by Anne Gracie
She urged her mount to a gallop and headed in the opposite direction from her brother. She was almost as good a horsewoman as Lady George. Thomas’s horse had to struggle to keep up. The Scottish groom followed, hanging back discreetly.
It was exhilarating, the race across the fragrant earth, the pounding hooves, the wind cold in his face, the heat of the horse beneath him, the laughing girl just ahead of him. It more than blew the cobwebs away, it blew away the years. He just wished he had a decent horse.
They reached a pretty copse of trees, and Rose slowed and then drew her horse to a halt. She took one look at his mount and laughed. “Your poor horse, Thomas. Next time we’ll arrange for you to ride Emm’s horse—it needs to be exercised more, now that Emm’s in no condition to ride.” She unhooked her leg from the sidesaddle and slid gracefully to the ground. She turned to the groom with a smile. “Kirk?”
“Aye, Lady Rose.” He came forward and took her reins, waited for Thomas to dismount and took his as well, then withdrew to a circumspect distance where he could watch but not hear.
“Good morning, Thomas,” she said demurely, then reached up and planted a kiss on his mouth that was anything but demure.
Too aware of the watching groom, and with the proposition he was about to put to her weighing heavy on his conscience, Thomas resisted the temptation she offered. He took two steps back. “You’re determined to go ahead with this marriage?”
She nodded and said softly, “I told you before, Thomas, I’m not giving up on you.”
Wind stirred the branches, sending a spatter of raindrops from the wet leaves. “Then don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Her mouth tightened. She waited. “Is that all you have to say?”
He didn’t say anything. He’d said all he had to say.
She tapped her foot, a sure sign of rising temper. “How about ‘Thank you, Rose, for having faith in me, thank you for deciding to keep the vows you made me in that little church outside Bath’?”
“I am honored by the faith you have in me. But as I’ve told you repeatedly, I think it’s misplaced.”
“Well, we’ll just have to agree to disagree, won’t we?” She glared at him, and then suddenly a smile broke through, like sunlight through the clouds. “Oh! We’re having our first fight, aren’t we? Like a proper married couple. But I’m too happy today for a proper fight.”
She linked her arm through his and started to walk. “Now, is that the only reason you came today, to be all surly and disagreeable and”—she slanted a sultry glance his way—“delicious?”
Delicious? “What a revolting notion! I am not—men are not delicious.”
“Oh, pooh, what would you know? You’re a man.” She led him down a narrow path. The garden path, Thomas thought to himself. This merry dance he’d been warned about and seemed utterly unable to resist.
They reached a small rustic bench beneath a spreading beech tree. She wiped it with a handkerchief, picked up a fallen leaf and sat down, patting the seat beside her. “So we’re only going to flirt now, is that it? No kissing or anything? I don’t mind—I adore flirting with you—but I can’t help feeling there’s something more serious on your mind.”
There was.
“Do you know who administers your fortune?”
She didn’t blink, just thought for a minute, twirling the leaf gently between finger and thumb, and said, “I think it’s Phipps, Phipps and Yarwood. At least that’s who the family has always dealt with.” She nodded. “Yes, I’m sure it’s them.”
“Would you go with me to see them? And bring your marriage lines?”
She gave him a long thoughtful look, then nodded briskly. “I will.”
“Just like that? No further questions?”
“I trust you, Thomas.” She twirled the leaf between her fingers again. It flew out of her hand and floated to the ground. “I know there’s more you’re not telling me, but I won’t pester you about it. You’ll tell me when you’re ready.” Her confidence in him was breathtaking.
He wasn’t sure he would tell her. And she sure as hell shouldn’t trust him—trust anyone so blindly with all her worldly possessions. Though legally all she owned was already his. It was the way of the world.
But the ways of the world were neither fair nor just. He knew it better than most.
He rose. “Can we visit Phipps, Phipps and Yarwood? Today, I mean.” The sooner he got it done the better.
“Yes, of course. I’m quite looking forward to it. I’ve never been to a lawyer’s establishment before. Places like that don’t encourage females to visit.”
