by Jennifer Joy
There were still two more books to uncover, but Arabella’s anxiety grew.
The third was a work of Shakespeare. “Hamlet,” read Tanner, setting the book beside him to open the last package.
Flinging the paper to the floor, he held it up. It was a journal made of black leather with the Lofton family crest branded in gold-leaf on the front.
Tanner pulled a paper from his pocket and opened the diary, comparing the handwriting. “It is a perfect match. Mrs. Seymour gave us Lord Lofton’s journal.” He flipped through the pages, stopping when he found the place where Ambrose had torn the paper he had concealed in his pocket. The pages aligned exactly.
A folded piece of paper fell out from the diary, and Arabella reached down to pick it up. The handwriting was distinct, and the page smelled of jasmine. “It is from Honoria,” Arabella said, reading aloud:
“This is the journal dated at the time when Lieutenant Annesley was murdered.”
Arabella’s hand dropped. Murdered? Curiosity triumphing over her shock, she continued, reading as fast as her breath permitted:
Ambrose tore a page from it, planning to use it against Lofton as proof of his involvement in your husband’s death and thus protecting you from his accusations. His mistake was in warning you before telling Lofton what he possessed. Lofton is unaware Ambrose stole the page.
Do not make the same mistake. Use this against Lofton. Let him know you have proof which you will make public unless he agrees to cooperate. The written confession in his own hand is stronger than anything Lofton can contrive against you. Therein lies your power. Lofton holds his own reputation in too high a regard to challenge you if you threaten to reveal his sins to society.
Turn the table on him. Blackmail him as he has blackmailed others, then flee! Give yourself the gift of a fresh start in a place where an honest woman can earn an honest living without being looked down upon. It is what I would do.
Do not attempt to contact me. I cannot be found. And, please, try to think kindly toward Ambrose. He did what he thought best.
God be with you,
Honoria Seymour
The note crinkled in Arabella’s hand. “That is it? This is the best plan she offers? For us to breathe threats then flee?” Not to mention her plea for Ambrose. Mother had suggested a superior motive, but Arabella could never forgive her brother for keeping her parents away from her as he had done. It was unforgivable.
Tanner did not reply immediately. He flipped through the pages of the diary, his finger moving down the pages as he skimmed. “We are not the only ones trapped in his web. His game is much bigger.” He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the carriage cushion. “We cannot reveal his activities without exposing the secrets of the gentlemen he exploits along with him.”
That was a problem. They would rid themselves of one enemy only to gain more. Thinking aloud, she said, “What if we gained the support of the gentlemen mentioned in his diary? Perhaps they will be willing to risk their secrets being made known if they are freed of Lofton.” The idea sounding better by the minute, she added enthusiastically, “It will take time, but with all of our efforts combined, it can be done. Then, we could confront Lofton.”
Tanner opened his eyes, pressing his fingers against his temple. “We need to book passage on a ship,” he said, astonishing Arabella. He wished for her to leave? And just when she had sorted out her feelings for him?
Her hurt quickly turned to anger. What kind of woman did he think she was? To flee without a fight? To leave before she could avenge Ambrose’s death and gain her father’s forgiveness? Every fiber of her being rebelled at the suggestion she leave, and her heart broke that Tanner had been the one to suggest it.
But she was a fighter. And every bit as stubborn as Tanner. If he did not want her around anymore, Arabella had no other option but to prove to him that he was wrong to send her away.
She would fix her own problems, and she would do it without Tanner’s help.
Chapter 19
Tanner sympathized with Arabella’s agitation. He, too, had hoped Mrs. Seymour’s plan would be more solid. But it did not take into consideration how others would be affected. He could not in good conscience reveal the secrets of others just to get to Lofty — no matter how badly he wanted to.
Arabella would never leave before the problem she believed to be of her making was resolved. Not Bella. Mrs. Seymour’s suggestion for them to flee was unthinkable.
As Tanner flipped through the pages and noted all the families Lord Lofton manipulated and controlled, it made him sick with rage. It also proved to him that their every move was being watched.
