by Emily Larkin
Someone grabbed her arm.
Charlotte spun around, trying to pull free. “Let go of me!”
“Where you orf to in such an ’urry, luv?” It was the same whore who’d stopped Cosgrove earlier, her gown open to show her breasts. They were as large as melons.
The whore’s lips were rouged. And her nipples.
“Sal can give you wot you wan’, luv.”
“No, thank you.” Charlotte tried to twist her arm free.
“Oh, but I can, luv.” The whore leaned close. “Anything you wan’. I does it all.”
Charlotte recoiled from the pressure of the girl’s breasts against her arm.
“Jus’ tell me wot it is an’ I’ll do it.” The whore’s other hand groped for Charlotte’s groin.
Charlotte swallowed a yelp. She wrenched her arm free, stumbling backward, almost falling over her own feet. “No!” She raised her chin and groped for her composure. “Thank you, madam, but no.”
She turned and hurried forward, pushing through the crowd, looking for Cosgrove.
He was nowhere in sight.
Panic lurched in her chest. If he left her here—
Control yourself. She wasn’t a woman alone amid drunken, rowdy men and whores; she was Christopher Albin. She was a man. She was in no danger.
Charlotte gulped a deep breath and headed for the door. Her gaze skidded off stubbled faces, off florid faces glistening with sweat, off whores’ painted faces—
There he is.
The height was unmistakable, the strong shoulders, the black hair beneath the elegant beaver hat.
He was almost at the other side of the salon. Don’t leave me here, sir! Charlotte scrambled after him, using her elbows, not caring if she trod on people’s feet.
She caught up with the earl just as he reached the corridor. He glanced back at her. “You may stay if you wish, Albin—although I don’t recommend it.”
It was a joke—she could tell from the way his eyes creased at the corners—but she couldn’t joke back. She was tense, trembling. “I don’t want to stay, sir.”
Cosgrove shrugged lightly. He strolled down the short corridor to the front door, completely unfazed by his surroundings.
The man guarding the door opened it for them.
“Thank you.” Cosgrove inclined his head politely, as if he were leaving an exclusive soirée, not a bawdy house on the edge of London’s slums.
Charlotte followed him down the steps, stepping over the open gutter. The air was cold after the fug of the brothel. Her breath plumed in front of her face.
The trembling eased as they walked down the street. I did it. She’d entered a brothel, been touched by a whore, seen people engaged in the sexual act—and she’d not betrayed herself.
“Well?” Cosgrove asked. “What do you think?”
Charlotte forced her mind back to the matter at hand. “I think . . . he had nothing to do with the attack, sir. But he would have liked to.”
She caught a glimpse of Cosgrove grimacing as they passed a flaring torch outside a tavern. “Yes. That was my impression, too.”
“He doesn’t like you, sir.”
“The feeling is mutual.” They turned into another street. “What about the broken windows? The shit?”
Charlotte shook her head. “Not him. Although he liked the idea of it.”
“He did, didn’t he?” Cosgrove grunted. “He’ll probably drop a few turds on my doorstep tonight.”
The crudeness of his language shocked Charlotte speechless for several seconds, and then she shook herself. He thinks I’m a man. He’d never talk like that to a woman.
How would a man respond? “I think he’ll be too drunk, sir.”
“With any luck.”
They stepped to one side of the street as a hackney trotted past. “Shall you take Phillip off the list, sir?”
“Not off it, but at the bottom.”
They walked in silence for another street.
Cosgrove made a choking noise. It sounded like—but couldn’t be—laughter.
Charlotte glanced at him enquiringly.
Cosgrove halted. “That first bedroom,” he said, in a strangled voice. “His expression—”
Memory supplied her with the image: a gaping mouth, eyes stretching wide with astonishment.
Cosgrove uttered a whoop of laughter.
Charlotte stared at him. He thought it was funny?
Perhaps it was male behavior, to be amused by such things?
She gave a half-hearted, unconvincing laugh.
