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Forever a Lord
Delilah Marvelle
Lady Imogene Norwood lives a sheltered life of quiet respectability and routine…until she meets the wild and broken Lord Atwood.He is wholly unexpected among London’s elite, and the very shy English rose suddenly realizes that a little chaos might just be what her heart desires. Lord Nathaniel James Atwood doesn’t believe true love exists. Since scandal tore him away from his family at an early age, he has spent his life fighting for what he wants.That attitude has made him a rising star in bare-knuckle boxing, and now leads him back to London to reclaim the life that was stolen from him. But upon meeting the innocent Imogene, his beliefs are trounced…as guarding his heart against her proves to be the fight of his life.“Marvelle not only crafts highly sensual novels, her innovative ideas and plot twists invigorate the genre.” —RT BookReviews on Forever and a Day


Lady Imogene Norwood
Lady Imogene Norwood lives a sheltered life of quiet respectability and routine…until she meets the wild and broken Lord Atwood. He is wholly unexpected among London’s elite, and the very shy English rose suddenly realizes that a little chaos might just be what her heart desires.
Lord Nathaniel James Atwood
Lord Nathaniel James Atwood doesn’t believe true love exists. Since scandal tore him away from his family at an early age, he has spent his life fighting for what he wants. That attitude has made him a rising star in bare-knuckle boxing, and now leads him back to London to reclaim the life that was stolen from him. But upon meeting the innocent Imogene, his beliefs are trounced…as guarding his heart against her proves to be the fight of his life.
Praise for the novels of


“Marvelle seamlessly weaves two distinct threads into a sizzling yet tender romance…satisfying and worthy of a cheer.”
—Publishers Weekly on Forever a Lady
“Marvelle adeptly explores the best and worst of social class divides in this unforgettable story.”
—Booklist on Forever and a Day (starred review)
“Marvelle not only crafts highly sensual novels, her innovative ideas and plot twists invigorate the genre.”
—RT Book Reviews
“Not only is it intriguing and mysterious, it’s highly addictive.”
—Fresh Fiction on Forever Mine
“Showcases Marvelle’s ability to heat up the pages while creating a tender love story that touches the heart.”
—RT Book Reviews on Once Upon a Scandal
“Marvelle’s story of Radcliff coming to know himself, and Justine’s faith in him, is a quintessential romance.”
—Booklist on Prelude to a Scandal
Forever a Lord
Delilah Marvelle


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Dear Reader,
We all carry secrets, be they small or large, and we all carry them for very different reasons. We do it to protect ourselves and/or others. Regardless, secrets aren’t meant to be kept forever. They are meant to be shared with someone we can genuinely trust, so that the burden of the shame we feel by holding on to our secrets can be taken away from our souls.
In Forever a Lord, welcome to the world of what happens when a secret goes too far and the burden leaches its way into everything. Here you will meet a bare-knuckle boxer who is on the path of learning that only one thing can save his burdened soul: the genuine love of a good woman. Imogene is my version of what the hero could never have imagined. Though Imogene has seen very little of the real world due to her overprotective brother and her illness, it doesn’t make her any less viable. In fact, it enables her to see our hero in a way few can. Our hero, in turn, who never thought himself capable of love, discovers that he is capable of something even better: true love.
I believe each of us has a soul mate waiting in the most unexpected of places and it is up to us to know when to cradle that one person who is meant to carry us through life with unwavering love. I hope you enjoy reading about what happens when two very different souls meet and discover that their differences are what saves them both.
Much love,
Delilah Marvelle
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thank you to my husband and children, who continue to support me through my writing career at every turn. I love you all.
Thank you to my marvelous editor, Emily Ohanjanians. Your incredible feedback pushes me to see beyond my own nose. And boy, do I ever need it. Thank you to Harlequin HQN for continuing to have faith that I have stories worth telling and selling. Thank you to my bow-worthy agent, Donald Maass, who nudged me away from being too vanilla. Heaven forbid!
And last but certainly not least, thank you to Maire Claremont, who has cheered me on through every sentence and every page. I adore you. Always.
To Jessa Slade, my incredible friend and critique partner, who asked one simple “what if” that not only blew my mind but made this story possible. Thank you, thank you, thank you. I couldn’t have pulled this off without you.
Contents
Prologue (#u581be80a-0ff4-5571-bc6f-315dbbbb1821)
Chapter One (#u0afea080-ef56-5712-bfff-8f1e1921c0c7)
Chapter Two (#u8c3a22fb-6073-5b5b-b8b7-0191cb3aa73b)
Chapter Three (#u958fad08-6651-5f1d-b2b6-c281ab3a9643)
Chapter Four (#uc8a845a5-a5f2-5c9e-8281-6f5f74f66018)
Chapter Five (#u75552580-4dc9-56f3-9032-6b55f2512688)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Author’s Note (#litres_trial_promo)
PROLOGUE
The cries of “Foul! Foul!” now resounded.
—P. Egan, Boxiana (1823)
27th of September, 1800
Somewhere in New York City
A LARGE, WARM hand pressed itself against the closed lids of Nathaniel’s eyes, drawing him out of a deep sleep. The lingering, tangy sweetness of a cigar clung to his nostrils as the linen sleeve of a male shirt brushed his cheek.
It was him. Nathaniel didn’t dare move.
The hand slowly drew away. “Are you awake?” someone whispered in a heavy accent from beside him on the bed.
Nathaniel swallowed and opened his eyes, candlelight fingering its way through the shadows of the dank cellar. He couldn’t breathe. Nausea seized him. “I want to go home,” Nathaniel choked out, rocking against the ropes binding his hands to his waist. He didn’t care that he sounded pathetic or scared anymore. Being ten, he had every right to be pathetic and scared, didn’t he?
The golden glow of a lone candle revealed a young man with sun-tinted hair sitting on the narrow bed beside him. It was the same man who had lingered outside his family’s window all those nights in the shadows.
Amber eyes met Nathaniel’s for a somber moment. The man held up a wooden soldier whose military uniform had been painted red. He angled it toward Nathaniel. “For you.”
“I don’t want it.”
“If I untie you, and give this to you, do you promise not to hit me? Do you promise to be good?”
Nathaniel fisted his hands and tried to swing his arms up at that face, but his movement was cut short and burned against the tight ropes that bound each arm against his waist. “Why are you doing this?” he choked out.
“You are his son. Are you not?”
Tears blinded Nathaniel, realizing the man wasn’t about to let him go. “Perhaps my father misunderstood. Send him another missive. Please.”
The man lowered his gaze to the wooden soldier he held. “He understood. He chose to ignore it.”
A sob escaped Nathaniel. “No. He wouldn’t. I know he wouldn’t!”
“We think we know someone until they betray us. That is…how do you English say?…the lesson.”
Nathaniel shook his head and rasped, “Send a missive to my sister. Augustine. She…she will come for me. I know she will. Or my mother. Ask them for whatever you want and they will ensure you get it. I know they will!”
“No.” The man fingered the wooden soldier but didn’t meet his gaze. “To involve anyone but your father would only see us all hanged.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You will.”
Nathaniel swallowed. “Are you going to kill me?”
The man’s mouth quirked. “I am a good many things, but I am not a murderer, little friend. In Venezia, even when we are angry, we do things with…honor. Nothing like you British.”
Nathaniel swallowed again. What had his father done to this man? He dared not fathom.
Holding out the wooden soldier, the man propped it on Nathaniel’s chest. “I bought him for you.”
Nathaniel tilted his body just enough to get that soldier off his chest. It thudded onto the mattress between them. “I prefer to go home to my sister and my mother. My father may not love me, but I know they do. They will want me back. I know they will.”
“They are no longer your family. I am.” Hovering, the man drew in close. So close, Nathaniel could make out the stubble on that youthful face, and the glint of a ruby pin tucked into that meticulously knotted cravat. Sharp, amber eyes intently searched Nathaniel’s face as if deciding on something.
Nathaniel pressed himself hard against the linens, digging his entire body into the mattress. Though the man hadn’t touched him or hurt him in any way, except to bind him with ropes after Nathaniel repeatedly swung at him, something chanted that, if provoked, this Venetian was capable of more.
The stinging smell of cognac mingling with cigars penetrated Nathaniel’s nostrils as the man breathed out, “I have many books in English. What would you like to read?”
Nathaniel stared up at him, inwardly quaking. It was like the man was trying to befriend him. “I’m not telling you anything.”
The man tapped Nathaniel hard on the forehead with a scarred finger, then leaned back and rose to his full height of almost six feet. He bent his head to prevent hitting the low timbered ceiling. “Food will be delivered in the morning. Eat.”
Head still bent, the man veered out the narrow door with heavy steps that eerily echoed in the small space. The door slammed shut and a loud clink of the key being turned in the rusty lock broke through the silence, signaling Nathaniel had been sentenced to solitude again for not cooperating with the man’s request they be friends.
Nathaniel choked out an anguished sob that burned his throat. He tried to sit up, to use his body or his head to move, but couldn’t budge in any particular direction. He sobbed again, forced to stare at those dank, shadowed walls that felt inhabited by evil entities about to reach out clawed hands and strangle him.
He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t breathe knowing there wasn’t even a window in the small cellar to tell him the hour. He glanced frantically toward the lone candle set on the small side table set against the wall. It flickered hauntingly, the dripping wax well below its stub.
“Let me fall asleep first,” he whispered to it, not wanting to be left alone in the darkness.
The candle wavered. It then stilled and flicked into a mere glowing dot as the flame dissipated into a stream of curling smoke, leaving him in pulsing darkness and silence.
He squeezed his eyes shut, wailing helplessly until he felt like his body was swaying on a vast ocean set to drown him. His sobs and the darkness eventually lulled not only his body but his mind.
No one was coming for him.
Not his father.
Not his mother.
Not his sister.
No one.
CHAPTER ONE
To those, Sir…who would not mind Pugilism,
if Boxing was not so shockingly vulgar—the
following work can have no interest whatever.
—P. Egan, Boxiana (1823)
New York City—Gardner’s wharf
13th of June 1830, afternoon
OVER THE COURSE of a rough life filled to the brim with gambling, drinking, swearing and boxing, Edward Coleman had taken residence in eleven different parts of the city in an effort to avoid three things: the creditors, his wife and his mother-in-law, who were all determined to bleed him dry.
Not having heard from any of them in too many years to count made him wonder if perhaps he’d mastered the art of the moonlight flit a bit more than he’d wanted. But then again, fate had never liked him all that much. He didn’t even know why he was astounded at glimpsing his mother-in-law pushing through the dust-ridden male masses just beyond the milling fence at the match.
The woman had aged considerably since he’d last seen her, but that bundled coif and pert little nose remained the same. A gaggle of young men in grey wool caps, coats and trousers, whom he knew to be Jane’s brothers—and my, how they’d grown—strategically wove through the packed boxing crowd behind her.
Mrs. Walsh had only ever sought him out when she needed one of two things: money or money. The United States government could make use of a woman like that.
Coleman swung back toward the fence. “We should go.”
His friend, Matthew Joseph Milton, leaned toward him. “Go?” Those dark brows rose a fraction, causing the worn, leather patch over his left eye to shift. “What about your fight? You’re up next.”
“I know.” Coleman knotted his shoulder-length hair back with the twine he’d yanked off his wrist. “But something came up. As such, I can’t stay.”
“Something came up? Whilst we were standing here?”
“Yes and yes.”
Matthew lowered his stubbled chin. “I may have one eye, but that doesn’t make me stupid. What is it? Are you in some sort of trouble?”
“No, I—” Blood sprayed from the ring past the fence, covering the front of the only great coat he owned. Coleman hissed out an agitated breath and scanned what remained of the fight. “Amateurs. They can’t even keep the blood within the boundaries of the fence anymore.”
Matthew snorted. “You never do.” Still watching the fight, Matthew froze. “That bastard is going down with my dime!” Matthew hooked a rigid right fist. “Feck!”
