Page 57 of The Viscount's Silent Pugilist

“My lord,” they said in greeting.

Jonathan did not have time for pleasantries. “Have you seen Miss Gen?” he asked abruptly.

“We did, sir,” Michael said. “We just passed her. She was headed to Brook Street. She was dressed like a man, and her hood was up, but I’m certain it was her, because, well, she does not walk like a man.”

“And I saw her eyes,” Robert added.

“Bloody hell,” Jonathan snapped. “And you just let her go off by herself?”

“I’m sorry, sir,” the pair said simultaneously.

“Would you like us to go after her?” Michael asked, his shoulders slumped.

“No. I will go.” Jonathan needed to pull himself together. His staff was not used to his temper. Mostly because he’d never had one until recently. “I am sorry. I fret because Miss Gen is…” She was hardly fragile. She could punch as hard as Franny and Josie and she could outrun him.

“Quite sweet,” Robert said.

Michael nodded. “And as the ladies all say, very special.”

“Yes, very special,” Jonathan said. And terrified of some monster in her past.

His nerves taut, and lantern in hand, Jonathan cut through the back alley and sprinted to Brook Street. Breathless and panting, he paused and searched the area. In the distance, a figure in a hooded cloak glided.

Jonathan jogged past the night strollers and horse drawn carriages until he almost caught up to her. Then he slowed to a steady walk. Stepping lightly, he followed at a safe distance. To his horror, she turned onto Berkeley Square, then stopped in front of the house where they’d seen Kilsby.

Jonathan tucked himself against a lamppost and watched as she stared at the townhouse, shifting her weight back and forth. He hadn’t intended to spy on her. He simply wanted to ensureshe was safe. But obviously, she’d snuck out of the house because she didn’t want him to know what she was up to. The thing was, if he meant to protect her, he had to know what he was up against.

She slowly approached the house and knocked on the door. He stayed put, prepared to dash to her rescue should Kilsby or danger lurk on the other side of that door.

The door opened. Light from within illuminated a man in livery. Gen handed the butler a note. The message must not be for whoever lived there because the servant opened it.

A finely dressed gentleman sauntered past Jonathan, his walking stick tapping on the cobbles. “Good evening, sir,” he said as he tipped his hat.

“Good evening,” Jonathan said. “Can you tell me who lives there?” He pointed to the house where Gen stood with the butler.

The man halted and faced him. “Let me think.” He tapped his fingers on his stick’s brass handle. “Ah, yes. A young doctor and his wife. They moved in about two months ago.”

“Do you know the doctor’s name?” Jonathan asked.

“Doctor Arnold, I believe. His wife is quite lovely, and they are expecting their first child.”

Jonathan thanked the man, who continued on his way, his cane tapping a steady rhythm.

How odd. What did Gen have to do with a young doctor, his pregnant wife, or Kilsby? If he were a jealous man, he might think the doctor had been one of Gen’s lovers. He growled at the lamppost, then kicked a loose cobble, stubbing his toe.

If the butler didn’t read faster, Jonathan’s nose would sport an icicle and now his throbbing toe was also bloody cold.

At last, the butler shook his head and handed Gen the note. He closed the door, leaving Gen standing alone in a beam of moonlight, her cloak billowing. Her shoulders sagged, makingher appear lonely and despondent. Even though he had no idea what had just happened, Jonathan’s heart tumbled to his frigid feet.

But she wasn’t alone. She had him, his mother, their staff, and her new friends at The Silk Knuckles. Hell, it seemed that even Celeste adored her.

Does she really have you, you libidinous rakehell?

Yes! He was hers!

He inhaled a deep breath. The truth saturated his white, puffy exhale. He did not care who she was or why she was on that front stoop. He didn’t give a bloody farthing if she wasn’t some daughter of an earl, or if she’d grown up on the streets wearing filthy rags. When he was with her, he was exceedingly happy.

For crying out loud, she’d made him a reading thingamabob.