The Bareknuckle Groom: The Thompsons of Locust Street

by Bush, Holly

  “James!” she heard from behind him and leaned back quickly.

  “MacAvoy is here, James. Did you see him? Oh. Hullo.”

  She smiled at the young man, who was now staring at her. He looked remarkably like James but with auburn hair. He would break some hearts in a few years.

  “Miss Vermeal? My brother, Payden. Payden, this is Miss Lucinda Vermeal and her aunt, Miss Vermeal,” James said.

  “How do you do,” she said.

  “Very well.” He smiled at her. “Now that I’ve gotten to meet the prettiest lady in the room.”

  “Payden,” James said sharply. “Mind your manners.”

  “She is the prettiest lady in the room,” the boy said.

  “I’m well aware of that, but you don’t go . . .” James took a breath. “Miss Vermeal, please excuse my younger brother’s manners.”

  Aunt laughed. “This one will be a favorite of the ladies, I think.”

  “James?”

  They all turned to a younger woman and an elderly one who’d just smacked James’s arm with a fan.

  “Misses Vermeal? This is my oldest sister, Muireall Thompson, and my aunt—actually, my Great-Aunt Murdoch. This is Miss Lucinda Vermeal and her aunt, Miss Vermeal.”

  James put a hand on the back of Payden’s neck to keep him from staring at Lucinda Vermeal’s cleavage. He was having enough trouble himself keeping his eyes on her face and not on those very, very white breasts, lounging in folds of rose-colored silk and moving with her every breath.

  She and Muireall were having an interesting stare that lasted a few moments, neither woman smiling or showing any hint of welcome. Aunt Murdoch, however, had sized up the situation with a quick glance.

  “Miss Vermeal?” Aunt Murdoch said to Lucinda’s aunt. “Won’t you take a turn around the room with me? When I’m visiting my niece Elspeth, I never have time to admire all the pictures and whatnot that she and her husband display.”

  “Certainly, Mrs. Murdoch.”

  “Payden and I have yet to speak to Elspeth’s in-laws. Excuse us,” Muireall said with a last long look at Lucinda. He turned back to her.

  “You’ve met the whole clan now.” He smiled at her, thinking he had her to himself for a few minutes.

  “Your sister is formidable,” she said.

  “That’s one word for her,” he said. “But she is the way she is because she’s had great responsibility placed on her shoulders since she was twelve years old. Someday I’ll tell you that story.”

  “And your aunt is a schemer.” She smiled wryly.

  “’Tis a good description of Aunt Murdoch, and if it means I get a few minutes alone with you, then I am heartily glad she is one.”

  “You’re a flatterer, just like that young brother of yours. He looks like you.”

  James gazed across the room at Payden as he was speaking to Alexander’s parents. They laughed at something he said. “Hopefully, his studies will induce him to be something different than me.”

  “Why do you want him to be different than you?”

  He glanced at her. “Because I don’t want him to get paid to get his brains bashed in.”

  “That’s just an occupation.”

  “Just an occupation?”

  “Yes. Just an occupation. We are all more than what we do to earn our living, although women have virtually no opportunity to earn anything.”

  “Rich women may not. But come to my neighborhood and you’ll find plenty of women who work, either in the mills or breweries or some business out of their home.”

  “You’re very angry today,” she said softly. “And I don’t think it’s because I come from a wealthy family.”

  “I’m not angry.” He looked away from her.

  She reached for the champagne she’d sat on a marble table earlier and walked away from him.

  Damn her, he thought. She had the ability to read his moods like no one he’d ever met, other than maybe MacAvoy, but he could fool his best friend if he tried, and James had a feeling he’d never be able to fool her. And she had no patience with him when he was untruthful or changed the subject away from something he did not wish to discuss.

  He looked up from his musings and found himself under the eyes of a tall, distinguished-looking man, staring at him with what could only be called malice. Then he saw the older Miss Vermeal speak to him. He did not look at her, but kept his eyes focused on James across the room. James stared back, without blinking, barely taking a breath. Lucinda’s father. They would go a few rounds, he thought.