“I told you not to bet on him.”
The well-muscled youth, whose lacerated features had been disfigured by the unrelenting blows of eighteen rounds, attempted to stagger up off his knees, bloodstained trousers barely clinging to narrow hips. Another bare-knuckled fist bounced off his sweat-soaked head as more blood splattered from that nose and mouth toward the crowd. The youth collapsed onto the wood boards laid out on the flattened sun-burned grass.
Several men groaned in disappointment, hitting the fence as the youth was dragged off to the side.
Coleman glanced back again, gauging how much time he had. Mrs. Walsh was still pushing through the crowd and didn’t appear to have noticed him. Yet.
He propped up the collar on his great coat to better hide his face and tossed out at Matthew, “I’ll see you tomorrow. If Stanley comes looking for me, tell him I broke my hand.”
“Broke your—” Matthew caught his arm. “Coleman. We need money. Or we’re back to robbing shipments at the docks for the next two weeks. Hell, I know our troop is called the Forty Thieves, but do we really have to live up to our name?”
Coleman unhooked his arm from that hold. “If I stay, we’ll lose whatever I take from my fight.”
“What do you mean? To who?”
A rolled newspaper bounced off the back of Coleman’s head. “Thought you’d up and disappear on me, did you?” a woman belted out from behind.
Coleman didn’t even bother shielding his head. He deserved it for having ever married Jane. “To her,” he told Matthew.
Matthew swung toward the aggressor and shoved the rolled newspaper back and away. “Where is your sense of refinement, woman? A paper is meant to be read. Not mangled on the heads of others. Now put it away.”
Coleman grudgingly turned and eyed all nine Walsh boys gathered at varying heights behind their elderly mother. Their wool caps were adjusted in every possible direction but the one they were designed for.
Coleman hesitated. Each wore a black band on the arm of their wool coats. His gaze jumped to his mother-in-law, whose plain gown had been stitched of bombazine.
Someone had died. And he knew full well Mrs. Walsh had no living husband or relatives.
His pulse drummed. “Mrs. Walsh. Jane didn’t…?”
Tears glazed those dark eyes. “Aye. She did.” Drawing thin lips together, she set her aging chin. “Poured too much laudanum into her whiskey barely a week ago. Never woke up. I wasn’t there when it happened, but that’s what the coroner is sayin’. She was with a—” She wouldn’t meet his gaze. “She was with a friend when it happened.”
Meaning a man. The very last of several hundred, no doubt. Not that Coleman had been any more loyal. God bless poor Jane. She had her men and he had his women and that was why it had fallen apart. Neither of them were capable of monogamy.
Coleman shifted his jaw and looked away, knowing he should have felt something in that moment. Anything. Remorse. Sadness. Bitterness. But the truth was, he knew it was going to end like this. He had done everything to keep Jane from mixing laudanum into her whiskey. But there were some things a man couldn’t box.
Mrs. Walsh hesitated and added, “Someone told me you’d be millin’ today. I don’t want to be a burden, but we need seven dollars to bury her. I won’t have her dropped into a dirt hole.”
He swiped his face. He didn’t have seven dollars.
Matthew leaned in. “Coleman. What is this? Who is she talking about?”
Coleman’s chest tightened. Christ. He had spent years crawling away from a past he didn’t want to remember, and now, everyone was about to know his business. Of course, if there was anyone he knew he could trust to know his business, it was Matthew. Though only Matthew. “My wife,” he eventually muttered. “She died.”
Matthew grabbed his coat. “What? You’re married?”
“Yes. I am. Or rather…I was.” Eyeing his mother-in-law, who had grown quiet, he sighed. “Mrs. Walsh. I can only offer five if I go in and fight. The prize is for ten and I have others depending on me. Will that be enough?”
She half nodded. “We can do without the wreath and flowers. And I can dress her in one of her old gowns.” She brought her hands together, fingering the newspaper she held. “There be another matter pertainin’ to Jane.”
Coleman folded his arms over his chest to keep himself from fidgeting. He had never learned how to say no to a woman. Not even when it came to his damn mother-in-law. It was a curse. “What is it?”
That bundled grey-brown hair, which was sliding out from its pins, bobbed as she unraveled the rolled newspaper. She took apart page after page, tossing it to the ground. “Apparently she contacted these men before she died. I can’t read it.” She fumbled to fold and refold a page and pointed at what appeared to be an advertisement. “Heaven only knows why, but they came to my door askin’ what she knew. I wasn’t able to answer. Maybe you can?”
“I doubt it. Jane and I haven’t spoken in years.” Coleman took the newspaper and read it.

INFORMATION WANTED
A British boy by the name of Nathaniel James Atwood who disappeared in the year 1800 under suspicious circumstance is being sought out by his family. Information pertaining to his disappearance, his whereabouts or his remains shall be well rewarded. Please send all inquiries to His Grace, the Duke of Wentworth, or his son, Lord Yardley, who will both be residing at the Adelphi Hotel on Broadway until further notice.

A pulsing knot seized his throat. He knew he should have never told Jane spit.
Coleman crumpled the paper and tossed it at the ground. “I don’t know. Maybe she wanted to dirk them for money. Did you ask her?”
“She was already dead.” A strangled sob escaped Mrs. Walsh. She covered her mouth with a trembling hand, those features twisting.
He winced. He shouldn’t have said anything.
Every single Walsh boy now stared him down, their youthful faces hardening to an age closer to his own. One of them flicked out a razor and rounded his mother.
Matthew yanked both pistols from his leather belt and pointed each muzzle. “Don’t make me go click, razor boy.”
Mrs. Walsh popped out both arms, to shield her boys, who all scrambled back.
Coleman dragged in a breath. “Put the pistols away, Milton. He’s just a boy.”
Matthew grunted and shoved them back into his leather belt. “A boy who ought to learn some manners.”
The crowd around them dinned.
Coleman heard his name being called.
Knowing his designated fight was set to begin, Coleman flexed his hands and glanced toward the milling fence. A burly dark-haired man stepped into the fenced arena and stripped. Throwing large bare hands into the air, Vincent the Iron Fist, as he was known throughout the ward, yelled at the crowd to cheer as the umpire repainted the fighting line with broken chalk.
It was time to spray blood and earn ten dollars.
Leaning in toward his mother-in-law, he squeezed her arm. “Stay here.” Stripping his coat and yanking his linen shirt up over his head, Coleman bundled them and tossed everything toward the only man he’d ever entrust his clothes to: Matthew. “For God’s sake, don’t let her watch,” he said, gesturing to Mrs. Walsh.
Matthew caught his clothes and slung them over his own shoulder. “I’ll turn her the other way.”
“You do that.” Ducking beneath the crudely nailed planks that divided the crowd from the fight, Coleman entered the grass-flattened area.
Hordes of men gathered closer to the fence, making the planks sway.
“Fist the piss out of him, Vincent!” someone hollered. “He’s a Brit!”
“Brit or no Brit,” another joined in, “I’ve got fifteen dollars riding on him. You hear that, Coleman? Fifteen dollars. So don’t let me down!”
It was pathetic knowing his name was only worth fifteen. But then again, it was better than the half-dollar he was worth years ago.
Rising shouts filled the humid summer air as he stalked toward the chalked line, the piercing heat of the sun pulsing from the sky against his bare chest and face.
Massive shoulders and heavily scarred knuckles headed toward the opposing chalked line. Vincent the Iron Fist brought two beefy fists up to his unshaven round chin, widening his stance.
Widening his own stance, Coleman squared his bare shoulders and snapped up both fists. Tightening his thumbs around his knuckles, he waited for the umpire’s signal, his chest rising and falling in slow, even pumps.
Cheers and shouts rippled through the air.
The umpire lifted his hand and swung it down. “Set to!”
Vincent darted forward and whipped a fist at his head.
Coleman jumped away, boots skidding, and jumped back in, determined to rip out every last thought of poor Jane. Gritting his teeth, he rammed a shoulder-powered fist beneath those exposed ribs, hitting the expanse of flesh with a crunching sting that jarred the swinging arm.
Coleman knew the son of a bitch was going down.
Staggering against the hit, Vincent stumbled back toward the fence and onto the ground, chest pumping.
“To the line!” The umpire pointed to the chalked marking. “Half a minute to get to the line. One! Two! Three! Four! Five! Six!”
Coleman jogged back over to the line, keeping both fists up. “Come on, Vincent,” he called out as the umpire kept counting. “Get up. Give me and the crowd a fight. You’re making us both look bad.”
Vincent set his jaw, scrambled up and jogged over to the line before the last ten seconds.
The umpire raised a hand between them. “Round two, gents. And…set to!”
Vincent darted forward and shot out an unexpected side sweep that cracked into the side of Coleman’s head, causing him to stumble against the searing blow. His focus wavered as a blur of hits assaulted his drifting senses. Blood now tinged his mouth and dribbled from his nose as Coleman dodged and blocked only those blows that were necessary in an effort to conserve strength.
The sequence of knuckled fists quickened, cracking down onto and into Coleman’s shoulders and arms.
Vincent grunted in an effort to keep the blows steady.
Leveling his breathing, Coleman systematically counted those hard hits as they penetrated his muscle and bone, jarring him with pain. Between ragged, staggering breaths, Coleman counted every swing, until he found the pattern he’d been looking for. Five swings and a pause. Five swings and a pause. The man was a hall clock.
Five brutal punches pummeled Coleman’s shoulders again. Darting forward right at the pause, Coleman rammed a fist below that ear. The jarring of his own muscled arm against the side of his opponent’s head announced that he’d delivered the perfect hit: a blood vessel shot.
Vincent’s eyes bulged. He staggered, his swollen, blood-slathered hands jumping up to shield his head.
Gritting his teeth, Coleman jumped in and hit the now-exposed side until his knuckles were clenchingly numb. Belting out a riled roar he’d been holding, knowing Jane had stupidly lost her last breath to laudanum, he slammed a fist up and deep into Vincent’s lower ribs, trying to break them all in half.
Vincent wheeled back and collapsed onto the ground. His gnarled, swollen hands covered his side as he gasped. Bright red blood streamed from his nose and lips as he rocked in anguished panting silence.
“Back!” the umpire called, holding out a hand and ordering Coleman to get back to the chalked line.
Peddling toward the chalk line with both fists still up, Coleman waited, chest heaving and nostrils flaring. He could feel his right eye swelling shut as sweat dripped from his forehead to his nose and down the length of his chin. He swiped at it, smearing blood from his nose, and awaited the verdict.
The crowd counted down in unison.
When Iron Fist didn’t rise, he knew he’d won.
The umpire pointed at Coleman. “Here be the champion of this here quarter! The next and last quarter is set to begin with new opponents in fifteen minutes. So place your bets, gents!”
Coleman sometimes felt like he was cattle. No one ever even announced his name when he won. But that was street fighting for you. It was about money and blood. Nothing more.
In a blur of shouts and the waving of hats in the dust-ridden summer heat, Coleman dropped his arms, spit out the acrid blood that had gathered in his mouth and staggered over to the side fence where his earnings waited. Stanley, who always assisted Coleman in coordinating his street fights at fifty cents a piece, tsked, his unkempt whiskers shifting against his round face. “Why the hell do you keep doin’ these measly dollar street fights? You’re not gettin’ any younger, you know. In fact, most boxers your age are not only retired but dead.”
“I appreciate the confidence, Stanley.”
“You need to cease runnin’ out on the investors I bring and take on bigger fights over on Staten Island, is what. Because it’s breakin’ you. And it’s breakin’ me. I can’t make a livin’ at fifty cents a fight.”
“If you don’t like the money I bring, walk. Because I’m not about to take on an investor. Every one I’ve met is nothing more than a money-licking asshole looking to own me.” Coleman could feel the welts on his body swelling, stretching his pulsing skin. He refocused. “I want my ten. Now.”
Stanley grumbled something and held out the tin bucket. A tied sack, filled with coins, waited. “Ten. And I booked another street fight for you in two weeks. You can pay me then.”
