Cecilia: A Regency Romance (Families of Dorset Book 3)

by Martha Keyes

  Disappointed but slightly relieved, Cecilia had been deciding whether to request her mother's chaperonage to a party when yet another note had arrived, requesting that Cecilia listen for Lady Caroline’s carriage at eleven that evening.

  "Voilà," said Anaïs, putting the finishing touches on the cravat. She handed Tobias’s top hat to Cecilia, who put it gently on her head and turned to look at her reflection in the mirror.

  She pulled her lips between her teeth to suppress a smile at the sight. Her complexion was free of any trace of makeup, save the burnt cork Anaïs had insisted upon using to darken and thicken Cecilia's brows. They looked unnaturally dark, but Anaïs assured her that the darkening was very necessary if she wished to go unrecognized.

  Cecilia heard the faint sound of carriage wheels, and her heart skipped. Her father was at Brooks's and her mother had already retired for the evening. But Cecilia was nervous enough that she took the back staircase all the same.

  She tilted her hat and bowed her head as she made her way down the stairs, hoping that, if any servants saw her, they would assume her to be Tobias.

  She had no desire for her adventure to end before it ever began.

  A stony-faced postilion opened the door of the chaise, and Cecilia climbed inside swiftly, anxious for the safety and anonymity of the closed carriage.

  Lady Caroline clapped her hands upon seeing Cecilia. "Magnificent! What an adventure we shall have." Unlike Cecilia, Lady Caroline's clothing fit her tall, thin figure snugly.

  "You look like a tulip of the ton," Cecilia said with some envy. "I look like a country bumpkin wearing his older brother's clothing."

  Lady Caroline's musical laugh sounded. "I have found it convenient to have a man's coat made to my measurements, though I have only used it on one other occasion." She smiled impishly. "In any case, the fight tonight will be well-attended, I think, so we must channel our very best acting skill if we are to avoid being found out. I have more experience than you in this, so if you find yourself in a pinch, allow me to do the talking."

  Cecilia swallowed and nodded nervously.

  "What name am I to give?" she asked.

  Lady Caroline cocked an eyebrow. "Whatever name you fancy, of course. Tonight is about forgetting everything in your life that weighs you down or frustrates you. Tonight, you are free." She punctuated the last words with a pause, grinning widely.

  Cecilia laughed shakily and pursed her smiling lips in thought. "George Goodwin," she said decidedly, and Lady Caroline nodded her acceptance of the name.

  "And I," Lady Caroline said, "shall be Theophilus Faulkner."

  Cecilia suppressed a laugh and then nodded formally, touching her hat softly and saying, "Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Faulkner."

  If it hadn't been for the constant stream of conversation Lady Caroline engaged her in, Cecilia thought she might have been sick by the time they arrived at the Harford, where the fight was set to take place. Her heart was beating double its regular speed and her hands were clammy. The only positive to the strong bout of nerves attacking her was that the sweat on her forehead seemed to keep her hat on more securely.

  The low rumbling of conversation met their ears as the chaise came to a halt. Cecilia peeked through the chaise window and took in a steadying breath. Hordes of men—of both gentle and lower birth—surrounded a wooden platform on the wide green, lit with torches on all sides.

  "Why is the fight taking place at night?" she said, still peering through the window. "Do they not normally occur in daylight?"

  "Well, yes, normally they do. And it was planned for this afternoon near Hampstead, but apparently the magistrate received word. Fortunately, I was able to discover the new time and location." She held Cecilia's eyes, her hazel eyes alight with anticipation. "Are you ready?"

  Cecilia nodded.

  Lady Caroline's excitement was contagious, and Cecilia felt her skin prickling with the expectation of an entirely novel experience as they stepped down onto the dirt road where the line of equipages sat. They walked toward the growing mass of people surrounding the platform, and it wasn't long before the platform had disappeared from Cecilia's view, crowded out by the heads and hats before her.

  "You see Hurst?" Lady Caroline said. "He is the smaller one—just a young farmer from a little south of here, as I understand it. But he is the favorite."

  "I can't see a thing," Cecilia said with a laugh, standing on her tiptoes. "You forget how tall you are."

