Bedchamber Games Page 8

  She schooled her features into what she hoped was an expression of calm welcome, uncomfortably aware how fast her heart was beating beneath her cloth-bound breasts.

  She drew a deep breath and reached up a hand to push her spectacles higher on her nose. “My lord, good morning. You are very prompt, I see.”

  “Good morning to you, Carrow,” he said as he moved inside. “And I’m only here to the minute because I’m hoping if we leave now we’ll be able to avoid the worst of the traffic on the turnpike. If nothing else, we have a good day for the journey. Should make for easy travel at least. Are you ready?”

  “Indeed. Just let me get my hat and gloves.”

  Moving quickly, she retrieved the items, wanting to be gone before Bertram decided to put in an appearance. But then suddenly he was there, looming above them on the upstairs landing.

  She watched as Lord Lawrence’s gaze moved upward to fix on her brother. He sent him a friendly smile. “How do you do today, Carrow?”

  “My lord.” Bertram stared balefully, his hands fisted at his sides.

  Tension filled the space.

  Good God, she thought, is he deliberately trying to ruin everything? If he isn’t careful, he’s going to get both of us caught.

  “We’re just going, cousin,” she said in a purposely cheerful voice.

  “Yes, so I see. Cousin.” Bertram met her eyes, his own filled with a concern he couldn’t quite conceal, not from her anyway. “I trust you’ll remember what we discussed.”

  “Of course. Now, we’d best not keep His Lordship’s horses standing any longer. I’m sure they’re anxious to be on the road.”

  Bertram opened his mouth and for an instant, she feared he was going to outright refuse to let her leave. But then he obviously thought better of it, his shoulders sinking in defeat. “I’ll see you this evening.”

  “Until this evening,” she agreed, sending him what she hoped was a reassuring look. Quickly, before he had time to change his mind, she hurried out the door.

  Lord Lawrence followed after.

  “What was all that about?” he asked once the two of them were settled in the phaeton.

  “What do you mean?” she said, feigning ignorance.

  “Between you and your cousin. I couldn’t help noticing an undercurrent there. That and the fact that he didn’t seem too keen on you going out.”

  Blister it all. Much as she loved Bertie, sometimes he made her hands itch with the temptation to give him a good ear boxing.

  “It’s nothing. Just some family business,” she said.

  “Ah, I know all about family business. I shall say no more.”

  But Bertram had roused his curiosity, and curiosity from Lord Lawrence Byron was the last thing they needed.

  “He’s worried about me gambling at the mill today,” she said. “I told him that our outing is in repayment for a wager I lost to you and he’s concerned that I’m getting in too deep, now that I’m in London.”

  She waited, watching to see if he believed her story.

  “Sometimes it’s good to have protective relations, annoying as they might seem.” He sent her a sideways glance. “You aren’t getting in too deep, are you?”

  “No. You’re the only one I’ve wagered against. Just my bad luck to have lost first time out.”

  Byron laughed. “Well, the bookmakers will be in Watford today, but there’s no need to bet unless you want. If you do, I’ll make sure you don’t lose anything greater than pocket change.”

  “How obliging of you, my lord.”

  “That’s me. Always obliging.”

  “Why do I find myself doubtful of that?”

  Lord Lawrence laughed again and set the horses in motion. “You’re buying drinks and nuncheon, by the by. Just a friendly reminder in case you do decide to wager.”

  “Duly noted. Now, tell me about this phaeton. It’s cracking. How many miles an hour have you done?”

  Leaning back in the well-sprung seat, she let Lord Lawrence talk, enjoying the sound of his voice, the warm summer breeze and the thrill of the adventure ahead.

  Chapter 9

  “Give ’im wot for,” shouted a man from somewhere within the roisterous crowd.

  “Put ’im in the ground, ye bastard,” another called.

  “Keep yer dukes up and go fer ’is gut. That’s right, mate. Ye’ll have him back on the ropes in a tick—just don’t give up.”

