Christian ducked just in time to avoid a burly fist headed straight for his nose. The fist connected with the mortared wall behind him and a howl of pain issued forth from its owner. Christian half rose and used the man’s forward momentum to thrust his head into the wall as well. The fighter crumpled like a wet rag to the floor, and Christian stood to join the melee.

After everything that had happened to him during the past week, a bit of exercise might go a long way in releasing some pent-up tension. From experience he knew it would be only a matter of moments before another person tried to engage him in a fight.

Benches and chairs overturned, tables jostled, and liquid splashed as mugs were thrown. Off to his side a flash of wide blue eyes and a brown cap caught his attention. What the devil was Kate still doing in here? Christian stepped forward, grabbed her wrist, and unceremoniously pulled her behind him, pushing her shapely backside into the protected wall.

She made a slight mew of protest that barely registered over the din of angry words, bones crushing bones, and bodies hitting the floor. But she didn’t resist.

She was such a tiny thing that one flying elbow would take her down. A dark blur entered his vision on the right, close to Kate. A wave of fury swept through him at the image.

Christian moved in front of her and allowed the man’s fist to glance off his jaw. The movement left the man’s entire side unprotected. Christian dropped him with a sharp blow to the gut, white-hot anger flowing through his veins. The man groaned and hit the floor a few feet away.

Christian reached back and grabbed a section of Kate’s shirt without taking his eyes from the man on the ground or the ongoing brawl. Her squawk told him she was fine, and he let go. A small hand came up to rest lightly in the middle of his back. He pressed against it, warmed by the contact.

The man on the floor had been bent on hitting her. Christian looked down at the crumpled figure and considered kicking him for good measure.

Mr. Wicket bustled into the taproom wielding a broom and yelling, “Stop! Stop!” then promptly slipped on a wet patch of the now slick wooden floor. Flailing his arms, he tried to maintain his balance, but dropped the broom and toppled onto his back. Moments later a whoosh of air issued from his throat as a brute landed on his prominent belly.

Christian looked from the pile to the dark-haired bastard he had felled moments before. The man was rising with a grimace, but with a no less determined expression. “No one hits me. I’ll beat you to a pulp, you cur.”

The man started forward, his fists flying. The hand on Christian’s back knotted into his jacket.

Christian lifted his foot and indulged his urge to kick, aiming straight for the man’s knees. The strike wasn’t as hard as it could have been, but tears welled in the man’s eyes as he fell bellowing to the floor once again.

Two bruisers mopped up the fighters across the room, while two blond-haired men grappled in front of the fireplace.

A well-built, expensively dressed man casually sipped his drink in the corner, seemingly unbothered by anything or anyone else in the room. The man turned and tipped his head to Christian, an amused smirk on his face, no fear or wariness in his gaze. The bruisers must have belonged to him. Either that or he was one peg short like Nicodemus Nickford upstairs.

Kate’s hand released the death grip on his jacket and she stepped closer, her shoulder brushing the back of his arm as she peered around him. The bottom edge of her coat brushed his hand. He ran the thick fabric through his fingers, wondering when the rougher material had become more interesting than silk.

The bruisers joined the lounging man at his table. Groans issued from the six, no seven, bodies on the floor and several draped over the tables.

As if on cue, a rawboned woman came screeching into the room.

“Aiiieeee!”

Belying her scrawny frame, the woman pulled the only two still grappling men apart by the ears and hauled the blonds to one of the few benches that had remained upright.

“Lawrence Lake, Julius Janson, you should be ashamed! What have you done to my inn?” She gave both men an evil glare. “Well, Mr. Lake? I’m waiting.”

Lawrence Lake’s brown eyes narrowed dangerously upon Julius Janson’s self-satisfied face. Lake, the leaner of the two, wiped the back of his sleeve across his torn lip. Blood was running freely from the wound. “Ask Janson.”

Janson shrugged. “Lake is just bitter about being such a half-arsed cricket player.”

