own out at Wapping where he now served particularly tasty whitebait suppers. But somehow along the way she had become the toast of the prizefighters, patron and mascot, a Lady of the Fancy-and she did not have the heart to tell them that she abhorred fighting, abhorred violence of any kind, unsurprisingly enough.
That was why she was sitting here alone, nursing a glass of stout, whilst in the adjoining room an impromptu ring had been set up and a fight was in progress between the champion, Hen Pearce, and a young hopeful. It was her second glass and the rich malt taste of the beer was both warming and strong. Joanna seldom drank and then usually wine or champagne. This was earthier, but it relaxed her. It had been a week of shocking disclosures in which the worst elements of the past had been raked up and her feelings exposed mercilessly. Her emotions felt frayed and raw, but for a little while in this tavern with fifty men outside who would raucously defend her to the death, she felt obscurely safe.
The door opened and Joanna shuddered as a wall of noise washed through, the sound of flesh against flesh, the sympathetic groans of the crowd as the youngster took a hammering. Joanna put her fingers in her ears.
She became aware that Alex Grant was standing in front of her, immaculate in his casual evening attire. His lips were moving. She took her fingers out of her ears.
“What on earth are you doing in a prizefighting tavern if you dislike the sport?” he demanded.
How marvelous. Within the space of ten seconds he had managed to destroy all her feelings of relaxation and put her back up. The prickles of irritation jabbed her.
“How do you know I dislike it?” she countered.
“You are sitting in here alone with your fingers in your ears and an expression on your face as though you were sucking lemons,” Alex said. “What are you doing here?”
“I came to try to find myself a bodyguard to accompany me to Spitsbergen,” Joanna said. She gestured Brooke forward. “Lord Grant, this is Daniel Brooke, a former prizefighter. Brooke, Lord Grant.”
Brooke bowed politely to Alex, but there was a steely light in his eyes, as though he was spoiling for a fight.
Just say the word, his demeanor seemed to suggest.
Joanna saw Alex’s gaze sweep over Brooke with the same look of shrewd appraisal that the prizefighter was giving him. Many men would be intimidated by Brooke’s raw aggression, Joanna thought, but Alex held his ground. He was at least half a foot taller than Brooke, leaner and less bulky, but in his own way he had a dangerous edge. Perhaps it came from having knocked about those corners of the world where only reckless adventurers chose to tread. A man had to be strong, resourceful and courageous to survive in such places. But this was perilous ground. Joanna gave herself a little shake. Those were the kind of thoughts she had had about David when first she had met him. David Ware, the hero.
The two men measured each other and Joanna felt something elemental in the air, then Brooke stepped back and nodded once, and the tension diminished.
“A bodyguard,” Alex said, and he, too, nodded, and Joanna saw the tight muscles in Brooke’s shoulders ease a little more.
“Good gracious, Lord Grant,” she said. “Do I discern approval from you?”
A smile lifted the corners of Alex’s mouth. “A journey of the type you plan to undertake is full of surprises, Lady Joanna,” he said, “and not all of them pleasant.”
“So I thought,” Joanna said. “Unfortunately, Brooke has turned me down because he does not like the cold. It is bad for his joints.”
“A hazard of the profession, I suppose,” Alex said.
“May I offer you a drink, sir?” Brooke inquired courteously.
“Thank you, but no,” Alex said. “I am here only to speak with Lady Joanna.” He turned to her. “You are aware that prizefighting is illegal, my lady?”
“The Dukes of York and Clarence are watching, as are three London magistrates,” Joanna said. “I do not think we shall be troubled by the law.”
Alex gestured to the armchair across from hers. “May I?” His gaze fell on the glass of stout. “Is that beer?”
“Stout,” Joanna said. “I enjoy a glass of malt beer.” She waited for the inevitable condemnation.
Alex turned to Brooke. “Perhaps I shall take a drink after all, thank you, Brooke. Brandy, please.”
Brooke bowed and went out.
“You are extremely polite tonight,” Joanna said.
“No sane man would be otherwise with a prizefighter in attendance,” Alex said. He looked at the glass of stout again. “Are you foxed, Lady Joanna? Dark beer is the strongest.”
“I know,” Joanna said. “It is delightful.”
“You are foxed.”
“There are so many things about me that you can disapprove of,” Joanna said sweetly. She slewed around in her seat to look at him. “Why are you here, Lord Grant? And how did you know where to find me, for that matter?”
“Owen Purchase told me,” Alex said.
“Ah. Then he will also have told you that Lottie and I have commissioned him to take us to Spitsbergen.”
“He did.” Alex frowned. “Mrs. Cummings plans to go, too?”
She thinks it will be an adventure,” Joanna said. She sighed. “I suppose that you tried to dissuade Captain Purchase from accepting our offer?”
“I did. I failed.”
Joanna smiled a little at his honesty. She was beginning to see that one would never get Spanish coin from Alex Grant, no matter how uncomfortable the truth. It was a quality that would have made her like him under normal circumstances, but his mistrust of her, those poisonous seeds that David had sowed, would always stand between them.
“Captain Purchase is very loyal,” she said. “Or perhaps it is just the money I offered him.”
Alex laughed. “Purchase is, as you so rightly point out, an adventurer.” His look changed, became keen. “Though he does appear to hold you in esteem. Do you know him well?”
“Not in the way that you are implying,” Joanna snapped, sensitive to the implication in his voice. “Lord Grant, your opinions are offensive. I can see that to you it is unaccountable that anyone might think well of me if they are not my lover!”
“I beg your pardon,” Alex said mildly, taking the wind out of her sails. “I meant to imply no such thing. Brooke appears to hold you in esteem, too.”
“The prizefighters are devoted to me,” Joanna said. “I am a Lady of the Fancy.” She laughed as she saw his expression. “Oh, dear, Lord Grant-that moment of approval really was brief, was it not?”
“I do not care for prizefighting,” Alex said stiffly, “nor for the sort of celebrity it bestows on you, Lady Joanna. To be acclaimed by the boxing fraternity is not my idea of success.”
“Of course