Already, a plan formed in Tanner’s mind — thanks in good part to Arabella — but he wanted Darcy’s input before he acted.
He wanted to discuss it with her, but with the stormy glare Arabella cast him, Tanner thought it best not to broach the subject just then. Not in her present state of upset.
Arabella’s hand barely touched his as he assisted her out of the carriage, and she marched into Darcy House, dragging poor Georgiana along with her.
Tanner did not know whether he should apologize or not. He had no clue what he had done, but he sensed that he was, somehow, at fault.
He watched her skirt disappear around the corner at the top of the landing while, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Darcy emerge from the direction of his study in the corridor. Tanner walked up the steps, hesitating once he reached the top. Which way should he go? Arabella or Darcy?
“Mrs. Annesley appears rather put out. What did you say to her?” Darcy asked.
“I have no clue, but I believe it has to do with this,” Tanner handed Darcy the diary and the note he had pried away from Arabella. “She just learned that the man she thought was a friend is responsible for her husband’s murder as well as that of her brother. And that is not all…”
Darcy shoved his hand through his hair and squeezed the back of his neck. “Mrs. Annesley will be in good hands with Elizabeth and Georgiana. Come, let us design a strategy worthy of Richard in the study. There is no time to waste.”
Tanner followed him, trusting his sisters would ease Arabella’s upset and determining to ask her about it later. He detested misunderstandings, and years of working with housekeepers and barmaids had taught him two important things: When in doubt, ask. Also, an apology went a long way in keeping any relationship civil (especially when his offense was a figment of their perception rather than a reality based on fact).
Two empty food trays and a dried-up decanter later, he and Darcy sat heavy-limbed around the mahogany desk. Papers scattered the surface.
“Are you certain you wish to do this? It is risky. If no gentleman is bold enough to take his stand with us against Lord Lofton, word will get around to him and you stand to lose everything you have worked so hard to protect. He would delight in exposing your greatest secret.” Darcy crossed his arms and considered Tanner.
“I see no other way. We must approach these gentlemen individually, honorably, and ask them to speak up against him. All we need is one respectable member of society to cast doubt over his character. Then, when we reveal what we know, we will have the support of the very gentlemen with the authority to put Lofty away forever.”
“Lofty? I like that.”
“I thought you would,” Tanner said, the gravity of their situation weighing on him and smothering his humor. “Darcy, I will only go through with it if I have your full support. I have laid out my plan to the last detail to you because I am unwilling to drag you and Georgiana down with me if it fails. However, this is not completely without risk to you. I am sorry.”
Darcy rifled through the papers scattered over the desk surrounding the diary — that little black book of horrors.
“I trust you, Tanner. Now, that only leaves the pugilist match. He challenged you publicly. How do you mean to respond?”
“I can see no way out of accepting. It is as much a challenge of honor as it is of skill. What
gentleman would support a man he perceives as weak?”
Darcy nodded. “As much as you call it a savage act, pugilism is a gentleman’s sport. By accepting Lofty’s challenge, you are living up to the expectations society imposes upon a gentleman. You will gain their approval and acceptance quicker.”
Tanner did not have it in him even to straighten his shoulders, so disheartening was Darcy’s reminder. “That is the great weakness in my plan. If Lofton reveals the truth of my origins, I will lose the support I might have garnered from our peers. I will come across as ambitious and presumptuous, pretending to be something I am not. We will have lost before having a chance to begin.”
“Then we must begin straight away. You must train hard before the eyes of the very gentlemen we wish to persuade for their cooperation, and we must gain their support before he can act against you.”
“Or our plan is for naught,” added Tanner, wishing he could see a better way.
Darcy drained the amber remnants in his glass, setting it down with a thud against the wooden desk. “Very well. We will go to Gentleman Jackson’s on the morrow. I will send word to him to expect us. Then, we will pay my judge friends a call at Lincoln’s Inn. They will be happy to assist us.”
