She told herself she was lucky that he didn't notice her. She might not possess looks or charms, but she did have good sense. She must put Mr. Fines out of her mind and focus on the future laid out for her. To do anything else would inevitably lead to heartbreak, and once was quite enough.
FIVE
The punch caught Paul in the midsection. Though he grunted, he welcomed the cleansing jolt of pain and retreated, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet, his arms up in guard position once more. Gentleman Jackson had drilled the importance of keeping one's fists in the correct posture, ready to attack or defend as the situation warranted. From the looks of it, attack would be Paul's next move. Though Nicholas Morgan was the larger man, he was showing signs of fatigue, his dark hair drenched with perspiration, his broad chest heaving as he and Paul circled each other in the ring.
Paul pressed his advantage. As the quicker of the two, he advanced his attack, letting his fists fly in a jab-jab-hook combination. He stayed light on his feet, ducking blows and landing his own in a fierce, rhythmic staccato. He punched with the entirety of his being, sweet concentration emptying his mind. His muscles took over; his blood sang.
Punch. Duck. Feign to the left.
Right jab. Right jab.
Left uppercut.
"Bloody hell, Fines. Stop. I give."
It took an instant for the other's words to sink in. Swiping the sweat from his eyes, Paul saw that Nicholas was leaning against the ropes. The marquess stripped off his practice gloves and touched a hand to his jaw, wincing.
"Alright, old boy?" Paul said.
"Hell of a facer. No wonder you won those exhibition matches," Nicholas said ruefully. "And you're not even winded, damn your hide."
"The Gentleman keeps his students in excellent condition. If you'd come to the saloon once in a while, you'd be in better fighting shape yourself."
"I've been busy." Stepping through the ropes, Nicholas said in a pointed tone, "Fines & Co. doesn't run itself you know."
"With you at the helm, it nearly does," Paul said smoothly.
He was all too familiar with the direction the conversation was heading. For years, his mother and Nicholas had been on him to assume what they considered his rightful position in the company his father had founded. Nicholas had been Jeremiah's protégé and had worked his way up to partnership. After his mentor's passing, Nick had taken over the helm.
As a lad, Paul had initially resented Nick, who, in truth, had been the son Jeremiah had always wanted—the one Paul could never be. At the same time, he'd been too honest to envy another for something he himself had no intention of working for. Had he longed for his father's approval? Yes. Had he wished that he and his father might meet on some common ground? Certainly. But did he intend to slave away at the company and sacrifice everything else in his life?
No. Bloody. Way.
As a boy, he'd witnessed the aftermath of his father's work ethic. Night after night, he'd glimpsed the lonely tears his mama tried to hide. He'd watched his baby sister post herself at the parlor window, the hope in her eyes fading as the figure she waited for didn't materialize. Though Paul doubted their sire had kept a mistress, Jeremiah had betrayed his women nonetheless. The warehouse had been as demanding as a harem of doxies.
When it came to gaining Jeremiah's attention, Paul hadn't fared any better. He'd never had a head for numbers or business, and his father's constant lectures hadn't made him all that keen to acquire the skills. The things that Paul did have a natural affinity for—gentlemanly pursuits such as sporting and the arts—frustrated and bewildered Jeremiah to no end.
What is the point of boxing, lad? You're wasting time and energy that could be spent on serious endeavors. When will you mature and face your responsibilities?
If being mature meant giving up everything and everyone he loved, then he supposed the answer to Papa's question was … never. He fought off the familiar mix of resentment and shame.
"Anna's fondest wish is for you to have a place at the company," Nicholas began.
Paul grimly stripped off his shirt and toweled himself off. "At this point, the mater's accustomed to being disappointed by me. Why confuse her now?"
Frowning, Nicholas donned a fresh shirt and waistcoat. He dressed himself with a facility foreign to most gentlemen for he hadn't always lived the life of a lord. Many years ago, when they were changing after one of their first sparring matches, Paul had inadvertently seen the grotesque scars crisscrossing Nick's back: souvenirs of a childhood spent surviving the stews. Any jealousy Paul had harbored had vaporized, replaced by … compassion.
