Trimmed in Blue

by Sandra Sookoo

  Nervous beneath his unwavering scrutiny, Louisa cleared her throat. “Everything I say will remain confidential between us?” She couldn’t imagine the baron’s rage if he found out. Will he kill me? Hurt Jonas? With a shake of her head, she banished the thoughts. You’re here to prevent any more violence. Stay the course, no matter the cost.

  “I care not for the wounded pride of the ton.” He nodded. “It won’t go past my lips. On my honor as a gentleman.”

  Was he a gentleman? She had no idea. He could be lying through his teeth, all in an effort to lull her into a sense of peace before he struck.

  For long moments Louisa studied his face, roved her gaze over the hint of chestnut stubble beginning to shade his jaw and lower cheeks. She took in the bruises he’d won, a testament to his skill in the boxing ring. Her gaze sailed over the breadth of his shoulders—and the strength contained therein—the ramrod straightness of his back, the solidness of him and his poise. This was a man who had known fear and had spit in its proverbial face. He’d lived to tell his tale. Finally, she met his eyes and searched for a hidden message in those stormy depths. There was none. Honesty and perhaps consternation for her plight shone there.

  After she drew in a deep breath and let it ease out between her lips, she nodded. “You asked who has threatened me, who gave me this.” Louisa touched gloved fingertips to the light bruise on her cheek. Thankfully it didn’t pain her. Never once did she look away from this man who had given her the benefit of the doubt. “It’s my stepfather, Baron Althrop. He’s been a nasty piece of business toward me for most of this last year.”

  “I can imagine, for there are always rumors surrounding men like him, even if they maintain they’re upstanding members of society.”

  “Yes, he’s said those exact words.” Her chin trembled before she got hold of herself. “He’s arrogant and as slimy as an eel.” She shivered. “For the past few years, ever since I was forced to live with my mother and him following my husband’s death, he has tried to molest me whenever he can.” Louisa lowered her eyes, not able to bear to see what Mr. Carrington might reveal. “Mostly in my bedchamber, but at times, if we’re in a room together alone. I deflect him as best I can but fear that soon he’ll overpower me.” Another few tears fell. “The night before last, he... he...” A sob escaped her, and she clenched her fingers in her lap. Heat fired in her cheeks. How embarrassing it was to confess something of this nature in front of this man. “His hands were on me. He almost succeeded in—”

  “I can guess at the rest,” Mr. Carrington finished in clipped tones.

  When she happened to glance up, she caught anger roiling in his magnificent storm-gray eyes, but remarkably it wasn’t directed at her. “Compounding the issue is that my half-brother, Jonas, is his child. He’s fifteen and at Eton but is beset with bullies I half suspect are encouraged by the baron’s cronies. One of the reasons I moved home was to protect Jonas, for he’s not able to defend himself.”

  “Why is that?”

  “He has a slight lazy eye, which means he wears spectacles. And he’s a bit lame. Has been since birth.” She sniffed. “He’s a target for unkindness and mean-spirited boys.”

  “As well as headmasters looking for approval and a bit of coin,” Mr. Carrington finished for her. He unbent enough to dig into an interior pocket of his apron. “Here.” He handed her a pristine handkerchief.

  “Thank you.” Louisa mopped at the moisture on her cheeks. The alluring scents of citrus and spearmint teased her nose. Oh, he smelled heavenly and uplifting. “I need to learn how to fight to stop all of this, for I have nowhere to go, Mr. Carrington.” She again raised her eyes to his. “I want to live my life without fear, to teach my brother the same. Is that so terrible?”

  “Absolutely not.” He looked at her with a fair amount of speculation. “You have the right to say no, to stand up for yourself, to direct your own path.”

  That kernel of hope bloomed in her chest. “Does that mean you’ll help me?”

  “Yes.” A muscle twitched in his jaw. “I’ll teach you how to fight, but it must remain a secret between the two of us. A woman learning how to box is quite a scandalous endeavor outside of a private home.”

  “I promise I won’t say a word.” Excitement climbed her spine. This was really going to happen!