  Punches flew between the two heavily muscled, bare-chested opponents who circled around each other in the center of the ring. Sweat and blood sheened their skin, damp hair matted close to their skulls. Cuts and bruises bloomed across their swollen faces, along torsos and across two pairs of cloth-bound knuckles. Each man was waging a battle of stamina and dominance as the all-male crowd that was packed shoulder to hip roared out its frustration and encouragement.

  From a place disturbingly near the front, Rosamund watched in horror, cringing every time a new punch was landed. Instinctively she edged closer to Lord Lawrence, whose attention was riveted on the action along with the rest of the crowd.

  So much for a fun adventure. When she’d agreed to accompany him, she’d never imagined it would be so raw and brutal.

  And they called this sport.

  When she and Lord Lawrence first arrived at the open field that had been selected for the bout, she’d been fascinated and intrigued by the spectacle of it all. More than a hundred men were gathered for the event. They came from all classes and walks of life—farmers and laborers mingling with soldiers, shop clerks, merchants and nabobs. There were gentlemen mixed in as well, local landholders hobnobbing with their tenants for an afternoon as well as aristocrats like Lord Lawrence who had made the trip from London for a few hours of entertainment.

  Every one of them was in a boisterous good humor—joking, laughing and telling tall tales while they laid bets and imbibed spirituous liquors, with the scents of warm male sweat, tobacco smoke and yeasty beer redolent in the air.

  It was a side of life from which she was normally excluded. A slice of freedom forbidden to the fairer sex.

  She’d even dared to purchase two foamy pints of dark stout for herself and Lord Lawrence. True, she’d ended up leaving most of hers untouched, since she didn’t really care for the bitter, grainy flavor, but it was an experience all the same. She’d also placed a bet, a very small one, on the outcome of the boxing match—a bare-knuckle bout that had the crowd wild with anticipation.

  Then everyone had assembled around the makeshift ring, jockeying for the best view. Lord Lawrence, of course, hadn’t had any trouble commandeering a prime spot, his height and natural aura of authority allowing him to cleave a path without his having to utter a single word. They simply parted for him as she walked along in his wake.

  Then the fight started, her earlier enjoyment vanishing after the first jaw-crunching punch. Yet as much as she’d wanted to hide her face behind her hands and close her eyes, she’d known she couldn’t. She’d even managed to grin a time or two when Lord Lawrence glanced her way, as she pretended she was having the time of her life.

  But her time of pretending had long since come and gone, as the fight dragged on and the competitors waged a battle of endurance rather than decisive, one-sided skill. She crossed her arms over her chest, holding tight as her stomach rolled like a storm-tossed ocean wave, beer sloshing uncomfortably inside.

  God above, will it never end? she thought as the pummeling continued, the groans and grunts and slick, wet sounds of flesh pounding flesh audible even over the raucous noise of the crowd. A fresh round of cheers and catcalls rang out, offering encouragement and deprecation on both sides.

  Suddenly one of the men, more wiry and compact than his beefy competitor, stumbled backward a couple of steps as he endured a volley of blows to his head and face. When he teetered, the crowd quieted in an abrupt hush as
they all waited to see if he would fall. He moved back, shaking his head as if he couldn’t quite clear his thoughts.

  The bigger man advanced, grinning past a mouth of bloody teeth as he prepared to land a last, decisive blow. Up went his arms, fists balled for maximum power.

  And that was when the leaner man struck, laying into his foe’s unprotected stomach and ribs with a series of cunning blows that drove the air straight out of his lungs. His eyes were wide with pain and shock as he tried to recover. But it was too late, the wiry boxer winding up for a solid one-two punch to his opponent’s jaw.

  There was a terrible crunching noise, and then blood and spittle flew from the big man’s mouth, arcing in a wide stream that splattered across everyone in its path. A pair of teeth followed, flying through the air before bouncing like dice across the rough wooden stage.

