by Regina Scott
Once more she caught his hand and cradled it close. “It’s not the past that should concern us. What’s done is done. You have another fight coming. You must be ready. I’m going to help you.”
Chapter Eighteen
She meant it. Matthew had never seen anyone look more determined, more zealous for a cause.
“Thank you,” he said, humbled once more. “But I’m not sure what you can do to help.”
She was.
“We’ll draw up an exercise regimen,” she said, sweeping into the house and marching for the stairs, green skirts flapping. “I am familiar with Worth’s. And I know you’ve been practicing with Gentleman Jackson.”
“Every other day,” he acknowledged as he followed her up to his study.
“Morning or afternoon?” she asked, going to the open secretary and selecting paper and quill.
“Afternoon.”
She made a note of that. “We’ll need to work on stamina, strength, and speed. Am I missing anything?”
“A willingness to endure pain?” he joked.
She glanced up at him. “If you are that good of a fighter, sir, I expect you to avoid pain.”
If only it was that easy.
Nor was it easy to dissuade her, so he gave up trying. He had never known Charlotte to do anything half-heartedly. In that way, she resembled her brother. So he wasn’t surprised when she thrust herself into his preparations.
She came over every morning, spending time with his sisters, then bringing her chronometer out in the yard to time his practices. She was always accompanied by one of his sisters, most often Tuny with Rufus. At first, the dog bayed when Matthew started punching the air, but by the third day the old hound seemed resigned to the fact that this was just another human eccentricity.
Tuny was as serious as Charlotte. The girl had taken to mimicking her mentor, pulling her braids up into a bun and holding her head high. She perched herself sidesaddle on Matthew’s back like a princess on her stallion while he raised himself by his arms from the ground.
“Come on, Matty,” she encouraged him. “You can push higher.”
“You keep growing like a weed, and I won’t be able to,” he predicted, pressing himself up.
“I believe it is not the height but the repetition that will make the difference,” Charlotte said, consulting her chronometer. “That makes twenty-five, twenty-five more to go.”
Matthew groaned. Rufus barked in sympathy. At times, he was certain it would have been easier joining a regiment and running off to fight Napoleon.
As if his preparations weren’t enough, Charlotte insisted that he accompany Ivy and Daisy to events in the evenings. Since their at home, invitations arrived daily. The dinners weren’t bad. The food was good, and the hostesses generally seated him near some Corinthian who was more than happy to discuss boxing or other manly sports. Charlotte was often close enough to give him the eye if he started to forget himself. He hadn’t realized it was an insult to her until Daisy brought it up on the way home one night.
“I still don’t care for these rules,” she announced as the hired coach headed for Clarendon Square to let off Charlotte first. “We were nowhere near anyone else interesting at that table.”
“Lady Swelting prefers to seat by precedence,” Charlotte said with a commiserating smile.
Ivy frowned. “Then shouldn’t you have been seated higher at the table, Miss Worthington? You’re the daughter of a viscount.”
Something rumbled through him, like a loaded lorry shaking the ground as it passed. “Was she slighting you?”
Charlotte waved away the thought. “I couldn’t care less what people like Lady Swelting think. We had a lovely dinner, surrounded by mostly congenial company. And an invitation from her will raise Ivy and Daisy in the estimation of other hostesses.”
Ivy didn’t look convinced. Matthew felt the same. He was the upstart. He understood that. Some would never accept him or his family. Charlotte deserved better.
He handed her out of the coach and escorted her to the door of Miss Thorn’s house.
“Thank you,” he said when she paused on the stoop. “For caring for the girls and putting up with the slurs.”
“Patience will win,” she promised. “You’ll see. Start with running in place tomorrow morning. I want to spend a little time with Daisy first. She seems disheartened.”
“Ivy’s getting too much attention,” Matthew guessed.
“Ivy should get the lion’s share,” Charlotte said. “She’s the eldest.”
“I know a lady who should get more,” he told her. “You.”
In the light of the lamp over the walk behind him, he could see her blush. “That is very kind of you to say, Matthew.”