Cosgrove doubled over, leaning against the nearest wall. His laughter rang in the street.
Charlotte shifted her weight from foot to foot, waiting. If that was what sex was, she was relieved she would never experience it. She’d not realized it was so grotesque, so ugly.
She glanced down the street. They were alone apart from a slinking dog.
Cosgrove pushed away from the wall, wiping his eyes. Footsteps approached from behind them. Charlotte stepped to one side to let whoever it was past.
Someone buffeted her shoulder, knocking her to one knee.
“Look out!” Cosgrove shouted.
A fist swung at her out of the darkness.
Chapter Nine
Charlotte ducked, choking back a scream. She scrambled backwards on hands and knees until she slammed against the wall. Her hat tumbled from her head.
For a terrifying moment it seemed that a dozen men were attacking them, huge, faceless shadow-figures—and then the half-seen shapes resolved into three men: the earl and two strangers, fighting in the middle of the street.
Someone hit the ground with a thud, and scrambled to his feet cursing.
Charlotte cowered against the wall, trying to make herself as small as possible. Instinct howled at her to run, to hide—
A yelp of pain echoed in the street.
Was that the earl who’d cried out? Charlotte pushed hesitantly to her feet. Were they hurting him? Killing him?
Her heart galloped in her chest. That noise filled her ears, drowning out the sounds of violence—scuffle of boots, harsh grunts, muffled curses. All she heard was the deafening thud-thud-thud of her heart.
Charlotte took a deep breath and clenched her hands. She ran towards the struggling figures. For a moment she couldn’t distinguish friend from foe—which was the earl?—and then her eyes fastened on a man wearing a bulky frieze coat, a muffler concealing his face.
She hit him as hard as she could in the side of the head.
The man swung around to confront her.
Run! a voice shrieked in her head.
Charlotte ignored it. She launched herself at the man, flailing with her fists, kicking with her feet. Sanity and reason fled. There was a roaring in her ears, a roaring in her blood, a primitive ferocity that made her hit the man again and again and again, until he staggered back and fled at a stumbling run.
Someone grabbed Charlotte’s arm. She spun around, swinging her fists.
It was the earl. He evaded her punches easily. “Easy. They’re gone.”
Charlotte lowered her hands, panting, trembling.
Cosgrove clapped her on the shoulder. The street was empty behind him. “Well done, lad. We scared them off.”
Charlotte gulped a breath. She barely heard the earl’s words. Her heart was beating faster, louder, now that the danger was past.
Remember you’re Christopher Albin. Don’t let the earl see you’re upset. She gulped another breath. “Were they the men who attacked you last week, sir?” Her voice was breathless, too high.
“No. They were just footpads.”
The trembling grew worse; her whole body was shaking. Bile rose in her throat. Charlotte clenched her teeth shut to stop herself vomiting. A man would take something like this in his stride. A man would shrug it off, maybe even laugh about it. She looked around for her hat. It lay against the wall. She walked over to it on unsteady legs, picked it up, placed it on her head.
She tried to l
augh as she turned back to Cosgrove. The sound came out with a slight wobble in it. “I’d heard London streets were dangerous.”
“Never doubt it,” Cosgrove said. “Come along, lad. Let’s get home. I need a drink.”
* * *
It wasn’t until they reached the safety of the earl’s house that Charlotte remembered she could have changed shape when they were attacked. She could have become a lion. One roar, and the footpads would have run for their lives.
It doesn’t matter, she told herself as they climbed the steps to the towering front door. What mattered was that they’d scared their attackers off. And she hadn’t revealed her magic. Hadn’t lost her job.
She handed her hat to the butler. But what if there had been five footpads, not two? What then? Would she and the earl have been injured? Perhaps even killed?
Charlotte somberly followed Cosgrove into his study. It was one thing to choose not to use her Faerie gift; it was another thing entirely to forget to use it.
“Your first mill, Albin.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You acquitted yourself well.”