  Numbly Rosamund watched them roll to a stop. Only then did she notice the glistening red drops of blood on her boots. She whirled, one hand clutched to her mouth as she fought her way free of the crowd. A crash reverberated somewhere behind her, and a roar exploded from the crowd, but she barely heard it, too intent on escaping the fray.

  She made it out and around to the far side of a stand of bushes before her nausea overcame her. Everything came up. She was still gagging and gasping for air, hands braced on her knees, when a handkerchief appeared in her line of sight.

  Lord Lawrence waited, making no comment on her embarrassing display.

  She trembled, grateful at least that she hadn’t broken into tears. “I’ve got my own,” she croaked, her strained voice even deeper than usual. She fumbled for her pocket, but it eluded her in her distress.

  “Take it.” He moved the handkerchief another inch closer.

  This time she accepted, pressing the soft white silk against her mouth before folding it over to wipe her perspiring face. It smelled wonderful, like him.

  “Thank you,” she said, straightening. “I’ll have this laundered and returned to you.”

  “Keep it. I’ve plenty more.” He cast her an inquiring look. “You all right?”

  She nodded, reluctant to meet his eyes. “The beer must not have agreed with me.”

  He arched an eyebrow. “Stout can do that to a man sometimes.”

  But they both knew the stout had nothing to do with it.

  When he said nothing further, she had yet more reason to be grateful. She’d never thought so before, but apparently male pride could be a good thing after all.

  Her eyes landed on the spots of blood drying on her boots and she swallowed convulsively. Gathering up a handful of leaves from the nearby bush, she leaned over and quickly scrubbed them across the leather before tossing them away. When she straightened, it was to find him holding out a silver flask.

  “Have a drink,” he urged. “It’ll calm your stomach, believe it or not.”

  She thought to refuse at first, then reluctantly did as he suggested, swishing the unfamiliar alcohol around in her mouth before swallowing. She coughed, the whiskey burning like fire.

  But he was right. It did help, some of the shock to her system easing. Without giving herself time to consider the ramifications of what she was about to do, she took a second swallow before handing him back the flask. Her tense muscles relaxed with a kind of pleasant inner sigh, the last of her nausea fading away.

  He gave her a measuring look as he tucked the flask back into his coat pocket. “Why don’t you go to the phaeton while I collect our winnings? Shouldn’t take me more than a few minutes.”

  “What winnings?”

  “From the fight, of course.” He grinned, the gold in his eyes gleaming like newly minted coins in the bright sunlight. “Our man won—or didn’t you realize?”

  She shook her head, having rushed away before she could see the end of the fight.

  “Should be a tidy sum, considering we both bet against the favorite,” Lord Lawrence said. “I’ll have to remember to order the house’s best wine at nuncheon.”

  “In celebration?”

  “No. Because you’re paying.”

  • • •

  Three hours later, Lawrence leaned back in his chair as the inn’s serving girl cleared away the last of the meal. By way of the owner—whose palm he’d made sure was well greased—he and Ross Carrow had managed to acquire one of the inn’s two private parlors. The common rooms beyond were noisy and filled with smoke, packed to bursting with overflow from the after-mill crowd.

  Throughout the service, the comely serving girl had made a point of showing off her more than ample bosom, taking care to bend low each time she set a dish of food on the table or refilled their glasses. She left no doubt as to what she was offering, careful to give himself and Carrow a fine view of the bountiful flesh inside her shirt.

  She’d paid particular attention to Carrow, flirting with him in the most shameless way. But rather than taking the bait, Carrow had mostly ignored her, which had only made her try harder. By the end of the meal, Lawrence felt rather sorry for the poor thing. He was almost of a mind to offer to tup her himself out of pity, but considering the way she’d flounced out of the room a moment ago, he wasn’t sure she’d appreciate his sacrifice.

  He smothered a laugh and regarded Carrow over the rim of his glass. Despite his having imbibed barely half a bottle of wine—and the two swallows of whiskey he’d taken from Lawrence’s flask—the fellow was clearly foxed. Lawrence couldn’t recall any man of his acquaintance with a lower tolerance for drink. It was rather amusing actually and not something Carrow probably liked to share with his fellows.

