Page 63 of The Lyon's Pretty Pugilist

“No, thank you,” Nicolas said. “I won’t be staying long enough to have a cup of tea. Besides, I can’t pay for it, and I have nothing else to give you. You are about to take everything I own. I have no doubt that you’d enjoy watching me scrub your floors to pay off my drink.”

She guffawed. “There is that spirit I knew resided somewhere inside the future Earl of Shiredale.”

Since he was dying of thirst, he gulped the water as he cast his gaze over the room to where Davenport sat, laughing and playing cards.

“How are things going with your pretty pugilist?” the widow asked.

Nicolas turned an incredulous glare on her.

She met his glare, tossing it back tenfold.

Nicolas guzzled and wiped a wayward drip from his chin. “She is a hard worker. Relentless. Lady Davenport is presenting her as a cousin at Lady Siddon’s ball in a few days where she plans to introduce her to the duke. But I suspect you already know this.”

“Splendid,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon gave one demure clap. “You might just win back your family’s estate.”

She sounded as if she wanted him to win Blue Cliff Manor back, which made no sense at all since she’d given them impossible tasks.

Looking down at her, he stared through the veil, searching for some clue as to why she was playing these games. As much as she unsettled him, he couldn’t detect maliciousness. However, there was something there that made him think of a fox toying with a rabbit.

There seemed no need to mince words with her. “I suspect you are quite jaded, Mrs. Dove-Lyon.”

Her head tilted ever so slightly. “Oh?”

“You spend your days surrounded by this.” Palm out, he presented her room of stewed, wagering men. “Men like my father, who sacrifice everything dear to them as they chase an elusive high. You must find me as abhorrent as them. And perhaps I am. I am a man, after all, with a man’s wants and desires. Lord knows we men are no saints. But why would you do this to Josephine? You have set her up for failure. You know Griffendale won’t marry her. Why taunt her and watch her dreams dissolve into nothingness? She wants to follow her passion and teach other women to defend themselves against the likes of us.” He pointed at himself, then again presented the room of men. “I would think you would applaud her cause instead of setting up pointless barriers.” He exhaled his rising frustration. “You know I can’t win back my estate and yet you stand here pretending like there is a chance. Like you might even want us to win.”

He expected the widow to rage or have her henchmen toss himfrom the building. Instead, seeming unperturbed. she shrugged. “Women come to me requesting I make unlikely matches, so I do. That is why I am known as the greatest matchmaker in London.”

“But you had to know Josephine had no intention of making a match with Griffendale. She isn’t daft. She was simply angry at me. She felt as if I was looking down my nose at her. Which mayhap, in a way, I was. Not because we are of different classes, but because I didn’t understand how damn strong a woman could be.”

The widow chuckled. “Oh, I know.” She patted his forearm. “When will you come to realize that I know everything? Josephine does not need me for anything. She will accomplish her life’s goals without me. You, on the other hand, my lord, need a helping hand and a swift kick in the arse.”

Was she saying this entire farce was for him because he needed some life lessons?

“Consider The Duke of Astleyshire and The Duke of Paulsgrove,” she said.

“Yes, I know of them.” But both of their wives were from aristocratic families. They were not orphans from the East End.

But the truth was, Nicolas wanted it to be acceptable for a man of his class to marry a woman like Josie because he wanted to spend his life with her. Maybe raise a brood of hellions with her.

Children? Holy bollocks. As this farce went on, he was falling deeper and deeper into a sentimental abyss.

An uproarious noise in the back of the room halted his musing.

Jonathon leaped from his chair and tossed his cards on the table. The men surrounding him laughed. Also chuckling, Jonathon plopped his arse back onto the chair and dug his pencil from his coat pocket.

Nicolas squinted and watched as Davenport scratched something on the foolscap he’d been carrying about. Odd indeed, because the viscount wrote about as well as he read. Not to mention, the fool was defying the widow and making side bets in her establishment. Andafter she’d told him not to. As if they weren’t in enough trouble.

When the viscount finally looked up from his scribbling, his gaze met Nicolas’s.

Nicolas stiffened.

“Do not worry about Lord Davenport,” the widow said, a mischievous gleam in her eyes. “He has my permission. This time.”

Davenport gathered his belongings. Juggling his hat, tailcoat, and gloves, he approached.

“What the hell? You left me sleeping in the carriage for hours,” Nicolas said.

As Davenport clapped him on the back, papers fluttered from his coat pocket. One of the wayward slips landed beside Nicolas’s boot.