  “I rather doubt sending a missive by courier is a good idea, so why don’t you meet me here in this shop two days from now? That will be our first lesson.”

  She nodded. “I will. Thank you so much.” When she tried to return his handkerchief, he declined to take it.

  “Don’t thank me yet. The work will be hard and the lessons tiring.” But the corner of his mouth quirked as if he wanted to grin.

  “I’ll do whatever it takes,” Louisa said as she rose to her feet. “I will not lay down and accept my fate. And now, I don’t have to.”

  Now she had hope and could see light in the darkness.

  Chapter Six

  October 28, 1818

  There’d been nothing for it. Without having a studio of his own or a private townhouse, Cecil had been forced to issue the invitation to Miss Harcourt to meet him here. Even so, his nerves felt strung too tight as he paced the shop floor with his hands clasped behind his back.

  “It’s madness, Samuel. Why the devil did I agree to such a thing?”

  His best friend snorted, for they’d had this same conversation at least twice since Miss Harcourt’s visit. “You took pity on her.”

  “No, I empathized with her.” There was a reason for that, and it made a difference. “I should be training and thinking about my next bout. Anything else is a distraction.” And if anyone had the wherewithal to be that, it was the mysterious Miss Harcourt.

  “There’s nothing to worry about. You’ll take the match, like you always do.”

  “I can’t rest on my laurels. There will always be men with more skill or talent than I have.” A knot formed in his belly. “If I lose, then some of the momentum I’ve already built will fade. Winning that prize money will mean investing in the business, and we can expand our enterprise.”

  Samuel waved an elegant hand. “There is no rush to do so. We’re staying ahead of the orders, and if you expand too fast, you won’t have the leisure time to indulge in boxing matches. Or anything else.”

  He eyed his friend askance. “There is nothing else for me except the craft and fisticuffs.”

  “Mmm.” Samuel shook his head. “The woman’s looks don’t hurt, man. Curly-haired women are the wildest.” He grinned, which caused Cecil to make a crude gesture. “What trouble has she found herself in?”

  “I can’t say.” He was a man of his word, after all, but his blood boiled to know that Baron Althrop lived despite his trespasses against her. She needed a protector, yet her determination to see her own way through the morass belied that observation. He respected the hell out of her for that. How had she fared the last two nights? Was she even now broken and bloodied? His chest tightened painfully. Good God, had the bastard raped her? One of his hands curled into a fist. The man needed trouncing, but Cecil didn’t have enough information to ensure that could happen.

  “Woolgathering, Carrington?” A knowing tone had entered Samuel’s voice. “That’s the first sign of infatuation.”

  “No danger of that. Get it out of your mind.” Hellfire and damnation. He needed to follow his own advice. Cecil sighed. “Suffice it to say, she has cause to learn fisticuffs.”

  “And her bruises? From whom did they come?” Samuel’s bright gaze bore into him. “I assume she didn’t run into a wall. She’s not the brainless type.” He wrapped a pair of candle holders in brown paper for imminent delivery.

  What to tell him that wouldn’t betray her confidence? “She’s being threatened, this is true, and she won’t stand for it any longer.”

  “Oh?” One of his friend’s eyebrows lifted. “It’s interesting you’ve agreed to this scheme when you’ve spent the last several years avoiding all females
except those who are customers here. Is it too soon to say there is more to your motivation?”

  “Do shut up.” But heat sneaked up the back of Cecil’s neck and into his ears. “You know how I despise anyone using their position or power to bully others. That is my motivation. I have no desire to find myself involved with a woman.”

  “I do know. This is what you say with your lips, but deep in your eyes, there is another truth you don’t speak.” Samuel grinned. “However, this is unprecedented, what you have proposed to do with Miss Harcourt. Even you must realize that.”

  Did it matter? Cecil shook his head as he resumed pacing. “Mind your business. I’ll school her in boxing techniques and then our association will end. Perhaps if she’s skilled with a paintbrush, I might commission a few pieces. That is all.”

  His friend hooted with laughter. “And at no time will you thrash the man who is threatening her, for honor’s sake? Or collect her as one of your causes as you did William or me?”

