“Easier said than done,” Greybourne responded, and Carrington echoed the sentiment. “Unless you plan to allow Lady Constantine to aid you, that is. Because if you do, it’s less likely she’ll go sneaking about and enlisting the aid of our wives to help her.”
Callum felt all eyes on him. “I have no plans to allow Constantine to aid me with anything. I neither need nor want her help, and she will, in fact, be moving to the country soon while I stay here in Town.”
“I never have plans for the things Guinevere does, either,” Carrington said, smirking. “Women like ours, headstrong—”
“Unique,” Greybourne added.
“And our plans for them,” Carrington continued, “are not a match. Best to accept this now.”
“Constantine and I have a deal,” Callum said, and when all three married men gave him skeptical looks, he frowned. “Shall we reconvene in a sennight to see what progress has been made?”
“That should be enough time,” Beckford responded, standing, and everyone else followed suit.
“When we come together again,” Greybourne said, chuckling, “I want to hear about how the arrangement you made with your wife is working out.”
“As do I,” Carrington said, laughing. “Are you going home to her now?”
Callum glanced out the window, then into the dark sky. No, he could not go home tonight. The desire to bed her was too fierce a hunger within him even in his exhausted state. He needed to wear himself down further. He needed a fight, and he needed time to harden himself to her. Little doses of his wife every day should help him dull his reaction to her so that when they did finally come together, he’d be able to control himself, be detached, methodical, cool.
“Certainly not,” he finally answered. “I’m going to Hartford’s Pugilist Club.”
“It closed,” Valentine said, regret in his voice.
Then, one by one, Carrington, Greybourne, and Valentine filed out, making the excuse that they had to get home to their wives. Callum watched them depart, the deep realization that he might never get the chance to be the eager husband rushing home to his wife settling like stones in his gut.
“What sort of fight do you want?” Beckford asked from where he stood beside Callum.
Callum turned to look at the man who was slightly taller and slightly wider than himself. He had a glint in his eye and a challenging smile on his lips.
“Do you fight?” Callum asked.
“What do you think?” There was a cold edge of irony to Beckford’s voice.
Oh, this Beckford might be a challenge.
“No gloves,” Callum said.
Beckford’s eyebrows arched mockingly. “Why would a man need gloves?”
“Exactly.”
“I assume you seek oblivion?”
Callum nodded. “I assume you do, as well?”
A returning nod was his answer.
“All right, then.” Beckford motioned to Callum. “Follow me. You’re about to be introduced to a world of mind-numbing pain.”
Chapter Fourteen
The door to Callum’s bedchamber opened, sending Constantine’s heart into her throat. This was the moment she had been waiting for all night. He was finally home in the wee hours of the morn, and she hoped her scandalous night rail—if one could call the thin piece of silk with absurd holes cut into it a night rail—would entice him to lower his guard, take her with passion, and let slip some bit of information that she could use to secretly aid him.
She was about to call to him, but then she thought better of it, considering that if she alerted him to her presence in his bed before he saw her in Madame Toussant’s wicked creation, he might simply turn on his heel and depart. Her heart pounded as footsteps thudded across the floor, but then a crash and a curse from Callum sent her jolting upright.
The room was pitch-black, except for a shaft of moonlight that streamed in from the window, and while she could not see Callum’s face fully in that sliver of light, she could see a small table turned on its side and Callum bent over, reaching toward it as if to retrieve it. Then, as if in slow motion, he fell forward, cursing again, and landed on his back beside the table. A loud groan filled the room as she scrambled off the bed toward him.
“Callum!” she cried out, coming to her knees beside him. A strong waft of liquor hit her, followed by a whiff of smoke, and as she leaned over him, an odd metallic scent made her scrunch up her nose. “Are you injured?”