“Good. I appreciate it.” Coleman reached into the bucket and yanked out the muslin sack. Shifting the weight of the coins in his swollen hand, he jogged back toward the fence.
He ducked beneath the planks and rejoined the crowd. Leaning toward Mrs. Walsh, he grabbed her bare hand and set the muslin sack into it. Goodbye, Jane. I’m sorry it ended like this for you. “Take all of it. Buy her the wreath and the flowers and a new gown and keep whatever is left for yourself and the boys.”
She glanced up. “You loved her. Didn’t you?”
Coleman said nothing. He didn’t want to lie to her. Because he’d never loved Jane. He’d learned to help women like Jane get out of stupid situations, yes, and enjoyed having sex with said women he got out of stupid situations, yes, but love? He’d never known it or felt it. Nor did he want to. Love was a messy business that not only fucked with a man’s head, but made a man do things he shouldn’t.
Mrs. Walsh grabbed hold of him and yanked him close. “Come to the funeral.”
He flinched against the touch that seared his bruised body. Unlatching her arms, he stepped back and shook his head. “I really don’t want to see her in a casket.”
“I understand.” She patted the small sack of coins. “May God bless.” She nodded and moved into the crowd.
The Walsh boys lowered their gazes and disappeared after their mother, one by one.
Coleman blankly stared after them, knowing it would be the last time he’d ever see them now that Jane was gone.
Matthew rounded him and held out his linen shirt. “I’ve known you for eight years, Coleman. Eight. Why the hell didn’t you tell me you were married?”
Coleman grabbed the shirt and pulled the cool linen over his sweaty, blood-ridden body, wincing against the movements. “Because it wasn’t much of a marriage. It was more like me helping a girl out of a situation and keeping her legally out of other people’s hands.”
Matthew held out the rest of his clothing, which Coleman also grabbed and put on. “I’m still sorry to hear she passed.”
Coleman shrugged. “It was only a matter of time. She was overly wild and consumed laudanum and whiskey like water.” He perused the trash-strewn ground. Finding the advertisement he’d earlier tossed, he swiped up the balled newspaper and shoved it into his pocket. For later.
Three hefty men, including a tall, well-muscled negro in a frayed linen shirt and wool trousers, suddenly pressed in on him and Matthew.
Coleman’s brows went up, realizing it was Smock, Andrews and Kerner—members of their group, the Forty Thieves. “You missed the fight.” Coleman thumbed toward the milling fence and smirked. “Although Vincent’s blood is still on the ground. Feel free to look around.”
Smock swiped a hand across his black, unshaven face. “We’re not here for the fight.”
Everyone grew quiet.
Oh, no.
Matthew quickly leaned in. “Jesus. Is someone dead?”
Andrews scrubbed his oily head with a dirt-crusted hand. “Nah. But it ain’t good, either.”
Kerner’s bearded face remained stoic.
Coleman stared them down and bit out, “Does someone want to tell me what the hell is going on? Or are we going to stand here like bricks and play charades?”
Kerner’s bushy brows rose to his shaggy hairline. “Apparently, two girls went missing from the local orphanage. There’s been grumblings in the ward as to what happened. We’re talking prostitution. Sister Catherine called on me this morning and is terrified knowing the rumors are true. These missing girls are barely eight.”
Coleman hissed out a breath. The amount of sick bastards in this world taking advantage of children made him want to break rib cages all day long. He was damn well glad he wasn’t the only one putting up fists. The sole reason he and Matthew had created the Forty Thieves was to clean up the rancid aspects of the slums they all lived in. The trouble was, there was too much to clean and very little money to clean it with. “I say we get the boys together and decide who can resolve this mess best. Milton? When and where?”
Matthew pointed at Coleman. “Anthony Street. In three hours. The usual place. Someone has to know something. Maybe we can buy a few tongues. Though God knows with what. Informants these days only want money. Kerner, Smock, Andrews, come with me. We need to get our hands on twenty dollars. Coleman? Clean yourself up. Your face and nose need tending.” Matthew rounded into the crowd with the boys following suit and disappeared.
A humid wind blew in from the wharf, feathering Coleman’s pulsing skin. He made his way back to the milling fence and stood there, amidst the dust and shouts, staring at nothing in particular.
He probably shouldn’t have given Mrs. Walsh all ten dollars. Informants were anything but cheap and expected at least a dollar apiece.
Coleman momentarily closed his eyes, knowing what needed to be done. All that mattered was doing right by those girls and the countless others like them, and giving them the chance he never got when he was their age.
Reopening his eyes, Coleman slowly pulled out the crumpled advertisement from his wool coat pocket and stared at the words well rewarded. He didn’t know who the hell this Duke of Wentworth and Lord Yardley were or why they were looking for Nathaniel after almost thirty fucking years, but he did know one thing. He would swallow what had once been and use these men to get as much money as he could, to set him and the Forty Thieves up to help anyone in a similar predicament to these girls.
Everything in life came at a price. And knowing there were children whose very lives depended on whatever he and Matthew could buy, it was a price he was more than willing to pay.
CHAPTER TWO
Distinction of rank is of little importance when an offense has been given, and in the impulse of the moment, a Prince has forgot his royalty, by turning out to box.
—P. Egan, Boxiana (1823)
The Adelphi Hotel
Evening
LEANING AGAINST THE silk embroidered wall of the hotel lobby, Coleman scanned the polished marble floors and rubbed his scabbed hands together.
“Sir?” a hotel footman called out, holding out a white gloved hand. “Could you please not lean against the wall? It’s silk and damages easily.”
Coleman shifted his jaw and pushed away from the wall. Although he’d scrubbed with soap and shaved around every scab from his last fight, his patched wool clothing lent to a dirtiness no soap could touch. He was used to it, but sometimes, just sometimes, it still agitated the hell out of him when others treated him like some thug. He was a boxer. Not a thug. There was a difference.
Quick, echoing steps drew his attention.
An older, dashing gentleman with silver, tonic-sleeked hair jogged into the foyer of the hotel, dressed in expensive black evening attire from leather boot to broad shoulder, save a white silk waistcoat, snowy linen shirt and a perfectly knotted linen cravat.
Skidding in beside that older gent was a good-looking man of no more than thirty, whose raven hair had also been swept back with tonic. A black band hugged the upper biceps of his well-tailored coat.
Apparently, everyone was in mourning these days.
It was depressing.
They faced him, their brows rising in unison at realizing he was the only person waiting for them in the lobby.
Coleman knew the best and only way to go about this was to make these men believe Nathaniel was dead. Because that part of himself was.
Adjusting his wool great coat, Coleman strode toward them. “I’m here on behalf of Nathaniel. You have two minutes to convince me you’re worth trusting.”
Both men stared, no doubt weighing his words.
The younger of the two approached. “Two minutes? I suppose we had best talk fast.” Grey eyes, that eerily reminded him of someone he once knew, searched his face. “Are you— What happened to your face?”
Agitated by the question, Coleman widened his stance. “The same thing that’s about to happen to yours, if you don’t tell me who the fuck you are and why you’re looking for Atwood.”
The man leaned back. “I can see you’re exceptionally friendly. Which would explain the face.” He cleared his throat, adjusting his evening coat. “The name is Yardley. Lord Yardley.” He gestured with an ungloved hand toward the older gentleman. “That there is my father, His Grace, the Duke of Wentworth. We, sir, are Nathaniel’s family. Close family. If he is still alive, as you are leading us to believe, we would like to speak to him in person. Not through another person. If you don’t mind.”
What if these men had been sent to hunt Nathaniel down? To silence him? It was possible. “I never said he was alive. But if you want further information, it’s going to cost you.”
“How much?”
“A thousand.”
“A thousand?”
“Yes. Dollars. Not pennies. Consider it a bargain. You look like you can afford more.”
“So you actually know something?”
“Yes.”
Lord Yardley lowered his shaven chin against his silk cravat. “You wouldn’t be the first claiming to know something. The question is, do you?”
Coleman wasn’t about to trust either of these men to shite. “I need a thousand before I say another word.”
Lord Yardley narrowed his gaze. “Keep at this and I will personally ensure you forget your own God-given name. The information comes first. Money last.”
The Duke of Wentworth approached. “Yardley. Enough. Calm down.”
Swinging away, Yardley threw up both hands. “These people are leeches. Every last one of them. All they want is money. What happened to humanity wanting to help others for the sake of goodwill? I’m going for a walk down Broadway. It’s the only thing that ever calms me down.”
The duke pointed. “No. No walks. Not now. You will stay and finish whatever this is.” Brown eyes that were surprisingly intelligent, albeit solemn, observed Coleman for a moment. “We have been in New York, sir, for months making endless inquiries. We are beyond exhausted and are hinging a breath of hope on the possibility that you may know something. Do you?”
Coleman shifted away from the duke, trying to distance himself from the eerie reality that the past was tapping on his shoulder. “It depends on what you want with the information.”
Those features tightened. “If Atwood still lives, which we hope he does, inform him that his sister’s husband and her son are here to collect him. If, however, he is dead, we also wish to know of it. All we want is information that will lead us to resolve this matter and give it peace.”
Coleman stared, his plan to claim the money crumbling with every word. This man was married to his sister? It wasn’t possible. Trying to keep his voice steady, he confided, “Allow me to speak to his sister first. I will decide then.”
The duke swiped his face. “I cannot produce her.”
“Why not?” he demanded, unable to remain calm.
“She died.” That voice, though well controlled, bespoke a deeply rooted anguish.
Coleman staggered, the marble floor beneath his boots momentarily swaying. For the first time in a very, very long time, tears connected to who he had once been pricked his eyes. Auggie was barely six years older than him. She couldn’t be dead. This had to be a trap. “I don’t believe you. Auggie isn’t dead. You’re lying.”
The duke’s gaze snapped to his. “How did you know her name?”
Lord Yardley watched Coleman. “Glass-blue eyes and black hair. And his accent. ’Tis anything but American.” He stepped closer, lips parting. “Dearest God. It’s him. It’s Atwood. It has to be.”
Fuck. He’d stupidly outed himself. Coleman swung away and stalked toward the entrance of the hotel. He wasn’t staying for this. He didn’t even want to know what had happened to Auggie. He didn’t.
Booted feet drummed faster down the lobby, after him.
“Nathaniel?” the duke called out. “Nathaniel, stay. For God’s sake, stay! Atwood? Atwood!”
Sucking in a breath, Coleman darted toward the entrance leading out to the street. Grabbing the oversize doors, he tried to shove them open, but his scab-ridden hands were too disconnected from his body to cooperate.
“Atwood!” The duke grabbed his shoulders and yanked him away from the doors.
Though his fists instinctively popped up to swing, Coleman knew pulverizing his own sister’s husband was not what he owed her. “Atwood doesn’t exist anymore,” he rasped.
The duke slowly turned him. “I have stared at the painted miniature of you as a child so many times. No one has eyes quite like yours. I don’t know why I didn’t see it. The bruises on your face were very distracting.”
Coleman couldn’t breathe.
The duke leaned in. “Your sister devoted everything to the hope of finding you. And this is how you repay her? By running from her family when they come to you? Don’t you care to know what happened to her? Or how she died?”
A warm tear trickled its way down the length of Coleman’s cheek. He viciously swiped at it, welcoming the pinching from grazing the bruise on his face.
The duke held his gaze. “She died in childbirth. Many years ago. It would have been a girl. Our third. Neither survived. I just lost our eldest son, as well. Typhus took him. Yardley here is all I have left of her.”
Coleman stumbled outside that grasp and leaned back against the door, feeling weak. He had been running and running from the past to the point of delusion, and now, it would seem, he had become that delusion. At least he had protected Auggie’s good name to the end.
Dearest God. None of this seemed real. “And what of my mother? Is she dead, too?”
The duke shook his head. “No. She is very much alive.”