  Lady Caroline looked down at her and pursed her lips. "We must find a closer view."

  They pushed their way through the crowd of sweating bodies, eliciting some frustrated exclamations, which made Cecilia lightheaded with nerves. But, without fail, upon seeing who had jostled them, the men went silent. Most of them looked like villagers and were perhaps reluctant to take issue with Theophilus Faulkner and George Goodwin, gentlemen. Cecilia tried to adopt her most masculine expression.

  There were a number of faces Cecilia recognized, though, and while one part of her wished to avoid them at all costs, the reckless part of her was tempted to test the limits of her disguise.

  She felt her whole body buzz with excitement. She could only imagine the scene she would be causing if she had been there in her regular attire.

  But she had no chaperone, no rules to follow, and nothing to draw undue attention to her. Tonight, there was no delicate dress to be minded as they traipsed through the crowd, and instead of the thin slippers that offered little protection from anyone accidentally treading on her feet, Tobias's boots were sturdy—if somewhat large. She felt giddy with excitement and freedom.

  Lady Caroline managed to find them a place just a few rows from the platform. The conversation around them buzzed with predictions and observations about the two fighters, standing on the raised wooden planks. Men held tankards of spirits which filled the air with a bitter scent, sometimes overcome by the pungent smell of sweating bodies. It was simultaneously disgusting and exhilarating.

  The sound of men talking reached a pitch when it was apparent the fight was about to begin.

  Boyle was introduced to a host of cheers, followed by Hurst, for whom the cheers were almost deafening. Cecilia couldn't see how such a small figure could possibly compete against the bulky and towering Boyle. Surely it was impossible. And yet the crowd had made clear its prediction and preference.

  The fight began, and silence reigned, only the shuffling of the fighters' feet and their uneven breathing filling the air. The atmosphere was electric.

  Boyle seemed at first to be gaining the advantage, as several of his blows met their target. But as time passed, Boyle began to tire, where Hurst shifted his weight from one foot to the other in an energetic dance that thrilled the crowds.

  Cecilia thought she had never felt so alive. She yelled with the men around her whenever Hurst seemed to be struggling, and she shouted with each blow he struck at Boyle. It was a feeling she could only describe as invincibility.

  More than half an hour had passed when Hurst managed to strike an unanticipated blow straight to Boyle's jaw, sending the man down to the planks below. The crowd chanted, counting each second as Boyle struggled to raise himself from the platform.

  Cheers erupted as the final second passed, and Hurst raised his sinewy arms in the air, victorious, as Cecilia and Lady Caroline embraced and cheered.

  The tight spaces between them and the men surrounding them loosened slightly, as men at the outskirts began to disperse.

  Cecilia looked around at the widely grinning faces which met her everywhere. Not far off, a small circle had formed around two men.

  “They want more fighting,” Lady Caroline said, tracking the line of Cecilia’s gaze.

  Cecilia continued scanning the crowd, still amazed that she was present for such an event.

  Her breath hitched.

  Lord Retsford stood a dozen feet away, in conversation with another gentleman.

  "What is it?" Lady Caroline asked.

 
Cecilia let out a breath and held up her chin with a satisfied smile. "Nothing," she said. For once, she could be in the company of the marquess without having to worry about interacting with him.

  Lady Caroline narrowed her eyes at Lord Retsford. "He is a determined suitor, isn't he?"

  Cecilia nodded, but a smile quirked on her lips. "Not tonight."

  "True.” Lady Caroline smiled mischievously. “I have never liked the man."

  "Nor I," Cecilia said. "I have half a mind to walk up to him and tell him what I really think of him."

  "Well, I think you should," said Lady Caroline.

  Cecilia let out a jeering laugh. "And what? Present my opinion with the compliments of George Goodwin, esquire?"

  Lady Caroline shrugged and held Cecilia's gaze with a teasing challenge in her own. "Why ever not? Remember, tonight you are free."

  Cecilia shivered at the thought, the exhilaration of the night pushing her to do what she would never otherwise entertain as an idea. She shut her eyes, imagining her hat flying off of her head, betraying her.

  "No," she said, shaking her head rapidly. "I cannot."