You didn’t see me cowering against the wall. Her hands still trembled faintly. She clasped them behind her back so the earl wouldn’t notice.
Cosgrove strolled across to the decanters. “Brandy?”
Charlotte hesitated. Perhaps it would stop her hands shaking? Uncle Neville always said brandy cured all ailments. “Thank you, sir.”
Cosgrove poured two glasses and held one out to her.
This time she didn’t sip cautiously; she took a reckless mouthful. The brandy scorched her tongue, stung her nose, filled her mouth with heat. Charlotte swallowed. The heat burned down her throat into her belly.
“If you will forgive me for saying so, Albin . . . you would benefit from some instruction in the science of boxing.”
“There’s a science to it, sir?” She drank another mouthful. The heat expanded through her body.
Cosgrove paused, his glass halfway to his mouth. For a moment he stared at her, his eyebrows raised in disbelief, and then he said, “Of course there’s a science to it.”
Charlotte grimaced inwardly. Clearly she’d made a blunder.
She swallowed another mouthful of brandy. Uncle Neville had been right: brandy did cure ailments. Her hands were no longer shaking and the slightly nauseous feeling in her belly was easing.
“Show me what you did back there.”
Charlotte obediently put down the glass. She clenched her hands and raised them.
“No.” Cosgrove winced. “Never—never—do that.” He put down his own glass, reached out, and took one of her fists. “Never have your thumb inside. You’ll break it.” He opened her hand and rearranged her fingers and thumb, forming a fist again. “Like this. Thumb out.”
“Oh.” The touch of his hands—large, strong, sure—was unnerving. Charlotte’s cheeks flamed with heat. Hastily she reclenched her other fist, thumb on the outside.
Cosgrove stepped back, picked up his glass again, and surveyed her curiously over the rim. “Did your father never teach you how to make a fist?”
Charlotte shook her head. She hesitated, choosing her words carefully; she didn’t want to lie to him. “My father was a scholar. He was uninterested in blood sports.”
“But surely you milled with your brothers, with your friends?”
She shook her head again, searching for words that were truthful. “I was an only child and we lived rather isolated. It was miles to the nearest village.”
“But at school—”
“I was tutored at home, sir.”
Cosgrove regarded her silently for a moment. Did he suspect she was lying, even though she’d spoken the absolute truth?
No. It was pity in his eyes, not suspicion.
Charlotte bit her lip. She looked down at the floor.
“Very well,” Cosgrove said. “Let’s have a lesson.”
She glanced up, startled. “What?”
Cosgrove put down his brandy. “A lesson.”
“Now, sir?”
“Why not?” Cosgrove raised his fists.
Charlotte swallowed the nervous lump in her throat. She obediently mimicked him, clenching her hands as he’d shown her, thumbs on the outside.
“Good. Now try to hit my hand.” Cosgrove opened one hand and held it at shoulder height, palm out.
“But what if I hurt you, sir?”
Amusement lit Cosgrove’s face. “I doubt you will.”
“But—”
“I’ve been boxing for years. Who do you think is most at danger here?”
Charlotte flushed again. He was laughing at her—in a kind way, but still laughing. She clenched her fists more tightly, focused on his palm, and cautiously punched.
Cosgrove batted her fist away. “Harder.”
“But, sir—”
“Harder.”
Charlotte took a deep breath and punched as hard as she could. Her fist sank into Cosgrove’s palm, his fingers curling around her knuckles as he absorbed the force of the blow. “Good.” He released her hand. “But this time, put your shoulder behind it.”
Charlotte punched him again.
“Better. Do it again.”
She did.
“Excellent. Now try with your other hand.”
Charlotte punched with her left hand. It felt awkward.
“Harder.”
She gritted her teeth and obeyed.
“Again.”
With each punch it became a little easier. After several more, Cosgrove nodded. “Good. Now put the two together. Jab with the left; cross with the right.” He demonstrated. “You try.”
