Page 27 of Where Have All the Scoundrels Gone (Dukes in Disguise #2)

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Nathaniel’s raw knuckles burned and throbbed.

His muscles twitched, battle-ready and exhausted at the same time. Sweat poured down his face, stinging like fire in the cut the first fight had opened up beneath his left eye, at the bottom edge of his mask.

Nathaniel shook his head slowly. There was something wrong with his right ear; sound was muffled in that direction. His vision spangled, bursts of darkness blooming when he blinked, so he didn’t blink. He lowered his chin and focused on his opponent.

Name? Didn’t know. Didn’t care. All he knew was the man was wiry and quick, with a tendency to head butt like a ram when backed into a corner.

The fights bled together, one into the next. Sometimes he slept in Leda’s office. Sometimes he went back to Ashbourn House.

Didn’t matter. Nothing mattered.

Because it wasn’t working.

He blocked a vicious uppercut, his arms in tight to his body, and of course his opponent found the spot low on his side where a blackened contusion swelled, courtesy of a sucker punch yesterday. Or was it the day before?

Nathaniel felt the impact of the blow as a sickening explosion of light behind his eyes. Setting his jaw, he breathed through it and used the way his body instinctively crumpled forward to surprise the other man with a full body rush that took them both down to the floor.

Teeth clenched, pain cresting, Nathaniel pinned the fighter with a forearm across his neck, and he held on through the kicking and cursing and clawing until the man finally subsided into the blood-flecked straw.

Nathaniel sank back on his heels, head tipped up, eyes squeezed shut.

He’d won.

But there was no relief.

Everything he fought to forget was still there, churning through his brain in an endless, writhing mass.

He dragged himself to his feet, every joint screaming. He looked down to offer the man on the floor a hand up, and realized his fingers were too swollen to curl all the way closed. They hurt. Everything hurt.

But it wasn’t enough. Not yet. He wouldn’t be able to sleep yet.

Madame Leda strode into the ring and lifted his hand above their hands. “The Berserker! Still undefeated!”

She said some other things, he thought, over the roar of the crowd. Nathaniel ignored it, the same way he ignored the worry in her dark eyes when she looked him over.

When Leda tried to usher him from the ring, though, Nathaniel shook his head.

“Another,” he rasped, his voice in shreds.

With a muttered curse, she narrowed her gaze on him. “You’re near dead on your feet, you stupid man. What are you trying to prove?”

He could only shake his head again. Nothing. There was nothing.

Nothing but the fighting.

Her expression hardened. “You may be the undefeated champion, but this is still my place. You’ll sit the next one out.”

“No,” he growled, shoulders bunching, but she crossed her arms over her chest and gave him a smile full of teeth.

“Yes. I’m not having you keel over in my tavern. You sit the next round out, or you can go home right now and find yourself barred from coming back for a week. Take your pick.”

Nathaniel flexed his sore hands, jaw working against the swelling rage. But he dipped his head in a nod and ducked under the rope to head to the bar.

He sat at the end, in a shadowed corner. No one came near him. Without asking, Rufus slid him a glass of whiskey and a shirt for him to shrug into. Nathaniel took both with equal disinterest.

The whiskey went down like water. Conversation ebbed and flowed around him, punctuated by shouts and cheers as the next fight got underway. Nathaniel tilted his head, good ear listening for the thud of fists on flesh, trying to judge the progress of the bout by the sound.

So caught up was he in wondering if this hit or the next would be the last, releasing him from his unwilling rest to get back in the ring himself, he almost didn’t notice the frisson of excitement running through the crowd.

“Did you see him? He’s not even wearing a mask,” a lady three seats down from Nathaniel tittered, touching her own elaborately embroidered green velvet mask self-consciously. “I thought that was the rule here!”

“Don’t be silly,” her companion sniffed, ringlets bouncing as she sipped gingerly at a tankard of ale. “The Duke of Thornecliff cares nothing for rules.”

Thornecliff. That whoreson bastard who’d accosted Lucy on the Thames riverbank. He was here—and unmasked, as usual, the absolute wanker.

Nathaniel raised his head slowly, attention caught.

The lady in the green mask sighed. “He’s so handsome. Do you think he’ll fight? I’d hate to see anyone mar his beautiful face—but I wouldn’t mind the bit where he takes his shirt off.”

The two women giggled tipsily into each other’s shoulders. Nathaniel glanced up and caught Rufus’s eye, behind the bar. Rufus wandered in his direction with the bottle of scotch.

“Thornecliff again?” Nathaniel asked, clipped.

Rufus shrugged and poured out another finger or two of whiskey. “With his assorted lackeys and hangers-on.”

He rolled his eyes and Nathaniel grimaced. “Surprised Leda puts up with him going unmasked.”