He drew in a ragged breath. “I’m glad to hear it.” He nodded. “She was good to me.” He swallowed, trying to keep his voice steady. “And my father? The earl?”
“Still alive.”
Coleman set his jaw and tapped a rigid fist against his thigh. “Of course he is.” He pushed away from the door, knowing his father’s face had replaced so many faces in the ring since he took up boxing at twenty. His pent-up hatred for the man was but one of many reasons why he’d never sought his family out. Because he would have smeared his father’s blood across every last wall in London. “Is he here in New York?”
Yardley approached. “No. He doesn’t know we have been looking for you.”
Coleman raked long strands of hair from his face with a trembling hand. “And why doesn’t he know?”
The duke sighed. “Augustine always believed he was responsible for your disappearance. And I have seen more than enough to believe her. I therefore opted to never include him in whatever investigations we conducted. Including this one. We feared he would impede.”
These men clearly knew his father.
Yardley leaned in. “Come upstairs and have a brandy. Talk to us in the privacy we all deserve. Please.”
Coleman half nodded and drifted across the lobby alongside them, submitting to the request. He followed them up, up red-carpeted stairs until he was eventually ushered into a sweeping lavish room graced with windows facing out toward Bowling Green Park.
It was like he was ten again and looking out over New York City for the first time. It was eerie. He awkwardly sat in the leather chair he was guided into.
A glass filled with brandy was placed into his hand. He could barely keep it steady. The amber liquid within the crystal swayed. The last time he had touched crystal of similar quality was when he had smashed a decanter against that cellar wall he was being kept in and screamed until he could feel neither his body nor soul. He felt like a freak then. And he felt like a freak now. For here he was sitting with his long hair and butchered face holding an expensive tonic meant to be sipped by lace-wearing fops. He’d never felt like he truly belonged anywhere. He was neither fop nor street boy. His boxing was the only world that made sense. Fight or fall.
Yardley slowly sat in a chair across from him. “My mother had a dream you were still alive. It induced her to create a map of your whereabouts which I had kept since her death. That is why we are here. Because of her. Her soul was clearly connected to you. She was never able to let you go.”
Coleman drew in a ragged breath. He had dreamed of Auggie on occasion, too. She had once appeared in a boxing match beside him, startling him into missing a swing. She never said a word in his dreams. Only smiled. And now, he knew why. She’d been smiling from beyond.
The duke brought his chair closer and sat. Leaning forward, he whispered, “What happened to you the night you disappeared? Can you speak of it at all?”
Coleman stared into his glass of brandy. The boy he once knew insisted he say something. In the name of his sister. “I spent five years confined to a cellar after my father had crossed a man he shouldn’t have.”
Yardley dropped his hand to his trouser-clad knee. “Five years? By God, what was done to you?”
Coleman continued to stare down at his brandy.
The duke leaned in closer. “Were you beaten?”
Bringing the brandy to his lips, Coleman swallowed the burning liquid. “I wish I had been. I take physical pain incredibly well.”
Both men fell silent.
Coleman sensed they wanted him to say more. But in his opinion, he’d already said enough.
The duke searched his face. “How did you escape?”
Coleman took another quick swig. “I didn’t. One day, my captor opened the cellar door, put a wad of money into my hand and told me to start life anew. So I did. And you’re looking at it.”
Yardley observed him for a moment. “After holding you hostage for five years the man just let you go? Why?”
Coleman shrugged. “It might seem difficult to believe, but we became incredibly good friends. He knew he had kept me long enough and wasn’t interested in taking me to Venice. He was getting married and people in his circle would have started asking questions. They were already asking questions.”
“You befriended this man? After he— Did you not go to the marshals after you were released?” the duke demanded. “To press charges?”
Coleman shook his head, his breath almost jagged. “I didn’t want what I knew of my father touching my sister or my mother. It would have destroyed their lives if I had resurfaced.”
The duke held his gaze. “How many were involved in your disappearance? Who were they? And when were you smuggled out of New York?”
“There was only one man involved in my disappearance. A Venetian. And I never left New York.”
“You never…? All this time, you’ve been…?” The duke closed his eyes and grabbed his head with both hands. “Jesus Christ.” He rocked against his hands for a long moment.
Coleman set aside the brandy on the small table beside him and rose in a half daze. “I appreciate that you shouldered my sister’s plight, even after her death. I know if she had been the one missing, I would have fought for her to the end, as well. My only regret is that I didn’t get to see her one last time. I would have liked that. She and I didn’t part on the best of terms and I—” He swallowed hard, trying not to give in to emotion. With his sister gone, what more was there to return to? Nothing. Their mother had always lived for their father. Who was he to break her delusions of a man she loved? “I should go.”
Yardley rose. “Go? No. You can’t. We are here to take you home with us. To London. Where you belong.”
Coleman walked backward toward the door and swept a more than obvious hand to his beaten face. “Do I look like I belong in a ballroom, gentlemen? Too many years have passed for that.”
The duke rose. “Atwood. You can’t leave when we’ve just now found you. We have yet to know you and genuinely wish to assist you in making the transition back into our circle. It will take time, mind you, but—”
“No.” Coleman shook his head. “I abide by my boxing name, not my titled name, and want no other life than the one I have now. People depend on me. I have a purpose other than living with regret.”
The duke swung away, placing a hand to the back of his neck. “Yardley, speak to him. Because I am not thinking clearly. And neither is he.”
Yardley quickly strode toward Coleman and leaned in, his rugged features tightening. “To take on any other name than the one you were born unto, knowing everything you and my mother have suffered, would be an insult to her and you. By God. You have allowed a lifetime to pass. If you cannot face this now, when will you ever?”
The boy didn’t understand. This wasn’t about being unable to face the past. He’d faced it. He’d lived it. This was about facing the anger he had yet to unleash on the only person he’d ever wanted dead: his father. Not his captor. His father.
Coleman widened his stance. “If I return to London, I’ll do more than face my father. I’ll kill him.”
Yardley pointed. “No you won’t.”
“You don’t know me,” Coleman said between clamped teeth. “I’ve beaten people into bloodied pools of unconsciousness for far less.”
“Killing him isn’t going to change what happened.”
“Neither will letting him live.”
His nephew touched his arm. “Setting aside all that has come to pass, surely you understand that you owe your mother a breath of peace. A peace my own mother never got in her lifetime.”
Coleman released a breath. Yes, he did owe his mother peace. But if the poor woman were to ever know the truth—Christ. What a mess. It was obvious he couldn’t walk away and pretend he didn’t want to go back. “I need time.”
Yardley lowered his shaven chin. “You’ve been gone for almost thirty years. How much more time do you need?”
Coleman pointed a finger at that mouth that dared mock him. “What you don’t understand, nephew, is that I have a life separate from the past. I’ve got people depending on me. Thirty-nine, to be exact. They were there for me when no one else was and I’m not about to pull their teeth out of their skulls by up and leaving. I can’t. I need time to make the transition.”
Yardley hesitated. “How much time do you need?” he asked more gently.
Coleman shrugged. “I don’t know. A few months. I share in a lot of responsibilities. Until I can shuffle off those responsibilities to people I can trust, I suggest you both return to London and let it rest.”
Yardley’s eyes widened. “We’re not about to leave without you.”
“You have no choice,” Coleman bit out. “Because when I walk out of here, you cease to exist until I find my way back to London. Why? Because I can’t have anyone in New York, or the United States for that matter, knowing I’m a fucking viscount. I’ll lose my credibility on the street and with the ward in half a blink and won’t be of use to anyone. It’s bad enough walking around this city with a British accent. It doesn’t earn you spit. Americans despise us Brits, and I can’t readily blame them the way our militia swept into their city and burned down Washington barely sixteen years ago. I was here when it happened and all of New York thought they were next. They were lynching Brits on the streets like they were rabbits.”
The duke swiveled toward them. “I respect that you need to protect your current way of life and that you also need time, but you cannot leave us to worry. At the very least, let my valet tend to your face, whilst we also trim off that hair so we can take you to a good tailor and invest in some new clothes and boots for you.”
Murder and hellfire. Did he look that pathetic? “Don’t talk to me about my face, clothes and shite that doesn’t really matter. I have clothes. I have boots. And I like my hair, thank you. I know how to take care of myself, gentlemen. I’ve been doing it my whole life.”
The duke gestured toward Coleman’s bruised face. “You call this taking care of yourself?”
Coleman sighed. He forgot what it was like having a family. “I’m a pugilist. It’s how I earn a living. And it may not look like it, but I’m good at what I do. Hell, politicians and pub keepers alike have been trying to buy me out for bigger mills since I was twenty. And unlike most of these bare-knuckle hoydens, I get better with age because I know how to train. I’m now known in the sixth ward for knocking men out in ten rounds or less.”
Yardley’s dark brows rose. “Ten rounds or less?” He let out a low whistle. “I would hate to get into a fight with you.” He shifted closer. “If boxing is truly your snuff, Uncle, London is the place to be. ’Tis incredibly popular with the masses. Especially the aristocracy. Many of the men I went to Oxford with were always betting on the fights. I never cared for the sport myself, per se, but you, as a pugilist, would feel like a horse at the derby.”
“Yardley.” The duke glared. “You are digressing.”
“I am not.” Yardley glared back. “I am trying to get this man to London. What are you doing in your attempt? Grouching? Hardly helpful.”
It was like listening to two butchers arguing over who had the better cut.
“If he does come to London,” the duke continued with a huff, “it will be to take on his duty as lord. Not become the next champion of England by smashing in the faces of others. Whoever heard of such a thing? The aristocracy would faint.” The duke muttered something else, strode over to a sideboard and grabbed up a leather pocketbook. “How much money do you need, Atwood, until we see you again? Did you still want that thousand?”
Coleman would have gladly taken a thousand but it felt wrong exploiting his sister’s family—his family—that way. “Twenty dollars will do.” That would at least buy enough informants to help Matthew hunt down those girls.
“Twenty? Don’t be absurd. The cheapest ticket to cross the ocean to get to us will cost you almost ten.”
“You asked me how much I wanted and I’m telling you. Twenty. There is no need to insult what I consider to be a lot of money.”
The duke paused, pulled out a banknote and tossed the pocketbook onto the sideboard, his silvery hair glinting in the candlelight. Striding over, the duke also retrieved a small silver case from his coat pocket. Pulling out a calling card, he held it out, along with the crisp banknote. “You will find us at this address in London.”
“Thank you.” Coleman tugged both loose. Shoving the banknote and card into his pocket, he held out a hand, knowing he ought to be civil. “I appreciate knowing I have someone other than my boys to depend on. I haven’t been able to say that in years.”
His brother-in-law shook his hand and eyed him. “I have something else for you. Before you go.” The duke strode toward the four-poster bed on the other side of the room.
Slipping a hand beneath the pillow and linen, the duke withdrew a leather-bound book which had been fastened closed by a red velvet sash. Fingering it for a long moment, the duke drew in a breath, turned and strode back. “It was Augustine’s diary. Half of it pertains to you. She ceased writing in it when we married. She tried to move on. Despite her trying, she never could. She never did.” The duke blinked back his emotion and held out the diary.
Coleman felt those damn tears assaulting him again. He stared unblinkingly at the leather-bound book.
Although a part of him wanted to refuse it, to keep the past at a distance, he knew that by refusing it, he would be denying himself an opportunity to say goodbye to his sister. He doubted if he’d ever be able to bring himself to read it, but at least he’d be able to hold it until he was ready to go back to London.
Coleman grasped the book, his fingers grazing the soft velvet sash. He stilled, remembering her writing in it. He remembered seeing her dark head intently bent over its pages, writing under a lone candle’s light whilst sitting at her desk in New York. He’d once trudged into her room and had asked her why she kept a stupid diary, to which she had looked up and said, We all have secrets, Nathaniel. I simply happen to write mine down.
He never had to write his down.
He was his own secret.