  Dinner was called by the butler a short time later, and he gathered up Aunt Murdoch and the elder Miss Vermeal, who were standing together when he found them, one on either arm, and followed Payden with Muireall ahead of them to the ballroom that had been set up with several long tables to accommodate all of the guests. He took a quick look for Kirsty and saw her on the arm of a tall, thin man with spectacles. She was white-faced, staring straight ahead and saying nothing, which was a surprise on its own. He wondered who the man was.

  Elspeth hurried to his side as he stepped into the ballroom.

  “Aunt Murdoch, I have you over here near Alexander’s great-aunt and uncle.”

  “Put the old tarts together, eh?”

  Elspeth rolled her eyes and took Aunt Murdoch’s arm to lead her away.

  “It looks like we are seated side by side, Mr. Thompson,” Lucinda’s aunt said, looking up at him.

  He did not wait for a servant to manage her chair but seated her himself and stared off a young man in uniform when he came to help James with his own chair. “I’m well able to seat myself,” he said. “Go help some of the women.”

  The soup was served, and Miss Vermeal leaned close to him. “So tell me, Mr. Thompson, what is it about my niece that you cannot help yourself from staring at her?”

  “I’m not sure what you mean, ma’am.”

  “Don’t be coy with me, young man. I may be the only thing between you and Lucinda’s father if whatever this is moves beyond flirtation.”

  “What could I possibly offer an accomplished and sought-after woman like Miss Vermeal?” he said, failing to keep the bitterness out of his voice.

  “Oh dear.” She laid her fingertips on his arm. “You are quite in love with her, aren’t you?”

  “How ridiculous,” he said and stared at the woman beside him.

  But was it ridiculous? It explained this obsession he had with her. Planning when he would see her next. Thinking about her at the odd moment during the day. Dwelling on that kiss between the two of them when he lay in bed at night, and often relieving himself of the ache he felt with his own fist as he pictured her in his mind’s eye, her delicate hands above her head in his grasp and the feel of her straining toward him. He shifted in his seat.

  “Lucinda clearly finds something of worth in you. I’ve never seen her express more than the slightest interest in any man. Of course, her father has plans to marry her off to someone of his choosing, who would manage the Vermeal holdings when he is gone.”

  “He would force her?”

  “Lucinda is not easily manipulated, but that path may appear to be for the best, especially if she does not see any alternatives.”

  James turned his head to look at Lucinda’s aunt, but she’d already begun a conversation with the man on her other side. That had been a warning, he supposed, that if he was interested in her—other than a quick fuck, which would never happen in any case—he’d better get organized and declare himself. He looked up to see her father focused on him. He stared back.

  By the time the main course had been cleared, James was ready to pick up the bounder seated to Lucinda’s left, carry him to his sister’s front door, and throw him out on the street. He leaned too close and even stretched an arm along the back of her chair.

  Alexander stood from his seat at the head of the main table. “Coffee, tea, spirits, and dessert will be served in the next room.” Elspeth stood, looking shy and beautiful, and put her hand on her
husband’s arm as they led the guests through the open doors behind him.

  Lucinda was so thankful that dinner was finally over and she could remove herself from Benedict Bartholomew’s reach. She slipped ahead of two older women as she made her way down the aisle between the tables, putting some distance between herself and Mr. Bartholomew’s hand. She shivered, remembering how he’d stretched his arm around her chair and touched her bare back with his fingers. It was enough to make her sick. She was looking for Aunt Louisa when she felt a hand at her arm.

  “Did you enjoy your dinner?” she asked James Thompson as she glanced over her shoulder to confirm what her intuition had told her. He was guiding her with light pressure at her lower back through the crowd gathering near tables with elaborate desserts and past servants handing out delicate china cups of tea and coffee. The men were mostly gathered near a servant pouring brandies and whiskeys.

