Nathaniel lifted a brow and decided against explaining to the man that the Five Points was no gentleman’s sporting club. There were sports, yes, and there were men, yes, but no gentlemen. Only pimps, whores and thieves. “Oh, yes. It was very exclusive. I could barely afford it.” He tried to keep his tone serious.
Jackson leaned in. “Permit me to confide the deep respect I have for the story that surrounds you. Most of your peers have no understanding of why a man boxes. They think it valiant, masculine and designed to keep a man fit. And yes, of course, it does, but what they don’t realize is that life forces some of us into putting our fists up long before we even knew it was a sport. That is a true boxer.”
He liked this man. “Well said, sir.”
“I say a lot of things well, but for some damn reason my fists get all the glory.” Jackson smirked. “Come with me.” Wagging a hand, Jackson made his way past a group of young aristocratic-looking men who had ceased training to acknowledge him.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Jackson!” the young men called out almost in unison.
“Good afternoon, my lords.”
The group of men eyed Nathaniel and then Jackson. “By God, is that him?” one of the five asked, pointing to Nathaniel. “Is that the missing heir who is setting aside his title for a boxing title? Do we get to fight him?”
Nathaniel smirked. He already felt famous.
“Yes, yes,” Jackson called out. “You will all get a chance to spar with him later. Now get back to swinging.”
“Yes, sir!”
There was no doubt Jackson, who, according to sporting papers had once worked as a mere corn porter before rising to fame, had earned an impressive and high place in respectable society among aristos and gentry alike. Being the Champion of England earned that for a man.
Nathaniel could only imagine what the title was going to earn for him.
Jackson tapped at a tall, wooden tripod bearing a large scale with iron weights on one side and a wooden seat hanging by ropes on the other. “Sit. And lift your feet until I’m done.”
With a swift turn, Nathaniel lowered himself onto the wooden seat. Grabbing the ropes to steady himself, he lifted both booted feet into the air, causing the seat to sway.
Jackson added an iron weight to the set of weights already on the scale and glanced at the bar above the tripod to see if it was level. He added another weight, then another and another before finally stepping back.
Jackson sniffed, looking at Nathaniel’s weight on the scale. “It could be more given your height.” Pulling out a small pencil from the pocket of his britches, he grabbed up a ledger from beside the scale, flipped it open and wrote something in it. Setting both aside, Jackson asked, “What do you usually eat?”
Nathaniel shrugged. “Stew, mutton, yams. Whatever I can afford.”
“You will need to learn to focus on eating better. I will ensure you get a list of what you should be eating. Focus on not only eating well, but eating often. Except during days of combat, that is. Get off the scale.”
Nathaniel jumped off, leaving it swinging, and adjusted his linen shirt. “What next?”
Jackson pointed to a door beyond the scale. “In there. Weston is waiting to negotiate the terms.”
Nathaniel blew out a breath and strode around the scale, opening the door beyond it. Despite getting to work with Jackson, he felt nervous about handing over his boxing life like this. But it was his best and his only chance at crawling out of the dirt hole he was living in without having to rely on Auggie’s family, and he absolutely refused to be a burden.
Stepping in, Nathaniel closed the door with the heel of his boot and turned toward a cluttered room lit with several lamps.
Behind a mahogany writing desk piled with books, papers and ledgers was none other than Weston, casually leaning back in a chair with an open newspaper held chin-high before him. Weston’s dark blond hair was meticulously brushed back in its usual sleek fashion. A grey pin-striped morning coat and matching wool trousers made him look like the well-to-do dandy that he was.
For some reason, the man ignored him and kept reading.
Nathaniel couldn’t help but feel irked. “Don’t tell me the paper is more interesting than my career.”
Sharp green eyes lifted and met Nathaniel’s. The paper slowly came down, revealing a smatter of yellow-blue and black bruises across Weston’s cheekbone and entire square jaw. “Sit. Now.”