  Lady Caroline shrugged. "As you please. But I think we shall pass by him simply because we can."

  Cecilia nodded, and Lady Caroline tucked her arm in Cecilia's, only to draw it away immediately and laugh at herself. "That is not something which lends to our credibility as gentlemen."

  Cecilia laughed responsively, her eyes flitting to Lord Retsford, and they began walking toward him. He was frowning and speaking with clenched teeth to the man next to him.

  Cecilia's stomach fluttered, and her skin tingled as they came abreast of him. Lady Caroline shifted their trajectory slightly so that she jostled the marquess as she passed by him, not even turning to offer an apology. She suppressed a smile and wagged an eyebrow at Cecilia.

  Suddenly, Lady Caroline was shoved into Cecilia, sending them both scrambling to keep their footing, jostling others in the crowd around them.

  Wide-eyed and with uneven breath, Cecilia turned to assess what had happened, putting a hand to stabilize her hat.

  Lord Retsford stood, facing them with a sneer.

  She felt herself freeze, her head light and dizzy. A number of people nearby stood watching.

  Lord Retsford touched his hat with a slight nod in a mocking gesture. "Perhaps that will teach you to pay closer attention to your surroundings."

  Lady Caroline nodded with a false smile. "Perhaps some surroundings don't merit our attention."

  His nostrils flared.

  A voice called out, "Fight him!"

  And another, "Yes, teach the gawky man some manners!"

  Cecilia swallowed, her mind feeling hazy. This couldn't be real. It had to be a dream.

  "I think so," said Lord Retsford, taking off his hat and coat, which his friend assisted him with and then held in his hands.

  Cecilia looked to Lady Caroline, who was finally demonstrating some of the fear that gripped Cecilia, with her wide-eyed, wary expression. If she fought, she would be beaten down within minutes. Or less.

  Cecilia imagined conveying Lady Caroline home by herself, bloody and bruised; unconscious, even.

  "I apologize, my lord," said Lady Caroline with a bow. "It will not happen again."

  Lord Retsford smiled and shook his head, unbuttoning his shirt and tugging at his cravat to loosen it. "Too late, I am afraid. Are you a coward as well as an oaf?"

  He wished to taunt her to anger, of course; he had no idea that he was challenging a woman—Lady Caroline Lamb, no less. But if she revealed her identity to quell the demand for a fight, their reputations would be ruined.

  Cecilia felt nausea wash over her. Why had she agreed to come? The freedom she had felt earlier had evaporated.

  She turned her head away as Lord Retsford pulled off his shirt and assumed a fighting stance, motioning for Lady Caroline to approach.

  There was a growing crowd surrounding them—at least two dozen people, jeering; hungrily awaiting their entertainment.

  A man broke through the ranks, striding up to Lord Retsford and punching him in the stomach. The marquess doubled over, gripping an arm to the point of contact.

  Cecilia's eyes bulged as the man stepped back and said, "Bullying young men you're certain you can beat, Lord Retsford?"

  Cecilia froze. It was Lord Moulinet.

  She felt simultaneous terror and relief. What was he doing? And why? Had he recognized them?

  Lord Retsford uncurled from his tucked position, staring at the vicomte. "I will more than gladly trade him for you, Moulinet."

  Lord Moulinet bowed and began removing his hat, coat, and cravat, handing them to two men at the edge of the circle. He undid the buttons at his throat, and his shirt hung open. Cecilia blinked and averted her gaze. This was no time to be noticing the strength of the vicomte’s chest. This was an unmitigated disaster.

  "Come," Lady Caroline hissed, grabbing Cecilia's hand and pulling her from the center of the open circle to join the surrounding crowd.

  Cecilia blinked rapidly and stepped back with her friend. The sound of the men in the crowd hurriedly placing their bets hummed in her ears.

  Lord Moulinet faced Lord Retsford, both men with their leathery arms up, their hands balled into fists. They looked to be fairly evenly-matched, though Lord Retsford's height gave him a small advantage. His disdain for the vicomte, too, might prove a determining factor in the match.

  Cecilia swallowed and squeezed her eyes shut. There was none of the exhilaration she had felt watching Hurst and Boyle—not when someone she knew was in the ring.

