She rolled her eyes. “Let them try.”
“You think I’m joking?” He leaned back against the seat. “There’s only one way to go about this. I’m moving in with you until we figure this out. It’s not like I have a place to stay and God only knows this is heading toward matrimony anyway.”
She gawked and then altogether spat out, “I will hire the entire British fleet in the name of protecting myself, but you are not going to be part of it. Nor are we heading anywhere near matrimony after last night!”
“Ey. You need to calm down.”
She gasped. “I do?”
“Yes. No romantic association is utopian and everyone makes mistakes. And I made a mistake. I’ll admit it. There is no need to overreact.”
She narrowed her gaze. “Mr. Milton. We have a much bigger problem you do not seem to be acknowledging here. That being—I do not trust you anymore. Nor do I want you around me after what you did to me last night. Do you honestly think I’m about to forgive being strapped like a lamb ready to be roasted on a spit?”
What was a man supposed to say to that?
He swiped his face, too exhausted to even argue after a long night of sitting on a slab of stone on the floor Scotland Yard called a chair. “What do you want me to do?”
“First, I want you to tell me about these men in New York. The ones Georgia and Coleman keep mentioning. Who are they to you? I want to know.”
It wasn’t as if he had a reputation to save before her eyes. He sighed. “Coleman and I lead a group of men known as the Forty Thieves. It commenced with a hail to integrity and protecting people in our community that eventually morphed into depending on weapons and thievery due to threats against our lives and how little we have. In the eyes of society, I’m a thief and I fully accept that. For I am. I do steal. But everything I do has not to do with maintaining a lifestyle as much as ensuring that I and others continue to breathe. So in answer to your question, Bernadette, these men are, in fact, my family. My mother died when I was twelve, my father died several years ago and I never had any siblings. Which is only one of many reasons as to why I wanted a family of my own. Because as it stands, I have nothing. ’Tis only me, my boys, Ronan and the boots we’re all wearing. Which isn’t much.”
“And what do these men depend on you for?”
“A genuine purpose outside the misery we’ve all been sentenced to. When each came to me, looking to go up against the violence in the ward, they had nothing. Not even the ability to read. In turn for their loyalty, I gave them an education so that they might understand their rights as United States citizens, while Coleman gave them the ability to fight so we could all maintain a presence. ’Tis far more than anyone has ever given these men. All they ever wanted was a chance to become more. And Coleman and I gave them that chance.”
He lowered his gaze and shook his head, knowing she would never understand. It had been difficult trying to even convince his father to understand the necessity of a group in a poverty-stricken area, where the one rule was: There are no rules. “The only reason I left New York was because seventeen men in a neighboring ward wanted me dead. Why? Because I work alongside marshals who arrest people all the time and I had to get out. When you’ve got that many people on you, something as simple as walking down the street becomes a problem.”
She slowly shook her head, that gaze of contempt never once leaving his. “I can forgive certain things, including theft and men wanting you dead, but I am not about to forgive what you did to me last night when I repeatedly tried to help you.” After a long moment of silence, she added, “I spoke to Coleman. Or should I say...Lord Atwood.”
Matthew’s gaze snapped to hers. “He told you?”
“Yes. Apparently, he felt a need to confide in a fellow aristocrat. And needless to say, Matthew, you keep very disturbing company.”
He held her gaze. “What did he say? What did he do?”
“Enough to make me realize that I am better off without you.”
He drew in a burning breath. Coleman had slit the last of whatever opportunity he might have had with this woman. And he had no doubt the man did it in honor of the boys. The son of a bitch. “I don’t know what he said to you, but I can say here and now that Coleman—or rather, Atwood—has a warped perception toward women that does not represent my own. You’re angry with me right now, which I completely understand, but I have no doubt you and I will figure this out and move on to something more meaningful outside of what others think or say.”
She stared. “I do not want you in my life, Mr. Milton. And nothing you or anyone else says will ever change that.”
Those words stabbed him a bit harder than he had expected them to. And that was when he realized he had a bigger problem. He didn’t want to leave her. He really didn’t. Nor was he going to. He was going to redeem himself. After he beat the shite out of Coleman, that is.
He shook his head and kept shaking it. “Setting aside everything we’ve already shared, which you can deny all you want, but can never be erased, I’m not leaving you unprotected. It’s as simple as that.”
“As I said, I do not need your protection. I would rather hire the British fleet, who will dutifully abide not only by my law, but the law of the land. Something you clearly have trouble with.” Slipping her reticule from her wrist, she stiffly held it out. “Here. I am giving you fifty pounds to ensure I never see you again. Which, in my opinion, is overly generous.” She paused and then added, “And should our paths ever cross once I return to New York City, which I highly doubt, for my people are not your people, I suggest you run.”
His brows rose. “You don’t live here? But I thought—”
“No. I don’t live here. How do you think I know Georgia? Mr. Astor was the one to introduce us back in New York.”
