Page 37 of Tempting the Scoundrel
“I don’t know you.”
“Indifferent, then.”
Mr. O’Sullivan leaned against the balustrade. “Let me tell you something. Even if Thorne hadn’t built this place—even if we had nothing in our pockets but some thread and a stray button—we’d bury our own and we’d do it proper. Wouldn’t be the first time, wouldn’t be the last. I don’t think you unkind, or even indifferent. Thorne and I, we take care of our own.” His cold, golden eyes met hers. “So when a woman comes along and breaks his heart, I take notice. My lady.”
Break Nick’s heart? Isthatwhat he had claimed? Likely, his pride had been damaged. Perhaps Nick had thought of Alexandra after she left Stratfield Saye, wondering if she was pregnant with their child. Or maybe he thought she’d be fool enough to forgive him and send word of her decision.
Nick was not the kind of man anyone simply abandoned on a gravel drive. She hoped the memory of her refusal infuriated him. She hoped it plagued his dreams.
A movement on the floor of the Brimstone caught Alexandra’s attention.
Nick.
Yes, he stood out, even in the crowded club. Alexandra was struck again by how foolish she was to believe his lies back in Stratfield Saye, for a suit did not hide his lethal grace. If anything, it enhanced the effect. That suit was a costume, she understood, to playact a gentleman. But he was no gentleman.
“He never gave me his heart,” she said, watching as her husband shook hands with the men below. “I can’t break what I’m not given.”
O’Sullivan made some dismissive noise. “I’ve read your work,” he said, to her surprise. “Thorn’d boast about it. Funny, none of those essays and pamphlets ever led me to believe you were a fool.”
“Boast about it?” Alexandra’s laugh was dry. “Perhaps you’re not aware of the criticisms he’s published of my work in the newspapers. You’ll find them written under the name Nicholas Spencer, the alias he assumed in Hampshire. He’s called me every synonym in the thesaurus forfool, Mr. O’Sullivan.”
The factotum stared at her with an expression Alexandra found unreadable. “You really don’t know him at all, do you?” he asked.
“No.” Alexandra pushed away from the balustrade. That role of gentility that he wore for the aristocrats below was one he’d perfected in Hampshire. “I was Nick Thorne’s unwitting dupe. So you see, Mr. O’Sullivan, I couldn’t have broken his heart. Not when he left my own in pieces.”
Before O’Sullivan could respond, a shout came from below. Alexandra looked over to see a commotion on the floor—men shoved at each other to circle something. What was it? One man threw a punch. The other?
Oh, bloody hell. The other was her husband.
Chapter 12
“Mr. O’Sullivan?” She asked in alarm when he made no move to leave, not even when Nick took another punch. “What in god’s name is going on down there?”
The factotum didn’t look concerned. “Aristos have a habit of becoming angry when they play too hard and lose everything.”
The men separated, their chests heaving. Alexandra recognized Nick’s opponent as the Earl of Latimer. Her lip curled. Latimer was a complete sod, and she’d warned off his fiancée, Lady Elaine Featherstone. It was a poorly kept secret that the maids in the Latimer house worked in pairs, as he was notorious for cornering those who tidied alone. In addition to his grotesque behavior towards staff, he had a gambling problem that was beginning to dwindle the family coffers.
Lady Elaine rejected Latimer’s betrothal a fortnight later, and it seemed the earl had no luck finding another wealthy bride to accept his suit. Last she’d heard, he was looking amongst the American debutantes with large dowries.
Latimer struck Thorne in the jaw. Good god, was her husband eventrying? “Do something!” she hissed at Mr. O’Sullivan.
The factotum watched the sight below, unconcerned. “Thorne has it in hand.”
Latimer hit Thorne again.
“He doesnothave it in hand,” Alexandra snapped, starting forward. Mr. O’Sullivan grasped her arm. “Let go of me, Mr. O’Sullivan, or I will punchyouin the face.”
Nowhe looked amused. “For a woman who claims to loathe him, you seem intent on defending him.” He ignored Alexandra’s glare. “Just watch. Wait.”
She turned back to the scuffle below. Something in her chest ached at the sight of seeing Nick pummeled. Perhaps it was stupid to defend a man she loathed, but she didn’t wish to see him beaten on the floor of his own club, either. The crowd of idiot men down there were no help—they shouted and whooped, some cheering Latimer and others Thorne. This was a nightmare. This—
Oh.
Nick picked himself off the floor and licked the blood off his lip with a low laugh.
Then he smashed his fist into Latimer’s face.
Latimer staggered into the crowd. They shoved him back toward Nick, clearly determined to see this fight through until one man became a clear winner. Alexandra had worried that Latimer would best her husband, but she was wrong. Nick was . . .