Arm in arm they walked back to where Kirk was waiting with the horses. “We’ll go straight after breakfast. You’ll take your breakfast with us, of course.”
“Er.” He’d as soon take his breakfast with a tiger as eat with Cal Rutherford glowering at him.
“You’re family now, remember,” she said firmly. “You eat with us. It’s time Cal faced facts and accepted that you’re his brother-in-law.”
Thomas resigned himself to a bout of indigestion.
* * *
* * *
“Do you know what that swine has done?” Cal glared at his brother-in-law, Galbraith. He was on his way to his club and had bumped into Galbraith in the street.
“No, but I feel sure you’re going to tell me.”
“I’ve just been to see the family lawyers—nothing too important, just some leases that need renewing—and he had just been there. With my sister!”
“Unusual.”
“Yes, poor old Phipps was still reeling at having a lady visit his dusty offices. But that’s not the point. The old fellow was so discombobulated, he let it slip that that blackguard was dipping his dirty great fingers into Rose’s fortune.”
Galbraith shrugged. “The marriage is legal—you checked, remember? He’s entitled to do whatever he wants with it.”
“He’s given orders to have a third of it converted into gold, to be collected by him the day after the ball.”
Galbraith narrowed his eyes. “He’s going to bolt with it.”
“My thoughts exactly.”
“But why only a third? Why not take the lot?”
“How do I know how a scoundrel’s mind works? And there’s more, I’m sure, but Phipps suddenly realized he shouldn’t be telling me—as if I haven’t been managing the girls’ fortunes all this time! He clammed right up, the blasted old pettifog. Wouldn’t say another word. Apologized for his indiscretion. Begged me not to mention it to a soul.” He glanced at Galbraith’s raised brow and snorted. “You don’t count—you’re family.”
“So is Beresford—Rose made it clear at breakfast, remember?” He grimaced. “Quite bossy when she gets her teeth between the bit, that sister of yours.”
“Yes, well she’s going to be left high and dry by that villain if we don’t do anything about it.”
“We? Who said anything about we? In any case, what can anyone do? The law is on his side.”
“The law is an ass.” Cal glowered, brooding at the passersby. “What are you doing hanging around in the street, anyway?”
“On my way to Jackson’s. Felt like some exercise. Thought I’d have a bout or two with the master.”
“Perfect! I’ll come with you. No need to bother with Jackson, I’ll give you a couple of rounds myself. Exactly what I’m in the mood for. If I don’t punch someone soon, I’ll explode.”
“What an irresistible prospect,” Galbraith said dryly. “I can’t wait.”
* * *
* * *
“Told you you should have ordered new duds straightaway. You’ll be lucky if Weston gets that coat finished in time.”
Thomas shrugged. “If not, I’m sure I’ll find one somewhere.”
He wasn’t all that interested in clothes, to tell the truth. He’d dropped i
n on the bank on the way to meet Ollie and had been stunned by some unexpected news.
“Not like Weston’s,” Ollie insisted. “Still, we’ve got most of it under control now—wonderful how an incentive of the folding sort can hurry things along.”
“Yes, wonderful,” Thomas murmured, not really paying attention. The bank manager had told him the investigation was proceeding, and he’d let Thomas know the moment there was news. In the meantime he needed to talk to Thomas about his mother’s legacy.
Thomas knew almost nothing about it. He knew there was one, of course, but since his uncle had invariably referred to it as “your mama’s little legacy” and described it as “paltry” he’d always assumed it would be negligible—a handful of shares, perhaps, and a few pieces of jewelry. Uncle Walter had promised that whenever Thomas married or decided to leave the navy, he would be provided for in a much more substantial fashion.
But according to the bank manager the legacy was quite a handsome one, enough to support a wife and family in comfort, if not in style. And that was not all.
“So,” Ollie said. “What shall we do this afternoon? Feel like dropping into the club again?”
Thomas shook his head. Ollie’s club was also Ashendon’s club, and he’d rather not bump into Rose’s brother again today. Breakfast had been grim enough. The looks that man could give while cutting up a sausage . . .