“Kindness has nothing to do with the matter.”
She pulled away as far as the narrow stoop allowed. “The girls are waiting. I should let you go.”
He sighed and stepped back. “Goodnight, Charlotte. Sleep well.”
She hurried inside.
He returned to the coach once more feeling heavy and ungainly. As he settled in his seat, the carriage started for Covent Garden.
“You should tell her you love her,” Daisy said.
“Daisy!” Ivy chided even as Matthew stiffened. “Forgive us, Matty. It’s none of our affair.”
“It most certainly is,” Daisy protested. “Tuny agrees. We both like Charlotte. You ought to marry her.”
He glanced at his oldest sister. “You disagree, Ivy?”
She sighed. “I admire Charlotte. Nothing would make me happier than to have her as a permanent part of our family. But I’m not certain she would be as happy. She’s a lady, Matthew. She’s used to finer things, better reception, than we will ever have.”
He couldn’t help his flinch. “I know. I think the same.”
Daisy glanced between them. “What’s wrong with you two? We have a wonderful family. And it’s only going to get better from here. Matty’s a hero, and everyone will know it after he beats that odious Lord Harding. Besides, Ivy’s on her way to marrying a marquess.”
“What’s this?” Matthew demanded.
Ivy raised her chin. “Nonsense. Lord Kendall is only furthering a friendship.”
Daisy started to snort, then turned the sound into a ladylike cough into her gloved hand.
“A gentleman who wants to be friends doesn’t look at a lady as if she was better than a cinnamon bun,” she informed her sister when recovered. “I saw him at dinner the other night. He might have been way down the table, but his gaze wasn’t on the trout.”
“Should I be having a word with his lordship?” Matthew asked, glancing from one sister to the other.
“No,” Ivy said, and he’d rarely heard her so determined. “I have no way of knowing what’s in Lord Kendall’s mind, but I can assure you I have no intention of marrying him.”
Matthew nodded. “Milksop. I thought so the moment I saw him.”
“Matty,” Ivy scolded. “Not all men were born to fight.”
“You see how she defends him?” Daisy asked. “Admit it, Ivy. You fancy him.”
“I will admit no such thing,” Ivy declared.
Daisy threw up her hands. “You’re mad, the pair of you. I can promise you, when I fall in love, the fellow will have no doubts on the matter, and neither will I.”
~~~
A wall stood between them. Charlotte felt it every time she was with Matthew. The kiss loomed in the background, begging discussion. Worse, it demanded repetition. She could not bring herself to do either.
She was to be an example to Ivy and Daisy. She knew the expectations of Society, had been raised to meet them. Though she had pressed against the boundaries often enough—by refusing to accept prominent suitors she could not love, by assisting Worth in his studies—she had never knowingly defied them.
Until she met Matthew Bateman.
Her talk with Daisy the next day didn’t help. After making sure Petunia was assisting Matthew in practi
cing in the rear yard and Ivy was working on the embroidery pattern Charlotte had given her, Charlotte took his middle sister aside in the entry.
Daisy shifted on her feet. “Now what have I done wrong?”
“Nothing,” Charlotte said, laying a hand on the shoulder of the girl’s yellow-sprigged muslin gown. “You seem dispirited of late. How can I help?”
Daisy’s frown gathered. “You could stop clamoring on about these rules. Not everyone follows them. You don’t follow them.”
Charlotte drew herself up. “I try. And I would prefer that you see them not as rules but as guidelines that help us behave in a civil manner.”
“Is this fight civil?” Daisy demanded, pulling away. “Was Mrs. Bateman civil? I don’t hear her or Lord Harding being read the Riot Act.”
“You can be sure Lord Harding has been stricken from a number of guest lists,” Charlotte told her.
“And Mrs. Bateman will never be added,” Daisy allowed. “Then again, neither will we unless Ivy accepts Lord Kendall.”
Charlotte smiled. “Marrying a marquess does generally raise one’s status.”
“But will that be enough?” Daisy asked. “What, do I have to marry a prince to be accepted?”
