“To what circumstances are you referring?” Zachary asked softly, although he knew exactly in what direction the conversation was heading.
“Why, everyone in London knows of your new chère amie, the exquisite Lady Holland. May I compliment you on your remarkable—and rather surprising—show of good taste. Congratulations, my fortunate fellow.”
“No congratulations are in order,” Zachary said shortly. “There is no intimate relationship, nor will there be.”
Warrington raised his dark brows, as if he were confronted with an obvious falsehood. “The so-called lady is residing under your roof, Bronson. Do you take us all for fools?”
“Under the same roof as my mother and sister,” Zachary pointed out evenly, though inwardly his temper had exploded into cold, lethal flame. “To lend instruction and advice to the family.”
Warrington laughed nastily, revealing a set of long, uneven teeth. “Oh, I'm certain there is a great deal of ‘instructing’ going on. Concerning how a fine lady prefers to be bedded, perhaps?”
Warrington's companions chuckled at his lame wit.
Zachary remained in his chair, appearing relaxed in spite of the burst of icy rage in his chest. He was making yet another unwelcome discovery: that any slight upon Lady Holland Taylor was sufficient to make him want to commit murder. He had known when he and Holly had signed their infernal contract of employment that there would be rumors. Even Holly had recognized the certain damage to her reputation. At the time, the idea had not bothered Zachary very much—he had been too intent on getting what he wanted. Now, however, it bothered him exceedingly. He felt little flames exploding behind his eyeballs.
“Retract the comment,” he said softly. “And add an apology, while you're at it.”
Warrington smiled, clearly pleased that his arrow had hit its mark. “And if I don't?”
“I'll beat it out of you,” Zachary replied in deadly earnest.
“A boxing match? Excellent idea.” There was no doubt that it was what Warrington had wanted all along. “If I best you, you'll give me your word that you'll leave the club immediately and never enter the place again. And if you emerge the victor, I'll come forth with a retraction and apology.”
“And one more thing,” Zachary said, staring at the top button of Warrington's finely tailored coat. All the buttons on the garment were large and gold, engraved with the family insignia. However, the top one was adorned with a large, sparkling white diamond that appeared to be at least two carats in weight. “If I win, I'll take that diamond button as well.”
“What?” Warrington wore a perplexed expression. “Deuced strange request. What the devil do you want that for?”
“Call it a memento,” Zachary replied.
The earl shook his head, as if he suspected he was dealing with a madman. “Very well. Shall we make arrangements for the morning?”
“No.” Zachary had no intention of allowing the coxcomb and his cronies to publicize the event all over London, or to cast further aspersions on Lady Holly's honor. The matter would be resolved expediently. He stood and flexed his hands with anticipation. “We'll do it now. In the club cellar.”
Warrington seemed momentarily perturbed by Zachary's cold, deliberate manner. “I can't do it right now without any sort of preparation. There's a difference between a properly arranged match and a common street brawl—not that you would understand such distinctions.”
Suddenly Zachary smiled. “I understand that you want to make a show of your boxing skills and dispatch my arse from the club once and for all. You have your chance, Warrington. But it will happen here and now, or else we'll declare a forfeit.”
“No forfeit,” Warrington retorted. “I'll come to scratch whenever and wherever you desire.” He turned to one of his companions. “Enfield, will you stand as my second?”
His friend nodded at once, clearly pleased to have been asked.
Warrington glanced at his other companion. “Turner, I suppose that means you'll have to stand for Bronson.”
Turner, a pudgy, round-faced fellow with overlong reddish brown locks that straggled to his shoulders, frowned and folded his short arms across his chest. It was apparent that performing the duties of a second for Bronson—remaining in the corner of the rope ring to encourage and assist him—was none too appealing for Turner.
Bronson threw him a jeering smile. “Don't trouble yourself, milord,” he muttered. “I have no need of a second.”
To all their surprise, a new voice entered the conversation. “I'll serve as your second, Bronson, if I may.”
Zachary stared in the direction of the dry, cultured voice, and saw a man seated in a corner chair. Setting aside the fresh-pressed edition of the Times, the man stood and approached him. The newcomer was tall and lean and blond, looking the way arist
ocrats were supposed to look but somehow never did. Zachary studied him thoughtfully, having never seen him at Marlow's before. With his cool gray eyes, wheat-blond hair and perfectly sculpted features, he was handsome—princely, even. His selfcontained air and the watchful intelligence of his expression brought the image of a golden hawk to mind.
“Vardon, Lord Ravenhill,” the man said, extending his hand.
Zachary shook his hand, discovering the man had a hard, solid grasp. The sound of the name triggered something in the back of his mind. Ravenhill, Ravenhill…the name Holly had spoken just a few hours ago in her drugged reminiscences of George. Ravenhill was the name of George Taylor's closest friend, a man so trusted and valued that he had been present during the last hours of George's life. Was this the same man? Why would he volunteer as Zachary's second for a fistfight? And what did Ravenhill think of the fact that George's beloved wife was now employed by a commoner like himself? Zachary stared into the man's remote silvery-gray eyes, but could discern not a single emotion.
“Why offer to stand for me?” Zachary asked, fascinated despite himself.