  “I will not, for it is not my place, and not my fight.” If Miss Harcourt asked, with tears in her eyes... Damn, but he’d felt ineffectual and outraged when she’d spilled all to him that afternoon. “She is not yet one of my ‘causes,’ as you say.” He couldn’t help it if a fellow being’s suffering tugged at his soul. Especially if the one in need connected deeply with him. His grandmother—God rest her soul—had always taught that good works were what made a man’s character more than anything else, and he’d tried to adhere to that adage as he’d made his own way in the world.

  “Doesn’t mean she won’t become one.” Samuel eyed him with speculation. “You have a good heart, Cecil. Don’t ever let that change.” He glanced outside. “The rain will keep most customers away today. I’ve sent William on errands and deliveries that should occupy his time for the next few hours. That will prevent gossip from his quarter, not that he would ever do such a thing. Should I also make myself scarce?”

  “Stay if you wish. There’s work to do, in any case.” Cecil shrugged. “I’m not interested in her romantically, so there’s no need for a watch dog. No one’s virtue or reputation will be compromised.” As if he’d ever put himself into that position.

  “So you keep saying.” Amusement danced in Samuel’s dark eyes. “Next time, bring her to my townhouse. Lord knows it’s quiet enough. Piccadilly Circus isn’t somewhere the person after her will go, and it’s a sight better than the rooms you keep above this shop.”

  Cecil snorted. “Flouting your good fortune in my face again?”

  “Please.” His friend rolled his eyes in an expression born of his Caribbean roots. “You win enough purses to rent a respectable townhouse on the outskirts of Mayfair, but you choose to live in bachelor quarters.”

  “It’s easier.”

  “It’s hiding. And sulking.”

  “What have I to sulk about? My life is perfect.” But he frowned. What was the other man on about, and why was he doing his level best to needle him today?

  “Oh?” Samuel began ticking down items on his fingers. “The only woman you’d ever loved betrayed you and smashed your heart—”

  “—because she was a fortune hunter,” he interrupted.

  “You’re trying to distance yourself from your viscount father—”

  “I won’t take a farthing of his coin. He has enough to worry about, and I don’t wish to stay connected to my parents’ apron strings.”

  Undeterred, Samuel droned on. “You’re determined to show everyone you’ve ever met that you have what it takes to go it alone.”

  “I do.”

  “There is no need. Who are you trying to convince—them or yourself?”

  “Such gammon. You know what I’m about and why I do what I do.”

  “Yes, making beautiful things for a world that has precious little of that. Plus providing a safe haven for all of us you consider, for lack of a better word, causes. As I said, you’re a good man.” He cocked a finely arched eyebrow. “Shall I go on?”

  “You’re quite a prick when you want to be. Do you know that?” But he couldn’t have this life without the support and hard work of his best friend. They had the same values and outlooks. “I don’t want you or William... or anyone else, to have to fight for a seat at life’s table, merely because of differences that don’t matter in the grand scheme.”

  Samuel lowered his voice. Gratitude reflected in his eyes. “You can’t heal that little boy you used to be—the wounded man you are deep down—by saving us. Sooner or later, we’ll all need to fight our own battles... or at least lay them to rest. You included.”

  “Perhaps not, but I won’t stop doing what I feel is right. Providing a solid foundation can do nothing but help.” Cecil shook his head to halt the unsavory remembrances from his youth before they started, but then nothing else was said, for the shop door opened and the bells tinkled into the sudden silence.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Carrington.” Clad in the same black cloak as the other day, Miss Harcourt glanced at him then transferred her attention to Samuel, who gave her a wide grin. Damn his eyes. “I apologize, but I don’t know your name.”

  “Mr. Samuel Johansen.” He came around the counter and closed the distance between himself and her, scooped up her gloved hand, and kissed the back. “Welcome.”

  “Hello.” Her smile held none of the hesitation from the last time.

  A spark of something akin to jealousy lit through Cecil’s insides. Why was it easy for her to interact with his business partner over him? Botheration. His breakfast must not be sitting well if he was this out of sorts. She meant nothing to him. Absolutely nothing, except a way to make a few extra coins this month. “Good afternoon, Miss Harcourt,” he managed, and the grudging note in his voice reached his own ears.