And damn it all, he couldn’t pretend anymore. He couldn’t pretend he was anything but Viscount Nathaniel James Atwood, the boy who had disappeared at ten. He had spent his whole life waiting for a sign as to what he should do with the secret he had carried for almost thirty years. And here, this, was his sign.
It wasn’t meant to be a secret anymore.
CHAPTER THREE
Why should a man, whose blood is warm within,
Sit like his grandsire cut in alabaster?
—P. Egan, Boxiana (1823)
London, England, February 1831
The Weston House
LADY IMOGENE ANNE NORWOOD traced a lone finger across the window, staring out into the cold, still night. Despite the darkness and shadows, a full moon illuminated the cobblestone street beyond the carriage gates and eerily outlined the oaks that swayed in the wind.
She glanced toward the French clock beside her bed, dimly lit by a single candle. A quarter after two and still no Henry. She doubted if her brother realized how much she worried about him. He smoked like a stove filled to the grates with ashes and spent most of his time watching men box as if seeing blood spray gave him genuine satisfaction.
He used to be so much more. But poor Henry had invested too much into a venture that had left them with nothing. In a desperate effort to erase what had been done, he had then sold his good name of Marquis to the highest female bidder in the aristocracy to save what remained of their lives. It wasn’t as if they had much to begin with.
Imogene couldn’t help but feel responsible for his endless quest for more money. Though she was now nineteen, countless doctors and quacks had paraded in and out of the Weston household since she was seven because of her. And they were anything but free. Neither was the sludgy, healing tonic she was forced to drink with a pinched nose every afternoon at four.
She was tired of being a burden to him.
She was tired of being defined by an illness.
Imogene turned back to the window. Her brother was probably avoiding his wife again. Not that she blamed him. Lady Mary Elizabeth Weston was a floating frock whose constant flaunting of her own wealth sent Henry into a fury. And that didn’t include the rest of the marriage or the whispers about Mary secretly meeting with Lord Banbury.
It was a good thing Mama and Papa had both long since passed and weren’t around to see how miserable Henry was. Each of his poor children had died within the first few months of their lives, and Mary hadn’t been with child since. That was about the time Mary had drifted off into the arms of another.
Life had been anything but kind to her poor brother.
The gates clanged open, making Imogene straighten beside the window. A black lacquered carriage with the Weston crest emblazoned on its doors, rolled through and rounded the graveled path toward the entrance.
Shoving her blond braid over her shoulder, she gathered her robe and nightdress and dashed across the room. Flinging open the bedchamber door, she sprinted down the moonlit corridor, rounding corner after corner and bustled down, down, the main stairwell.
She slid to a halt as the entrance door opened.
A cold wind swept through, setting the candles flickering within the sconces as Henry strode in and stripped his top hat, scattering blond hair across his forehead. Closing the door, he jerked to a halt, startled green eyes settling on her. “Gene. Why are you still up? Are you not feeling well? Do you need me to call for Dr. Filbert?”
“No. I’m fine.” Imogene hurried into his arms and tugged him close, squeezing out the cold clinging to his evening coat. The heavy scent of cigars clung to his clothing. “I couldn’t sleep. Where were you? You reek of cigars.”
“I know. I had one too many.” He patted her head with gloved hands and pulled away. “There was a boxing exhibition over at Bloomsbury. I stayed to the end.”
“Another boxing exhibition?” She sighed. “I keep telling you, ’tis a waste of respectability and time.”
“It depends on how you view waste.” He leaned in and said in a low, riled tone, “Did you know that the last boxing champion of England made almost a quarter of a million pounds for himself and his patron, Lord Ransford? A quarter of a million! If I could get my hands on several thousand of my own money, money I wish to God I had, I’d find myself a boxer capable of taking that title, fist the money from the win and divorce Mary on grounds of adultery. With money like that, no scandal could ever touch us. The problem is I’m worth nothing more than my name and she knows it. In my opinion, she and Banbury deserve each other. I only wish she had the decency to keep it quiet. Everyone knows. Even all of the men at the boxing coves. It’s humiliating.”
That wretched, wretched woman. It was the first time Henry had ever dared speak of divorce. Which meant he was well beyond miserable. To even whisper of divorce in London society was to speak of ruin, not only for him but her. Knowing that made Imogene want to invest in said quarter of a million just so he could live the way he deserved. In peace.
Imogene paused. A quarter of a million pounds? For a mere boxing title? Bumblebees on high. That would be like meeting God. No, no. That would be like being God. It was an obscene amount of money.
She blinked. “How much would it cost to invest in a boxer?”
He eyed her. “About four to five thousand, not including any and all training costs. Why?”
Her heart pounded. Her inheritance from her grandmama, which was set to be released from the estate in the next week now that she was finally of age, was ten thousand. “I have ten thousand that will soon be mine. I want you to invest it for me.”
“Invest? In what?”
“In finding us a boxer so we can turn our ten thousand into two hundred and fifty thousand. Will you do it?”
A startled laugh escaped him. “Gene, I wasn’t by any means insinuating we—”
“Why not?” She grabbed his arm and whispered, “We could split the profit and neither of us would be dependent on anyone ever again. As you yourself just said, with money like that, your divorce would be but a puff of passing smoke we could avoid by leaving town. After everything you have endured, Henry, and most of it on my behalf, let me do this one thing for you. Please.”
His amusement faded. “You aren’t serious, are you?”
She set her lips and face to show him just how serious she really was. She was tired of them struggling for their dignity. It was time to invest in said dignity. “Find us the best boxer there is and I will cover the investment up to a full ten thousand.”
Glancing toward the stairwell to ensure they were alone, Henry hoarsely whispered, “For God’s sake. Aside from the throat slitting my divorce would create, your first Season is set to commence this upcoming April. I cannot and will not gamble with your future by placing myself before your good name. That money is also meant for you and whatever husband you take. You know that.”
She swallowed and shook her head. “I have already professed how I feel about taking a husband. I would only be a burden to him. And I don’t want to burden anyone anymore. Look at what my illness has done to your life. I have stripped you down to nothing. I have turned you into nothing.”
“Gene.” He leaned in close and seized her hands, squeezing them hard. “You need to cease blaming yourself. You are not a burden. By God, you are the only joy I have left.”
She said nothing.
Henry searched her face. “Surely you don’t want to live the life of a spinster. You have so much to give in both mind and soul. You will deny yourself children, happiness and a home of your own because of my stupidity? You can’t. I won’t let you. What is more, everyone in our circle is expecting you to debut.”
She shrugged away his hands, knowing he didn’t understand. “I will debut, for that is what you want of me, but based upon my health, I am not about to submit. It would be nothing but a hardship for whatever man takes me. I would rather we speculate. Think of what all that money could do for us. We would never be dependent on anyone ever again.”
He shook his head. “No, Gene. After having lost everything in a venture I should have never invested in, I know better than to embark upon this. We simply have to accept that neither of us will ever rise above what we have. It is what it is.”
Tears pricked her eyes and what felt like her soul. “There has to be more to life than me choking on medicine and you choking on a bad decision. We can’t—” Her throat tightened beyond its ability to let her breathe. She jumped toward him and grabbed his hands, causing his top hat to roll to the floor.
Feeling a stutter coming on, she fiercely clamped her teeth together, wishing she had been born with a different life. She wanted so desperately to convey everything within her, but knew it would only tumble forth broken and stupid and worthless.
So instead, she shook his hands and kept shaking and shaking them within her own, letting him know that if they didn’t try to change their lives it was never going to change. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t right!
“Gene!” Firmly prying his hands from hers, Henry nudged her chin up hard, forcing her to look at him. “Do you need me to send a missive to Dr. Filbert?”
She winced and shook her head, knowing it would only cost them money for the call. Trying desperately to calm herself, she squeezed her eyes shut and focused on what always helped. Envisioning a field. Swallows dipping low. The sun rising, causing hues of pink to smear the sky. And the soft wind caressing her face, sending strands of hair floating.
Shades of her panic lulled and the strain on her throat faded. She opened her eyes and drew in a shaky breath, letting it out in renewed calm. She could breathe. Though, oddly, her limbs felt like they were floating and the room was swaying.
Henry’s features tightened in concern. “I will send a missive to Dr. Filbert at once.”
She shook her head.
“He can help you. And he has. You know that.”
“No,” she choked out, forcing her words to obey. Fortunately, the stutter had passed. “I…I have my medicine. I…I’m fine.”
“He is genuinely concerned for the state of your health and mind, Gene. As am I. It isn’t normal what you keep doing. It isn’t normal to keep playing the role of a goddamn mute when you get riled or panic. Are you telling me it is?”
She plastered her hands against her ears, not wanting to listen to him anymore. She hated when he reminded her of what she was. She knew what she was.
Henry flinched. Tugging her close, he smoothed her bundled hair with a comforting hand. “I’m sorry. You know all I ever do is worry. Ever since the incident, you…you’ve never been the same.”
She lowered her hands and nodded against him, fingering his embroidered waistcoat that pressed into her cheek. Sometimes, she wished she had enough money to buy everything. Including the happiness her brother deserved. And maybe, if there was any money left over, she could buy a new life for herself. One where she was in control of everything and one word from her and it was done. “Let me do this,” she pleaded against him. “For you and for me. Please. We won’t know until we try.”
He drew away, rubbing her shoulders, and slowly released her. Raking both hands through his hair, he let them drop and eyed her. “And what if we lose it all? What then?”
She inwardly cringed. “Then our lives remain the same. We remain under the jurisdiction of your wife. And…Banbury.” It was cruel, but the man needed a little push.
Henry shifted from boot to boot, his features tightening. Glancing intently toward the stairwell, he met her gaze again. “If we do this, you can’t breathe a word of it to anyone. Especially Mary. Aside from the investment itself, divorce is a messy and barbarous business. Do you understand?”
Her heart skipped, knowing that both of their lives were about to change with this decision. “I won’t say a word.”
He swiped his face. “I’ve been watching fights long enough to know exactly which men to invest in. Give me time. The best pugilists are usually hidden between the cracks.” He hesitated. “All I ask in turn is that you debut and take on the Season. Not necessarily a husband, but the Season. You never know how things will turn out or who you will meet. Can you agree to that much? For me? Knowing what I’m about to agree to myself?”
Imogene half nodded. “Yes. Of course. I can. I…” She blinked rapidly against the dizziness overtaking her ability to focus or speak. The edges of her vision frayed. Oh, no. It was happening again.
“Gene?” her brother echoed.
She fainted.
On the other side of the ocean
NATHANIEL—AS HE’D become accustomed to calling himself again—could see the boys still waving in the distance as they blurred against the horizon of buildings. It was surreal to be leaving the Forty Thieves and New York behind. It was like abandoning the only family he’d ever known.
But at least Matthew was still at his side.
It would make the transition easier.
It was also the best way to keep the man alive.
The chugging vessel trailed constant veils of sooty smoke from its stacks, strong winds sweeping them out toward cloud-ridden skies and massive waves that relentlessly swayed the packing ship.
Knotting his hair back against the whipping wind, Nathaniel drew in a deep breath of cold, sea air. His sister’s words, which he had tucked against the inside of his great coat, weighed in reminder. Although he had undone the journal’s sash many a time throughout the months, he only ever tied it back up, unable to read a single word. He still didn’t have it in him to swallow the reality that all he had left of his sister was pages.
Matthew leaned in against the iron railing of the boat beside him, still staring out at the coast of New York City that had shrunk to the size of a hand, fading against the sea’s vast horizon. “So you’re telling me you’re an aristo and that your father was an aristo who pissed on another aristo who then pissed on you?”
Nathaniel paused. God bless the son of a bitch for oversimplifying everything. “More or less.”
Matthew glanced toward him, his patch shifting against his cheekbone. “So what do you want me to call you? By what name?”
Nathaniel gripped the iron railing hard. “It doesn’t matter. I can still be Coleman, if you want. The boxing circles, even in London, won’t know me as anything else. So I have no choice but to abide by that name. I just wanted you to know the truth. I’ve kept it from you long enough.”