“Why you—” Lake lunged for Janson. The expensively dressed man in the corner tipped his head, and one of his two bruisers gripped Lake’s shoulder and shoved him unceremoniously back in his seat.

The innkeeper’s wife narrowed her eyes at the large man, but refocused on Lake. “Mr. Lake, I must insist you behave yourself or you will be asked to leave. I may ask you to leave in any case.”

Lake’s mouth opened, then abruptly shut as he looked toward the door. Christian turned and saw a number of servants scrunched in the doorway watching. The innkeeper’s daughter Mary, the epitome of the healthy country lass, was in front, her brows drawn together. Christian glanced back to see Lake’s pained expression. Ah, so that was the way the wind blew.

Julius Janson’s smirk grew. His green eyes took on a malicious glow. “Lake is a sore loser. Can’t measure up in any way, as a player, as a fighter, or as a man.”

Lake’s eyes darted to Mary again before turning to her mother. “Mr. Janson made a few rather obnoxious comments about…some things…and the fight broke out. You can ask the other members of my team.”

He pointed at a number of downed players, none of whom looked coherent enough to confirm or deny his statement.

Janson laughed, his expression hard and resentful. “Ask any of the members of our team, Mr. and Mrs. Wicket, and you’ll find the story to be much different. Just ask Donald.” He pointed to the man who was pushing himself up from where Christian had laid him out twice.

Kate’s small hand returned to rest comfortingly on Christian’s back.

Christian’s kicking instinct quieted. Donald Desmond. He thought he had heard someone call out the name earlier. The man had dark hair and dark eyes and looked to be on par with his bully friend, Janson. Desmond shot Christian a hard, cold look that promised retribution. He was obviously not the kind of man who took well to being beaten.

Unfortunately for him, his look of retribution, especially after being soundly thrashed, just made him look silly.

“Julius made a casual comment and Lake lunged across the table, much as he did just a few seconds ago,” Desmond sneeringly corroborated. He sent a calculating look toward Mary. “Very violent man, Mr. Lake. One can never be too careful around him.”

Christian sensed Lake’s deepening anger. The man seemed to be holding himself by a thread. Perhaps it was outrage over the two men’s statements combined with the glaring fact that if he continued to fight it would just lend credence to their arguments. The bruiser also seemed to realize that sheer will alone was holding Lake from pouncing, and the hand on Lake’s shoulder tightened.

“Mr. Lake, you will come with me.” The innkeeper’s wife turned and wagged her finger. “And you, Julius, should know better!”

Julius assumed a hangdog expression. “Yes, ma’am, I’m terribly ashamed.”

The innkeeper huffed next to his wife. “There now, Julius is full of spirit. I know sometimes the mood strikes. Just not in the taproom, man!”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Wicket, sir.”

Mr. Wicket smiled. “Can’t have our best player injured. Mary would be devastated, of course.”

All heads turned to the doorway to look for confirmation, but Mary had disappeared.

The innkeeper puttered around the room chastising the men for fighting and possibly hurting themselves so close to cricket season. Christian raised a brow. Cricket season was a good five months away.

The small, comforting hand dropped from his back. Kate stepped forward and gave Christian an unreadable look, then frowned in disgust at the combatants, who were in various states of awareness.

Daisy came breezing in to help clean up the mess. “I can’t believe how men love to fight. Just look at them.” The men were sheepish as they began to sort themselves out. “The blacksmith, the cobbler, and the cobbler’s son all in a pile.”

“Yeah, and I’m the baker,” groaned the man who had taken a wild swing at Christian earlier and then ended up attached to the wall. He was looking sheepish as he apologized profusely to Christian and the innkeeper.

“So what do those two do for a living?” Christian asked, nodding to Desmond and Janson.

“Not much, I hear,” Kate muttered under her breath.

Daisy picked up a mug. “Donald Desmond’s the son of a well-to-do family, and Julius Janson is the squire’s son.”