“He says it’s a crime to cover up one of God’s masterpieces.” Shrugging, Rufus capped the bottle. “My lady says he can do as he likes. I don’t know. He drops a lot of gold in here, when he comes. Maybe that’s why. Or maybe she agrees his face is too pretty to hide. Likes a pretty face, does my lady.”

He waggled his piratical brows, a cheerful leer creasing his weather-beaten cheeks, and went to pull another pint for a gentleman further down the bar.

Nathaniel heaved his aching body around and leaned his elbows back on the bar to survey the room. It wasn’t difficult to pick Thornecliff out of the dim, smoky haze. The duke was at the center of a knot of admirers on the other side of the tavern, near the ring.

Sprawled in a high-backed leather armchair he’d procured from God knew where, Thornecliff languidly surveyed the scene, cynical detachment glittering in his demon-black eyes. With his shiny hair and fawn-colored suit of richly embroidered superfine wool, he looked like some pagan idol of old, cast in false gold and luring sinners to damnation.

Nathaniel felt his lip curl in distaste. Turning his back, he dismissed Thornecliff from his mind as unimportant.

Until he heard the two ladies near him cease speculating about the length and width of Thorne’s “attributes”—were all ladies so lascivious when they thought no gentlemen were around to hear them?—and start discussing the latest bit of tittle-tattle they attributed to the scandalous duke.

In addition to his reputation for debauching innocents, throwing lavish parties attended by everyone from the Prince Regent to the demimonde, and swanning about town dressed in the first stare of fashion, the Duke of Thornecliff was known to be an incorrigible gossip.

“Well, I heard Thorne say he knew for a fact—an indisputable fact, mind you!—that she ran away from home. And no one knew where she was for fully a day and night.”

Nathaniel stilled with his drink halfway to his lips.

“Oh! My dear. That is not even the worst of it.” The lady in the green mask leaned closer to her friend. “Gerald had it from Lady Rosalie herself, Thorne’s sister, you know, that she spent at least a portion of that time in the company of…the Gentle Rogue!”

A gasp of shock and delight. “Well! What more can be expected from a girl with a mother like that? And her sister was always no better than she should be, though quite good fun at a house party, I must say.”

“Mm. Though it sounds as if young Lucy is well on her way to claiming her sister’s title as London’s Liveliest Lady!”

The ladies erupted into high-pitched giggles that cut off suddenly when Nathaniel stood and carefully placed his glass on the bar. His shadow fell across the ladies, who turned to stare up at him, eyes wide behind their masks.

He only looked at them for a long, silent moment, but both women flushed then went pale in quick succession. Nathaniel turned and left them to their drinks and their hypocrisy. His quarrel was not with them, but with the instigator of the rumors.

Nathaniel had promised his stepmother he would keep any repercussions of Lucy’s wild night from touching her future. He knew very well he couldn’t fight every lady whispering behind her fan. But he could damn well stem the flow of gossip at its source.

He stalked through the crowd, grimly satisfied when people took one look at him, quailed, and skittered aside.

More monster than man, once more. Or maybe that had never changed.

Maybe that was why Bess wouldn’t marry him.

Nathaniel had forgotten, for a while, that he wasn’t built for forever.

No one stayed. Nothing lasted. So nothing mattered.

Nothing but this. The honor of his family—and not in the way Bess had once accused him of, protecting the family name over the actual people in his family.

This was for his sister. For Henrietta, the woman who had loved him as a child and loved his father, and would even love Nathaniel now, if he would let her.

He wouldn’t. Nathaniel had lived without love most of his life. He didn’t need love.

He only needed this.

Wading through the sea of Thornecliff’s sycophants and admirers, Nathaniel walked right up to the ridiculously throne-like chair and loomed.

It didn’t take long before Thornecliff noticed that the crowd around him had gone quiet. He turned his golden head lazily and looked Nathaniel up and down.

“Damn me,” Thornecliff drawled. Though he was seated and had to tilt his head back to meet Nathaniel’s eyes, he somehow gave the impression of looking down his aristocratic nose. “The Berserker, in the flesh. Who let you off your leash?”

Nathaniel felt the pure clarity of anger slice through the seething mess of emotion in his head. He welcomed it. “You have been telling tales all over town, about a sweet lady who is so far above a blackguard like you, her name should turn to ashes in your mouth. You will stop. Now.”

Something flickered across Thornecliff’s too-handsome face. Nathaniel would’ve liked to believe it was fear, but it looked much more like intrigue. “Or what?”

“Or I’ll make you.”

Thornecliff’s black gaze flared. He settled deeper into his chair, resting his elbows on the arms and steepling his fingers thoughtfully. “And who are you, to issue insults and challenges on behalf of the young lady in question? Her protector?”

The silky, insinuating tone of the question made a red mist cloud Nathaniel’s vision.