  He moved her through a door that servants were rushing in and out of and down a hallway. He stopped at a closed door and looked behind them.

  “In here,” he said and turned the knob.

  The room was dimly let by a low flame in the fireplace. She wandered toward it, watching the wood crack and hearing its hiss. She turned when she felt him behind her.

  “I didn’t care one bit for that boy beside you with his arm around your back. Did he touch you?”

  She stared into his face, his sparkling green eyes intense and blazing. “He touched my back, but I moved out of his range. I’m accustomed to handling men like that.”

  “I’ll kill him,” James said in a low, gravelly voice.

  “You really needn’t do that, especially now,” she said and stepped an inch closer to him.

  He crowded her further. “Why ‘especially now’?”

  “I’m here with you, aren’t I? And you have your hand on my waist.”

  He smiled that devastating smile of his. “I do, don’t I?”

  She pursed her lips into a smile and laughed lightly. He stared at her mouth and closed the few inches between them. His touch was light, his eyes drowsy but focused on her. She could smell an earthy cologne and mewled when he ran his tongue over her lips. He opened his mouth over hers, touching her tongue with his, his hand around the back of her neck, holding her still as if she was going to try and escape the magic he made.

  His hand slid down her neck, to her shoulder, and down her chest until his fingers grazed the top of her breast. She moaned into his mouth. And then he had both hands on her breasts, rubbing her nipples through the silk, making her ache between her legs. She wrapped her arms around his neck as he continued to toy with her breasts, his mouth on hers. His head wrenched up at the sound of a knob twisting. They both turned to see a door open that she hadn’t noticed before, as it blended in with the dark paneling on the far side of the room.

  “Through here, James. And hurry,” a tall man said.

  James grabbed her hand and pulled her quickly to the open door. As it closed, they both heard the main entrance to the room open. “Lucinda?” she heard her father say.

  “Best straighten your dress, miss,” the tall man said.

  “Eyes up, MacAvoy,” James said.

  She glanced down at herself and turned quickly away. She pulled her dress into place and turned back. “So this is MacAvoy.”

  “This is MacAvoy.”

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “How did you know where to find us?”

  “Was keeping an eye on you and her da. The way he was looking at you, boyo, you’re lucky you’re not dead. Eleanor saw the two of you come out of the servants’ door to the gallery, and I had a good idea what your intentions were.”

  “There’s a lady present, MacAvoy. Best not take that thought any further.”

  She laughed and looked up at James’s friend. “Thank you, Mr. MacAvoy. Do you have a plan for how to get us back into the party?”

  “Not Mr. MacAvoy. Just MacAvoy. Eleanor, my betrothed,” he said and straightened, preening as he said the woman’s name, “will take you up the servants’ staircase so you can come down the public one.”

  Just then the door opened to the hallway, and James pushed her behind him. A tall, attractive woman in the conservative uniform of a servant stepped inside.

  “Mrs. Emory,” James said.

  “Mr. Thompson. It appears you need rescuing yet again,” she said and turned to Lucinda. “Miss, we’re going directly across the hall to a servants’ door. Follow me, please.”

  Lucinda touched her hand to his as she hurried behind the woman now leading her confidently out the door. Lucinda stopped at the entrance before entering the hallway to look for her father.

  “Mr. Vermeal is with Mr. and Mrs. Nathan Pendergast, miss,” Mrs. Emory said over her shoulder. “This way, please.”

  Lucinda followed her to another cleverly hidden door that Mrs. Emory swung open, disappearing to Lucinda’s left up a set of steep steps. She could hear the chatter of servants and the clang of pots and pans from the descending staircase. They exited a similarly hidden door as she followed the woman to a wide and quiet hallway.

  “Perhaps you’d like to check your dress in here, miss, before I take you to the ladies’ retiring room down the hall,” the woman said and opened a door to a bedroom.