“I’d say. None of this seems real. How the feck could your own father—”
“I don’t want to talk about this anymore.” Nathaniel tapped an agitated fist against the railing. “Your mess is what we need to focus on. I suggest you sleep with your pistols in hand until we get to London. God only knows who is on this ship and it only takes one man to slit your throat.”
Matthew groaned. “I appreciate your concern, and going through all this trouble of dragging me along to ensure I don’t end up dead, but sleeping with pistols in hand is a bit much.”
Nathaniel pointed rigidly at Matthew’s head. “In my opinion, it isn’t enough. Sleep with the goddamn pistols before I up and knock your domino box out of your mouth. I’m not about to let you get lynched by some street boyo who has no understanding of how invaluable you are, not only to me but the ward. The boys need you back alive. Without you there is no them and you know it.”
Matthew observed him for a long moment. “You seem to forget that I’m used to all the attention. If you had left me behind, I would have been more than fine. I would have managed. I always do.”
“Managed?” Nathaniel echoed. “Seventeen men were planning to take you down. It wasn’t something you could have managed on your own.”
Matthew grunted. “I suppose.” He sighed. “So how long am I sentenced to a life abroad anyway?”
“I can’t readily say. Marshal Royce said once the city rounds these bastards up and eliminates the threat against your life, he’ll notify us. I’ll be forwarding him an address when we get into London.”
Matthew smiled. “You’re a good friend. You know that?”
Nathaniel rolled his eyes. “Don’t play the harp. You’ve saved my ass many a time, you know.”
“And I would do it again.”
“Which I also appreciate.”
Matthew hung over the railing, watching the waves beneath. “So what made you decide to go back to London now? Why didn’t you go home with your family when they first came to you all those months ago?”
Nathaniel glanced toward Matthew. “I never run out on people who need me. Not after everything I’ve endured. And you and the boys needed me.”
Matthew reached out and pinched his jaw. “Now, now, don’t get prissy on me. That isn’t like you.”
Nathaniel smirked and shoved his hand away. “Keep those hands to yourself. I’m not interested.”
Matthew let out a laugh. “Don’t flatter yourself, Mister fecking Viscount.” Matthew nudged him. “But ey. At least we’ll be living all posh once we get to London what with you being an aristo, right?”
Nathaniel snorted. “If you mean posh as in us moving in with my father, I don’t think so. I’d sooner slit his throat. I plan on looking into some milling coves and try to make some money that way before I figure out what happens next.” Nathaniel stared at the misty horizon that swayed with the ship, knowing that once in London, bigger things on the horizon awaited him. Like facing a father he wanted dead for reasons he would never be able to share with anyone but Matthew. What if he really killed the bastard? What if he—
Matthew nudged him again. “So where are we going to stay?”
It was like answering a thousand and one questions. Nathaniel shrugged. “I don’t know. We’ll find a hotel.”
“It better be cheap. I’ve only got six dollars.”
“Whilst I only have four.”
“Nice, that. It’s the dead leading the dead.” He paused. “Ey. I’ve got an idea. My ‘stepmother’ is in London. Maybe we can hunt her down. She’d put us up.”
“What? Georgia?”
“Yes. Georgia. How many stepmothers do I have?”
“Don’t be dragging that poor girl into our mess.”
“She ain’t poor anymore. She found herself a rich one.” Matthew smirked and readjusted his eye patch. “So what about this family of yours? Your sister’s husband and son. Can’t we stay with them?”
“No. We’re not exactly their type of people, Milton. Nor do I plan on announcing myself to anyone until I figure out how to wade through this mess. A man just doesn’t show up thirty years later to yell out to the world, ‘Here I am, oh, and by the by I’m thinking of killing my own father.’”
Matthew hesitated. “Why do I have this feeling London is going to make a mess of both our lives?”
“Because it probably will. But in your case, it’s better than being dead.”
“I’ll say.” Matthew eyed him and pushed away from the railing. “I’m going to settle into our cabin. You coming?”
Nathaniel swallowed, feeling his throat closing up at the thought of those low timbered ceilings and that musty windowless room lit by a lone lantern. He was not sleeping below deck. “No. I plan on sleeping out here.”
“On deck?” Matthew echoed, dark brows rising. “And what if you roll the wrong way and plunk into the ocean?”
Nathaniel glared. “I know how to swim, Milton. But as you damn well know, I’m not one for small spaces. So take the fucking cabin and leave me to have my deck.”
“All right, all right. Do you want me to sleep on deck with you?”
Nathaniel rolled his eyes. “If I ever need a man to help me sleep, I give you permission to throw me overboard. Now go get some rest. I’ll see you in the morning. And sleep with your pistols. Just until we get to London.”
“Fine. I’ll humor you.” Matthew nodded, shoving his hands into his great coat pocket, and strode down the length of the deck toward the cabins below deck.
Blowing out a slow breath, Nathaniel leaned against the railing, letting the cold wind whip at his face. The ocean seemed overwhelmingly endless. It was amazing. There were no walls or ceilings, only vast, endless sky and water.
When night eventually cloaked the ship, Nathaniel settled himself with a lantern below an eve, using his coat for a blanket and bundled ropes for a pillow, which he set under his head.
Fingering the ropes, he stared up at the swaying night sky that had smoothed into clarity and revealed glimmering stars. Though he rarely got lonely, for his head kept him too busy for that, in that moment, with the roaring of the waves that meshed into silence, he would have liked a woman to keep him warm on deck beneath all those stars.
He paused. No. What he really wanted and needed was to get fucked. It had been well over a month, which was the longest he’d ever gone without it. Aside from boxing, sex was the only thing he genuinely enjoyed.
It was a good thing most women found him attractive enough to accept his proclivities, because he sure as hell had nothing to give a woman these days. Certainly not money. But then again, maybe London would change that.
CHAPTER FOUR
The cup, filled with wine, having gone round, the Champion thus briefly addressed his patrons, “Gentlemen, for the honour you have done me in presenting this cup, I most respectfully beg of you to accept my warmest thanks.”
—P. Egan, Boxiana (1823)
Many, many weeks later—evening
Cardinal’s Milling Cove
London, England
THERE HAD TO be a better way to make money.
Nathaniel tugged his frayed linen shirt down and over his sweat-sleeked arms and chest, more than done with teaching others how to better swing. He had only made thirteen shillings that whole night offering a fifteen-year-old boxing lessons. He really needed to stop feeling sorry for people before he himself starved.
He paused.
Sensing he was still being watched by that fop against the timbered wall beyond the spectators, he blew out a ragged breath. Some no-name aristo with a fancy horsehair top hat and a Havana cigar had been coming around and watching him almost every night since he’d been in London.
Given Nathaniel’s experience with strange men in top hats and cigars, he didn’t appreciate it. Tonight, realizing his money-making plans were progressing slower than he’d hoped, he really wasn’t in the mood for it. Shoving past several locals who had gathered around him, also asking him for a boxing lesson at thirteen shillings a piece, Nathaniel stalked over to the man.
More than ready to take the bastard on, Nathaniel yelled out, “I don’t appreciate being followed or watched by some nameless prick. Are you going to stop? Or do you need me to make you stop?”
Blond brows went up as the cigar was instantly lowered. Pushing away from the wall, and out of the shadows the lanterns didn’t illuminate, a rugged-looking blond-haired gent of about thirty with sharp green eyes met Nathaniel’s gaze from below the satin-trimmed rim of his top hat.
The dandy angled toward him and wagged the cigar. “You, sir, are without any doubt the best pugilist I have ever had the honor of observing. I was hoping you and I could talk about a potential venture.”
Nathaniel rolled his eyes. He should have known. Wealthy boyos like this one didn’t hang around milling coves unless they were sniffing for potential investments. “Unless you have five thousand to give, don’t fucking bother. I need real money. Not talk.”
The man leaned toward him. “I can offer you five thousand on signing and give you a swing at the title. Are you interested?”
Nathaniel perused the man’s evening coat, embroidered waistcoat and polished boots. He looked like he could afford everything he was offering. The sort of money he and Matthew desperately needed. They had both been living shilling by shilling. Nathaniel had even been playing cards with what little money they had in an effort to bring them quick money.
Cards weren’t his thing. He’d lost every hand. He was incredibly good at betting on fights, though. The problem was one had to have at least ten pounds to get into any of the good bets. Which he didn’t have.
Interestingly enough, however, this aristo was offering Nathaniel far more than money. This aristo was offering something other investors never had. A chance at the title. “You’re actually offering me a chance for the Champion of England?” he drawled. “A real chance?”
“Yes. I think you have it in you to win based on what I’ve seen thus far. And unlike other men, I not only have a name, but the means to line up the right trainer and the right fights to make it happen. It’s simply a matter of if you want to make it happen.” Sticking his cigar between his teeth, the gent stuck out a white gloved hand. “The name is Lord Weston. But I prefer you just call me Weston. You go by the name of Coleman, yes?”
Nathaniel eyed that hand but didn’t take it. He wasn’t stupid. “What do you want from me, Weston?”
“I want your boxing skills in a ring. Because I’m beyond impressed.” Weston blew out a cloud of smoke in Nathaniel’s direction and pointed with the cigar toward the narrow, lantern-lit entrance. “How about you and I go to a local pub and talk?”
Nathaniel’s nostrils flared from the acrid stench of smoke penetrating his throat. He hated cigars. They reminded him of his days in the cellar. “Put out the cigar first. It agitates me.”
The man paused and pointed at him. “Don’t overstep your bounds, boy. I’ll smoke if I want to. I’m the one making the offer here, not you.”
“Is that so?” Nathaniel snatched the cigar from that gloved hand and dashed it out on his well-calloused knuckles, the burning sting brief but welcome. “There goes your offer.” He tossed the cigar at the man, letting it bounce off his waistcoat. “I don’t do business with assholes.”
Swinging away, Nathaniel muttered to himself about the rudeness of people and strode toward the crate where he kept his great coat whenever he came to train and box.
Weston veered in again and snapped up both gloved hands. “I’ll never smoke in your presence again. Just give me a chance to make an offer. I’ve been meaning to do so for a few days now.”
Nathaniel set his shoulders. There was only one way to know if the man was remotely serious. Nathaniel pointed to the floor on the other side of the lantern-lit timbered room, where men were lining up to spar. “Go in and box for me. I’ll watch and we’ll take it from there.”
Weston’s brows rose. “What?”
“Do you even know what you’re looking to invest in? I want you to show me you know how to box. Go on.”
A rumble of a laugh escaped the man. “I know what I’m looking to invest in. I’ve been part of the local boxing crowd since I was twenty. Ask around. People know who I am. There is no need for you to—”
“I don’t care if they know who you are. All I care about is whether you’re willing to box in the name of impressing me.”
Weston eyed him. “I’m more of what you call a spectator and have only ever boxed over at Jackson’s with a few peers of mine. Not—” He waved rigidly toward the unshaven, unbathed, half-dressed local men crowding for a chance at another fight.
Nathaniel widened his stance, determined to make his point. “I’m not asking you to win, Weston boy. I’m asking you to prove that you’re willing to take the same hits I am. A man who isn’t even willing to put himself into the ring isn’t someone I care to trust or go into business with or hand over my boxing career to. You decide what matters most. Your nose or the offer.”
This was about when most investors skidded out, which had only ever pleased Nathaniel. Rich investors had no qualms about taking advantage of boxers and Nathaniel knew better than to jump at every offer.
Weston glanced back over at the gruff, well-muscled men lining up. “Apparently, the devil has a sense of humor.” Casually removing his top hat, he handed it to Nathaniel. “Here. Hold this for me.”
Nathaniel hesitated and took the top hat. This was new. Wealthy men usually weren’t keen about getting their own blood on their shirts. At least not the wealthy Americans he was used to dealing with back in New York. He couldn’t help but feel a renewed sense of respect for the aristocracy. He didn’t realize they took their investments so seriously.