Without hesitating, staring directly at Thornecliff’s brazenly bare face, Nathaniel reached up and ripped off his own mask. A ripple of shock passed through the crowd.

“Her brother.”

Something like satisfaction curled the edges of Thornecliff’s dagger-thin smile before it dropped from his face. He examined the nails of his right hand. “Boring. Be gone, Ashbourn. You’re spoiling my view of the ring.”

“You must have misunderstood,” Nathaniel grated out. “I’m issuing a formal challenge. You owe my family a debt of honor. It will be repaid. In blood.”

“How dramatic.” Thornecliff regarded him coolly. “But I’m afraid I shall have to decline.”

“You can’t decline a formal challenge.”

“On the contrary. If I agreed to meet every cuckolded husband and irate elder brother who wishes to duel me, I should have no time for anything else. And I’m afraid my time is far too precious for me to wish to spend it on some dirty field at the crack of dawn, getting shot at.”

Nathaniel felt something ugly crawl up the back of his throat. “Coward.”

A narrowing of those impenetrable coal-black eyes. Thornecliff stood, slow and deliberate, a move that put him toe to toe with Nathaniel.

They were of a height, Nathaniel noted distantly, though Thornecliff was leaner. More of a blade than a bludgeon.

“Tell me the time and place, and I’ll be there. With the weapon of your choice,” Thornecliff said, still silky but with a steely intention behind the words that surprised Nathaniel a bit.

He smiled. From the uneasy shifting and murmuring of the shocked, silent crowd watching, it wasn’t a nice smile.

“I choose fists,” he said softly. “Right here. Right now.”

Thornecliff’s eyes flicked toward the ring.

“Unless you’re afraid of getting blood on your pretty outfit,” Nathaniel goaded.

“Not at all,” Thornecliff replied, lifting a hand to tug at his perfect, elaborately knotted cravat. “I’ll simply remove it. Shall we?”

Madame Leda looked alarmed for a moment when she saw them coming, both unmasked and swiftly stripping down to their trousers. Nathaniel knew he should apologize for bringing this mess into her tavern, but every step closer to the ring brought him further into the state where he could barely think in complete sentences, much less speak them.

The world narrowed down to the upcoming fight, the present moment, the opponent ducking under the rope at Nathaniel’s side with irritating grace. Seeing them, the spectators gave a full-throated yell of excitement that swelled to near pandemonium when Thornecliffe offered them a lazy smile and a desultory salute.

This was a man who deserved a beating, if Nathaniel had ever seen one.

Madame Leda looked as though she was grinding her back teeth. But, never one to allow anything to stand in the way of professional showmanship, she launched into a rousing introduction, calling it a clash of the Titans and making much of the fact that for the first time ever, The Nemesis would see two dukes going head-to-head in the ring.

There goes the family name , Nathaniel thought sardonically as his body moved instinctively into a strong defensive stance.

But what good was his name if he didn’t use it to protect the people he loved? He was proud to fight for Lucy, and he thought—hoped—Bess would approve.

Her opinion of him was the only one Nathaniel cared about.

And then the fight began.

Nathaniel assumed he’d have time to assess his opponent, that they’d circle each other for a bit, feinting and testing out each other’s defenses.

But instead, Thornecliff came at him instantly, moving in close and delivering a swift, devastating combination of blows that landed with surgical precision on the sorest, most battered parts of Nathaniel’s upper body.

With a shout of anger, he shoved at Thornecliff, who glided back on feet lighter than a dancer’s, black eyes intent.

He’s good , Nathaniel thought, anticipation surging through him. Under all those finely stitched coats and divinely decorated waistcoats, Thornecliff had the body of a fighter.

His muscles gleamed in the low light of the tavern, unmarred by the scars and scrapes that littered Nathaniel’s ruin of a body, the proof of his many wins written on his skin—but that only meant Thornecliff had fewer obvious weaknesses to exploit.

Nathaniel had a bit of reach on him, but it didn’t matter when Thornecliff closed in again for another rapid-fire exchange of blows that did more to madden Nathaniel than his last five fights put together.

This time, Thornecliff didn’t wait for Nathaniel to push him back—he darted away and circled to Nathaniel’s right. His bad side.

How the fuck does he know? Nathaniel wondered, snarling as another mean punch seemed to come out of nowhere, his compromised hearing not tracking the other man’s movements well.

He’d never fought anyone quite like Thornecliff.

No hesitation, all offense and quick footwork. And when Nathaniel ducked a right hook and managed to catch him a vicious elbow right to his filthy, scandal-mongering mouth, Thornecliff’s only response was a wide, feral smile through the blood on his teeth.

Grimly determined, Nathaniel lowered his head and bulled his way through the fight. He let Thornecliff land blow after blow, keeping his guard up and his feet inching forward until he finally managed to catch him against the ropes with an uppercut that carried the full weight of his torso and back.