Nathaniel didn’t like the tone or that stare. What the hell was this? “Addressing me like a dog isn’t wise on your part. You might end up with a few more bruises.”
Weston tossed the paper to the floor with the flick of his wrist and rose to his height of almost six feet, adjusting his morning coat around his broad frame.
Veering around the desk and heading toward him, Weston rigidly pointed. “You—Atwood—are an asshole. A real asshole. And I am tossing the word asshole at you not because it’s a word I frequently use, for I consider myself to be a gentleman, but because you had the bloody gall to use that vile word in the presence of my sister. My nineteen-year-old untainted—until now!—sister. What the devil do you have to say for your lack of refinement and crude conduct?”
Nathaniel leaned back. Although he might have said it the first night she and he met, he honestly couldn’t remember. He’d said a lot of things to her that night, which all blurred together into his head because he spent half their conversation trying not to…touch her. “I’m sorry if I did. In all honesty, I don’t remember.”
“Oh, but you did. How do I know? Because she up and called me an asshole. Me. Her own brother.”
Nathaniel rumbled out a startled laugh. “Now, now, I doubt that little bird even knows what it means.”
“Let me assure you, that little bird used it in the context in which it was supposed to be used, asshole.”
Nathaniel rumbled out another laugh. “Are you certain she didn’t hear it from you? Because you seem to be using the word quite a bit.”
Weston narrowed his gaze. “Listen here and listen well. I spent the last week and a half taking coaches from one side of town to the other and back again, digging tirelessly into who the hell you really are. And I will say, I have never come across anything more bewildering and muddled than the story of your so-called life. American Loyalists, panels in a wall leading to hidden tunnels, countless investigators, including that of the Crown’s, baffled at having no evidence, and a calling card with the words Death to the British given to the Duke of Wentworth, years after the boy’s disappearance, by a nameless man who was never seen again.”
Nathaniel widened his stance in agitation. “If you know everything there is to know about my so-called life, why talk to me about it?”
Weston angled toward him. “Because I’m far from done. The Duke of Wentworth, whom I greatly admire and respect, vouches that you are indeed this missing heir. I am inclined to believe him for he is a man of worth and honor. But then there is your father. Another man of worth and honor. I visited him to discuss these same details. After he ushered his wife out of the room, who was intently asking me questions about the man who claims to be her son, he then locked us away in the farthest part of the house as if we were about to discuss the origin of human nature with God himself.”
Weston grabbed Nathaniel’s shoulder and squeezed it hard. “Not only does Lord Sumner deny your claim, but when I asked him to see a portrait or a sketch of what you might have looked like as a child, to assist me in seeing any resemblance and coming to my own conclusion, he had none to show. None. He destroyed them out of grief. Now, whilst I am no longer a father, for sadly, every child I have ever tried to conceive never survived beyond their first few months of life, I do know one thing. Grief doesn’t make a father destroy his own child’s likeness. I have a lock of every one of my children’s hair I keep in a drawer and look at to bring me closer to what might have been. And had they lived long enough, I would have had their likenesses painted and kept all of those, too. So why would
a father do such a thing?”
Nathaniel felt a part of himself crumble, the way it had many, many years ago in his youth, but otherwise said nothing. Because he knew all too well why his father had annihilated all evidence. Because he, Nathaniel, represented everything his father had tried to bury. Everything his father had hoped would never resurface. The old man was no doubt panicking but was too much of a coward to do anything about it.
Weston sighed. “I didn’t know what to think. I still don’t. I even went back to the duke to present him the baffling exchange I had with Lord Sumner, only to be astounded again. The duke informed me that there is still one portrait in existence should anyone challenge the claim of you being Sumner’s missing heir. Only…said portrait lies buried with his beloved wife in the family crypt. I insisted he not disturb the grave of his wife. ’Tis crude and senseless. That said, despite the duke’s unwavering faith in who you are, I still need assurance and I mean to get it.”