“No,” Charlotte said. “Nor does Ivy have to marry Lord Kendall. Forgive me if I ever made you think a title meant everything. I have been courted by earls and viscounts, and I refused them all.”
“Why?” Daisy asked.
“Because I didn’t love them. I would not ask you or Ivy to do less.”
Daisy’s brow cleared. “Good, for I won’t. Just see that you remember the new rule, Charlotte.”
“Rule?” It was Charlotte’s turn to frown.
Daisy snapped a nod. “A lady marries the man she loves. I expect to hear something about that shortly.”
Did she mean about Ivy? She must mean Ivy. Charlotte wasn’t ready for anything else.
~~~
She was never more aware of her conflicted feelings than on the day of the fight. She was on hand to encourage Matthew before he headed to the big event, standing in the sitting room with Ivy, Daisy, Petunia, and Rufus. Each of his sisters gave him a kiss. Rufus licked his hand.
As Matthew paused before her, she knew what she should do—extend her hand, offer her best wishes, smile politely.
Instead, she reached up and adjusted his neckcloth. It was one like many of the pugilists wore, a brilliant blue with spots of color that reminded Charlotte of the feathers of a peacock.
“Be careful, Matthew,” she murmured. “Come home safely to us.”
As she lowered her hand, he caught it in his. “Always,” he said, voice solemn. He brought her hand to his lips and kissed the back.
A tremor shot through her.
He let go, stepped back, gave them all a confident smile, and strode out the door, taking Charlotte’s heart with him.
Petunia ran to the window. “There’s the coach. It’s got a fancy picture on the door—lions and a unicorn.”
Charlotte blinked, then joined Ivy and Daisy in hurrying to the window.
“That’s one of the royal coaches,” she told the girls.
“Maybe the prince is inside!” Daisy cried.
They didn’t have a chance to find out, for the liveried groom opened the door for Matthew, closed it behind him, and climbed back onto his perch before the coach set off.
Daisy sighed.
Charlotte stepped back. “Hurry, now. Lord Kendall will be here any moment. Ivy, fetch your shawl. Daisy, I trust you to look after Petunia and Rufus and the house.”
As Ivy hurried out, Daisy nodded, though her lips curled down. “I wish I could come too.”
“There’s hardly room in one of those coaches,” Petunia pointed out. “Besides, you want his lordship to be looking at Ivy and not you, right?”
Daisy nodded again. Charlotte was just glad Ivy had left the room and had been spared the conversation.
In all truth, she wasn’t entirely sure why the marquess was going to such trouble for them, her manipulations notwithstanding. He and Charlotte hadn’t moved in the same circles when she had had her Seasons, but she and Meredith had consulted Mr. Cowls about the fellow, so she knew more than she probably should. His was an old and notably fussy family, though both parents were now gone. He had married almost two years ago in what many had considered a love match, only to lose his wife in childbirth ten months later. His daughter could be no more than seven months now. If he had loved his first wife as much as had been rumored, it seemed unlikely he would be seeking a bride again so soon. Yet why else befriend Ivy?
She and Charlotte were ready when his coach drew up a short time later. He came to the door himself, dressed in the requisite navy coat and fawn trousers of a gentleman of the ton. Once again, Charlotte tried to imagine this bastion of tradition with the Bateman family.
That he was uncomfortable was evident by the way his brown eyes dipped down at the corners. Still, he bowed over their hands politely enough.
“Are you certain I cannot dissuade you, Miss Bateman?” he asked, straightening. “Though this is an exhibition match before the prince, I expect it could become distasteful to a young lady like yourself.”
Ivy glanced at Charlotte, then straightened her spine in her green sprigged muslin gown. “It may well be distasteful to me, my lord, but I want to support my brother in all he does.”
“Shall we?” Charlotte urged.
Smile overly polite, he escorted them out the door.