The hierarchy was soon apparent as the combatants tidied up. Janson ruled their side of the cricket divide, with Desmond sneering next to him.

Christian turned to Kate as Daisy moved away. “And you, Mr. Kaden? What were you doing in this fine taproom while a fight ensued?”

“Some of us have to earn our way. We can’t just be inveterate gamblers and taproom brawlers, Mr. Black,” she said primly, although the effect was rather ruined by the splashed ale on her shirt and the smudge on her nose.

“So you were, what? Sewing in the corner?”

“I was helping Daisy clear mugs from the tables. Which is what I should be doing now.”

“Helpful of you. Next time try to follow Daisy’s lead and beat a hasty retreat from the room when a fight breaks out.”

Her chin rose. She started to say something, gritted her teeth, and then repeated the sequence several times before finally saying, “Thank you for helping me during the fight.”

The sentence was torn from her, but Christian just smiled. The hand on his back had said it already. Maybe, just maybe he could stay an extra night at the inn after retrieving the journal. He had a feeling that seducing Kate would be worth it. And his feelings about women seldom led him astray. “You’re welcome, Kate.”

Kate glanced around quickly, her shoulders relaxing as she saw the others had congregated in the center of the room to discuss matters, too far away to hear his soft statement of her name. She gave Christian an unreadable look, muttered something about helping in the kitchen since Mr. Wicket was making the men clean up, and hurried off.

He watched her go. Yes, the night was shaping up to be interesting indeed.

The tables were soon righted and the mess cleaned. Some men drifted into the open dining room, while others ordered another round. Christian noticed that the new round of drinks tasted substantially weaker than the previous one, no doubt watered down to prevent another brawl.

“Mr. Tiegs, Mr. Black, my apologies about the mess. You are both unhurt?”

Christian and the well-dressed man who had stayed out of the fight nodded, their gazes resting on each other rather than on the innkeeper. Christian had a feeling he was looking at the most dangerous man in the room.

“Good, good. Julius, help me with this heavy bench? Wouldn’t want to trip Mr. Tiegs.”

Julius winced infinitesimally as he looked at Tiegs. So there was someone Julius obviously deferred to and/or feared. Interesting.

Christian leaned back in his chair, lifted his new mug, and watched the door for Freewater and the damn journal. He also decided to keep an eye on Tiegs. Two bodyguards? And why had he ordered his lackey to stop Lake from hitting Janson? Janson, with all his bravado, was obviously cowed by Tiegs.

Christian shook his head. No sense in speculating. He wouldn’t be at the inn long enough to sort through the layers of politics and maneuverings motivating the room’s occupants. His primary focus was on snatching Anthony’s journal.

As much as he wanted to strangle his friend, he really would do anything for him. Meeting and befriending Anthony at Eton had changed his life and taken him from the dark shadow of his family. If the journal was as damaging to Anthony as he had led Christian to believe, then Christian had to get it out of Freewater’s possession as soon as possible.

Nothing would stop him.

 

Hours later, Christian wearily made his way upstairs. Nothing would stop him except Freewater never leaving his damn room. He was going to resort to knocking on the man’s door and hitting him with a fireplace poker if he didn’t cooperate soon.

He gave Freewater’s door a disgusted glance and reached for the knob on his own door, only to find it locked. Light knocking did no good, so he pounded on the grainy wood. Moments later Kate stuck her head out, looking disgruntled, her cap and head wrap slightly askew. She made a hasty check of the hallway before dragging him inside.

“What are you doing?” she hissed as she began to gather up a pile of clothing laid out for mending. She had obviously taken a nap, if her rumpled clothing and skewed headgear were anything to go by.

“I’m returning to my room.”

She straightened and placed her hands on her hips. “You said you were going to stay in the taproom most of the night.”

“I changed my mind.”

A muffled bang came from the connecting wall. Freewater was obviously doing something in there. Christian wished the irritating man would grow discouraged with whatever it was and fetch something to eat.