From that moment on, he'd figured that Nicholas Morgan deserved all the affection that the Fines family could provide—his own included.
Nick had paid their loyalty back in spades. He'd helped Jeremiah to expand the business to its current empire and, after the latter's death, continued to run the company and provide for the Fineses. Paul's yearly income of five thousand pounds came from a share of the profits. And when Nick had unexpectedly inherited a title, he hadn't turned his back on them; he'd continued to treat the middling class Fineses as he would his own kin. In truth, he'd long been an older brother to Paul and Percy.
Like any older sibling, Nicholas had the annoying habit of thinking he knew best. He began to pace the length of the exercise room. A bad sign, for it indicated that he meant to go on awhile.
"'Tis no laughing matter, Fines. Your mother is concerned about your future, and frankly, so am I. It's been nearly a year since …"—Nick cleared his throat—"the setback. Now that you've recovered, 'tis high time you set your life's purpose."
Leave it to Nick to call nearly losing one's fortune and becoming a gin sot a setback.
"You're seven-and-twenty, with excellent prospects. All you need is structure and discipline. You must decide upon your goals and work diligently toward them," Nick continued in an imperious manner worthy of any marquess.
'Twas as good a time as any to share his plan, Paul supposed. He'd woken up this afternoon both spent and dull-hearted from yet another evening of debauchery. The strange interaction with Charity Sparkler hadn't helped matters: she'd made him feel like a cad ... and he didn't even know why. If an encounter with a mousy miss could throw him off-kilter, then he obviously needed something—anything—to anchor his drifting existence.
He mentally reviewed the best way to share his new goal. He told himself his plan was sound, yet the pitiful truth was that his past mistakes had made him doubt his own judgment. He needed to air his ideas, to get advice—and if there was anything Nick could be relied upon to supply, it was the latter.
"As it happens, I agree with you," Paul said.
Nick's dark brows came together. "You … do?"
"I've become aware that it is time for me to pursue some defined purpose in life."
"Exactly. That is clear thinking, Fines."
"In order to do so, however, I believe that one must find a balance between one's, er, passions and gainful activity."
"Do you speak of marriage? A wife certainly can provide balance to a man's life." Nicholas' grey eyes warmed, and it wasn't difficult to guess why. Nick's marchioness was a prime article, though Paul would probably lose his teeth if he were to mention it. "Mean to shop the marriage mart at last, do you, Fines? That would please your mama to no end."
"Actually, that isn't what I—"
The opening of the door cut Paul short. Two men entered, as opposite from one another as day and night. Ambrose Kent, the taller and lankier of the pair, was an upstanding member of the Thames River Police. He spent his days chasing down criminals, and several months ago he'd managed to catch the ultimate prize. For the life of him, Paul didn't understand how an earnest policeman with only pennies to rub together had managed to capture the heart of the stunning—and stunningly wealthy—Lady Marianne Draven.
Which went to show, Paul mused, how little he understood about love.
Then there was the other fellow. The strapping o
ne with the pronounced scar and ruthless air, whose mere presence made Paul's muscles bunch with instinctive apprehension. Not so long ago, Gavin Hunt had been the cutthroat who'd held Paul's vowels ransom. But destiny had taken an unexpected turn, and now the blackguard was his bloody brother-in-law.
The Fates did indeed have a twisted sense of humor. Yet Paul had to grudgingly admit that he'd never seen Percy happier—and Hunt seemed as fiercely devoted to her as a wolfhound. 'Twas a small consolation, Paul supposed, to see his former enemy and lord of the underworld panting after his sister like a damned canine. But it didn't mean that he had to like the man.
He rose and inclined his head stiffly. "Good day, gentlemen."
"Fines." Hunt's mouth had a derisive bent. "Getting knocked around, are you?"
"Step into the ring and we'll see who gets knocked about," Paul challenged.
"I'd sit this one out if I were you, Hunt," Nicholas said. "There's a reason the lad bested those prizefighters. Just now I was the unfortunate recipient of his prowess."