For himself, Thomas didn’t mind, but Rose had fretted. She wanted her brother to treat him like, like a brother. Fat chance. Ashendon had hated Thomas from the beginning and Thomas hated him right back.
If it weren’t for Rose . . .
“What about popping into Jackson’s, then? Introduce you to the great man, watch a few bouts, maybe spar a bit, drink a few mugs of blue ruin? It’s just around the corner.”
Thomas had heard about the famous boxing club but had never been. “Sounds good.”
* * *
* * *
Jackson’s Boxing Saloon smelled of men and sweat, a combination that sent a prickle of tension rippling down Thomas’s spine. He thrust the memories aside.
Ollie was clearly a regular, for he was immediately hailed by several gentlemen and enjoyed himself hugely, introducing Thomas to this fine fellow and that. “And look, Thomas, there’s the great man himself, Gentleman John Jackson, over there talking to—Oh.”
Thomas looked, but the group surrounding Jackson concealed him from view.
“Time to go,” Ollie said.
“What? But we just got here.”
“Come back another time. Too busy today. Don’t want to be late for dinner.” He tried to push Thomas toward the door.
“But it’s nowhere near time for din— Ahh.” Ollie’s sudden desire to leave became clear. Talking to Gentleman Jackson were Galbraith and the Earl of Ashendon.
Ashendon spotted Thomas at the same moment. He said something to Galbraith and stalked toward Thomas with a grim expression.
Ollie tugged at Thomas’s sleeve. “Come away, Thomas. I don’t like that look in his eye.”
Thomas shook him off. As far as he was concerned Ashendon always had that look in his eye. “Ashendon.” He greeted his brother-in-law coolly.
Ashendon’s eyes were chips of ice. “Come for a bit of a spar, eh, Beresford? I’ve just been trying to persuade Galbraith into going a few rounds with me, but he’s strangely reluctant. Perhaps—”
“We were just leaving,” Ollie said hastily.
Ashendon curled his lip. “Now why does that not surprise me? Not interested in a round or two, Beresford?”
“Not today,” Thomas said easily. He wasn’t going to fight, not with Rose’s brother. Too personal.
“Frightened of losing to me again? Third time’s the charm.” Ashendon was being a jackass, but if Thomas fought him, it would only worsen matters.
Thomas eyed him coldly. “You don’t want to fight me.”
“Oh, but I do.” Ashendon smiled, all white teeth and pseudo-cordiality. Scenting a challenge, several onlookers edged closer.
“If I fight you”—he raised his voice slightly—“I want it known that it’s not my preference. I don’t fight for pleasure.” And that was fair warning.
Ashendon’s smile was triumphant. “Here and now?”
He shrugged. “Here and now.” He didn’t know what was up Ashendon’s arse today, but the continuous, barely veiled hostility from the man was, he told himself, an attempt to protect Rose, and Thomas couldn’t fault the intention even if the methods were insulting.
Galbraith strolled up with Gentleman Jackson. “My sister-in-law’s husband, Jackson, Thomas Beresford, new to London.” The two men shook hands.
“Beresford has agreed to go a couple of rounds with me, Jackson,” Ashendon said. “What do you say? Will you referee?”
“A friendly bout, eh?”
“Very friendly,” Ashendon purred.
Jackson eyed Thomas shrewdly, his gaze dwelling on Thomas’s chest and shoulders. He nodded to Thomas. “Lord Ashendon has the advantage in weight, sir, but you’re much of a height, and I’d say you’d strip to advantage.” He turned to Ashendon. “I’d be happy to referee, my lord. Step this way, gentlemen.”
He directed a space to be cleared in the center of the room. He glanced at Thomas and pointed to a bench. “You can leave your things over there, sir.”
Ashendon, already half stripped, tugged off his shirt and undershirt, revealing a powerful chest and arms. He removed his boots and stockings, then strolled to the center of the room naked but for a pair of breeches.
