by Cecilia Gray
“I don’t make a habit of kissing ladies.”
“Women, then?”
His eyes darkened. “Women, yes. But there are no women in this room, just a girl.”
“I’m woman enough to be married,” she countered.
He swore, taking another angry step and running his hands through his hair, pulling at the ends. “Why are you going through with it, then? What is it? Because he’s heir to the dukedom?”
A denial leapt to her lips, but she could not say it, not truly. “It will make my father happy,” she said. “Yes, that he will be a duke.”
“Don’t you care if you’re happy?”
“Making my family happy does make me happy,” she said.
“And won’t they want you happy in return?”
“Of course.” She sighed. “But don’t you see? It should be me to marry. Because I’m the reason my mother’s dead.” She had never said it out loud. Oh, it was understood. After all, she’d been the last to come from the womb. The one to cause the bleeding that no one had seen.
“You can’t believe that. No one does.”
“But you’ve heard the Tale,” she said.
“It’s just a tale.”
“Not to my family.”
He moved toward her and gripped her forearms. “You keep saying you want this marriage, that you must, that you deserve it, but I don’t believe you. I don’t believe you’ll be satisfied with one night, one taste of freedom.”
“Of course I will,” she said, pulling away, his fingers digging into her flesh.
A noise sounded from the bedroom—a groan and several steps.
Their eyes met in panic.
Graham!
Christian pulled her behind him as Graham opened the bedroom door and staggered into the sitting-room. One eyelid squeezed shut, then he squinted in their direction. “Who’s there?” he slurred, blinking. “Is that… is that you?”
Christian backed toward the door, keeping Sera behind him. They left the kitchen in disarray as they moved closer to the door, over the flagstones.
“God, it is you. Isn’t it?” Graham sobbed.
She’d never heard him be so emotional. He’d obviously had too much to drink. She peeked through the opening between Christian’s back and his arm, in time to see Graham reach for Christian, only to fall short and collapse on the flagstones.
He mumbled something.
“Miss Belle,” Christian whispered. “I must get you to the house.”
Christian helped bundle her back up and hurried her out of the cottage. The temperature had risen several degrees, and clouds drifted in front of the moon, making the house darker and more ominous.
While sneaking out had seemed easy, sneaking in seemed like a different matter entirely.
“I came out through the kitchen,” she told him. She quickened her pace. The kitchen entrance was closed, but she paused at the door, wondering who might be behind it.
As if sensing her thoughts, he said, “You must go in alone.”
“Is this to be it?” she asked, glancing over her shoulder. “This is where we part?”
He nodded. “Unless… unless you do not want to marry Tom. Unless you need me to rescue you.”
“To rescue me?” she repeated.
“Yes. You’re young—”
She turned toward the door and straightened her shoulders. She would not be seen as a child, not by him. “No. This was just… just a bit of fun.” She was the one rescuing her entire family. Couldn’t he see that? How could he rob her of it?
She lifted the latch, forcing herself not to look back. The kitchen was abandoned, and she made quick time back to her room so she could look out of the window.
She saw Christian in the dark, making his way back toward the gardener’s cottage. He hesitated. She could almost feel him thinking, reasoning, realizing that if he helped Graham, he might risk exposing her. He glanced up at her window, but she knew she was hidden in the dark.
He headed back to the secret spot where his driver waited with his carriage.
She would see him tomorrow, at the wedding, but somehow it felt as though she was seeing him for the last time.
She supposed, for all intents and purposes, this was indeed the last time Sera Belle would ever see him.
Chapter Four
Mr. H,
I am sorry I did not have time to bid you adieu after my nuptials. We left in haste for Italy. The food in Italy is heavenly, by the way. I may as well throw out my dress as I will never be able to fit into it again.
We traveled to Tuscany, and we visited the leaning tower at Pisa. I was the only one able to climb the steps without fainting. When asked for the secret to my success, I would not confess it, but am glad to inform you it was by starting from my center.
S.A.
Mr. H,
I had not expected to see you yesterday. I am sorry you had to leave before I could finish my purchase at Tattersall’s.
S.A.
Mr. H,
I was unable to find you to join the games at our birthday party. Did you enjoy your time in Woodbury?
S.A.
Mr. H,
While Alice prepared last year’s event, as lady of the house I was solely in charge for this year’s Woodbury affair. Only to the degree that Father allowed, of course. He seems determined to outdo himself every year and my father-in-law seems determined to allow it.
S.A.
Mr. H,
Did you know I have been on the Continent? I felt increasingly restless in the last year. To think, my last adventure was on my wedding day. I have added other accomplishments since then, particularly in the realm of riding, much to Lord Damon Savage’s chagrin, as I insist on using his horses.
S.A.
Mr. H,
Did you know Gentleman Jackson also teaches women to box? It is a private affair usually, and there are rumors of fights amongst women as well. Not that I would dare. However, I had been told I have excellent beginner’s technique, for which I am sure I must thank someone.
S.A.
Mr. H,
You must know I imagine my letters being delivered to an unattended mailbox.