“You are certain they are trustworthy? We have to speak to several gentlemen, but the fewer we involve unnecessarily, the better.”
Darcy chuckled. “They are old friends of Lord Harvisham. I met them when we suspected Mr. Collins was not who he said he was. I would tell you more, but now is not the time.” His fingers brushed against the newspaper, and he pointed to it. “I will secure a passage in the name of Mrs. Annesley for the day following the match. Have you told her what you mean by this?”
“No, but I will. I would no sooner deny her the right to make her own decisions than I would give up my inn.” He rubbed his chest, already feeling empty. He had so little to offer, just him and his inn. What if she chose to leave? A woman who had suffered as much as she had deserved a fresh start and all the happiness she could hold.
“You miss your inn,” Darcy said.
Tanner shrugged. “It is my life. Right now, Mrs. Molly would have me kneading bread. She says I make the softest bread when I am agitated.” He chuckled sadly, missing Mrs. Molly’s fuzzy hair and rosy cheeks.
“Shall I tell Cook to allow you in her kitchen?” Darcy teased.
Tanner grunted. “I have tried already. She made it clear to me that only Arabella is allowed in her sanctuary.”
Darcy leveled his gaze on Tanner, considering him coolly until Tanner squirmed in his chair. He had not meant to speak her name aloud.
“Do you love her?” Darcy asked.
Tanner shifted his weight, the leather chair protesting beneath him. “I do not know what it is I feel,” he said in defeat. “She is the first image in my mind when I wake. She is foremost in my thoughts, influencing my every decision. I have never allowed myself to dream, knowing such things to be out of reach for someone like me, but I imagine my life with her. I have tried not to, knowing I am only setting myself up to be gravely disappointed, but I am powerless to stop when I have never wanted anything more in my life.”
“What is it you want?”
“To make her happy. Every day. Until she forgets what it was like to ever feel alone and wanting. I want to make her feel as beautiful as I see her.”
Darcy leaned back in his chair. “If that is not love, Tanner, I do not know what is.”
He might as well have punched Tanner in the gut. Twisting, breathtaking, anxiety-wrought questions plagued him. What if Bella did not love him in return? What right did he have to even dream she might? He — an impostor, a stain, a common man with a borrowed name and nothing but a tavern to show for his lifetime of work.
Chapter 20
“I thought we were going to the boxing saloon,” said Tanner the following morning. Once again, he found himself on Bond Street (a place he would rather forget than return to) and the realization was disconcerting. He eyed his brother suspiciously, praying he had not somehow tricked him into another visit to the tailor.
Darcy’s laugh did not ease his concern. “Gentleman Jackson is a study in the latest fashion, and the owner of the best boxing school in London.”
Tanner had difficulty imagining how pugilism could possibly be considered a gentlemanly sport, but such were the oddities of society, and he refused to waste his time and mental resources comprehending them.
Gentleman Jackson’s rooms were large and packed with gentlemen of all ages and sizes with bare, sweaty chests. They sparred like gamecocks wherever they could find the space for it, the bolder ones in the prominent roped off areas in the center of the room. They were the ones who would teach Tanner the most. He watched them, already studying their swift movements.
The smack of leather gloves beat in a steady, comforting rhythm. It was work. Work was good for the soul, and Tanner was relieved to rid himself of the concern making his limbs feel tight and heavy — barbaric sport or not.
In the middle of the room, sitting on a wooden chair at a round table and scratching in a ledger, was a man wearing a red coat with gold buttons and a striped waistcoat to match. His perfectly coiffed hair was shaped into delicate curls at his temples, proclaiming him a dandy at first sight. His thick hands and muscled shoulders, however, marked him as a fighter.
He rose when he saw them approach. “Mr. Darcy, I received your message this morning, and I am delighted to assist you.” Leaning in and dropping his voice, he added, “His lordship trains at Castle Tavern with Tom Belcher. He has lured several of my clients away and…” he paused to look Tanner up and down. With a nod that clearly marked his approval, he continued, “… after this, I think I shall get them back. With interest.”
