twice as fast. But that was a wager for another day.

Griffendale shrugged. “I couldn’t say, because no female has ever thrown me out. Most ladies drag me into their chambers. In fact, you should have seen Celeste Milton the other night after the fight at The Purple Rabbit. Showed up at my door, smelling as sweet as a flower garden and then—”

Nicolas held up his palm. “Wait a minute, Griffendale. You told me you sent Celeste home before anything happened.”

Griffendale’s cheeks flamed as red as his scruff as he sputtered some sort of incoherent rambling about Wentworth misunderstanding, which was not even a tiny bit believable, because the astute Nicolas Wentworth never misunderstood anything. The future earl was, in fact, the most intelligent, intuitive man of Jonathan’s acquaintance. Which begged the question, why did Griffendalewanthim to believe he’d tupped Celeste? Perhaps he was simply trying to get under Jonathan’s skin. If the tables were turned Jonathan might do the same thing.

Robinson rolled his eyes. “Moving on… Can I be of assistance in whatever is going on in there?” He thumbed toward his wife’s office.

“No,” Jonathan said. However, since Robinson was a deuce of an investigator, he might be able to discover Gen’s connection to Kilsby. But for now, the only thing Jonathan needed was for Gen to walk out of that office, unafraid and smiling.

As if he’d conjured that very thing, the door opened, and with a massive grin lighting up her face, Gen exited, almost bumping into him.

Thank Christ.

Josie and Franny followed her, halting to address the four of them huddled together like gossiping fishwives.

“Gentlemen,” Franny said. “Meet our new student, Gen. Now, if you will excuse us, Josie needs to take her class back before Bridget coerces the ladies into a rousing game of Smack the Arse of the Debutante standing next to you.”

Nicolas winced. “Josie, you’d better hurry. ’Tis getting unruly over there.”

A glance at the ladies’ class proved Nicolas was correct. Bridget’s palms were on the ground, and her buttocks were in the air, wiggling. She looked a lot like the tail-wagging Floppy right before he pounced. Some of the ladies, the ones young and flexible enough to do so, were also palms on the floor, arses jiggling.

The group of them standing outside Franny’s office broke into chuckles, minus big brother Nicolas and the unfortunate Josie, who growled out an indelicate, but not unexpected, “Bloody friggin’ hell.”

“Don’t let Bridget near fans, walking sticks, or pens,” Nicolas said, his voice firm. “She has a habit of turning them into weapons. Chamber pots, too. Whatever you do, do not stay in the same room as Bridget and a chamber pot.”

“Empty or full?” Jonathan asked, fearing the answer.

Nicolas cringed. “My sister is an equal opportunity chamber pot Samurai.”

A round of gags ensued.

“Warning received,” Jonathan said, thankful that none of his flirtations with the irreverent bluestocking who fancied herself a fierce warrior had come to fruition.

Josie marched to her class, then dragged a frowning Bridget to the back of the bevy.

Franny half-chuckled, half-sighed—the typical reaction people usually had to Bridget. “Gen and I are going to start our session.”

“Miss Gen, are you taking the ladies’ exercise class or training to be a prizefighter?” Griffendale asked with his wolfish grin, which would someday be his demise. Maybe even tonight.