Weston crossed his arms over his chest. “If you are indeed this missing heir, tell me what happened. Piece together this mess of calling cards, hidden panels and American Loyalists. Because I’m not about to invest a goddamn farthing into your boxing career until you tell me what the devil you are about and from whence you came. Those are the terms.”
Nathaniel’s throat pulsed, knowing he had to give just enough to get Weston to calm down. Lest he lose this offer and he was back into the dirt hole. “I can tell you a few things. But I can’t tell you everything.”
“I need to know more than a few things, Atwood. Ten thousand pounds isn’t a flick of lint I’m ready to toss.”
Nathaniel’s expression stilled. “I’m not about to hang what little remains of my family for your goddamn morbid sense of curiosity. My life isn’t a theatrical you can pay admission for.”
Weston was quiet for a moment. “What can you tell me? So I may trust what you are saying?”
Flexing his hand, Nathaniel cracked every knuckle. “It wasn’t a group of American Loyalists. It was a lone Venetian man who printed up cards with a set of words to create an illusion of being more than he really was. He wanted everyone to think that my disappearance was a nationalist motive against the crown. When, in fact, it wasn’t.”
Nathaniel drew in a breath in an attempt to keep his countenance calm. “And yes, there was a hidden panel. I knew about it long before I disappeared. It accidentally unlatched itself when I was using the wall for a target with my slingshot. I would use it to play Revolution and never told anyone, lest it be nailed shut. No one came into the house the night I disappeared. I left the house, using the panel, thinking, as any stupid ten-year-old boy with a pistol would, that I could face anything. Only to find myself in a situation I wasn’t able to get out of. The rest of the story, asshole, you will have to accept never knowing or I find myself another patron. You decide. Do you want a boxer? Or do you want a story? Because you can have the boxer but you damn well won’t ever get the story.”
Weston’s green eyes intently sought his, that bruised face and jaw tightening. After a pulsing moment, he half nodded. “I know conviction when I see it. And I see it. I respect whatever you have suffered and ask that you forgive me for intruding upon what you have every right to hold against your soul.” Weston stuck out a hand. “I wish to bestow unto you my firm belief, based upon the Duke of Wentworth’s faith in you, that you are indeed the missing heir. It is an honor to welcome you into my circle.”
Nathaniel gripped his hand. Hard. “And I wish to bestow unto you my firm belief that nothing will impede upon my ability to perform in the ring.”
“Excellent. That is exactly what I wanted to hear.” Weston hooked his thumbs into the trim of his pockets. “Here is the offer. A full seven thousand for you to cradle when the ink dries, all of your living expenses fully paid and Mr. Jackson himself as your right hand. The terms, which will be stipulated in a contract that will be witnessed by my lawyer when you sign, is that you get to keep half the winnings of every fight, including the championship. Together, we stand to make about a quarter of a million. If not more.”
Nathaniel didn’t even have to blink. “Done.”
Weston adjusted the sleeves of his morning coat. “No. We aren’t done quite yet. For although, yes, I will be profiting from your wins, I am not, nor will I be, your investor.”
Nathaniel’s brows came together. “Who is?”
“My sister. Gene.”
His palms felt annoyingly moist. “Your sister? I… What do you mean?”
“What I mean is that I don’t have any money to invest. My wife is my money and I’m not one to dig into the pockets of others. Even this has been hard for me to do. I’m here merely to negotiate the terms of the contract for my sister. She will actually be the one investing money in you. And not just any money, mind you. Her inheritance. Which is all the money she has. I thought you might want to know that.”
This couldn’t be happening.
Weston scratched at his jaw and then winced, realizing all too late that he was engaging a bruise. “There isn’t a thing I would deny that girl. I have spent years upon years of my life guilt-stricken, knowing I was unforgivably stupid in my younger years. I tried to save what little money my mother and Gene and I had by hiring the cheapest governess I could. As a result, Gene suffered for weeks, because, even at the age of seven, she was damned determined to protect her family from a crazed woman who threatened to burn down the house if she lost her position. A woman whose method of assisting Gene with her stutter was to force her to hold lye in her mouth to ‘loosen’ her tongue. Lye. After Gene almost died from gaping sores that had become infected due to repeated exposure to that lye, I swore to not only give her everything but to protect her from everything. Even if it meant kneeling myself. And I have. Everything I do is for that girl, Atwood. Everything. You need to know that.”