Weston removed his gloves from his hands and undid his cravat, stuffing everything into the top hat Nathaniel still held. Removing his coat, waistcoat and linen shirt, the man revealed a fit frame that bespoke many hours doing some sort of sport.
Weston draped the clothes across Nathaniel’s arm and pointed at him. “Don’t take off with my clothes, now. I know which hotel you’re staying at—Limmer’s—and I know who you associate with, including your one-eyed, pistol-toting friend, Matthew Joseph Milton.”
Nathaniel tightened his hold on the top hat and clothes. “Sniffing isn’t a quality I want in an investor.”
Weston leaned in, those green eyes sharpening. “Sniffing is the only quality you want in an investor. It proves that I can protect not only my investment but yours, by thoroughly investigating everything before I put a boot into it. I’ve been bilked out of thousands before, so I damn well ensure I always sniff out every last rotting detail. The only thing that worries me about you, Coleman, is that you already have a reputation for taking meals from investors but never following through. Know one thing separates me from other investors—unlike them, I’m not here to own you. But I am here to make a profit. We’re talking about a quarter of a million pounds if you take the title. And all I’m asking in return for my investment is half.”
Nathaniel stared at the man. It was the first time anyone had ever thought him capable of taking the championship. Winning fights for bets was one thing. Fighting the championship was quite another. Even at half, taking the championship and the money that came with it could do more than change his life. That sort of money could make everyone lick his boots. And after a lifetime of kneeling, it was time to stand. “I’m genuinely intrigued.” Nathaniel thumbed toward the direction of the boxing floor. “Finish impressing me and we’ll talk more about your offer.”
Weston adjusted his trousers on his hips, his features tightening. “It’s my first go at bare-knuckle boxing, but in my opinion, you’re worth the sacrifice.” Staring him down one last time, Weston pushed through the crowd, lining up for the next match.
Nathaniel winced, knowing it was the man’s first go at bare-knuckle boxing. A part of him wanted to stop the poor bastard, but the morbid cynic in him, who had been dirked by too many people, had to see if this man was even worth blinking at.
CHAPTER FIVE
And now, Mr. Editor, I crave your attention
to a few words more, which I trust,
will quench the thirst of…(?)
—P. Egan, Boxiana (1823)
5:07 a.m.
The Weston House
IMOGENE LINGERED BY the rain-slathered window of her bedchamber and stared unblinkingly at the carriage gates that were blurred by the weather and darkness. She glanced toward the French clock. According to her lady’s maid, who had woken her barely minutes ago, the valet was beyond worried. Henry had not yet returned from the milling cove. Although the valet had also roused her sister-in-law, Imogene doubted the woman had even rolled over in concern.
Mother of heaven. Setting a shaky hand to her mouth, she wondered if she should call for Scotland Yard.
The gates unexpectedly clanged open, making her whoosh out a startled breath. A black lacquered carriage rolled through and rounded the graveled path. Henry!
Gathering her robe and nightdress from around slippered feet, she dashed across the room. Flinging open the bedchamber door, she sprinted down the darkened corridor, rounding corner after corner, and pounded down the main stairwell, heading for the entrance door.
Breathing hard against the pounding of her heart, she unbolted the entrance door, flung it open and waited.
The carriage stopped. When the door opened and the steps were unfolded, but no one stepped out, she panicked. Sensing her brother needed her, she dashed out into the rain. Ice-cold, whipping sheets of water stung her face and soaked her robe and nightdress as she hurried toward the stopped carriage that was dimly illuminated by lanterns swinging beside the driver’s seat.
Shoving her way past the footman toward the open door, she skidded against the wet gravel and angled herself closer to see inside the carriage. “Henry?”
Her brother, who was rising from his seat, yanked his coat over his head, burying himself in it before she could see him. “Jesus Christ, Gene! What—” Stumbling into the darkness of the upholstered seat, he roared, “Get back inside! You aren’t even damn well dressed!”
“Weston, sit,” someone gruffly commanded in a low baritone from within the shadows of the carriage seat. “And cease yelling at her. How is that helpful?”
Henry leaned toward that voice, still keeping himself buried within the coat. “I can’t have her seeing my face!”
“I understand,” that low baritone offered. “Cease yelling about it and let me get her inside for you, all right?”
Her throat tightened as she edged back. Who was in there with him? And what was going on? She swiped away the beading rain from her face in an effort to try to see.
A well-framed man with shoulder-length silvering black hair that fell around a chiseled face in wet waves loomed in the carriage doorway. Those broad shoulders barely fit against the opening as he hovered above her, setting one edge-whitened leather boot on the first stair, whilst keeping the other on the main landing of the carriage.
Her eyes widened, noting his frayed coat had been torn at the curve of that muscled shoulder. Dearest God. What sort of company was her brother keeping these days? A yellowing linen shirt, open indecently at his masculine throat without a cravat or a waistcoat, had been sloppily tucked into a pair of wool trousers.
Astoundingly pale eyes that reminded her of the clearest skies of a winter morning held her gaze from above for a thundering moment. The wavering light from the lanterns flickered shadows across his rugged face, accentuating high cheekbones and a fine nose that was a touch crooked. He lingered in the opening of that carriage as if to ensure she was aware of him.
Which she most certainly was.
Those dominating ice-blue eyes momentarily erased everything, including every last drop of cold rain. She blinked, realizing that the rain had, in fact, stopped. It was as if the heavens had cleared in the name of this man.
He leaned down toward her, holding on to the side of the open door with a large, scarred hand. “Weston had his first go at real boxing earlier tonight and lost. Miserably. You don’t want to see how miserably. Just know he and I are now good friends because of it. We actually spent most of the night talking and cleaning him up. Or at least trying to.” His voice was smooth, deep, and bore a surprisingly sophisticated accent given his rough appearance. “You really don’t want to see him in his current state. I suggest you retire, tea cake.”
Tea cake? Her lips parted and she honestly couldn’t decide what horrified her more. Knowing her brother had allowed himself to be pummeled due to his own stupidity or knowing that she’d been called a tea cake by some vagrant whilst standing in a rain-drenched robe and nightdress.
“Can you step back?” he asked. “I’d like to get down. I’m not overly fond of carriages.”
She stepped away from the carriage entrance, trying not to stumble on the wet gravel. That was why he’d lingered. Not because of her, but because she’d been blocking his ability to move.
She really was a tea cake.
The man jumped down with a thud onto the gravel, his great coat billowing around his large, muscled body as his riding boots splashed into the puddle. “Are you going in? Or do I have to carry you in?”
Her heart skittered. Something about this man made her world pulse. And she couldn’t decide if it was a good thing or a bad thing.
He paused. “You’re putting on quite the show.” Raking his gaze over her breasts, he swiped the corners of his mouth with the tips of his fingers. “Not that I mind—they’re incredibly lovely, but you may want to go inside.”
Her eyes widened as she slapped her hands over the front of her robe. She wasn’t wearing a corset. Cupping her hands harder against her breasts, she felt her puckered nipples well-outlined against the wet material sticking to her palms. Her heated face pricked against the cold wind.
He lowered his stubbled chin as if to get a better look at her face and extended a bare, scarred hand toward the entrance. “Are you going in or not?” He spaced out his words as if she were mentally incapable of understanding. “Because I can still see everything. Even with your hands in place.”
She gasped, completely mortified, turned and dashed past the portico and back in through the open door of the house, her slippers clicking and sliding across the marble. Skidding out of sight, she scrambled into the darkest corner of the foyer, setting herself against the farthest wall where no one could see her.
In a daze, she flopped against the wall, breathing hard. He’d seen everything.
She stared up at the mahogany stairwell that led up to an open landing above. After a blurring week of every aristocratic socialite fawning over the way she walked and danced and breathed, this was simply too much.
Male voices and heavy steps drifted into the foyer.
She froze, holding her breath.
“Remind me to never bring you home with me again,” Henry said in a riled tone, hidden just beyond sight. “Did you really have to comment on her breasts? In my circle, we don’t talk to women that way.”
“I got her inside for you, didn’t I?” that baritone casually provided. “Consider it a compliment I thought your wife’s breasts attractive enough to even comment on.”
She almost choked.
“That wasn’t my wife!” Henry staggered toward the stairwell, the coat still pulled over his head. “That was my sister, Coleman. My goddamn sister!”
“Consider it an even bigger compliment.”
“Weston?” A female voice bloomed throughout the foyer like a horn. “Who is…whatever are you— Why are you hiding under a coat?”
About time you noticed something amiss, Imogene thought. Her gaze jumped up to her sister-in-law standing at the top of the staircase, which was barely in view from the dark corner Imogene was tucked in.
Wrapped from shoulder to toe in a clinging, gold silk robe whose train splayed down part of the stair, Lady Mary Elizabeth Weston reminded Imogene of a Roman princess lounging about a palace. All the woman needed were the grapes. Sour grapes.
“That is my wife,” Henry grumbled almost inaudibly from within the coat. “And though she and I aren’t on the best of terms, I will mind you not to comment on her breasts, either.”
“No worry in that,” came the stage-whispered response. “They’re not as impressive.”
Imogene stifled a disbelieving laugh against her pressed hand. Now that was funny.
The tall, broad back belonging to this “Coleman” appeared in view at the bottom of the staircase. “Let me help you up.” Taking Henry’s arm and draping it over his midsection, he guided him up the stairs. “Go slow.”
Imogene could practically hear her brother wincing as he staggered up each step.
Mary bustled down the stairs, trying to grab Henry’s other arm. “I am never letting you go to another boxing exhibition again. ’Tis a waste of whatever is left of your face. A true gentleman would never watch such filth, let alone participate in it.”
Henry yanked his arm away from hers. “Yes, you know all about real gentlemen, don’t you, Mary?”
She sputtered, following Henry up the remaining stairs. “How can you treat me like this?” She waved toward Coleman. “Bringing in some vagrant from off the street to see me in my robe!”
“He isn’t a vagrant. And unlike Banbury, he isn’t here to see you,” Henry coolly obliged. “He was assisting me home, given my condition.”
When they had reached the landing, Henry grabbed Coleman’s shoulder, the coat swaying lopsided over his head. “My driver will take you wherever you need to go.”
“Uh…no,” Coleman provided. “The ride over was daunting enough. I’ll walk. Now go. Get some rest. And call in a doctor, will you? You may have to get that eye lanced.”
Imogene’s lips parted. Lanced?
Henry pointed at him. “My offer still stands. Think about it until I see you at Cardinal’s next week.”
“I’ll let you know by the end of the week.”
“Good. See you then.”
Cardinal’s? That was one of the milling coves Henry frequented in the hopes of finding— Her eyes widened. Her brother had found a boxer. Upon her soul. This was their boxer! The man who was going to change their lives.
When Henry and his wife’s frantic, pitchy voice disappeared farther into the house and silence drummed, Imogene intently watched as this Coleman jogged down the remaining stairs.
His long-legged stride echoed as he strode through the foyer. To her astonishment, he didn’t head for the entrance door. But toward…her.
Her damp robe still clung to every inch of her skin, making her feel like a seal at the menagerie about to get its first visitor.
He veered toward the space of the darkened corner she was tucked into.
She must have been breathing too hard.
He paused before her in the fuzzy darkness. “I couldn’t leave without saying goodbye.” The crisp scent of fresh air tinged with the smell of leather drifted toward her, the faint outline of those broad shoulders lingering close. Long, wet hair framed his shadowed face. “How are you?”
Her mouth went dry. She’d never heard a male voice dip like that before. Not in a way that made her stomach dip along with it. It was like he wanted something from her.
“Is there a reason you’re standing in the darkness alone?” he inquired. “Were you waiting for me?”
It sounded like he was hoping she was.
Imogene stared up in the direction of that deep voice and tried to decide if he intimidated her or not. His voice was incredibly debonair and didn’t match his gruff appearance.
He hesitated. “I can hardly hear you breathing. Is everything all right?”