Hunt looked unimpressed. "There's Bond Street boxing, and then there's real fighting. I can handle myself."
"Before this ends in bloodshed," Ambrose Kent said mildly, "I was promised a cigar. Mrs. Kent dispatched me to smoke with you fellows so that she could find your ladies and gossip with them."
"According to Percy, it isn't gossip," Hunt said with a know-it-all air. "They talk about important female matters."
"So speaks the newlywed. I propose we retreat to the study whilst we still have the chance," Nick said dryly.
Soon they were all ensconced in the wingchairs of the male refuge, the rich scent of leather and cigar smoke curling in the air. A view of the picnic was framed by the tall windows. By some tacit agreement—Paul was both embarrassed and relieved to note—the others did not partake of spirits, sticking instead to the fortifying pots of coffee and tea.
"Have to hand it to you, Harteford,"—Hunt blew out a smoke ring—"you know how to live."
"Don't get the wrong idea. This sort of peaceful interlude happens in this household only during the eclipse," Nick said, "and perhaps the full moon. Any moment now the twins will come charging in, tossing their new brother between them like a ball."
Knowing the Hartefords' high-spirited boys, this scenario was not farfetched.
"Has your fair lady forgiven you for saddling her with yet another male?" Paul said.
Nick's grin flashed white against his swarthy complexion. "I'm working on it."
"There's always the next time," Paul drawled.
"Which shan't be for a while. We have our hands full with three scamps," the marquess said. "We'll leave the breeding to the other married fellows present."
Silence descended upon the study. Hunt rubbed the back of his neck and put out his cigar with undue concentration. Kent's face turned a ruddy shade.
"Good God, the both of you?" Paul said.
"Percy wanted me to share the news." Hunt's gruff tones did not hide the pride in his voice. "The babe's due in autumn."
His hoyden of a sister was going to be a mama. Paul could scarce comprehend it. Despite the wholehearted gladness he felt for Percy, the winds of change stirred his nape. He experienced a moment's panic—like that of a child lost in a crowd. Everyone and everything was changing around him; if he didn't find his way soon, he'd be left alone and far behind.
"And ours soon thereafter," Kent said.
"Welcome to the club, gentlemen." Grinning, Nicholas rose to exchange hearty back slaps.
Paul went and offered his hand to his brother-in-law. "Congratulations, Hunt."
Hunt returned his firm shake, muttering, "If the babe's a boy, Percy's got a bee in her bonnet about naming him after you."
"Apollo Hunt—is she mad?" Paul said, aghast. "With a name like that, my nephew's head will be intimately acquainted with every chamber pot in Eton—if he survives to school age. I'll have to teach him to box just so he can protect himself."
Hunt grunted in agreement.
Once they were settled in their chairs again, Nicholas said, "We old fellows shouldn't hog all the attention. We must hear from the younger set as well." He turned an expectant gaze to Paul. "Before you gentlemen arrived, Fines was about to tell me his own good news."
Kent's dark brows shot up. "Has our young rake been bitten by the matrimonial bug at last?"
"Percy hasn't breathed a word about this." Hunt looked puzzled, as if he couldn't fathom his wife not telling him everything. "Have you told her or your mother as yet?"
"Lord Almighty, I am not getting leg-shackled. Being around you love-addled fools is enough to turn any man off the idea of marriage." Paul shook his head in exasperation. "What I was trying to tell his lordship is that I'm going into business for myself."
"Business?" Nick frowned. "Of what sort?"
In for a penny.
"Prizefighting," Paul said succinctly.
A pause.
Nicholas said, "Be serious. You said you had a purpose in mind."
"I am serious. I plan to rebuild my fortune through boxing." When silence met his words, Paul took a breath and plunged on. "After the exhibition matches, Viscount Traymore approached me. He thinks that I have the potential to be a champion. He wants to back me in a tournament the Fancy is organizing."