  Lawrence, on the other hand, had a very hard head and could drink virtually anyone under the table—with the possible exception of his brothers, that is. Oh, and Esme’s husband—Northcote had not one but two hollow legs.

  He supposed he ought to get Carrow up, into his carriage and safely home.

  At least the other man had regained his appetite after casting up his accounts at the mill. To both their surprise, Carrow had managed to eat a fairly substantial lunch, even more proof that he had no head for alcohol; by now the food ought to have ameliorated the effects of the liquor they’d drunk.

  He obviously had no tolerance for the sight of blood either, Lawrence mused with a silent chuckle. Whoever would have imagined Carrow to be so squeamish? Good thing he’d chosen a career in the law rather than opting for medicine or the military. He’d have had a rude awakening with either of those.

  Across from him, Carrow slumped in his chair, his color high, his eyes owlish behind the lenses of his spectacles. The thin metal frames shone silver in the late-afternoon sunlight, their color nearly a match for the pure silvery gray of his eyes, though in no way its equal. He had pretty eyes, Carrow did, with long, dark, luxuriant lashes that were lovely enough to be the envy of any woman. His skin was smooth and translucent as well, cheeks rouged in the most becoming of ways. In the right light, he really was quite attractive. Some might even say beautiful.

  Beautiful?

  Lawrence blinked and shook himself, wondering where in the hell that thought had come from.

  I obviously need a rest.

  “Time to go,” he said gruffly, tossing his napkin onto the table before getting to his feet. “We have a long drive back and the afternoon traffic is sure to be heavy.”

  Carrow stared blankly, clearly trying to orient himself in light of his inebriated condition. “Oh. Yes. All right.”

  Carrow fumbled for his coin purse, opening it to count out the proper amount to cover the bill. He didn’t get far, though, staring with some confusion at the small hillock of farthings, pence, shillings and crowns he’d upended onto the table.

  Lawrence gave him another minute, then let out an exasperated breath. He pushed aside Carrow’s hands, noticing how long and delicate the other man’s fingers were. “Leave off. I’ll do it.”

  With
out waiting for Carrow’s agreement, he selected the proper amount, slid the rest back into his coin purse and handed it back to him. “You ought to be damned glad I’m not the dishonest sort. I could rob you blind and you’d never even know.”

  “Rob me? Why would you do that, Lawrence?” Fumbling, Carrow somehow managed to return his purse to his pocket despite its taking nearly three tries.

  “God, you really are pickled, aren’t you?” Lawrence rolled his eyes. “Can you stand?”

  “Course I can stand.” With an ear-jarring screech of wood against wood, Carrow shoved back his chair. But when he got to his feet, he stumbled. Just barely he managed to catch himself against the edge of the table. “Oops.”

  Carrow giggled; there was no other word for it.

  Lawrence raised his eyes skyward again, then moved to Carrow’s side. Taking hold of one arm, he wrapped it around his shoulder and hoisted the smaller man upright, Lawrence’s other arm locked around Carrow’s waist. Carrow sagged against him, his body surprisingly light.

  “The room’s spinning,” Carrow said. “Why is the room spinning?”

  “Because you’re off your head with drink, Ross. Now, let’s get you out to the carriage.”

  “Ross?” Carrow mumbled. “That’s right, I’m Ross. Ross. Ross. Ross.” He giggled again, then tipped back his head. “And you’re Lawrence.”

  “Indeed.” With a slight shove, he propelled the two of them forward.

  “You sound so serious, Lawrence. So stern but very lawyerly.”

  “Then it’s a good thing I’m a lawyer, isn’t it?”

  “Like me, but don’t tell anyone.” Carrow made a loud shushing sound.

  Lawrence chuckled. “Don’t worry. Your secret is safe with me.”

  “Bertram says I shouldn’t like you, but I do. He says you’re a bad influence.”

  “Bertram might be right.”