Nathaniel’s chest tightened in riled angst, loathing what Imogene had endured. Yet, unlike him, she had somehow remained…soft. It was humbling. He tried to appear indifferent even though he was anything but. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because even though I initially resisted her and this whole idea, she needs this far more than I need a divorce. She always thinks of herself as a burden to everyone and I want her to realize she is not only of worth but can change the lives of others. And you, and this, may be her chance.” Weston slowly shook his head. “Though she would cringe to no end if she knew I was telling you any of this, aside from her fainting spells, Gene also stutters. Whilst she has taught herself to speak incredibly well, when it does overtake her ability to speak, she lapses into forms of silence that are damn deadly. There could be a fire and you wouldn’t be able to get her to scream. She withdraws when overly riled or panicked. Mind you, I have always kept her from experiencing those situations for the sake of her mind and health. She suffers from severe ailments and oddities that make her incredibly vulnerable.”
Weston pointed rigidly at him, his green eyes sharpening. “You had better treat her with every respect she deserves for however long this ruse lasts. If I hear of anything remotely displeasing—anything—you will regret ever meeting me. Do you understand?”
Nathaniel stared. “I’m confused here. What are you saying? What are you asking me to do?”
Weston widened his stance. “I’m tasked to inform you, Atwood, that she won’t offer you the contract unless you agree to marry her. Call it collateral for the ten thousand she is investing. We know of your reputation for skipping out on investors, and we will be damned if we are left flailing in the wake of your flight. She also wishes to be personally involved in every aspect of your career until the championship and knows that isn’t possible given she is a woman. Unless, of course, she becomes your wife. Four months from now, once the championship has been won or lost, then you and she will split all profits, whatever they may be, and go your separate ways. That is the agreement.”
Nathaniel almost choked on the astounded breath he sucked in
through his nostrils. “Are you bloody serious?”
Weston was quiet for a moment. “I am.”
“She expects me to marry her and hand over my entire boxing career?”
“As your patron and investor, she has the right to set the terms of the contract.”
“And what the devil does she know about boxing?”
“Absolutely nothing aside from a few pages she has read from a book. Jackson is the one who will actually be guiding you and your boxing. Which Gene will also be graciously paying for. Jackson’s skills are anything but cheap. My sister will be focusing on developing your popularity with the masses and insists on attending all of your training sessions and boxing events to ensure her investment remains intact.”
He gaped. “What the hell are you talking about? Since when do women attend training sessions? Or boxing events?”
“Since Gene fancied it. It won’t last, Atwood. Once she sees real blood spray, you won’t have to worry about her insisting.”
“And what does she get out of this arrangement?”
“Half your winnings and a sense of security that you won’t take off with the money. Despite her submitting to being your wife for four months, she would still be your patron and as such, would expect you to follow whatever rules she sets until you go your separate ways. That would include keeping your hands to yourself during all four months of the marriage.”
Nathaniel snorted. “No one owns me like that. I own me. You be sure to fucking tell her that.”
Weston slowly smoothed his cravat. “I’m afraid I won’t be playing messenger. Gene expects you to call on her with your response in the next few days. As you well know, we only have four months to get you into the championship. That doesn’t leave us much time.”
Nathaniel swiped his face in exasperation. If he went to see her, he could very well find himself in a situation he couldn’t get out of. Because he’d find it difficult to say no to her. He’d always had trouble denying women what they needed most, and with a woman like her it would be doubly challenging. He just couldn’t say yes to the idea of a woman controlling every aspect of his life for four months. He couldn’t give up control—it defined him.
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