Page 4 of The Viscount's Silent Pugilist

Unfortunately, shaking off his day—make that his month if he included the death of Ralph Kincaid, his family’s loyal man of business—was proving difficult since his friend, Tristan Keats, The Duke of Griffendale, was behaving like an unholy arse. If the duke made one more pass at Jonathan’s date, he’d have to punch the larger man’s teeth down his throat.

On the other hand, after staring at circles, and lines that were akin to hieroglyphics, he didn’t have the energy to compete for Lady Celeste Milton’s attention or to deal with Griffendale’s temper. His friend might not realize Jonathan was frustrated with him, because everyone, including his best mates, thought him incapable of foul moods or serious thoughts. Jonathan liked it this way—most of the time.

Currently, Roseanna Chapman—Thorny Rose, to the boxing Fancy—had Clementine O’Reilly against the ropes. Her alternating hooks slammed into Sweet Clementine’s obliques.

“Uppercut, Roseanna,” Griffendale hollered.

Roseanna dipped, then sent her fist up and through Clementine’s jaw. Clementine wobbled, then slid down the ropes.

Celeste dug her fingernails into Jonathan’s arm.

“One. Two. Three. Four. Five…” the umpire counted as Clementine grabbed the rope and slowly hoisted herself onto her feet.

“Shite,” Griffendale grumbled, as he shoved another overenthusiastic bloke away from him and into Jonathan. That made at least half a dozen fits of temper tonight. “I just want this fight to be over.”

“Griffendale, what is your problem?” Nicolas asked.

“My Frosty Set-to is only a few weeks away and Clementine backed out of it,” Griffendale grumbled. “Claims she needs to rest. She and Roseanna were to start off the afternoon.”

This was hardly a reason to be so insufferable, but Griffendale had become obsessed with hosting mills and female fighters in particular. The Frosty Set-to must be another of the duke’s pugilism projects. Not that Jonathan would inquire, because Celeste’s warm body was all he cared about at the moment.

“Ask another fighter,” Jonathan said as he buried his nose in Celeste’s hair and inhaled.Delicious.

“Easier said than done,” the duke said. “Franny and Josie turned me down, and Lady Paulsgrove will be touring the continent. Ruth the Jewel is rather a pain in the arse. We need more female blood.”

Not Jonathan’s problem.

The fighters took to their corners, plopping their arses onto their coaches’ knees. Roseanna’s coach happened to be Franny, a fiery red-headed woman whom Jonathan considered a dear friend. Josie, who was both the bottlewoman and Nicolas’s wife, handed Roseanna a drink.

“Jonathan,” Celeste purred in his ear. “Shall we get some fresh air?” She dragged her fingers along his forearm.

Fresh airwas the dowager countess’s code expression for finding an intimate corner. Desire jolted through Jonathan. What a devil of a decision. To stay in this smoky, overloud basement and put up with Griffendale’s foul mood, or have his cock sucked in his carriage?

Jonathan snorted. What an easy choice for a randy-as-hell rake who’d had a trying month.

“Round three,” the ringmaster called through his speaking trumpet.

Jonathan grabbed Celeste’s hand and dragged her up the stairs and out of the questionable establishment.

“Shall we retire to my townhouse?” Celeste asked as they strolled to his carriage.

If they made it that far. Jonathan nipped her ear. “Sounds delightful.”

A loud commotion stopped Celeste in her tracks. “What was that?”

Sounded like fisticuffs to Jonathan. “Nothing.” He tugged Celeste toward the carriage.

An angry growl pierced the dark.

Celeste dug her heels into the cobblestones. “Jonathan, that sounded like a wolf. Why would a wolf be in the city?”

Since ignoring the cacophony hadn’t worked, he might as well be honest. “I believe ’tis just an angry hound.”

“Give it here ye scraggly rat,” someone yelled.

“Hand it over or we’ll kill ye, ye bloody son of a bitch,” someone else demanded.

The dog howled.