attempt at a deep sigh, prompting Wilcox to, once again, curse his own foolishness. The lingering soreness in his shoulder made itself known as he tried in vain to find a more comfortable position for his long frame. He should have given in once he’d realized he was outnumbered four-on-one, but stubborn pride had made him struggle against the bearlike strength of the man who’d held him captive. The villain’s compatriots had been brutally insistent in their request for his valuables, and Wilcox’s foulmouthed refusal had displeased them greatly.
Wilcox’s jaw—a victim of a well-placed fist—creaked and popped as he moved it gingerly from one side to the other, the mottled skin of his bruised cheeks grating irritatingly over the aching muscle. Though he’d managed to return some of his assailants’ rough treatment, it had been far from an even match. An excruciating throbbing made him want to cut off his own head, reminding him of the final blow that had left him dazed and relieved of his immediate possessions. He pressed a finger to his temple, hissing as a scraped knuckle brushed over a neat cut running right below his hairline. His nose, as luck would have it, was undamaged. A small blessing, he supposed, as bleeding all over his fine wool waistcoat would have been the final insult.
Glancing around with bleary eyes, Wilcox made sure no one was in their immediate vicinity. The club was nearly deserted, save for himself, Church, a couple of dandies engaged in an intimate chat over glasses of port, and three gentlemen playing cards. The hour was closing in on midnight, and the adventurous members of the London ton had found better places to be. Nevertheless, Wilcox sat forward to ensure he wasn’t overheard. “I was attacked,” he began.
“Good Lord!” Church half stood from his seat as though ready to bodily protect Wilcox from harm, his shout drawing the notice of everyone in the room.
“Would you please sit down?” Wilcox hissed, jamming his fingers through his hair in aggravation. “And lower your voice, for God’s sake.” Seeing that a spectacle was not forthcoming, the other members quickly lost interest. Relieved, Wilcox waited until Church complied with his request before elaborating. “I was assaulted, as you can see. It was down at the West India Docks,” he added under his breath, knowing the revelation would give away the game.
“West India, you say?” Church was well aware of the infamous reputation held by those particular docks. He stared fixedly at Wilcox for a long moment before raking over him with a critically assessing gaze. “Are you all right?”
“I gave as good as I got.” Wilcox shrugged, bristling at the disbelieving eyebrow Church raised in response. The assertion wasn’t completely ridiculous. The last adjective that could be used to describe Wilcox was “fragile.” His sturdy frame still carried the hard-won muscle honed by years of indulging his love for rugby at university.
Church sighed dramatically as he sprawled back in the chair, the burgundy upholstery handsomely complementing the hue of his suit. “Ah, I see,” he said cryptically, his tone full of mock commiseration. The amused twitching of his lips was visible only because Wilcox had spent hours studying every nuance of his friend’s features. “And in this beastly weather? You must have been truly desperate.” Church chuckled, eyeing Wilcox slyly. “So, what happened, exactly? Besides the obvious, of course.”
Wilcox’s hand tensed with the irrational urge to slap away the infuriating smirk, but he refrained, knowing Church’s concern would not have been feigned had Wilcox been truly injured. By “the obvious,” he knew Church didn’t mean the plain fact that he’d been soundly thrashed. His friend was, of course, referring to the reason a man of Wilcox’s stature had dared haunt such an unseemly locale in the dark, frigid hours of a midwinter night. Pressing a weary hand to his
Wilcox’s jaw—a victim of a well-placed fist—creaked and popped as he moved it gingerly from one side to the other, the mottled skin of his bruised cheeks grating irritatingly over the aching muscle. Though he’d managed to return some of his assailants’ rough treatment, it had been far from an even match. An excruciating throbbing made him want to cut off his own head, reminding him of the final blow that had left him dazed and relieved of his immediate possessions. He pressed a finger to his temple, hissing as a scraped knuckle brushed over a neat cut running right below his hairline. His nose, as luck would have it, was undamaged. A small blessing, he supposed, as bleeding all over his fine wool waistcoat would have been the final insult.
Glancing around with bleary eyes, Wilcox made sure no one was in their immediate vicinity. The club was nearly deserted, save for himself, Church, a couple of dandies engaged in an intimate chat over glasses of port, and three gentlemen playing cards. The hour was closing in on midnight, and the adventurous members of the London ton had found better places to be. Nevertheless, Wilcox sat forward to ensure he wasn’t overheard. “I was attacked,” he began.
“Good Lord!” Church half stood from his seat as though ready to bodily protect Wilcox from harm, his shout drawing the notice of everyone in the room.
“Would you please sit down?” Wilcox hissed, jamming his fingers through his hair in aggravation. “And lower your voice, for God’s sake.” Seeing that a spectacle was not forthcoming, the other members quickly lost interest. Relieved, Wilcox waited until Church complied with his request before elaborating. “I was assaulted, as you can see. It was down at the West India Docks,” he added under his breath, knowing the revelation would give away the game.
“West India, you say?” Church was well aware of the infamous reputation held by those particular docks. He stared fixedly at Wilcox for a long moment before raking over him with a critically assessing gaze. “Are you all right?”
“I gave as good as I got.” Wilcox shrugged, bristling at the disbelieving eyebrow Church raised in response. The assertion wasn’t completely ridiculous. The last adjective that could be used to describe Wilcox was “fragile.” His sturdy frame still carried the hard-won muscle honed by years of indulging his love for rugby at university.
Church sighed dramatically as he sprawled back in the chair, the burgundy upholstery handsomely complementing the hue of his suit. “Ah, I see,” he said cryptically, his tone full of mock commiseration. The amused twitching of his lips was visible only because Wilcox had spent hours studying every nuance of his friend’s features. “And in this beastly weather? You must have been truly desperate.” Church chuckled, eyeing Wilcox slyly. “So, what happened, exactly? Besides the obvious, of course.”
Wilcox’s hand tensed with the irrational urge to slap away the infuriating smirk, but he refrained, knowing Church’s concern would not have been feigned had Wilcox been truly injured. By “the obvious,” he knew Church didn’t mean the plain fact that he’d been soundly thrashed. His friend was, of course, referring to the reason a man of Wilcox’s stature had dared haunt such an unseemly locale in the dark, frigid hours of a midwinter night. Pressing a weary hand to his
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