Page 19 of The Duke In My Bed (The Heirs’ Club of Scoundrels #1)

If he’d heard it one time, he’d heard it a hundred times while growing up that he had to be tougher, stronger, quicker, and smarter than any other man.

His father demanded it of him. Bray couldn’t just be better than anyone else; he also had to be the best: the best rider, the best marksman, the best swordsman, and the best grades in school.

His father never gave him a pass on anything and never accepted weakness or failure, and the old duke had made sure Bray’s masters at school knew that, too.

Bray hadn’t been in a fight in a long time, and he didn’t really want to get in this one.

Over the years, he’d had his share of drunken brawls, fisticuffs, and a few pugilists’ rounds at the fighting clubs.

He’d been thrown out of more than a few taverns and gaming hells for challenging card cheats.

So far, he’d managed to keep all his teeth.

Now that he was older, he knew he’d like for it to stay that way.

Besides, he no longer had the itch to fight that he’d had when he was younger. But Bray didn’t like it that the gentleman was outnumbered one against three. It just wasn’t in Bray’s nature to walk away without helping the man.

Bray dropped his hat and cloak to the ground.

He wanted to be prepared in case he had to join the fight.

He felt around his waist and slipped his dagger from its scabbard.

He then bent down and pulled his pistol from the top of his right boot.

Thankfully, he didn’t have to use his fists tonight.

Unlike the gentleman getting pounded into the ground, Bray knew better than to come to this side of Town unprepared.

Staying in the shadows, Bray quietly and quickly walked down the street toward the scuffle.

By the time he edged up close, the gentleman was on the ground and the three robbers were huddled over him, picking his pockets clean.

Bray pointed the pistol at the men and held his dagger in striking position.

“That’s enough, boys,” he said in a deadly cold voice. “Lift your hands in the air and stand up slow.”

The ruffians stilled, looked up at Bray, and then eyed each other. Their hair and beards were long and shaggy, their clothing worn and dirty.

Bray knew they were trying to decide if they wanted to take their chances and go against a man with a pistol and a knife—they could get lucky and rob two gentlemen in one night—or if they should make their getaway with what they’d been able to glean from the man on the ground.

It made no difference to Bray which avenue they took.

“Step away from the gentleman, or one of you will get the ball I have in this pistol and another will feel my blade.”

The men didn’t move. Bray pointed the gun at the chest of the ruffian who looked to be the youngest of the trio and pulled back the hammer with his thumb.

“Your choice, men,” Bray said. “But make it quick. I’m not going to stand here the rest of the night while you take your time deciding whether you want to be a hero to your fellow footpads or a dead man.”

The roughest-looking character inclined his head to the left, and said, “We don’t want trouble from a gent with a weapon.”

“Wise choice. Now, I suggest you drop the gentleman’s coin purse, the buttons you cut off his waistcoat, his hat, and anything else you might have pinched from him and get the hell out of here.”

The ruffians looked at one another again, but finally the man who’d spoken rose and the other men joined him, dropping the gentleman’s belongings as they stood.

“Get out of here and count yourself lucky if you don’t feel a ball or a blade in your back as you run away.”

The footpads turned and fled. Bray replaced his weapons and bent down to see how badly the man had been hurt, and immediately recognized him. “Harrison, is that you?”

“Bray?” The man grunted, trying to raise himself up on his elbows. “Give me a hand, will you?”

Bray helped his boyhood friend to stand. He and Harrison Thornwick had met their first term at Eton and remained good friends.

“Damnation, Harrison, you have better sense than to be on this street alone at this time of night.”

“Obviously not.” He held his side and winced as he tried to bend down to get his coin purse.

“I’ve got it,” Bray said, grabbing the small leather bag and the buttons off the ground. He handed the items to Harrison.

“Hell’s teeth,” Harrison swore as he wiped blood from the corner of his mouth with the back of his bruised hand. “There was a time I could take three thugs rather handily. Nearing thirty, I guess I’m getting too old.”

Bray looked at his friend. He seemed as fit as he was the day he’d left his teens behind and turned twenty.

Bray and Harrison were of the same height and build.