His eyes widened as the carriage came to a halt. The footmen thudded down from the box outside to open the door. “I didn’t know that you— For God’s sake. Don’t do this to me, Bernadette. I know I stupidly dirked you, and Coleman isn’t the most pleasant of souls, but I’m asking that you give me a second chance. Every man deserves a second chance. Let me show you the sort of man I really am. Outside of...this.”
“’Tis already obvious the sort of man you really are.”
He leaned toward her, biting back the savage need to grab her and make her realize that he was being genuine. “Do you not understand that if you make me walk away from you and this, Bernadette, without giving me a chance to redeem myself, I won’t be able to rest, let alone breathe.”
“Then you will not rest. Then you will not breathe. And in my opinion, you deserve as much. For I have been crossed too many times by too many bastards to trust you. Once a man proves himself unworthy, he doesn’t get another chance. That is how I ensure the crop stays in my hand, instead of his.” She waved the reticule. “If our short time together meant anything to you, Matthew, anything, you will respect my decision in this. Now, take it and disappear.”
A part of him crumpled. He really couldn’t breathe.
She rattled the reticule.
Knowing he had to respect her decision in this, especially as she was asking him to, he reached out and grasped the beaded reticule, slipping it from her gloved fingers. Trying to keep his voice calm, he said, “I want you to hire that goddamn fleet. You got that? Don’t toss dice thinking our association is over simply because you say it’s over. Especially given that you live in New York.”
“You needn’t worry. I will hire them merely to ensure you stay away.”
Now, that hurt.
“Keep the reticule,” she added. “You can sell it for more money should you need it.”
That also hurt. Matthew shifted his jaw, tightening his grip on the reticule until the beads dug into his skin.
The carriage door opened.
The footman unfolded the stairs.
“Limmer’s is just outside, Mr. Milton. I thought I would do you the courtesy of dropping you off at your destination.”
She was showing him the door. Quite literally.
He drew in a ragged breath, knowing this was goodbye to all that might have been. “My only wish is that you could have gotten to know me. Not as a thief, but as a man,” he admitted.
Without meeting her gaze, he rose and jumped out of the carriage, not making use of the stairs, feeling a desperate need to escape her presence before he drowned. It was the first time in his life he ever felt like a lowlife. A real one.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Beware the charmer known to tell everything but the truth.
—The Truth Teller, a New York Newspaper for Gentlemen
MATTHEW BANGED OPEN the narrow door leading into Coleman’s small leased room. “You are a bloody arsehole, you know that?”
Coleman, who was in a state of undress down to mere trousers and had just finished securing his shoulder-length hair at the nape of his neck, swung toward him. Those blue eyes widened as a grin overtook his unshaven face. “Milton! I’ll be. She got you out.”
Matthew narrowed his gaze. “I’ll probably be dragged right back in by the time you and I are done. What the hell did you do? What the hell did you tell her...Atwood?”
Crossing his arms over his bare chest, Coleman’s grin was replaced by an overly stoic expression. “Whether I had said anything or not, that woman was damn determined to be rid of you. Not that I blame her.” He tsked. “Tying a woman up with your own leather belts and stealing her lover’s jewels? That isn’t the way to go about winning over a woman, Milton. Even I know that much.”
Matthew glared. “I don’t need a lecture right now. Not after the one she gave me. Beelzebub himself could hardly desire better company. She actually made me feel...dirty.”
Coleman smirked. “I will admit, that woman has fire.”
Matthew lowered his chin. “So what did you tell her? Exactly? Out with it.”
“Not all that much. A little bit of my life story. Rumors about the lost Atwood heir from New York have to commence surfacing somewhere. I also told her a bit about you, given she asked. Naturally, I exaggerated a few things to ensure she didn’t feel the need to change her mind, but that was about it.”
Matthew’s eyes widened and he could actually feel the veins in his throat swelling in riled disbelief. “Define exaggerated. Because, as you well know, my life doesn’t really represent itself all that well.”
Coleman shrugged. “I can’t remember what I said. I was just talking.”
Matthew choked. “You call yourself a friend?”
“Yes. Why the devil are you so miffed?”
“Because a friend—a real one—would have defended my name!”
“Milton, Milton. You’re still that overly naive twenty-year-old boy I first met, when it comes to women. Unable to swallow reality.”
Matthew kept himself from darting forward and punching him. “You want to talk about who can’t swallow reality?” he tossed out. “You have a dead sister, whose grave you have yet to visit, and an aristo father with an oversized cock who glories in fecking women and men of all ages. Go and swallow that reality and then maybe, just maybe, you can call us even.”
Coleman’s ice-blue eyes met Matthew’s head-on. Despite the distance between them, the sharp intent of that stare viciously dug into Matthew, reminding him he had just insulted a professional prizefighter. “Take it back.”
Matthew shot up both fists and instinctively positioned his head so that his good eye made up for his lack of peripheral. “Give me back Bernadette first. If you can do that, I won’t knuckle the shite out of you.”
Coleman rolled his eyes. “You really want to go knuckle to knuckle with me?”
Matthew boldly held that gaze with each fist still stubbornly up. “Come on. Are we doing this or not? It’ll be like training. Only better.”
