by Cecilia Gray
“No,” she admitted. “But we… we had an understanding. We have had since we were children.”
“You’re children no longer.”
“We love each other,” Roberta said. “But several months ago, he grew distant. I believe he thought himself unworthy, on account of our family’s new connections.”
“Do you mean us? The Belles?” Sera asked, incredulous. To think that her family would be considered the epitome of anything. “‘Our fortune is from trade, and he’s related to the Earl of Landale.”
“But we are also closely associated with the Rivington title,” Roberta reasoned.
“As is his mentor,” Sera countered. She shook her head. “No, it can’t be something so asinine as all that. If he has withdrawn from you, he has experienced a change of heart. Such a thing is common in boys of his age. Girls, too. You’ll get over it.” She tasted the lie on her lips. She was not quite over Christian, and their connection had been tenuous. Certainly not an understanding reached over years of childhood.
“Please, Aunt Sera,” Roberta said, leaning over and resting her hand against her arm. “Please, you must help us. Help Peter see that our relations do not matter. That we can marry whom we love.”
That we marry whom we love? What a notion. And yet, hadn’t her sisters found love? Perhaps that is where Roberta held her example. Certainly not from Sera’s own life. With a reluctant sigh, she gave Roberta a reassuring squeeze before nodding her head ever so slightly.
“Are you nervous?” Peter asked him.
Christian shrugged. “Not much to be nervous about.”
He and Peter stood beneath the oak trees as a crowd gathered. They watched as the leather barriers were strung between the poles and tested for resilience so that if one fighter were punched clear through, he wouldn’t fall into the crowd. There were only a few dozen spectators thus far, but with the fight due to start in an hour, the gathering was thickening minute by minute. Most had chosen to walk, although a few carriages and gigs rolled up the hill toward them from Dunbury proper. He even spotted a few sedan chairs, and figured the men lumbering under them must be making a pretty penny.
“But Jackson is the best,” Peter said, nervously biting his lip.
“He was the best. That’s the problem with being the best. It can only be for an instant. We’re older now. Slower. It’s just an exhibition match.”
Unlike Peter’s fight, which would continue until there was a clear winner or one tapped out, his match with Jackson was meant to be three rounds, set at a few minutes each. They’d even met earlier in the day and had discussed how to make it the most entertaining in the first round, for the frenzy of the crowd.
It was pure theater designed to whet the appetite, not culminate in a true victor.
Yet, it felt like more than theater as the crowd gathered. He and Jackson were dressed to fight, in white pantaloons. His shirt was blue, Jackson’s white. They were the damnedest things to wash, but there was something dramatic about streaks of dirt and blood on the fabric. Who was he to argue with the men who had arranged it all?
“Homicide Hughes,” one man, thick in his cups, bellowed from the crowd. “When will we see you in a proper fight?”
“As soon as you have a time machine to see one from my past,” he shot back, partly jesting but partly serious. He and Jackson were not as able-bodied as they once had been. They could fight for a round or two—but several hours of boxing with the young bucks of today, who didn’t have their advanced age or their war injuries? It would have been suicide.
Even with Peter, he dared not step in the ring until he’d first tired him out with an hour of warmups. And Jackson’s man? He had a way about him, a darkness in his eyes that Christian understood came from a desire to land a punch for its own sake.
“Be careful of that one,” he said to Peter, indicating Jackson’s man. “He likes the fight. It makes for a different man.”
Even with the crowd as thick as it was, Christian felt the moment she stepped beside the ring. Heads turned in her direction, the same way flower petals opened to the sun. Stranger yet, Peter tensed beside him.
“Is something the matter?” he asked.
Peter clenched his jaw and turned away. “No, sir.”
The boy was taking his role as an unquestioning student rather literally. He glanced over at Sera. She was speaking to a young girl, who seemed to have fixed her attention on Peter. So this must be the girl who was too good for his fighter.
The girl was young yet, likely in her coming-out year. What did she have that made her so much better than Peter? What did Sera hope to gain by bringing her here? Did she want to show the girl how common he and Peter were? How they made a living with their sweat and labor?
Well, if she wanted a demonstration in how dirty he would get his hands, then he was happy to oblige.
“Are we ready?” Christian asked John, who was shifting from foot to foot.
“Is the crowd ready for us? That’s the real question.” Jackson grinned. He turned to the crowd and shouted, “Are you ready?” while extending his hands, palms up, as if ready for an embrace.
The crowd roared. Those who had been seated jumped to their feet and pumped their fists in the air.
Jackson turned back to Christian. “Ready enough.”
They both entered the ring by ducking beneath the lines and went to their corners. Jackson, ever the showman, bounced from foot to foot. He shoved his fist to the sky. Christian remained still. This had always been the greatest difference between them and their gymnasia. He had cultivated a more Eastern influence.
They remained in their corners as the officials outlined the rules to the crowds. Three bouts. Three minutes apiece.
The audience did not know the first bout was already planned, but Christian and Jackson caught each other’s eyes, ready to put on a show. When the whistle blew, Jackson approached him with stealth. They executed a combo of whirling-dervish punches and dodges, which set the crowd surging forward, bodies pressed against the other side of the barrier. It was easy enough work. His heavy blows landed dramatically whereas Jackon’s fast footwork excited the onlookers.