Wormholt Scrubs proved to be a grassy area some distance to the northwest of Mayfair. Much of the commons had been enclosed, but enough remained to allow a good-sized crowd to gather. Fine carriages circled the space, with rougher wagons drawn up beyond. Lord Kendall’s driver managed to find a spot opposite the carpeted dais that had been erected for His Royal Highness, who sat on a crimson-upholstered, high-backed chair surrounded by his set and the yeoman guards.
Between the prince and the coach lay a roped off area approximately ten feet square. The grass inside had been tamped down, as if crushed by the movement of many feet. At one of the corners nearest the prince, Matthew stood with two other men. He had divested himself of coat and neckcloth, his linen shirt open partway down his chest. Charlotte wasn’t sure which was more shocking, his dishabille or his companions. One was the Earl of Carrolton, his size making even Matthew look slight. Charlotte stared at the other.
“I didn’t realize your brother had aligned himself with Sir Matthew, Miss Worthington,” Lord Kendall said.
“I didn’t realize Worth was back from his honeymoon,” Charlotte replied. Why hadn’t he let her know? Why hadn’t Matthew let her know? Or had her brother simply breezed into town in his usual burst of energy and appeared at Matthew’s side today?
She glanced around and spotted her brother’s coach at the back of the grounds. Surely her sister-in-law Lydia wasn’t inside. Even the bubbly blonde might be daunted by this exhibition.
For it was clear that not only the wealthy and privileged had patronized the fight. Men in rough coats bumped elbows with lords in tailored jackets. Voices rose and fell in a buzz like a hive of bees. Over the noise came the call of vendors hawking roast nuts, oranges.
And offering odds at five to one in Lord Harding’s favor.
Charlotte tried not to bristle at that.
The lord in question was making his way to his own corner, opposite Matthew’s. He too brought two gentlemen with him. Voices called, encouraging him. From before the prince, two more men entered the square, their size and stride marking them as pugilists as well. Once more Charlotte could only stare as both Matthew and Lord Harding pulled their shirts off over their heads, leaving their chests bare. Her mother would have fainted to find her here.
She was dimly aware that conversation continued inside the coach.
“Has your brother explained the process, Miss Bateman?” Lord Kendall asked.
Ivy, closest to the window, shook her head, gaze on the
crowd outside. “No, my lord. I would appreciate any insights.”
He shifted on the seat, cutting off Charlotte’s view. “Each opponent has two helpers, as you can see.”
Charlotte leaned around him. Lord Carrolton had gone down on one knee, and Matthew took a seat on the other, while one of Lord Harding’s helpers did the same for him.
“One is the kneeman,” Lord Kendall went on. “He serves as a stool of sorts between rounds.”
How extraordinary. “Why not simply bring a chair?” Charlotte asked.
He glanced back at her. “Because, Miss Worthington, there must be nothing else in the square the fighter might use to his advantage.”
Had one fighter once taken a chair to the other? How horrid. She could not imagine Matthew being so brutal.
“And the other helper?” Ivy asked, voice still pleasant, as if she asked about some theoretical subject.
“The bottleman,” Lord Harding explained. “He provides water or other refreshment as needed. He may administer aid as well.”
Charlotte tried not to think about Matthew needing aid. He’d always won before. Surely, he’d win again today.
One of the two pugilists moved to stand before the prince. “Everything ready, Your Highness. Can we start?”
Prinny waved a chubby hand. “Proceed. And may the best man win.”
The umpire stepped back. “Lord Harding, Sir Matthew, take your places.”
Each rose and moved to the center of the square. Bare skin gleamed in the summer sun. A hush came over the crowd. Charlotte felt it too. The waiting, the expectation, the knowledge that something powerful was about to happen.
Matthew lifted his bare-knuckled fists, stood one foot ahead of the other. She’d seen him take up the stance any number of times in practice. This time was real. This time he could be hurt. Her heart thumped against her ribs.
“Begin!” the umpire shouted before jogging back out of reach.
Lord Harding circled right. Matthew kept his fists at the ready. Harding swung. Gentlemen cheered. Matthew blocked easily. The common folk shouted their approval. Charlotte took a deep breath.