The Prizefighter’s Hart by Emily Royal

Chapter Thirty-Three

Griffin entered the breakfast room and froze.

Alex Ogilvie sat at the head of the table, spooning scrambled eggs into his mouth.

“Griff, my friend, how pleasant. I hadn’t expected to see you so early.” He gestured toward the buffet. “Do join me. I must congratulate you on the excellence of your cook. Or should I congratulate that intriguing wife of yours?”

Griffin folded his arms. “What do you want, Ogilvie?”

“What—no pleasantries for an old friend?”

“I think we both know that pleasantries are merely a foil to divert attention from the truth,” Griffin said.

Ogilvie laughed. “You speak like a dandy! Has your wife been giving you lessons? She looks too much of a lady for your tastes.

“Just tell me what you want, Alex.” Griffin almost spat out the last word.

“I find myself in need of funds.”

“And you thought I’d give you a handout? You’re more of a fool than I thought.”

“I can work for it,” Ogilvie said.

Griffin snorted. “You’ve no idea what honest work is.”

“I could manage the White Hart—better than that numbskull Ned Watkins. I can’t believe he’s still there.”

“Ned’s been a faithful employee and friend,” Griffin said, “which is more than I can say for you. At least he didn’t seduce my wife.”

“Louisa threw herself at me at every opportunity,” Ogilvie said. “I wonder if her replacement will show a greater strength of will.” He winked, then picked up his teacup and sipped it. “Mmm—hot and wet. Just how I like ’em.”

“Why, you…”

“Good morning,” a female voice said. Dorothea stood in the doorway.

Ogilvie rose to his feet, the slick, charming smile in place. “Mrs. Oake! I trust you slept well and weren’t disturbed during the night.” He cast a sidelong glance at Griffin. “The storm didn’t come closer, did it?”

“No,” she said. “It didn’t.”

“Ogilvie and I were discussing his departure,” Griffin said. “He’s leaving today.”

“Am I?” Ogilvie’s voice rose in challenge.

“I don’t think you’re suitable company for my wife and daughter.”

“But he’s an old friend of yours!” Dorothea exclaimed. “And Rowena’s fond of him. She’ll be disappointed to see him go.”

“I dare say she’ll recover,” Griffin said. “But I won’t have a criminal in my home. Did you know he spent four years in Horsham gaol? Do you want such a man in your home?”

Ogilvie’s smile broadened, the smug expression on his face fueling Griffin’s anger.

“Who knows what he might do?” Griffin continued. “Do you want to be murdered in your own bed?”

He aimed a smile of triumph at Ogilvie.

“I already know of Mr. Ogilvie’s past,” she said. “He informed me of that himself. He was imprisoned for debt—a circumstance of misfortune rather than a crime. And you accuse him of being a murderer?”

She shook her head. “You insult your friend—and you insult me by thinking me unwilling to give him a second chance. My brother, Devon, was persecuted by those who were too quick to judge—would you deny his friendship also?”

“Of course not,” Griffin said.

“Mr. Ogilvie told me last night that he’s anxious to repay his debts by working,” she continued. “I see no reason why we shouldn’t give him the opportunity.”

She paused and glanced at Ogilvie. “Of course, if he cannot keep his word, then he’s not welcome here, as I told him last night, didn’t I, Mr. Ogilvie?”

Ogilvie’s smile slipped a fraction, then he nodded.

Good—at least Dorothea’s usual good sense hadn’t completely abandoned her.

“Then I’ve no objection to giving him a chance.” Griffin said, “But, rest assured, Ogilvie, I’ll be watching you. I’ll do anything to protect my loved ones.”

Dorothea cast him a glance. Was she still angry?

He’d missed her last night—but he had no desire to give Ogilvie any opportunity to rile him further. The very notion of that man being in the house while Griffin shared intimacies with his wife—was not to be borne.

“Rest assured, Griff, my intentions are honorable,” Ogilvie said. “I wanted to see my old friend again, and I heard about the fight at the White Hart. I thought I’d try my hand at it.