The first round ended, and Christian went back to his bench to eat an orange slice and partake of water. He made mental notes to share with Peter later. After all, that was the true reason behind his and Jackson’s participation—to get the lay of the land. There was a slippery bit of rock in the left corner. That was something to watch out for.
The break was only thirty seconds, and seemed over an in instant. He made the mistake of glancing toward Sera. She was front and center, against the west ropes, with a gleam of determination in her eyes. He willed the distraction away and focused on the fight. The next three minutes would be important. While he and Jackson had agreed to a fair fight, they also willed that whoever took the last punch should end up on the ropes. It was an audience pleaser, after all.
John took several strong body shots, but Christian landed a hook across John’s chin that he could tell had his head ringing. Time was running down, though, just as Jackson approached. While the shot missed, rather than right himself, Christian staggered back and leaned into the ropes.
It was the type of dramatics he and Jackson would never allow themselves in a real fight, with real money on the line, but he found it quite fun to play up the crowd. The cheers and hisses had already started.
He went back to his corner, repeated the ritual, and on the third round could admit he was a bit sore in the shoulder. He’d dislocated it once during a fight and it ached fiercely at hard exercise ever since. Jackson, he knew, had a crick in his right knee.
As they approached, Jackson said, “Fancy if I try something new? A bit of a ringer but the crowd will love it.”
“By all means,” Christian said. “Should I feint right? Left?”
“Charge at me,” Jackson said with a shrug.
They played and parried around the ring. When Christian felt there were moments left, he let out a
bellow and took a charging run at Jackson. The move was unexpected. He saw Jackson leap up in the air and form a ball, then jettison out his feet. The kick landed squarely in his chest, but the impact of it also sent Jackson back.
By the time their last three minutes were up, both men were on their backs, groaning, and the crowd was equal parts outrage and howling excitement.
“Is that what you were expecting?” Christian asked, pulling Jackson up.
“No, sir. I forgot what a brick wall you are. No give at all.” He rubbed at his backside. “They loved it, though. Your poor lad looks concerned. You did explain the concept of exhibition to him?”
“Aye, but he worries for me nonetheless.”
Roberta was shaking, and Sera could not blame her. The fight had been a brutal display of masculinity that was still being talked about as the crowd dispersed. If poor Peter was headed for a similar fate, just because he was wary of joining their families, Sera had to intervene. She had left Roberta in the capable hands of her maid and run ahead, with every intention of confronting Christian.
There would be no better time. He must be tired, and slightly weak from the fight, but surely rational enough to know he could not let Peter into the ring tomorrow. She reached the inn ahead of the crowd. Even the man attending to the guest registry was absent from his station, likely still at the fight. She reached over his stand to glance through his book and found Christian’s room. She lifted the master key from the bottom drawer of his side table. With another glance over her shoulder, she tiptoed up the stairs.
Her heart beat erratically, reminiscent of that night so many years ago. She let herself into his room, her skin buzzing, the air crackling and energetic. He kept a sparse room. She could tell by the marks on the floor that he’d had them remove some of the heavier furniture so all that remained was a bed and a wardrobe. She wondered if he used the extra space to perform his exercises.
If Sera wondered how long she would need to wait for him, and the answer was not very long at all. She heard him before the door opened. His voice boomed up the stairs from the entry.
“Ice, half a bucket, and salve.” He opened the door, saw her and froze, then said over his shoulder, “I’ll manage my own cuts today. For God’s sake, this isn’t my first fight.” Then he slammed the door shut, leaving just the two of them in the room.
He held her gaze as if she were a boot boy or a maid he’d found cleaning. An insect in his food to be plucked out and thrown away.
A knock sounded at the door, and he inched it open to grab the bucket of ice and tin of salve, then shut it again. He sat down and pulled off his shirt, then began to apply the salve to his shoulder.
She tried not to be affected. Truly, she did. But he was all masculinity and tawny strength, all rippled muscle and brawn. Dinah would reason that scientific curiosity and nothing more demanded she draw her hands over him.
The silence grew uncomfortable. “You have nothing to say to me?” she asked.
“If I did, perhaps I would have been the one sneaking into your room.”
It was a fair point. “I am here to speak to you about Peter Herron.”
“If I recall, we have already exhausted a conversation on this point.” He gathered the ice into a towel and set it on his shoulder, wincing.
“Would you like me to hold that?” she asked. “I can see that you’re straining the very part of your body you are meant to rest by holding it so.” Without waiting for him to reply, she closed the distance between them and grabbed the ice pack. It meant having to stand with her legs straddling his knee. It meant ignoring the scent of him, the slickness of his skin.
“Did you wish to hear more about Peter?” he said, his voice hoarse. “By all means let me tell you. He’s a promising fighter. Possibly my best, although it’s too soon to tell, since he hasn’t seen the inside of a real ring. You can never quite tell what a man is made of until that moment.”
“Yes, well, let’s hope we never find out,” she said. “You can’t mean to let the boy fight after that display. It was barbaric. He’s such a little thing and you’re… you’re…”
“Big?” he snorted. “A man?”