She trembled against the increasing cold that pinched her skin and knew it was time to go before she made an idiot out of herself. Quickly rounding the man, she leaned away to ensure she didn’t brush up against him and only hoped he wouldn’t follow her up to her room.
He sidestepped and blocked her from leaving. “Wait.” He removed his great coat from long, muscled arms, exposing the frayed linen shirt beneath. “Come here.”
Her breath hitched as she scrambled back and bumped into the wall behind her. “What are you—”
“You’re soaked and you’re cold. Now come here.” He yanked her forward with a firm hand.
She froze.
He draped his coat around her. “There.” Large calloused fingers bumped her throat as he positioned and adjusted the coat into place around her. “Warm up.”
The soothing warmth of his coat, which his body had heated well, sank into her moist skin. The rough wool nestled around her body smelled like musty leather and smoky wood from a blazing fire that mingled with the scent of coal and the ocean. She had no doubt it smelled of all the places he had been to and seen.
Large hands stilled at the collar of the coat he had been adjusting around her throat. His hold tightened on the wool and he leaned in. “You smell good.”
Her pulse danced against his fingertips, which still clung to the coat. She probably did smell good. She had stupidly spilled perfume on her robe earlier that night.
“Do you have a name?” His tone was patient. “Weston called you Gene. Is that your name?”
Her breaths now came in jagged takes. Why did everything about this man make her panic and melt at the same time? It wasn’t right.
His hands fell away. “How is a man supposed to get anywhere with a woman who doesn’t talk?” He shifted toward her. “Do I scare you?”
She lowered her gaze to her hands. “No. Though I…I was a bit unnerved by what you said to me outside. It was uncalled-for.”
He paused, his voice unexpectedly softening. “I’m afraid I’m a bit rough when it comes to women. I’m not accustomed to small talk. And if I’m ever feeling amorous I usually tie them up.”
She glanced up, astounded, and met his shadowed gaze. It was like he said everything that was in his head. She had never met a man who did that before. “You…tie women up?” she rasped in disbelief. “What do you mean by that?”
He stiffly stepped back. “I’ve clearly said too much.” He sounded agitated. “I should go.”
He probably thought she was judging him. And she couldn’t have that. Not when he was about to change her life and Henry’s.
She grabbed his biceps, yanking him back and held him in place. “No. Stay. We probably should get to know each other.”
He stilled, the muscle beneath his clothing hardening beneath her fingers. “Know each other?” His chest rose and fell in deep takes as he intently held her gaze in the soft shadows. “You mean you want to take this upstairs, to bed?” A slow smile spread across his lips. “Did my talk of tying you up intrigue you?”
She quickly retrieved her hand, fully aware of his pulsing warmth and gawked up at him. “Uh…no, that wasn’t what I was… I…I was merely…” She winced and tried not to panic lest it bring her stutter on. In truth, she was surprised it hadn’t reared its head yet, being in the vicinity of this daunting man. “Are you a boxer?”
He paused. “I am. Yes.” He appeared incredibly surprised by the question. “Why do you ask?”
It was like meeting one of those shirtless men inside Mr. P. Egan’s book, which Henry kept in the study. The boxing book she had been reading ever since Henry had commenced looking for a pugilist for them to invest in. Her heart pounded knowing that gritty world of swinging fists, which was only permitted to men by men, was standing before her. “Are you any good at it?”
He smirked. “I’m not one to brag.”
She tightened his coat around her shoulders. “So you are good at it?”
“As I said, I’m not one to brag. So don’t make me.”
Imogene bit back a smile. She rather liked him. She felt like whatever he said, he meant. “Do you still have all of your teeth?”
A cough of a laugh escaped him. “Yes. Though I have come close to losing them many a time.”
“Ah.” She tried to come up with another question. Boxing. Something to do with boxing. “And do you…box often?” Oh, now, her brain was turning into wine jelly.
“Not as often as I’d like. I give lessons over at Cardinal’s and have even taken a few matches since coming into London, but nothing worth my time. It barely pays anything. I’d need a patron for that, and though your brother has offered, I’m still not particularly fond of being owned.”
“Owned? Oh, no, no. Henry isn’t like that. He would never—”
“There is no need to defend him. ’Tis how boxing investments are conducted.”
“Oh.” The particulars of the investment itself were something she and Henry had never fully discussed. “So…how would an investment be conducted if…well…my brother were to invest?” She didn’t want to scare him off by saying she was the investor.
He hesitated. “You seem incredibly interested in boxing. For a woman.”
“I am. But it has nothing to do with me being a woman.” Gad. That sounded moronic. “I just want to know. What do you mean by being owned?”
He eyed her. “Your brother would basically control every aspect of my life both in and out of the boxing ring until the championship. Everything from who I associate with to who I fight and what I eat and how I train.”
She blinked. She would get to control this man like that? Completely? How utterly fascinating. Henry never told her any of that. “I didn’t realize it was so involved.”
“Everything involving the title for the Champion of England is. Aside from the prestige, we’re talking millions of pounds in bets placed throughout the land. Of which, of course, I would only see a fraction. But a fraction of millions is still staggering and beyond impressive.”
“It most certainly is.” She dug her fingers into the palm of her hand. Still feeling awkward, knowing that she was actually talking to the man who was going to change everything, she randomly blurted, “You have a most unusual accent. British, yet not. Were you born in London?”
“No. I was born and raised in Surrey.”
“Surrey. So where are you from now?”
“New York.”
“America? How exciting. Is it nice there?”
“When you close your eyes.”
“It doesn’t seem like you cared for it.”
“It was a place to live. Nothing more.”
“I see. And do you plan on going back?”
“Does it sound like I plan on going back?”
Her brows came together. This man certainly didn’t elaborate much. She asked, he answered. That was all. It was as if he was a wall tolerating their conversation. He was clearly bored. Not that she blamed him. Everything about her life was as mundane as staring at her medicine. Her investment scheme with Henry was the only exciting thing to have ever happened to her. Which was pathetic.
She stripped his great coat from her shoulders and held it out. “I shouldn’t keep you.”
“You aren’t keeping me.” He took the coat and shrugged himself into it, adjusting it around his large frame. “I always have time to entertain a beautiful woman.”
An odd giddiness poked at her knowing he thought she was beautiful. Her. She pressed her fingers nervously into her thighs, shifting the wet material of her robe. Maybe she should say something more. “Fortunately it stopped raining. So your walk home ought to be pleasant.”
“Is that your way of telling me to go?”
“No. I…I’m trying to make conversation.”
“Are you?” Amusement tinged his voice. “Might I point out, you’re not very good at it.”
She cringed and shifted against the wall. “I know.”
He shifted closer, the heat of his body drawing unnervingly close. “How old are you?”
She pressed herself harder against the wall, until she felt the plaster beneath the silk embroidered paper. “Old enough. Why?”
One hand and then another pressed against the wall beside her head, caging her in with his muscled frame. “Old enough for what?”
Her breathing shallowed. “For anything.”
Another slow smile teased his lips. “If I tied your hands behind your back or above your head, would you be amenable to it?”
A strange fluttering overtook her stomach as he hovered above her in dominating silence. “Am I supposed to answer that?”
He cocked his head, still watching her. “Let me give you some advice based on what I’m seeing here. Never let a man you don’t know this close to you again. There are a lot of assholes that prey on women like you. Consider yourself fortunate I’m not one of them.”
Assholes? She blinked.
His voice grew husky. “Are you warm yet? I can take off my coat again. In fact, I can take off whatever you want me to. All you have to do is ask.”
She felt the foyer sway and locked her knees together to keep herself from sliding down the wall. Something about the way he had said it made her want to drape herself against him.
His right hand left the wall and trailed to her shoulder. He gently curved his palm in and brushed past her throat, making her suck in a sharp breath.
Rough padded fingers nudged her face up toward the fuzzy outline of his own face. “You’re very pretty. Do you know that?”
Why did she sense this man was going to change more than her finances? She swallowed, feeling his lips hovering above hers. Should she let him kiss her? It wouldn’t be a sin, would it?
The heat of his breath tickled her mouth.
She grew faint. Very, very faint.
He released her and pushed away from the wall. “I have to go.” Turning, he stalked toward the entrance, his boots thudding against the marble with what appeared to be a determination to not only leave but never be seen again.
A long breath escaped her. He was leaving? After all of that talk of him doing whatever she asked and his strange quest to bind her hands? What happened? Did she suddenly cease being pretty?
Stumbling away from the wall, she glanced up at the stairwell, thankful it was empty, and hurried after him. “Mr. Coleman?” she whispered so no one would hear.
His large frame paused, still holding the entrance door open as he kept his back to her. “Coleman is my boxing name. It’s not my real name.”
“Oh. I beg your pardon. What is your real name?”
“Just call me Nathaniel. Now what do you want?”
Imogene brought her hands together in an effort to remain calm. Unlike all the blurred aristocratic faces she’d met this past week in countless ballrooms that had sent her into a cringing, stuttering panic, he had brought everything into focus and made her realize what had been missing all her life: a genuine strength to be more than her illness. “You didn’t say goodbye.”
He glanced over his shoulder, those striking clear blue eyes capturing hers in the candlelight of the foyer. “Are you asking me to kiss you?”
She gawked. “I… No. No. Why would I— All I was pointing out, and very respectably, mind you, was that you walked away without bidding me farewell.”
He slowly closed the door and faced her again. “I walked away for a reason.”
Her brow creased. “I hope I didn’t offend you in any way.”
Shifting his jaw, he strode back toward her, his coat billowing menacingly around his solid movements as if he were about to take flight and land on top of her.
Though she wanted to throw up her hands and dash up the stairs to find Henry, she knew that would only make her look the ninny that she was.
He paused half an arm away, blocking her view of the foyer. That crisp scent of leather, wood and coal drifted toward her again. He lowered his gaze to hers. “You didn’t offend.”
Everything about him was a bit too exciting. She almost couldn’t think. “I didn’t?”
“No.” He held her gaze. “My mind simply isn’t where it should be and I’m not one to take advantage of a clearly virginal woman.”
Her eyes widened. “What do you mean by that?”
“Oh, now, you can’t be that naive. What do you think goes on between men and women when no one is looking? They don’t sit and play cards.”
She fisted her trembling hands, which had gone from damp cold to damp hot, realizing exactly what he meant. She knew about kissing. She also knew that when bedchamber doors closed at night, something happened that resulted in children. So did he mean to say he wanted both? “Are you offering on my hand?”
His mouth quirked. “Not in the way you think.” He edged in tauntingly. “This is probably where you should turn and run, tea cake. Before all this pent-up self-restraint you see…flies. Because I’m not known for restraint when it comes to women.”
She swallowed. He was teasing her. “If you doubted your self-restraint, you wouldn’t have told me.”
He eyed her. “I’m not always this nice to women.”
“If I felt in any way threatened by you or this situation,” she confided, “I would have screamed by now. I can scream, you know. I try not to, given Dr. Filbert insists I never strain my throat, but I can. I’m not as frail as everyone thinks I am.”
He hesitated. “Doctor? Is something wrong with you?”
She shrugged. “I have fainting spells and issues with my throat. There was an incident when I was younger. I could barely swallow without being in pain and lost almost a quarter of my body weight when I was seven.”
He stared, his features darkening. “I’m sorry to hear it.”
She shrugged. “I was rather fortunate. I could have died. Everyone was surprised I didn’t.”
He said nothing.
“My name is Imogene, by the by. Lady Imogene. But you can call me Gene.”
He stared at her in a way that resembled a panther gazing upon its prey. Then, suddenly, he edged back. “I really have to go.”
She tried not to panic. What if he didn’t take the offer? What if she had scared him away with all her stupid talk of doctors and death? “We should take tea sometime. Here at the house. Next week in the afternoon? Yes?”
He kept staring. “I’m not looking to be domesticated.”
“Oh. I… Well…tea is very informal. As long as I have a chaperone it would be very respectable. You and I can get to know each other and be friends.”

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