  Samuel cleared his throat. “Let me draw the shades to give you privacy.” He prattled on as he performed the tasks. Dim light from the soggy outside faded even more in the room. “I’ll light a lamp and then leave the two of you to it.” He winked at her. “Good luck today, Miss Harcourt.”

  “How charming you are, Mr. Johansen.” Again, she smiled, but it wasn’t as brilliant. “Mr. Carrington could do well to learn from you.”

  “I think so too, but he resists. A man with his looks should certainly fall back on charm and social graces.” Samuel, the bastard, went laughing into the back room, closing the door behind him.

  Devil take him anyway. Cecil frowned. He was well-aware he wasn’t the most handsome of the Carrington sons, but he didn’t think himself an ogre. Average, surely, but not ugly. Suddenly, he wanted to know Miss Harcourt’s opinion, but he’d rather die than vainly ask. Instead, he eyed her with caution, as if she were a serpent ready to spring at him. “Thank you for being prompt, Miss Harcourt. Once you’ve mastered the basic fighting techniques, we’ll begin sparring practice in Hyde Park, early enough that we’ll have privacy.”

  “All right.” Her eyes rounded, more brown than green, and he found he rather preferred the green of the other day when she’d been exhibiting high emotion. “You won’t... injure me, will you?” One of her hands crept to her neck. “I couldn’t begin to explain the bruises, and that would put more attention on me.”

  The fear in her expression—was she even aware she was feeling it?—tugged at his chest. “No, I won’t. In fact, this first lesson, you and I won’t share punches.” What was her life like that fear always lurked in the backs of those glorious eyes? Had she ever known true happiness? What would it take to see that emotion instead? Good God, man, stop this nonsense! He cleared his throat. “Let’s get to it. Please remove the cloak so we can begin with haste.”

  Miss Harcourt nodded. She fumbled with the frog fasteners on the garment. “It’s easier for me to don this, especially when I wish to be unnoticed. I leave through the kitchen and hire a hack a block away.”

  “I’m sure you have quite the handful trying to avoid scrutiny.” Once she took the outerwear off, Cecil’s lower jaw dropped. Bloody hell. Was the woman
going to constantly surprise him? Dressed in buff-colored men’s breeches, an ivory linen shirt with full sleeves, and a brown vest over the top of that, she resembled a female pirate... or a fantasy straight out of his dreams. He couldn’t decide which. Brown leather half boots—men’s footwear to be exact—completed the ensemble. But one thing was quite evident: her womanly curves and figure were very much on display, and he stared like the nodcock he apparently was. “In that getup, you would most likely resemble a male youth if someone saw you on the street. No one would pay you mind.”

  Because people saw what they expected to see without looking deeper. And now that he’d seen her in such an outfit, he couldn’t stop looking.

  “It’s a little much, isn’t it?” With a self-conscious laugh, Miss Harcourt waved a hand to indicate her scandalous attire. She then turned and rested the cloak on the counter, which gave him ample time to admire the delicious curve of her backside and the way the breeches skimmed her slim thighs. “These are my younger brother’s clothes.”

  “It’s, uh, quite... something.”

  “I apologize.” She faced him once more and he snapped his gaze to hers as heat crept up the back of his neck and into his groin. “I raided his room figuring fisticuffs would be awkward in skirts.” A tiny grin pulled at the corners of her rosy lips. “I didn’t want my clothes torn and have to explain or dissemble to my mother as to why.”

  “Good idea,” Cecil managed to choke out. He resisted the urge to pull at his suddenly tight cravat. Dear God, those legs! Don’t look, don’t look, don’t look! But he couldn’t help it. His gaze took a leisurely trip down the length of her body to pause at the tempting vee of her thighs. He took a ragged breath and firmly pinned his regard to her face, where indecision brewed. “And you’re correct. Fighting is infinitely easier without extra clothing. In the ring, we box bare-chested for that reason.” That and the crowd enjoyed seeing a well-worked physique. A sudden burst of pride strangled him. If she thought his face unappealing, would his body elicit a different reaction?