“You?”

“Why not? It’s how I made my living—and the winnings would pay my debts.”

“Assuming you win,” Griffin said.

“I intend to.” Ogilvie smiled, his eyes glittering with ambition.

“Then you must stay,” Thea said. “We cannot deny you the chance to honor your debts.”

The schoolmistress tone had returned—which meant she’d brook no denial.

“Very well,” Griffin said. “You can stay until the fight.”

Triumph gleamed in Ogilvie’s gaze. But what harm could he do? Perhaps the old adage was true—it was better to keep one’s enemies close at hand.

“I should speak with Mrs. Morris about the menus,” Dorothea said. “Mr. Ogilvie, are there any particular meals that you favor?”

“I’m sure I’ll relish whatever you offer me, Mrs. Oake.”

Seemingly unaware of Ogilvie’s hungry gaze, she nodded and exited the breakfast room.

Ogilvie sat and resumed eating, wearing a smile which could only be described as “punchable.”

“Aren’t you going to sit, Griff?”

Gritting his teeth, Griffin spooned eggs onto his plate and took the seat at the opposite end of the table.

“You seem fortunate in your choice of wife,” Ogilvie said between mouthfuls, “though she’s nothing like Louisa—at least, not in appearance.”

Griffin refused to take the bait.

“Where did you find her?” Ogilvie continued. “I can’t see you moving in the same circles.”

“I met her in London. She’s my banker’s sister.”

“Married you for your money, did she?”

“She’s rich in her own right,” Griffin said.

Not that you’ll see a penny of it, if that’s what you’re after—he almost added.

“I congratulate you on your good fortune,” Ogilvie replied. “A woman of her age is less likely to saddle you with a litter of brats, but her fortune will swell your coffers. You have all the advantages of a marriage and none of the disadvantages.”

“You’ve no right to speak of her in that manner,” Griffin said. “She’s not old, and she’s a good mother to Rowe—she’s even made provisions for Rowe’s marriage settlement.”

Ogilvie’s eyes widened with interest. “Has she? You’ve really landed on your feet.”

“Through hard work,” Griffin said.

“Aided by good fortune,” Ogilvie said. “You had a few lucky wins in the ring. It could have been me.”

Griffin snorted. “You? Lazy, arrogant, never wanting to work or train, expecting success to fall onto your lap—you were unpopular with the crowd because you fought dirty. Whereas I…”

“Whereas you were loved in the ring, despite your true nature out of it.”

“What the devil do you mean?” Griffin asked.

“You know full well,” Ogilvie said. “I was there, remember, the night Louisa was killed? When Rowena found you over her dead, naked body, with your hands around her throat?”

Griffin’s chest tightened at the memory…Louisa’s broken body at the foot of the stairs, her soulless eyes staring up at him, the spark of accusation fading as the life left her.

And Rowe—little Rowe—her innocent face peering round the corner as she saw him drag her mother’s corpse across the floor.

“Of course,” Ogilvie continued, “you must be counting your blessings that she has no recollection of that night.”

“How do you know she can’t remember what happened?” Griffin asked.

“Because she doesn’t hate you—and neither does your wife! What would they think if they knew the truth?” Ogilvie laughed. “I find it ironic that you’ve tried to paint me as a murderer in your wife’s eyes.”

“They won’t believe a word you say,” Griffin said, his voice tight.

“Are you prepared to take the risk?”

Griffin’s hands itched to wrap round Ogilvie’s neck. Then he heard a soft footfall, and Rowe appeared in the doorway.

Ogilvie pushed his plate aside. “These eggs aren’t to my taste,” he said. “I must ask your wife to instruct the cook to provide me with a little bacon each morning.”

“Oh!” Rowe cried. “Has Papa given you leave to stay?”

Ogilvie turned his smile on Griffin. “Yes, dearest Rowe-ling,” he said. “I rather think he has.”