Charlotte frowned in concentration. Jab with the left. Cross with the right. There was far more power behind her punches than if she’d been in her own body. Albin had weight, had strength.
“Excellent,” Cosgrove said, fielding her punches.
She grinned at him.
“Again.”
Charlotte did as he bid. Left, then right. Left, then right.
“Now move your feet. Don’t stand in one spot. You don’t want to be an easy target.”
* * *
Charlotte was panting by the time the lesson was over. They’d both stripped out of their tailcoats and neckcloths.
“Excellent.” Cosgrove clapped her on the shoulder. “You’re a natural.”
She lowered her fists. Pride warmed her cheeks. “Thank you, sir.”
“I have a punching bag in the cellar. You may use it, if you wish.” Cosgrove picked up his brandy again. “And we’ll get you some lessons at Jackson’s.”
“Jackson’s?”
“Gentleman Jack.” Cosgrove sipped the brandy. “Surely you’ve heard of him?”
Charlotte shook her head.
Cosgrove’s expression became bemused. “Beat Mendoza in ’95. Won the title of English Champion.”
“I was living in the country, sir,” Charlotte offered as an excuse. She reached for her brandy glass.
Cosgrove shook his head. “Lad, you weren’t living in the country, you were buried there.” He sat in one of the armchairs beside the fire. “I’ll take you to one of Cribb’s fights.”
Charlotte sat, too. She dared not ask who Cribb was. She mimicked the earl, crossing her legs, cupping the brandy glass between her hands.
Cosgrove must have read her ignorance on her face. “He’s shaping up to rival Jackson at his best.”
“Oh,” Charlotte said.
Cosgrove shook his head. “What am I going to do with you, Albin?”
“I’m sorry, sir.”
“Don’t be.” He smiled at her, a surprisingly friendly expression.
Charlotte felt heat rise in her cheeks again. She stared down at her brandy. Cosgrove had a stern face—that forbidding nose, that uncompromising jaw, those black eyebrows and dark gray eyes—but when he smiled he was more attractive than any man had a right to be. She gulped another mouthful of brandy.
H
is affability was because they’d fought off the footpads together. Somehow, those few chaotic seconds had changed their relationship. We’re almost friends.
“You should learn some wrestling throws, too.”
Charlotte’s heart seemed to stop beating for an instant. Didn’t wrestlers strip to their waists? Didn’t they put their arms around each other? Her head jerked up. “That won’t be necessary, sir.”
“Nonsense,” Cosgrove said. “Good skill to have. Saved my neck last week.” He lightly stroked the fading bruise around his right eye.
“Sir . . . what happened to the men who attacked you?”
Cosgrove shrugged. “Dragged themselves off. I wasn’t paying much attention; Lionel was in bad shape.” His eyebrows drew together. “Which is why you need lessons, lad.”
When Cosgrove frowned like that, he was quite intimidating. “Yes, sir.” She gulped another mouthful of brandy.
Cosgrove’s frown deepened. “Perhaps a sword stick would be best, until you’re more proficient . . .”
“A sword stick? But I could kill someone!”
“Better them than you.” He pushed to his feet and walked across to the sideboard. “More brandy?”
Charlotte shook her head. She felt warm and slightly light-headed. She put down her glass. “I should go, sir.” She stood and reached for her neckcloth, winding it around her neck, twisting it into a knot.
Cosgrove winced. “You need a lesson in that, too.” He held out an imperative hand. “Give it to me.”
“But, sir—”
“Give it to me.”
Charlotte bit her lip. She unwound the limp, wrinkled neckcloth and handed it to him.
The earl shook it out with a snap. He stepped close and placed the neckcloth around her neck. “Chin up.”
Obediently she lifted her chin higher.
“Keep it taut—” Cosgrove’s knuckles brushed her throat.
“Yes, sir.” Heat shivered across Charlotte’s skin. She was excruciatingly aware of Cosgrove’s proximity—his large, lean body radiating warmth, the vee of skin exposed at his throat, the heady scent of brandy on his breath.
