“Escort Lord Fletcher to the coat room,” called Delilah sharply to her staff. “At once.”
“Do you wish me to accompany you?” he asked, keeping his tone even so he did not influence her decision, as two large men removed the viscount from the entrance hall.
“I…” she hesitated, her fingers tangling together.
“It is no trouble. I can be whatever you need—witness, accomplice, or alibi.”
Delilah stared at him for a long moment. Then she went up on tiptoes and brushed his lips with hers. Not a kiss to arouse or farewell, but something deep and tender that warmed him to the core.
“I didn’t know that was exactly what I wished to hear until you said it,” she said softly. “Who can guess how this situation will end? Lord Fletcher is indeed sotted, and sotted people are wildly unpredictable.”
“I think it wise you chose the coat room rather than outside,” he replied, offering his arm as they walked. “A neighbor could send for a constable or report straight to Fleet Street. As could a patron or passerby.”
Her fingers curled tight around his arm. “I chose the coat room because it lacks potential weapons, although my fists, knees, and elbows remain in play.”
“As I said, madam, I offer my services as a witness, accomplice, or alibi.”
The coat room was about ten feet long and equally as wide, filled with rows of numbered shelves and hooks holding hats, greatcoats, cloaks, bonnets, and pelisses for patrons while they enjoyed the Temple’s facilities. But it also had a small wooden table and several chairs, and when they entered the room Fletcher sat slumped on a chair, a brawny and deliberately expressionless footman either side of him. These men probably knew how to maim without raising so much as a drop of sweat.
“This is reduck…redick…utter nonsense, Delilah,” said Fletcher, scowling at her.
“You may call me Mrs. Forbes,” she replied crisply. “And it is your own fault, arriving at a private club drunk and shouting.”
“What the hell is Humdrum Tun doing here?”
Bennett flexed his fist, the urge to plant a facer on the other man almost overwhelming. “You can direct all appreciation toward your father. He told me your destination at the ball, and asked for my assistance.”
Fletcher frowned and then hiccupped. “Someone fetch me a brandy. Least you can do after manhandling me into a demmed coat room.”
“You’ve had more than enough already, my lord,” said Delilah. “I am happy to order tea, however.”
“Tea is for old men and mewling infants. Very well, if you’re going to be all crass and rude to your better, then explain why my ass…application was rejected. Don’t think you quite understand who I am. A close chum of the Prince Regent!”
Delilah’s lip curled, and she sank gracefully into one of the other chairs. Somehow this made her look more intimidating, and Bennett wanted to cheer. The only lack of understanding here was the viscount’s: what a woman born and bred in Cheapside, who had overcome grief and hardship to build an extremely successful business, might do to protect what was hers.
“I know exactly who you are,” said Delilah coldly. “A peer who doesn’t follow rules, and is therefore unsuitable for membership. I do not permit drunkenness in the Temple, you are well in your cups. Your application required two character references, you provided none—”
“Oh, that is easy,” said Fletcher, brightening. “Tunny will vouch for me, won’t you old boy? Known each other for years and years. M’father was one of his trustees after the old duke cocked up his toes.”
Bennett said nothing. He would vouch for Fletcher when badgers in bonnets ice skated through purgatory.
Delilah cleared her throat. “Alas, my lord, the character references must come from people who are already Temple members, and have been so for at least six months. The rules apply to everyone, even, er close chums of the Prince Regent.”
“If I didn’t know better, Mrs. Forbes,” said the viscount slowly, sending her a dark frown, “I might think you were mocking me. That you did not want me here. And that would be a very bad bush…business decision.”
“We shall see. I don’t believe there is anything further to discuss, so I’ll wish you a good evening. You are free to leave alone, or if you require assistance to your carriage, my bodyguard will escort you. He’s recently retired from the British army, resembles a tree trunk with fists the size of ham hocks, and possesses a short temper thanks to years of salted beef rations.”
Fletcher leaned forward on his chair, swayed a little, and then righted himself. But his gaze shot arrows of pure hatred at Delilah. “There will be conshe…consequences for this.”
Bennett’s temper boiled over, and he confronted the other man, hooked a hand under his arm, and yanked the blond lord to his feet. “You’ve said quite enough. If you aren’t gone from these premises immediately, Mrs. Forbes’ bodyguard will have to stand in line for his turn to rearrange your nose. I’m positively itching to do so, and Gentleman Jackson believes I have a rather adequate right hook.”
“Ah, I see how it is. Humdrum Tun so desperate for a woman he defends a whore. Scraping the barrel, dear boy…ooof…”
Blinking in surprise, Bennett stared down at Fletcher, now on his knees, wheezing and coughing like a shipwreck survivor scooped out of a stormy sea. Good God. It had finally happened. He’d chosen angry street brawler over duke and punched the man square in the stomach with the full force of ten years’ worth of pent up anger and frustration. Twice.
And he couldn’t bring himself to regret it.
Glancing up at Delilah, he opened his mouth, ready to apologize for the fisticuffs in her presence. But she shook her head, so instead Bennett hauled the viscount to his feet for a second time, before grabbing Fletcher’s right arm and draping it around his shoulder. One of Delilah’s footmen darted forward to do the same to Fletcher’s left arm, and together they half-walked, half-dragged him back to the entrance hall, which, saints be praised, was temporarily empty.
Fletcher continued to wheeze, and his shoe heels tap danced on the marble floor as he attempted to free himself, but Bennett and the footman were unwavering in their determination to remove the interloper from the Temple.
“Tun,” the viscount croaked. “How could you? For her?”
“Delilah Forbes is worth a thousand of you. Ten thousand. You are unworthy to be in the presence of such a wonderful woman,” snarled Bennett when they reached Fletcher’s carriage. “So do not return here, or to Grosvenor Square, because I swear not even your father will recognize you when I’m done.”
Without waiting for a response he turned and stormed away, needing to get back to Delilah. Although he had no right to be in the Temple—he wasn’t a member and hadn’t been invited—she had kissed him and that might mean something. Did he dare hope for more, despite just punching a lord in a coat room?
Delilah waited for him at the bottom of the stairs, her smile cool under the bright light of the candle-heavy chandelier. “Your Grace. I wondered if you might accompany me upstairs to my parlor for a discussion?”
His heart sank, even as he nodded. “Of course.”