Thornecliff staggered back, finally off balance, and Nathaniel ignored the stiff protest of his screaming body to press his advantage. He hammered at Thornecliff’s sides and ribs, the man’s bitten off curses like music in his one good ear.

“Wish you’d never opened your fucking mouth now, don’t you?” he growled.

Thornecliff laughed, the sound savage and dark. “I don’t tell half of what I know. For instance—the name of the woman you publicly claimed right here in this tavern.”

The world whited out. One minute, Nathaniel was beating Thornecliff bloody—the next, he found himself on the ground after a swipe of Thornecliff’s foot took his legs out from under him.

Nathaniel surged back to his feet, the thunderous noise of the crowd rolling over him in waves.

Enraged beyond reason, he bellowed and charged Thornecliff like a rabid bear—no technique, no finesse, just pure rage.

The battle fury of his distant Norse ancestors enveloped him, draining away all pain and stiffness from his muscles, lending him fresh strength.

He barreled into Thornecliff like a boulder shot from a war catapult.

He would pull this snake’s tongue from his head, Nathaniel vowed silently, grappling an exultantly grinning Thornecliff down to the floor. He would send him straight to hell.

He could already smell the brimstone.

Wait. That wasn’t in his head. That was real.

“Fire!”

Panic erupted. Screams rent the air, the drumbeat of a hundred feet stampeding for the doors shaking the floor. Thornecliff eeled out from under him and Nathaniel let him go with a snarl before launching himself up to scan the room.

Black smoke hazed the low ceiling, acrid and heavy.

Ducking, Nathaniel ran for the bar where he found a rag and soaked it in water before tying it around his nose and mouth. All around him, people were frantic, running and tripping and shoving one another as they attempted to escape before the entire timber-walled tavern went up in flames.

Squinting through the chaos, Nathaniel saw Leda kneeling next to a lady who was sobbing, holding her ankle, and he made his way to them.

“Get out,” he told Leda, bending to hoist the crying woman into his arms and carrying her from the tavern into the lane.

Choked with agitated people milling about, the street was still a relief after the thick, hot air of The Nemesis. Nathaniel gulped in deep breaths, hands on his knees, and only barely managed to lunge up to catch Leda on her way back inside.

“It’s my place,” Leda coughed, tugging at her arm, her face ravaged. Soot from the smoke smudged her cheeks; her eyes were red-rimmed behind the mask. “I have to?—”

“You have to stay out here,” Nathaniel told her firmly. “Organize the bucket brigade. I’ll go back in and make sure everyone is out.”

Looking over her head, he spotted Rufus through the crowd and beckoned him over. He left the two of them clutching at each other, gasping with relief at being in each other’s arms, and pulled his wet rag up over his nose once more.

Just before he shoved back into the tavern, he locked eyes briefly with Thornecliff off to the side. Streaked with black smudges over his face and chest, he was crouched in the street next to a man who was doubled over, coughing.

So he’d made it out, then. Figured.

Nathaniel took a last deep breath and went back in. Inside The Nemesis was a hellscape. Flames licked up the back wall, smoke roiling and billowing. A loud, shattering crash had Nathaniel ducking and cursing; the heat had exploded some of the liquor bottles behind the bar.

He scanned the room for movement, lungs burning and stinging with every inhalation.

There, by the ring, a pair of boots attached to a man in heavy canvas trousers and a dockworker’s coat, passed out on the floor. Nathaniel heaved him over one shoulder and got him outside, passing him off to someone before turning back and heading inside once more.

Time warped and stretched, impossible to track. There was nothing but the dense, prickling heat of the air scouring his throat and lungs, the sear of livid ashes on his skin, the exhaustion in his muscles.

Twice, three times more, Nathaniel found an unconscious body and delivered it to the people waiting to help in the lane.

He blundered back into the building, shrugging off the hands that tried to hold onto him.

Someone had to go back in. Might as well be him.

The crackle of the fire, the creak of the weakening timbers filled his ears. The very air was red.

No one could survive in this, he realized dimly. Anyone still inside the Nemesis was already dead. Turning, he reached for the door, but his smoke-stung eyes hurt too much to open all the way. He fumbled, pitching back and forth like a drunk, lost.

He couldn’t get out. He didn’t even know where out was.

Nathaniel’s lungs seized. He doubled over, hacking and wheezing, inhaling nothing but smoke and ash. He crashed to his knees, unable to catch a breath.

So this was how it ended.

Nathaniel crumpled to the floor, vision wavering darkly. He shut his eyes and fixed an image of Bess in his mind—her honey-blond hair and whiskey eyes, shining with warmth and welcome, her strong, capable hands held out to him.

If these were his last moments, let him think of nothing but her.

Bess. I love you. I’m sorry.

We should’ve had more time.