S.A.
Chapter Five
Five years later
February 5, 1822
London, England
Most fighters, even the ones who crawled in from the grimiest, lowliest slums of London, hated the smell of Christian’s training ring. He didn’t blame them. It was a far cry from Gentleman Jackson’s Saloon at 13 Bond Street.
Christian’s facility was in a warehouse by the docks that had once been used for processing fish. Old fighters would spook the new boys by telling them the stone floors and walls, with their red and brown hues, were streaked with the blood of Christian’s victims, but really the marking were the remnants of fish guts from the previous occupant. Making the smell of the place even worse, the mats that lined half the floor were soaked in the sweat of men. Christian supposed he could have them washed daily, but only did so weekly on principle. The smell of a fight was unique. Fear and adrenaline made the body reek sharply, and it could be distracting to a novice fighter.
That was what separated Christian’s gymnasium from the other fighting sites. They just trained the body. But Christian also trained the mind.
Gamblers always made the mistake of betting on the biggest fighter with the best physique. Sometimes—as in his case—it paid off. But the real money was to be made on the scrappy fighter with the strong mind. The tenacious fighter who wouldn’t quit. The fighter who was willing to do anything and be anything to win.
A fighter like Peter Herron.
The boy was tall and wiry like a string bean, but quick on his feet and with his mind. Christian had him on the dummy—a tall column of wood with sharp sticks pointing out at all angles around it that he had set to spin. A modification of a training tool he’d seen while touring fighting facilities in Shanghai.
It was the only dummy of its kind in London
. He’d sent a prototype to Gentleman Jackson, and while his old friend had kept it for his personal use, he’d never established it in training, fearing some hothead might come after him for reparations due to personal injury. It was impossible to step in to the column for a punch without taking a stick to the eye or the shoulder or leg. Not unless you twisted in just the right way. Judged the depth. Used your speed correctly.
Peter whirled around it with graceful movements, almost like a dancer. He jabbed and turned and ducked and slipped, landing quick punches to the face and body of the column. It wasn’t even his speed and agility that would make him a great fighter. It was Peter’s expression. Pure calm. Not a furrow to his brow. Not a clench to his jaw. His shoulders were relaxed and down, not up to his ears like most first-year fighters.
The boy had walked into Christian’s facility two months ago and had quickly become his favorite student. Peter was at peace when he fought, and that was a feeling Christian knew all too well.
“Stay angled. Make yourself a smaller target,” he barked.
The boy did as he was told, without any grunts of frustration. Another sign of a natural fighter. Rare for a boy who had known nothing when he walked in the door.
Peter was a bit of an enigma. Most fighters who came to his gymnasium weren’t up to snuff for Jackson’s Saloon. They entered the ring with troubles blazing on their backs. Debt, mostly, or just a plain mean streak. Not Peter. He’d walked in as meek as a mouse and asked how to properly wrap up for his gloves. As far as Christian knew, the kid hadn’t taken them off since.
There were demons riding this boy, of course, but Christian didn’t know them. Didn’t need to know them.
“Watch your breath,” Christian said. “Control it. Don’t let it control you.” There were a lot of platitudes in fighting. Most of them were simple reminders, but it never hurt to consider the fundamentals.
Just watching Peter made him want to tie his own wraps. He’d hung them up a couple of years back after a bout that had taken him forty rounds to win when it should have taken ten. The other fighter had been knocked down and later bled to death. While he’d had the nickname Homicide Hughes for years, it had never had any truth behind it before. It wasn’t quite the same having that moniker when it was real, and he’d never quite regained his taste for stepping into the ring to fight.
Training young fighters was his new calling. Something to set his mind to other than hitting a man. A distraction. Something he well needed.
Christian glanced back at his other students. “If one of you is stupid enough to drop your defensive stance, then I might just give you a reason to regret it.” He raised his own fists, and the boys immediately brought their hands up and returned to their drills. They just needed a firm hand.
He cocked his head at Peter. “Water,” he ordered.
Peter stepped away from the rotating column, moving back a safe distance before dropping his hands and heading to the barrel. Christian himself could use a drink. They hadn’t stopped for lunch and he imagined Peter needed some food for energy.
“Let’s take a break,” Christian suggested. “No use wasting all your energy before the fight.”
Peter shook his head and sweat dripped from his blonde hair. He gulped in air. It was a common problem—the breath got used to the pace of things and when it changed, even for the easier, it was a struggle to adjust. “I don’t need a break.”
There were a half dozen other men in the facility, all in various states of exhaustion, bent over their knees, breathing heavily, and they’d been at it for half the time doing half the work.
“You need what I tell you,” Christian said, keeping his tone light. “You need to win. What else is there to prove?”
The boy’s eyes, crystal blue like his own, remained hooded as his gaze flitted across the floor and walls of the facility. “I just want to do everything I can.”
Christian knew the feeling, but he also didn’t like relentless training without an end in sight. It was too easy to overwork the body. “If you want to be prepared, then help pack the carriages.”
Peter nodded and started for the door.