“Maid!”

Or maybe not.

Kate gave the wall a disgusted glance. “He’s been calling for things all night. Refuses to get up and fetch them for himself.”

“Yes, most annoying,” Christian muttered. At least next door to the man he would be able to hear if Freewater moved.

“Let’s get back to you being here. You can’t just change your mind. We had an agreement.”

“Too true. Our agreement was to share a room.”

“You said you would stay in the taproom all night.”

“You are repeating yourself, Kate.”

“Don’t call me that,” she huffed, while obviously waiting for him to leave. “Fine. I will go then.”

The first rule in handling skittish women was to keep them on their toes about whether you were really trying to seduce them.

He shrugged negligently. “More room for me.” He plopped on the bed and watched as a delicate pink fanned her cheeks and then burst into a beautiful rose. His trousers tightened at the sight. “You are starting to resemble an overly ripe tomato, Kate. An out-of-season one, of course.”

His body disagreed vehemently.

Her eyes narrowed and she stomped over, tugged on a large jacket, and gathered the mending. “Good evening, Mr. Black.”

“You mean Christian,” he reminded her breezily as she slammed the door.

He smiled and reclined on the bed, then lifted his legs to scoot toward the wall. She’d be back soon and as feisty as ever.

He might as well make use of his time until she did. What would it take to get the journal if he couldn’t steal it back from Freewater? Blackmail? Extortion? He hadn’t had time to hire someone to check into Freewater’s background. He had instead jumped right into following the man. After all, how hard could getting the journal back be?

He snorted at his initial assumption. After chasing the man for over a week he was reasonably sure that nothing short of an Act of Parliament was likely to make Freewater relinquish his grip. The journal had hooks into nearly everyone in the ton. Webs and relationships. Too many prominent people connected to one another in lewd or ill-advised arrangements. Husbands would be calling for blood, women would be forced into seclusion. Anthony had acknowledged that anyone who had frequented illicit house parties, taverns, and brothels where he was present was mentioned.

Unless Anthony had deliberately left him out, Christian was likely mentioned in a number of those entries. He had committed many a debauchery alongside his friend. Not that it mattered if he was named. It wasn’t as if he had the respect of his family to lose. He had made his own way in society, and it would withstand scrutiny. Hell, the “good” ton that would be implicated would overshadow any of Christian’s exploits.

No doubt Freewater had already read Anthony’s journal, so the entries were already compromised, but the damage would be much greater if the actual document was released to the public in all its glory. Anthony would either be strung from society’s rafters or be the most notorious man to survive a hundred duels.

That was if he survived his ladylove leaving him over the exposure.

No, Christian would take the journal back. And he didn’t much care how he had to do it.

Christian pressed his ear to the wall, listening as Freewater again started yelling for a maid.

 

As she exited the room, Kate ran into Sally. The maid was on her way to answer Mr. Freewater’s summons.

“Pardon me, Sally, I wasn’t watching where I was stepping.”

The maid’s eyes remained downcast. “It was my fault, sir.”

“No it wasn’t. Do you need help with Mr. Freewater?”

Sally shook her head and looked at the poker in her hand. “I was just on my way to stoke the fire in the common room.”

Kate shifted the garments and reached for the poker. “Here, allow me. I need a distraction.”

Sally looked at her questioningly, but handed her the implement. “Thank you, sir.”

“Think nothing of it. Have a good night, Sally.”

Sally smiled. “Good night, sir.”

Kate headed for the common room, stooping momentarily in the hall to pick up a linen handkerchief. Freewater bellowed again from his chambers as Sally knocked on his door. Raised voices, muffled but still audible, came from the common room. Curiosity made Kate walk more softly.

“The bitch won’t touch you now.”

Kate abruptly stopped outside the door.

“Don’t call her that!” Lawrence Lake’s angry voice echoed from within the room.