They were both tall, strong men, and neither of them had ever been intimidated by another man’s purse or power.

Bray was certain age and ability had nothing to do with Harrison’s being overwhelmed by the men. He was simply outnumbered and spent.

“You’re just out of practice. How many fights have you had since you left London?”

“Not many,” Harrison said, putting his money and buttons in his pocket. “None recently.”

“My point.” Bray pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and gave it to the man. “You probably could have taken those footpads if you’d been on your toes and had a weapon with you. I saw you get in more than a few good punches before they took you down.”

Harrison frowned and grunted again. “You saw the fight, you bloody blackguard? Just how long did you watch them pound me before you decided to help?”

“Well, I would have stepped in sooner if I’d known it was you.” Bray grinned. “When did you get back to London? Last I heard, you were in Turkey or India or some other godforsaken place.”

Harrison held his side and grunted some more, laughing as he touched the handkerchief to the corner of his lip. “Stop making me laugh, Bray. I think they cracked a rib. Oh, sorry about that slip. I received the news about your father. I should have said ‘Your Grace.’”

“We’ve known each other too long to start using titles now. I still shudder when I think about you calling me Lord Lockington when we first met at Eton. What were we, nine or ten years old?”

Harrison nodded. “And I still remember your father looking down at me and saying, ‘Young man, you will address my son by his appropriate title, or I’ll have you thrown out of this school and see that you never step foot in another.”

Bray laughed at Harrison’s attempt to sound like the old duke. “He did enjoy intimidating people, no matter their age. I think you had a few stern warnings about the penalties of not using my title from the headmaster as well, didn’t you?”

“More than a few, and I knew quite well what the penalty was. I was getting my knuckles rapped at least once or twice a week for failing to address you as Lord Lockington.”

“But I told you then I was Bray, and I’ll remain Bray to you today.”

“As you wish when we’re alone, but I’ll be respectful of your title when others are around.”

“Fair enough.”

Harrison’s smile faded and his eyes turned somber. “Your letter about Adam’s wife caught up with me a month or so ago. How’s he doing?”

Bray looked away. Adam’s tragedy and Prim’s death were two things he tried not to think about. “I haven’t heard from him since he left London. He didn’t want to stay here, as you can imagine. He owns a cottage somewhere along the northern coast of Yorkshire. He was going there.”

“I suppose I’d want to get away, too, if I lost my wife while she was trying to give birth to my son.”

“And then to lose his son, too,” Bray added, trying not to remember the pain he’d seen on Adam’s face when the physician told him she and the child were gone. “It wasn’t easy for him to accept.”

“Do you think we should travel up that way and try to find him? Just to see how he’s doing?”

“It’s been three months,” Bray said. “I think enough time has passed. He might be ready to see a friendly face. And I wouldn’t mind getting out of London for a few days either. Now, where’s your driver?”

“I don’t have one. I’ve been gone over two years, remember. I have to rebuild my staff. I hired a hackney to bring me here. I was waiting for one to drive by so I could flag him, when I was jumped from behind.”

“Lesson learned.”

“You’re still a blackguard.”

“Always will be.” Bray gave him a cocky grin. “There’s a reason for that old saying that a leopard can’t change his spots. Are you here just to enjoy the Season or have you decided your wandering days are over and you plan to stay in London?”

“I’ve seen enough of the world.”

“Then welcome home, old friend. We’ll have a drink to celebrate you coming to your senses and realizing what the poets already knew—there’s no place like England.”

“We’ll have that drink.” Harrison grabbed his side and grunted one last time. “But not tonight. It might be a few days before I’m up to matching you port for port, winning your blunt, or riding up north with you.”

Bray looked at Harrison’s face and nodded.

There was a cut under his eye and at the corner of his lip, which was swelling rapidly.

Blood had dripped onto his neckcloth, and his clothing was dirty and rumpled from the fight.

Bray couldn’t help but think of Miss Prim calling his club the Heirs’ Club of Scoundrels.

Looking at Harrison now, he realized she was right.

Damn, he couldn’t get Miss Prim off his mind, no matter what he was doing or thinking. Every last thought always came back to her.

The hell of it was that it bothered him less and less.