“After a good meal, though,” Christian quickly added. “I won’t have you passing out and knocking your head and bleeding out. Dirtying up my floors.”
That earned him a smile from the boy.
“When you return, try a few minutes without the wraps,” Christian said. “It’s good to build up some callouses.” While they trained with wraps, the fights were bare-knuckle. While it did no good to go home with bloody fists every day, it was smart to get used to feel of your skin splitting from a hit.
Having sent Peter on his way, Christian set about figuring out a meal himself. He hadn’t eaten his breakfast as it had been such a busy day. There was more to running a boxing training saloon than just barking orders at young men, of course. There were the books to do, the banker to check in with, the knee man and the bottle man to keep fresh, umpires to hire, and a fair amount of society nonsense, too. But he didn’t mind.
Maybe it was his desire to be known for something more than just having a fancy set of friends that compelled him into the ring. Maybe he had the same father issues he accused some of his set of having. But fighting was something Christian had always done well, and it had done well by him in return.
He kept an office, no larger than his closet lodgings, in the back of the warehouse. It had large windows looking out onto the space that allowed him to keep an eye on his fighters, in much the same way he imagined the owners before him had kept an eye on their fish making sure none of them made it home to become a worker’s supper.
He told the youngest pup in his gym to bring him a meal—paying his dues, as it were. The boy was exhausted and now would have to run down the street and back. It was good for his endurance.
Christian sat in his chair and flipped through his correspondence. He dug his fingers into his opposite shoulder, trying to ease some of the tension and ache.
Aye, he was getting older. His body felt it, as did his mind.
Why don’t you settle down, find a wife? You’ve trained enough instructors that you shouldn’t need do more than the occasional exhibition!
That was his friend Robert Crawford talking, and while Christian was used to taking orders from Robert in battle, and often in life—he’d been the one to suggest opening the gymnasium in the first place—Christian had no intention of leaving his students behind. Not when they needed him. Not when a wife would likely want him to quit.
The pup returned, breathing hard. “Your… meal… sir.” He set a steaming folded package, wrapped in newspaper, on the desk. The mouthwatering smell of sausage filled the room. The boy’s stomach grumbled loudly.
Christian wondered if he’d eaten. If he even had funds to eat. Half the boys who came to his saloon couldn’t afford to train here and did so with the agreement that their winnings would be shared. As much as Christian wanted to help them all, he knew a boy became a man when he stood on his own. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to offer the boy something to eat.
“Bit too much food here,” he said, opening the sheet to the sight of four sausages. “Best take one for yourself.”
The boy’s eyes grew wide. His hand clutched his belly. “Thank you, sir. If you insist, sir.”
Christian offered up the sausage and watched with satisfaction as the boy held it in his cupped hands. He took a bite and went out to the floor, sharing it with a few of the other fighters. He made a note to have some food delivered while he and Peter were out of town for Peter’s fight. He could do so under the guise of it being misdirected, and the boys would have something to eat while he was gone. It was only to be four days. They wouldn’t suspect a thing.
He hurriedly ate down the sausages while preparing the packing list. While the fight itself was to be secret, it seemed all of London was ablaze with gossip. Jackson had arranged it between Peter and one of his fighters. It would be the first time that any from their saloons had m
et in battle, and the people ripe for it, not only because Christian and Jackson had a great rivalry, but because they had both agreed to an exhibition performance the day before, thus turning the event into a four-day affair—the arrival, the preparation, the exhibition, and the fight itself.
He was too old and experienced to have nerves over a fight anymore, but Peter’s youthful anxiety whetted his own. He crumpled the newspaper but a name caught his eye, and he smoothed it back out.
Will Almack’s have a new Patroness? Lady Rivington’s golden touch has ensured her previous six wards found titled matches, with each marriage still happy. With a record to rival the Matchmaking Baron, her addition to the ranks is inevitable.
He’d shredded the pages in his hand before he realized it. Good for her, he thought. It was approaching two years since she’d been widowed. It was time for her to reenter society in a more meaningful way.
“Pup,” he called to the boy as he banged his fist against the glass.
The boy looked up and ran into the room. “Yes, sir?”
“Pack an extra bag for me. More travel clothes. I’m thinking of extending my trip after the fight to visit the Continent.”
It had been a while since he’d seen the Continent. There could be more fighting techniques to learn. He could have one of his senior fighters take over his operations in London.
Why come back at all? His friends would be more than happy to visit him. What was there in London for him, anyway.
Sera’s carriage rocked back and forth as the horses managed as aggressive a speed as could be managed on London’s crowded streets. She would normally never be so reckless, but the note in her hand implied urgency.
We need you. Please come home.
Much of Sera Abernathy’s life was at once a blessing and a curse. There was her beauty, of course, always the first thing to be remarked upon by strangers and those who knew her alike. She wasn’t feeble-minded and knew the advantages she reaped by virtue of her face were enough that she could have been poor as a church mouse, and just as witted, and still married well. Her moniker of the Belle Belle still stuck even after she’d married and been widowed.