Her lips felt dry, but she would not be cowed. She met his gaze. “Yes.”
Heat flared in his expression. His fists, which rested on his knees, tightened. He palmed his legs, as if to keep them still. “You’re overreacting. My fight was an exhibition, not to any rules, and purely for the enjoyment of the crowd. Had it been a real fight, I assure you it would have ended differently.”
“With you even more injured?”
“Would you have cared?” he asked.
What must he think of her? “Of course,” she said. She rested her other hand against his cheek. He closed his eyes a moment and turned his head into her palm. She felt his mouth against her skin and stifled an intake of breath. She swayed toward him, felt her body pitching. His hands came up to rest at her waist and hold her still.
They were practically holding each other.
But she must not forget why she was here. Must not get so carried away by what she selfishly wanted that she forgot her higher ideals for young Roberta. “You must let Peter out of this fight.”
His eyes snapped open. “Why? What does it matter if the boy fights? He’s not good enough for your charge anyway, is he?”
“Whatever do you mean?” He’d lost his mind. His blue eyes were flashing and angry, and the tension was back in his body. “Stop, you’ll hurt yourself again.”
He stood, his legs sliding against hers. Her eyes fluttered as she licked her lips.
“Aye, that’s it, isn’t it?” he said against her lips. “Men like us, we’re all right for a night of illicit fun, but never for marriage, never for society.”
Is that what he thought she believed? He may as well have dumped the contents of the towel over her head. She slapped him and stepped back.
“I suppose the truth hurts,” he said.
“You speak in riddles,” she snapped, “without addressing a simple question. Why Peter? Why have you chosen him when you could have easily picked a boy who—”
“Who what?” His voice was dangerously icy. “Who was common, like me? Who was unworthy? Who was just a bit of fun?”
He roared the last sentence and she flinched, stepping back from him and dropping the ice. At the look on her face, he seemed horrified. “I did not mean to frighten you.”
“You didn’t,” she said. “You disappoint me. You are constantly disappointing me! Why did you never write me? I wrote you constantly, all the time, on the most mundane subjects, to no avail.”
“I suppose I didn’t have anything fun to say?”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“I did write you once.”
“Condolences upon the death of my husband?” she said. “Why, what gratitude I should have had for that moment. Had I known, I would have had the letter framed.” She slammed the door shut as she left, with a most satisfying crack.
Chapter Nine
February 7, 1822
Dunbury, England
Two things were clear: Roberta had no interest in leaving without Peter. Christian had no interest in relinquishing his hold on his fighter. Therefore, it was incumbent upon Sera to learn the truth from Peter himself. Did he wish to fight? And was he truly interested in Roberta? If not, then she would plead with him to break her charge’s heart. If he did love Roberta, then she would plead with him to give up fighting and fight for her instead.
Unfortunately, Peter had been constantly under Christian’s watch from what she could tell, which meant she would need to engage in some subterfuge to get him alone.
And when subterfuge was involved, Lord Damon was never far behind.
“You wish me to what?” Lord Damon asked, buttering his breakfast toast.
“Send Christian a note asking him to meet you.”
“What type of note could I possibly send him that wouldn’t have him telling me to sod off,
given the hour of the day and its proximity to the fight?”
“I don’t presume to comment on whatever subjects interest gentlemen,” she said.
Lord Damon sighed, rather dramatically in her opinion. “Very well. There is one topic I can consider broaching, but I can’t promise you any more than ten minutes.”
“That i’s all I’ll need.”
She waited outside Christian’s door and as promised, within the hour, a man arrived with a note, and Christian followed him down the stairs to Lord Damon’s quarters on the other side of the inn. With a breath for courage, she knocked on the door. When there was no answer, she knocked again, and a very startled Peter Herron opened it.
He was young, which was a strange thought to have when less than a handful of years separated them.
“Lady… Er, your grace,” he mumbled. “Mr. Hughes is not here.”
“I know, Peter. I’m here to have a word with you. I have my maid with me. Might I step in for a moment?” Without waiting for him to respond, she swept into the room. Peter stumbled backward. He wore the white breeches of a boxer but was still dressed in a billowing white shirt, something out of a pirate book that she was sure Roberta would find very romantic.
“What do you want with me, your grace?” he asked.
She cocked her head. “I’m acquainted with your uncle, the Earl of Landale. Were you aware?”
He shook his head. “We don’t speak much.”
“I understand your family has grown up knowing the Crawfords, and Roberta in particular.”
“Yes, your grace.”
“You don’t say much, do you, Peter?”
He glanced out the window, as if expecting to find Christian climbing through it to rescue him.
“Peter,” she said gently, forcing his attention back to her. “I understand that Mr. Hughes can be a very compelling man, a man who is easy to listen to. But you have no end of compelling examples to follow, should you need them.”
“Are you saying he isn’t worth following?” Peter asked.
It was all so much more complicated than he understood. “Mr. Hughes is a very fine example of a gentleman who has made his mark and followed his heart. But Peter, is fighting in your heart? Or is it something you’ve been drawn to for other reasons?”