  The first punches were thrown, but both men ducked and dodged them. Lord Retsford quickly attacked again, this time meeting his target with an uppercut to Lord Moulinet's jaw, who reeled and grabbed for the injury.

  He quickly shook himself, though, and strode back over, sending a fist into Lord Retsford's stomach and then one to his cheek.

  Cecilia felt sick with apprehension as she watched, fighting against a constant desire to hide her face in her hands as drops of blood went flying through the air. But she had to watch. She couldn’t tear her eyes away.

  The fighting continued, and Cecilia longed for it to end. Lord Retsford landed a throw in Lord Moulinet's stomach and sneered as he watched him heave. In his delight, he was unready for the crushing blow which Lord Moulinet sent flying into the marquess's other cheek.

  Lord Retsford dropped to the ground, limp, and the crowd cheered.

  Lord Moulinet stood back, watching the marquess, but twenty seconds passed with no sign of movement. The crowd chanted the counting down of seconds, reaching thirty and breaking into applause and shouts of approbation, just as the marquess began to stir, pushing himself up. His brow was creased, his eyes blinking, and his head wobbling.

  Lord Moulinet put out a hand to the marquess, but Lord Retsford looked at it and spat.

  Lord Moulinet's hand lingered in the air for a moment, but the marquess showed no signs of noticing. “Have it your way,” said the vicomte.

  He walked over to the two men holding his clothing, taking his belongings and striding back through the circle toward Cecilia and Lady Caroline. His nose and lip were bleeding, and one of his eyes puffy and red.

  Cecilia held her breath as he approached, but his eyes never landed on her or Lady Caroline.

  "Come with me," he said sharply as he passed.

  Cecilia looked to Lady Caroline, who nodded and turned to follow the vicomte.

  They walked quickly, trying to keep pace with Lord Moulinet. Cecilia closed her eyes tightly for a moment, ashamed and half-hoping that the vicomte had not recognized them, that he was simply intent on instructing two naïve fellows on what they had done wrong.

  They approached the long line of carriages and—finally—the vicomte turned around. He set down his belongings, his chest still bare, red from the blows it had sustained. The puffy pink and purple around his eye enhanced its piercing green color.

  Ce
cilia averted her gaze, filling with guilt at the sight of his features marred with blood and bruising.

  "I trust," he said, picking up his shirt and pulling it over his head, "that you have both had your fill of adventure for the night?"

  Cecilia swallowed painfully, blinking as she felt her eyes sting, but she was saved the necessity of response by the approach of two gentlemen. "Shall we go, Moulinet?"

  The vicomte's eyes rested on Cecilia and Lady Caroline for a moment. "You go on," he said. "I will accompany my new friends."

  The gentlemen shrugged and moved on.

  "Where is your carriage?" the vicomte said, buttoning up his shirt.

  "Just down the line there," said Lady Caroline in a deeper tone than her usual voice, pointing to their chaise.

  Cecilia exhaled, glad that Lady Caroline had spared her from having to respond. She didn't think she could manage pretending to be George Goodwin when she was feeling so much emotion. She knew how much Lord Moulinet hated affectation.

  "Spare me the play acting, if you please, Lady Caroline," he said, shrugging on his coat and placing his hat atop his sweaty, brown locks. "Let us be on our way."

  12

  Jacques took deep strides toward the chaise Lady Caroline had indicated. He felt the vein in his neck pulsing with anger, but it was drowned out by the stinging and throbbing in his head and body.

  Years of practice controlling his emotions were proving vital to keeping the frustration in check.

  The folly of the two women walking behind him—attired in pantaloons, boots, and coats, of which some obviously belonged to Miss Cosgrove’s brother—was incomprehensible to him.

  He nodded to the postilion standing next to the chaise, and the man rushed to open the door.

  Jacques smiled humorlessly at Lady Caroline and Cecilia, tilting his head. "I would give you a hand to assist you in, but I am afraid it would likely ruin the effect you are trying to achieve." He inclined his head to indicate their attire.

  Miss Cosgrove swallowed visibly and avoided his gaze as she stepped into the carriage.

  At least it was clear that she was not proud of her behavior.