“I can call her anything I want.” Kate leaned in closer to hear Julius Janson’s lowered words. “Soon we’ll be married and she’ll be my bitch to do with whatever I want.”

“I’ll kill you before that happens.”

“Yeah, let’s see you attempt it. Can’t differentiate a pistol cock from the wee one attached between your legs.”

“Why doesn’t anyone else see what you are?” Lake asked, a tad desperately.

Kate peered around the door to see Janson lean into Lake’s face. “What, that I’m a real man? That you will always be second best? At bat, in the field, to me.” He shot a cocky grin. “Now I need to go find my future wife and feel those curvy hips, silky and smooth.”

“You won’t touch her.”

“She likes it when I touch her, Lake. She whispers my name in her dreams. When she touches herself in the bath. Screaming with her head thrown back as I pound into her.”

Lake’s fists knotted. “Go to the devil, Janson. I’d send you there now if I knew I wouldn’t be thrown out of here and unable to keep an eye on you.”

“Tut, tut, Lake. Hiding behind the Wickets again like the pansy you are. Make sure to change your nappy before the next match.”

Janson sauntered out onto the balcony, leaving a raging Lake to punch the hardwood wall Janson’s head had been leaning against moments before.

Kate waited a few moments before entering the common room. “Good evening.”

Lake looked up from rubbing his knuckles and issued a distracted greeting in return, his lip still swollen from the taproom fight.

Kate added a log and quickly stoked the fire, hoping to leave before the emotional pressure in the room exploded.

“What is it about beastly men that women bloody love?”

Kate blinked. “Pardon me?”

“You look like a nice enough man, but I’ll bet women don’t look at you twice.”

Kate didn’t know whether to be insulted or amused. Christian had commented earlier about Daisy not noticing her as a man. Really, if she maintained this line of thought, she might as well grow some chest hair and add a cocky swagger to her step.

The devastated look on Lake’s face caused sympathy to bloom instead. “I can honestly say that most women do not look at me twice, you are correct.” Kate decided to find the humor in the situation.

He shook his head. “No one notices a monster in their midst when they don’t choose to. Not if he is the team hero or the worshipped man about town.”

Kate felt the bloom grow. He obviously held a tendre for Mary, who was promised to Janson. The innkeeper clearly thought Janson a right sporting fellow, and couldn’t look past his hero status in cricket. She wondered how Mary felt. Her face, happy and kind like her father’s, became unreadable around Janson and Lake. Maybe Mary saw more than people credited.

“If it would make you feel better, if I were a female, I wouldn’t go for the likes of Julius Janson.”

“Too bad you aren’t a female.”

“Er, yes, too bad.” Kate replaced the poker next to the fireplace grate. “Don’t let a man like Julius Janson get to you, Mr. Lake. It is what he wants above all other things. Even more than the girl you fight over.”

Lake’s mouth dropped in surprise, but before he could respond, Mr. Tiegs entered the room. The two large men who shadowed him were nowhere to be seen.

“Rough night, Mr. Lake?” he asked, swinging a pocket fob. An aura of power emanated from his every word. He was quite attractive in a rough way.

Lake’s eyes narrowed before they clouded over. “One of the longest nights of the year.”

Kate grabbed the opportunity to leave. “If you two gentlemen would excuse me.” Kate nodded at both men.

“Have a pleasant evening, Mr. Kaden,” Tiegs drawled.

Kate paused. She didn’t know how Tiegs knew her name; she was beneath most people’s notice in her disguise. There was something very disquieting about the man. There was something disquieting about Christian too, but they were disparate feelings, as if the two men both held power, but in different ways.

“You too, Mr. Tiegs. Mr. Lake.”

Kate let her thoughts wander as she trooped downstairs with the items she had mended. Men lingered in the taproom, and a few women had joined them, including the vivacious widow Olivia Trent, dressed in green satin. Her quieter companion, Francine, complemented her in blue. They created a splash of color amid the dully clothed men. Mrs. Wicket had looked upon them both with a measure of disdain, so Kate could only speculate as to their reputations.