As Thomas stripped off his coat, waistcoat and shirt, Ollie poured advice into his ear. “He’s a damned good fighter, light on his feet, but solid with it. Good science—he has a punishing right. A nasty left hook, too, so watch out for it.”
Thomas pulled off his boots and stood up in breeches and a sleeveless undershirt.
“Shirt and stockings,” Ollie prompted, holding out his hand and snapping his fingers.
“I’ll fight like this.”
Ollie frowned. “Can’t fight in stockings. You’ll slip.”
Thomas shrugged. He tucked the top of his stockings under the hem of his breeches and firmly retied the ties. It would have to do.
“But Ashendon’s in bare feet. He’ll have the advantage.”
Thomas stood up. “I’m ready.” He strolled to the waiting circle, made up of watching gentlemen. Bets were already being made. From the murmurs that accompanied Thomas’s arrival, it was clear Ashendon was the favorite.
Jackson glanced at his feet. “You don’t want to remove those stockings?”
Thomas shook his head. There were more murmurs, and more bets were laid.
“Gloves or bare knuckles?” Jackson asked. An assistant stood by with boxing gloves. Ashendon waved them away. “Bare knuckles.” He looked at Thomas with a challenge in his eye. Thomas shrugged and the gloves were taken away.
Jackson explained the rules, gave a brisk nod, and a bell sounded.
Fists raised, they circled each other warily. Thomas wasn’t new to fighting. He’d first learned to fight at school, defending his cousin, Gerald, from bullies. Gerald was the elder, but he was delicate and artistic, and a magnet for the nastier types.
Then in the navy, Thomas had been inducted into the rougher kinds of fighting, the kind that waterfront thugs indulged in. Years battling the French—and fighting off occasional pirate attacks—had hardened him further. And then there were the last four years, that had been about one thing only: survival. By any means he could.
Ashendon moved, his fists held high. He swung the first punch: a left-handed feint, followed by a swift uppercut to the jaw.
Thomas blocked it.
Watch an enemy’s eyes, not his body.
Ashendon swung again. Thomas was ready for it. It glanced off him.
&nbs
p; Back and forth they danced, feinting, punching, blocking.
The earl fought like a gentleman. Thomas was almost bored. But he went through the motions, his temper under firm control.
“Fight, damn you!” Ashendon snarled.
He gave the earl a hard punch to the nose, and connected. Blood spurted.
“First blood to Beresford.” Money changed hands.
Ashendon checked his nose—not broken—and dashed the blood away. He came at Thomas in a rush. They grappled, punching, hitting, bones against flesh. Thomas heard something rip.
“You bastard, I know what you’re up to,” Ashendon growled in his ear as they grappled. “I’ll stop you, if I have to kill you to do it.” He punched Thomas hard over the eye, opening up an old wound, then disengaged abruptly, shoving Thomas back, sending him into the ring of cheering, laughing spectators.
Thomas wiped the blood from his eye and pushed the spectators roughly away. He stepped forward, the taste of hot, coppery blood in his mouth.
“Had enough?” Ashendon’s chest was heaving but his lips curled in scorn.
Thomas’s fist shot out. Ashendon’s head snapped back. He reeled, spitting out blood but no teeth, then came back, fists swinging.
Punches flew thick and fast.
Thomas’s next blow sent the earl staggering, down on one knee. He rose slowly, wiping away blood and sweat, a ploy to catch his breath.
“Had enough?” Thomas taunted. He’d had enough of this gentlemanly playing at fisticuffs.
The earl’s face darkened. He came at Thomas, fists flying.
Thomas met him head-on. Kill me, will you? He pounded into the earl, bone against flesh, relentless, focused, vicious, punch after punch, smashing hard into him, driving him back.
A bell sounded, loud and insistent.
“Thomas, Thomas, that’s enough.” Ollie’s voice. He tugged at Thomas’s arm.
“It’s over, sir.” A different hand on his shoulder, heavy, authoritative. Thomas twisted around, ready to fight this new enemy. “Easy, easy there, sir. It’s over.” It was Jackson.