Coleman casually and steadily approached with solid movements, those menacingly well-sculpted muscles on his chest and arms visibly shifting and tightening against scars he’d earned since youth. That forty-year-old body bespoke of many, many years of fighting.
Too many.
Matthew shifted his jaw, fists ready.
Coleman paused before him and merely stood there, long arms at his sides and looking completely and utterly bored.
“Scared, are you?” Matthew taunted, sending out half jabs.
“Hardly.”
“Then swing it.”
“Milton. Whether you can face it or not, your pretty little aristo simply wasn’t as smitten with you as you were with her. Or she would have forgiven it. She would have understood and forgiven it. Don’t you think?”
Matthew dropped his hands and hissed out a breath. That hurt more than any swing. And it hurt because he knew it was true.
Coleman jumped forward and halted that rigid blow of a fist at his temple. “You lose. Why? Because you got distracted. Which is what women do. You clearly need more training. So let’s train. You up for it?”
Matthew winced, realizing he would have, in fact, been hit. “I hate you. You know that?”
Coleman retracted his fist and darted back. He pointed toward his own face, his features tightening. “Always watch the eyes of your opponent, not just the movement of their body. Usually, the opponent will briefly focus on what he intends to strike. Although, sometimes, he’ll intentionally try to fool you. Now, focus. I’ll stay away from your head and your back, but everything else is fair game. Are you ready?”
“I am not in the mood for this.”
Coleman stood back and tapped at his sculpted stomach. “I want you to hit me. Full force. Go on.”
Matthew paused. “Why would you want me to hit you, knowing that I’m not too happy with you right now?”
“Because I owe you this. I know you want to, and it will relieve that angst. I promise, you won’t even be able to knock me over.”
Matthew pointed at him with a smirk. “Based on that arrogance alone, don’t think I’m going to swing easy.”
Coleman tapped at his stomach. “Come on.”
Matthew edged toward him and drew back a rigid fist. He hesitated, catching Coleman’s intent gaze. “Full force?”
“Full force.”
The son of a bitch was crazy. But then again...so was Matthew. Tightening his jaw, Matthew thrust his clenched fist forward and straight into that board of muscles.
Pain unexpectedly shot up Matthew’s arm. He winced and stumbled back, shaking his hand out. It was like he’d hit a brick wall with bare knuckles. “Christ, what the hell did you do? That didn’t feel right.”
Though Coleman swayed against the hit and had pushed out a ragged breath that indicated he’d felt the impact, he continued to stoically stand there. “Something I’ve been working on. I’ve decided to take up boxing full-time here in London.” He pointed to his stomach muscles, which he visibly tensed, and drawled, “And this is why I am about to become known as Vicomte de Vice.”
Rolling his eyes, Matthew jeered, “Is that going to be your name in the ring?”
“I’m thinking about it.”
“Don’t.” Matthew paused. “Does this mean you’re staying in London?”
Coleman was quiet for a long moment. He swiped his face and eyed him.
Sensing the man wanted to tell him something, Matthew lifted a brow. “What?”
“I called on my father, as well as my sister’s husband and her son.”
Matthew angled toward him. “And?”
Lowering his gaze, Coleman bit out, “My father deserves a knife through the gizzard and a bullet through the head. I’ll have you know that I almost...” He closed his eyes, his square jaw tightening. Reopening them, he said, “I wanted to kill him. That prick wouldn’t even acknowledge me as being the real Atwood, even though I could see that he knew who I really was.”
Coleman sighed. “But I do rather like my sister’s husband and that nephew of mine.” He half nodded, taking on a distant look. “They seem to have swept me into their circle in all but one breath.” He pau
sed and confided, “Instead of going to Venice, as I had earlier planned, I’m thinking I should stay here. I want to see how things work out. What do you think?”
Well, well, well. It would seem Coleman was about to take on London. Matthew couldn’t help but smile. “You should stay. Family is family. And don’t you ever forget it.”
Coleman eyed him. “Speaking of family, you do know Georgia is set to marry my nephew?”
Matthew gaped. “What? But I thought she and that Robinson were...”
“That Robinson is my nephew. Lord Yardley.”
“Shite.”
“I know.”
Matthew heaved out a breath and shook his head in disgust. “Everyone is damn well getting married, for blood’s sake. Everyone but me.”
“I’m not getting married.”
Matthew almost smacked him. “I never included you in that list.”
Coleman pounded him several times on the shoulder. “Give yourself time, man. New York has more women than roaches.”
Matthew pushed away his hand, that heaviness within his chest returning. “Sadly, Coleman, Bernadette was the one. She was the one, and I fecked it up. I, and all of my damn dirty dealings, fecked it up.”
And knowing it depressed him above all else.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Yes. Turn away from the truth. Ignore it. Tell them their distress and their destitution must last, says I. Tell them instead of diminishing their misery, their poverty must be aggravated and thus continue. Let them all go down the scale of society until distress drives them to the most violent acts which despair itself can impel human nature to be guilty of.
—The Truth Teller, a New York Newspaper for Gentlemen
Three months later
New York City—Manhattan Square
Forever a Lady Page 12