She dropped off the mending in the office, grabbed something to eat in the kitchen, and after a quick gab with Bess, the cook, Kate headed for the stairs.

She had barely reached the first step when the hall clock started to sing. Kate’s breath became shallow and started coming out in pants. One, two. She pressed herself against the wall and closed her eyes as the chimes continued. Five, six. She should have been in her room for the midnight chimes. On the other hand, she would rather break down in the stairwell than in front of Christian Black. Nine, ten. She put a hand to her damaged ear. She couldn’t breathe. Twelve. The bell pealed and echoed the last strike in a parody of a farewell.

Kate forced open her eyes, thankful no one had happened upon her. She took a shaky step up, then another, and another, turning right when she reached the landing to go out to the gallery for some air.

Opening the door, she was assailed by pungent cigar smoke. Memories of home overwhelmed her. This was not the full-bodied, mellow scent of her father’s expensive imported Spanish leaf, but the sharp, cheap version her brother and his cronies preferred.

In the dark, all she could see was a pinpoint of a burning ember and the glowing outline of Janson puffing on a cigar. The frigid air hit her face and she shivered, her breath creating puffs big enough to put the cigar smoke to shame. The sweat that had beaded her brow froze in the cool blast. The weather had definitely changed from the morning. The locals believed they were due for a snowstorm, and she was inclined to agree.

Janson gave her little notice as she walked around him toward the other end of the balcony. She leaned over, resting her elbows against the cold wooden railing and cradling her cheeks. Would her fright response over the chimes ever cease?

If her father were here he’d laugh with her and tell her she was acting like a ninny. But her father wasn’t here, and she had never missed him more. There was no one here for her now. No friends to fuss with over ribbons in the village, no one to giggle with over a dashing man passing through town, no beaus to flirt with, no one to read with on a lazy Sunday afternoon. Those times were long past, although they had occurred less than six weeks ago. That life was all but closed, and unless she could arrive in London at the right moment, all would be for naught. She would be without family and without a penny to her name.

And even then she would have a long way to go before she could gain back a smidgeon of the careless verve of her youth. While all her old friends from the village might still laugh and cajole the men in their midst, Kate had lost the will for the art. She touched her covered left ear. No dashing young man would even want her now. The derogatory peals of her brother’s and Connor’s words rang in her ears like the chimes of the clock.

Two large dark tabbies yowled below. Well, at least the cats had companionship tonight. She turned to lean back against the railing and tucked her arms into her chest.

Of the four rooms with direct access to the gallery, only Janson’s and Olivia Trent’s were lit. The Crescents had long since retired, and Desmond was still in the taproom probably waiting for Janson to return. Kate tried to catch her breath in the cold air, but she only succeeded in coughing.

She dropped her arms, her fingers skimming the cold wood railing as she glanced inside the common room to see Lake and Tiegs talking. Tiegs ran his fingers along the chain of his pocket watch, while Lake intensely watched the movements. She wondered what they were discussing. What kind of information could a man like Tiegs have for a man like Lake?

She shivered again. Now that the chimes were done, she could try and get some sleep. If only she could get rid of Black. She was still unnerved from the taproom. Who would have thought him the chivalrous type? And the way his muscles corded beneath her fingers, even through the jacket he wore. She could have stayed in that position all night, and wasn’t that just a frightening thought.

Perhaps his gallantry was a ploy to get her between the sheets. But a man like Christian Black could do far better than a damaged girl like Kate.

With that depressing thought she walked past Janson again and into the warm hallway.

She opened the door to her room, intent on having it out with Christian again. Perhaps she could revive the seed of chivalry. Yes, better to concentrate on that than on what lay beneath his clothing.

She stepped inside and froze.

Golden skin and rippling muscles stared back.

She couldn’t stop the thought that perhaps chivalry was overvalued as Christian stood shirtless by the bed, with his fingers lingering on the buttons of his trousers.