Losing no time at all, the strange gentleman pugilist cleared an area in the middle of the saloon where all eyes followed them in haughty disdain for the newcomer who commanded the master’s time and attention. Do they have nothing better to do? thought Tanner, trying to ignore them.
Gentleman Jackson handed him a pair of gloves. “No sense beating up your hands before such an important match. We will wear these.”
Tanner worked up a light sweat taking off his tight-fitting coats while Gentleman Jackson leaned against the pole holding up the ropes and examined him like a groom at Tattersall’s would look at a horse.
“I understand your knowledge of the sport is rudimentary, so let me begin with the fundamentals, Mr. Tanner.” He held his hand up and wiggled his fingers. “There are only five rules you must remember: No hitting below the belt. No hitting while your opponent is down or on his knees. Wrestling holds are only allowed above the waist. If you are knocked down, you have thirty seconds to get back in your square to resume the fight. And you must have a trustworthy gentleman on your side to help prevent disputes and settle them when they do arise.”
Darcy answered without being asked, “I will do it.”
Gentleman Jackson slapped his hands and rubbed them together. “Good. Do you have any questions?” he asked Tanner.
“Hits and holds are limited to the ribs and face. Get up fast if I am knocked down.”
With a cackle, General Jackson said, “Good enough. You are a quick learner, I see. Now, let us check your footwork.”
The fighter moved like a whirling dervish around him, and Tanner lunged and shuffled to keep up with Jackson.
“You are surprisingly nimble for a man your size,” Jackson finally said, allowing Tanner a moment to catch his breath. “Let me help you correct your posture.” With a tap of his fingers, he nudged Tanner’s head forward and his fists up.
“Hit this as hard as you can,” Jackson said, holding a gloved hand up.
Tanner wound his elbow back and let it fly, his knuckles popping when he connected with his target, his fist shoving through the padding and stinging his skin. He wound back to repeat the motion with his opposite arm, satisfied with the burn in his shoulders and the sweat trailing down hi
s back … just as his body reacted when he moved barrels and sacks of flour around in his storeroom.
Another exhilarating smack, a matching sting on his other hand … and Tanner was promptly brought back from the haven of his inn to the sweaty saloon where he was on display. He cringed when a few of the onlookers clapped, dropping all pretense of their own exercise to observe him.
Jackson pulled off the gloves, rubbing his palms and wincing under his wide grin. “I have not felt the like before.”
Tanner dropped his fists. “Did I hurt you? I am sorry.” He stepped forward to better see the damage he had done, cursing the enthusiasm and elation he had felt moments before.
Gentleman Jackson’s head snapped up to glare at him. Poking him in the chest just as Mrs. Molly so often did, he said, “Lofton will not concern himself with your welfare once you step inside that ring. You must rid yourself of that weakness. You must show no mercy.”
“Can I not simply throw him off balance and knock him down?” Tanner asked, fearing the answer when Jackson pressed harder against his chest.
“Scrapping and bullying are ineffective against a fist as powerful as Lofton’s. You will lose. Try it against me.” Jackson stepped back, not even bothering to shed his coat — so certain was he of victory.
Tanner knew he would lose, but he had to try. And try he did. Tanner weaved and swayed, lunged and jabbed, but Jackson’s feet remained firmly on the ground. His blows were fierce and true.
Tanner’s plan to knock Lofton down with the least amount of brute force possible burned up and crumbled like a tallow candle wick. His desperation grew as the minutes passed, until the front of Jackson’s damp shirt and neck cloth clung to him and droplets of moisture streamed from the tips of his curls so carefully arranged around his face.
Frustrated and bruised, Tanner charged with his head down like a bull — like he had done so many times in his youth to end a fight. Keeping his arms up, he latched onto Jackson, lifting him up over his shoulders, then throwing him down like a sack of potatoes. Only then, when the master lay prostrate at his feet, did Tanner stretch to his full height, his chest heaving up and down and his lungs burning for air.
