“You won’t have difficulty keeping your emotions under control?” prodded Isobel.

“Not one bit.”

“Your heart doesn’t thump like an orchestral percussion section when he’s near?”

“Not one little tap on a kettle drum.”

“Please take care. That’s all we ask,” said Della.

“Stop worrying. You sound like a bunch of mother hens. I’ve been hired to complete a task and complete it I shall. I won’t be at all distracted by the duke’s broad shoulders, buckskin-clad thighs, or smoldering blue gaze.”

Wait, that had sounded . . . suspicious.

She schooled her face into her best schoolmarm expression of detached geniality. “The duke means nothing to me. It’s all very tidy and manageable and straightforward.”

“If you say so,” Isobel said, looking unconvinced.

“I’ll be perfectly safe,” she reassured her friends. “The duke’s not dangerous. I can manage him, just as I manage his sisters.”

West had had enough of managing his emotions and restraining his thirst for vengeance. His encounter with that sneaking cowardly baron had primed him for bloodshed. He’d wanted so badly to break the man’s nose, leave him with some permanent mark for attempting to force himself on Viola.

He saw her again, so small, so brave. Fury blazed through him until he could barely breathe. What if he hadn’t arrived? He couldn’t think about it. He had arrived. She was safe. And she would remain safe. He’d see to that.

He’d only held back because broken noses were gruesome, messy affairs and Viola wouldn’t have liked blood sprayed across her sofa.

There were no sofas here. Only a wood plank floor sprinkled with sawdust to soak up the blood and sweat. Here he could indulge his bloodlust.

Indulge it with one target in particular: Laxton.

He didn’t usually go in for these tame bare-knuckle boxing establishments where lords paid to be trained in the pugilistic arts, but he’d found out that Laxton came here every Tuesday afternoon.

It was time to take matters into his own fists.

The subtle means of retribution suggested by his friend Rafe hadn’t paid any dividends yet. They’d found some questionable investments, and several unpaid debts, but no scandal big enough to use as leverage to shame him, make him flee London with his tail between his legs.

Rafe had said the investigation would take time.

West wasn’t feeling patient.

He bound his fists round with white cloth. He pretended the punching bag was Laxton. He could see the gold and diamond stickpin in the shape of a rose that he always wore on his lapel. The gleaming boots and flamboyant waistcoats. Smell the sickly sweet scent of his hair pomade. See his long nose with flat nostrils pinched in aristocratic disdain.

Laxton was tall and broad-shouldered but he’d be lily-livered under all that finery, West had no doubt.

He’d wipe that mocking smile from his face.