His heart sinking, he turned back to the pavement and the quiet, nearly empty street.
He had few options.
Dawn would come soon. He could stand on the pavement and stride back and forth and wait for her father to return, then rescue her once she realized how bad her predicament was, or he could hie himself off and wait for her to find him.
Would she, though?
Would she come to find him once she realized how badly things had gone for herself?
Bloody hell, he hoped so. She seemed to be a lady of sense. That certainly stood in her favor.
He strode to his stallion waiting with the patient, if sleepy, young groomsman. He tossed the man a guinea for his trouble.
Without another backward glance, he took the reins, mounted, and urged Marlowe into a swift cantor down the all but empty street. It was too late for people to be heading on the town yet, too early for people to be returning from their pleasures. He was damned glad, because the last thing he wished was to have to navigate a great deal of traffic.
Given the pounding of his blood at his failure and his inability to immediately save Lady Victoria, there was only one thing that could even remotely correct the course of the night.
It took only a few moments to ride down the street toward the elite club he frequented, which was private and secure. It was a place run by one of his dear friends, a second son who had sailed the seven seas for most of his life, found that the privateering life no longer agreed with him, and had taken to allowing Lords to beat each other to a pulp in his very capable presence. He also gave instruction in a style of fighting that one wouldn’t see under Queensbury rules.
Only certain Lords, of course. Most Lords were not worth Brookhaven’s time or attention.
But Lord Adam Brookhaven dearly loved to watch other peers murder one another. It was the only outlet that men of his class had for their emotions. Emotions most of them would swear to not possessing.
For English society required such intense civility that any emotion they now experienced was driven beneath the surface.
The only way it was often put on display was with blood and fists or pistols at dawn.
Sometimes Chase wished the sentiments of the last century had not so rapidly been extracted from what was considered de riguer.
At least then, men had been allowed to show emotions, to make merry, to shed tears, to profess their undying love for one another all whilst battling the French. Not any longer. A certain stoicism had taken over England, and now men went about stiff as boards, unable to proclaim their feelings, and instead drove their fists into one another’s faces.
He could only be thankful that he was quite good at the sort of veiled reactions this type of attitude required. And he was excellent with his fists, a rapier, or pistols at dawn.
As he vaulted down from his stallion, the sounds of the city began to pick up around him.
This street was full of characters racing back and forth from Covenant Garden, Vaux Hall, and the gambling clubs in the West.
All good young ladies were at balls, dancing until their slippers were worn out. They would return home when the sun came up. He wondered at the fact that Lady Victoria was at home, tucked away, but then again, he shouldn’t have wondered too hard, for she did not seem to have the sort of personality that shone at balls.
He doubted the fashions of the day or the glittering ballrooms of society would frame her in any sort of flattering light. There was no getting around the fact that she was the opposite of what the ton required in a woman. And that made her ideally suited to him. He’d never desire her. And that was damned essential in his future wife.
If she realized her predicament and honored her father’s bet, that was.
Chase threw the reins to the waiting attendant outside the Corinthian column–lined building, strode up the marble steps, thrust open the door without waiting for assistance, charged down the candlelit hall, and allowed the brilliant sounds of flesh hitting flesh to fill his ears.
“Chase,” a voice all but roared.
He turned and spotted Brookhaven, whose wild brown hair was a riot about his tawny face. The man still looked as bronzed as a statue, having spent most of the last years under the blistering Southern sun.
“You look like the Devil, man,” Brookhaven observed as he tugged at his open linen shirt. He tsked with exaggerated concern whilst folding back the cuffs.
Just the sight of Brookhaven improved his mood. If Brookhaven was present, he’d actually get a good fight. “Haven’t you heard? I am the Devil.”
“I have indeed heard it,” replied Brookhaven. His amber-hued gaze sparked with amusement. “But I don’t believe it for a moment. I know, though no one can see it, there’s actually a little halo over your head wherever you go.”
“Say not such a thing,” Chase remonstrated. “You shall besmirch my reputation. And then whatever shall I do?”
“Come, show me, then, what a devil you are,” Brookhaven challenged with a grin. He turned into the long ballroom that had been converted into a boxing room.