  Lucinda hurried inside and turned to a wood-framed full-length mirror. Her hair needed repairing, and she did as best as she could without Giselle, repinning several curls that had come loose. She yanked her chemise back into place, adjusted her corset as best as she could, and then straightened the silk folds of her dress at her bosom. It would have to do, she thought, and hurried to the door.

  “Follow me, miss,” Mrs. Emory said.

  “Thank you very much.” Lucinda slipped into the room the woman indicated.

  Muriell Thompson stood at one of the mirrors set up in the room and looked up when Lucinda walked in. Lucinda glanced in the mirror beside her and touched her hair with her fingertips.

  “Miss Thompson.”

  “Miss Vermeal.”

  They turned to the door at the same time. Lucinda had no choice but to walk side by side with James’s sister.

  “Mrs. Pendergast has hosted a lovely party,” Lucinda said as they descended the stairs.

  “She has.”

  Lucinda drew a breath and glanced ahead of her at the bottom of the steps. Her father stood there, tapping a finger on the newel post. She stopped when she reached the bottom step, smiling up at him, fully expecting Miss Thompson to continue on her way. But she did not.

  “Hello, Papa. Are you enjoying yourself?”

  “Where have you been? I’ve been looking everywhere for you for at least thirty minutes.”

  “I was upstairs in the ladies’ retiring room, if you must know,” she said and pursed her lips. “How gauche I am to mention it.”

  Miss Thompson slipped her hand through Lucinda’s arm. “Miss Vermeal and I were enjoying a chat. I’m terribly sorry to have worried you, sir.”

  Lucinda could barely believe her eyes, and if her father’s face was any indication, he did not believe her at all.

  “Have you been introduced, Papa? This is Mrs. Elspeth Pendergast’s sister, Miss Muireall Thompson.”

  “I have not,” he said and nodded to her.

  “It was lovely chatting,” Miss Thompson said to her and walked away from them, back to the room where everyone was still having dessert and coffee.

  Chapter 8

  “Saw Jackson fight yesterday.”

  “What? He’s in Philadelphia now?” James asked.

  “Took the train to New York. Going to take my fare out of our next winnings,” MacAvoy said.

  James stopped punching the sand-filled leather bag swinging in front of him. “You what?”

  “Went to New York. Heard some rumors this kid was the real deal and wanted to see for myself.”

  “Well? What did you find out?” James asked as he wiped his face with a length of toweling.

 
“He’s good.”

  James turned. MacAvoy was looking at him steadily. He was not one to exaggerate or make false claims. He just told the truth as he saw it. “How good?”

  MacAvoy took a breath. “Good enough.”

  “I’ll just have to make sure I’m better.”

  MacAvoy stared at him, not speaking until James began to hit the swinging leather again. He let the rhythm of his punches and the ensuing sound as he battered his fists against the heavy bag take him to the place where his concentration, his intent, canceled out all distractions. Sweat flew from his hair and ran down his back as he forced his tired legs to keep moving and bouncing. He lost track of time, where he was, how long he’d been thrusting his arms, until his knees shook with the effort to remain upright. He stopped, swaying on his feet, eyes closed while he fought to catch his breath. He would be ready for Jackson, one way or another. Two weeks. He had two weeks.

  * * *

  “Where am I taking you?” James asked Kirsty. Her eyes were lit with anticipation, and maybe nervousness, which was unlike her.

  “To the University of Pennsylvania. I’m to meet Elspeth and Alexander there.” She held a hand against her stomach, taking short breaths. “Muireall will be furious if I go alone. You must take me.”

  “Of course, Kirsty. Don’t get yourself upset. I’ll take you.” He laid a hand on her shoulder. “What has you in such a fit?”

  “Nothing. Nothing. I’m fine, James. How do I look?”

  “Kirsty! Sweetheart. Tell me what has you all aflutter?”

  “Oh, James! Alexander’s college friend. I met him at Elspeth’s party. He took me into dinner. He’s speaking tonight at the College of Medicine. Speaking! Alexander thought we might go to support him.”

  “Well, then, we should go,” he said and smiled at her. “What is his name?”