The Fancy was a powerful group of men who financed, organized, and wagered on sporting events. The ultimate men's men, the members of the Fancy came from all walks of life and shared one common goal: they thrived on risk and danger. The prizefights they sponsored were illegal, arranged in semi-secrecy, and attracted thousands of spectators. Hundreds of thousands of pounds traded hands at a single match. The riots and bloodshed that oft occurred were part of the thrill.
"I know prizefighting falls outside a gentleman's domain, but given the dishonor I've heaped upon myself, I've nothing to lose, have I?" Paul gave a self-deprecating shrug. "And perhaps much to gain. Two months from now, matches will be held across England to determine the Fancy's next Champion, and Traymore wants to be my patron. He's got a bottle man and knee man lined up," Paul said, referring to the duo that assisted a boxer during matches, "and he'll cover the expenses of the training and accommodations. All I have to do is put in the hard work. So what do you think?"
"You don't want to know," Nicholas said grimly.
Paul felt his hackles rise. "You might consider my plan for more than a second."
"I don't need a second to know that this is an idiotic, harebrained scheme."
"Because it doesn't fit your narrow definition of gainful enterprise?" Just once, why couldn't anyone take him seriously? Jaw clenched, Paul said, "Many would argue that trade isn't fit for a marquess and yet you toddle off merrily to a warehouse every day."
Nicholas' brows lowered. "That's hardly the same—"
"Is it sport or true enterprise that you're after?" Hunt cut in. "Because no one gives a damn what you do for leisure, Fines. God knows you top-o'-the-trees gents got plenty of free time."
"I said business and I meant it," Paul snapped.
"Where's the blunt to come from, then? Because business involves money." Hunt spoke with the emphasis one might use when explaining matters to a small, slightly daft child. "So far I ain't heard a word about how you intend to profit from dancing pretty around the ring."
Patronizing ass. "The purse for the tournament is five thousand pounds, and I'll split the winnings with Traymore fifty-fifty," Paul said through gritted teeth. "Which is only fair, given that he will put up the stake."
"Five thousand quid ain't sizeable enough for Traymore to invest his time and effort. I've been to fights hosted by the Fancy; the true profit comes from all the wagering that goes on. And I was under the impression that you'd sworn off gaming," Hunt said pointedly, "having nearly lost your fortune at it before."
"Only because you laid a trap for me, you holier-than-thou bastard!" Paul's face heated, his chest straining beneath his waistcoat. "This is different!"
"
The situation may not be as different as you believe." Though Ambrose Kent had remained quiet up until now, his measured words commanded attention. "These matches attract all manner of riffraff—er, no offense, Hunt …"
"None taken," Hunt said.
"… including cutthroats, percents, and bookmakers looking to make an easy mark. These are not the sort of men you wish to get involved with."
"I won't get involved with the wagering," Paul protested. "What Traymore does with his money is none of my business. My goal is to win the title. As Champion, I can open my own boxing saloon like Jackson or Richmond before him. That is how I intend to rebuild my fortune."
"And if you don't win? What then?" Nicholas said.
Anger scorched like acid in Paul's chest. "Why must you assume the worst of me? Why can't anyone, just once, clap me on the back and support my decision?"
"Because this is an asinine plan," the other snapped, "and I don't want to see you make any more mistakes than you already have."
The blow could not have been aimed any lower. Paul had no defense against the leveler; how could he, when he had indeed made a hash of his entire past and was a failure through and through? Jeremiah's voice, raspy and faint, echoed in Paul's ears.
You could have been more, my dear boy. Far more. That is my greatest disappointment.
He shut out the words, the last he'd heard at his father's bedside. Yet, sensing blood, all the demons roused within him. Rosalind's tear-stained face surfaced. It's too late, Paul. My father has promised me to Lord Monteith. He saw himself imbibing bottle after bottle of ruin to wash away the pain. And at the clubs, throwing his money away, brawling over the slightest provocation ... hiding, desperate and despicable, in that hovel in Spitalfields …
Paul pushed to his feet, needing to escape from his failures. From the hiss and snap of his bedeviled past. "Since there's to be no discussion," he said tightly, "I'll take my leave."
Her Prodigal Passion Page 4