by Nichole Van
Contents
Dedication
PROLOGUE
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
EPILOGUE
Author's Notes
Reading Group Questions
Other Books by Nichole Van
About the Author
Copyright
To Judy
For your loving support and infectious enthusiasm.
You are deeply missed.
To Dave
For always encouraging me to take one more step forward.
PROLOGUE
Warwickshire, England
October, 1812
Prizefighting should be a required part of every young lady’s education.
For Lady Violet Kerr, this realization was much like a thrown fist—abruptly jarring.
And yet, it made an unlikely sort of sense.
Such knowledge would enable a lady to effectively defend herself, should the need arise.
And it would certainly help a lady understand how to behave should she unexpectedly encounter a prizefighting match.
Such as the one currently facing Violet.
She leaned closer to the carriage window, steadying the spyglass she held to her right eye.
Down the hill, past the parked carriages, and over the heads of hundreds of spectators, two men threw punches at one another in the center of a roped-off rectangle of grass.
The spyglass brought small details into sharp focus—the boxers circling the ring, the white puffs of breath drifting in the autumn air, the sweat glinting on their bare fists. One deflected a particularly savage blow with his forearm. The other danced back, wiping blood from his nose. A bag of prize money tied to one corner stake swayed in the slight breeze.
Violet presumed etiquette books would insist a lady look away. That she should not be studying half-dressed men through a spyglass taken from the storage compartment beside her seat.
And she would look away. She would.
It was just . . .
The sight of two men in a battle for dominance, stripped to the waist—bare-chested and streaked with dirt—blood running in rivulets down their cheeks . . .
It was all alarmingly compelling. Nothing in eighteen years of life had prepared her for such graceful savagery.
Heavens! She could hear the sickening thud of fist on flesh even from this distance.
In short, she better understood why her cousin, Lord Smithson, had insisted upon stopping the carriage.
They had left Marton Hall after luncheon, intent on making social calls, Smitty cheery and ebullient. In hindsight, Violet should have been suspicious of his bonhomie. Smitty habitually grumbled through afternoon visiting hours.
Of course, all had become clear once the gathered curricles and coaches came into view. Belatedly, Violet recalled Smitty’s enthusiasm for prizefighting. How could she have forgotten? He subscribed to Boxiana, for heaven’s sake.
At first, Smitty pretended to be unaware of the fight—What ho? Is there a mill about to begin? and I say, is that Alton’s carriage? Lord Michael is here?—but he quickly capitulated under Violet’s hard stare, stammering that he had promised to join Lord Michael for the fight and surely she could be a good egg and wait in the carriage for half an hour, could she not? She was all but betrothed to Lord Michael, after all, and Smitty felt it his duty to foster the friendship.
Violet had sent her eyes skyward.
Prizefighting was technically illegal. Or, rather, the assembling of hundreds of men to watch a fight was illegal. The illegality, however, did not deter enthusiastic crowds. Consequently, matches were announced only days beforehand and held outside town, giving local magistrates little time to react.
Violet adjusted her hold on the spyglass, angling her body for a better view. How fortunate Smitty’s coachman had parked the carriage in such a way that Violet could see the fight. Her carriage was just one of many parked upon the knoll, a veritable sea of phaetons, barouches, and traveling coaches all empty of passengers. The coachmen, grooms, and other servants had left en masse to join their employers in watching the mill.
She darted a glance at the Duke of Alton’s crest on the carriage beside hers. Lord Michael was here—a dashing Corinthian with sweeping hair, a contagious smile, and soulful eyes that studied her with rapt attention. In short, Violet rather liked him. Or rather, she liked how much Lord Michael liked her.
Was it wrong to adore someone for the way they adored you? Was that the sort of affection which led to marriage? Violet felt far too young to be contemplating such momentous decisions.
Regardless, she had to have a care for her reputation. Her mother, Lady Kildrum, would give her a frightening set-down should she learn of this prizefighting escapade. To that end, Violet pulled the curtain tighter around the spyglass, closing off even a sliver of light.
She did not, however, stop watching the match. Why deprive herself of this decidedly educational opportunity? Besides, Dahlia would undoubtedly demand a minute description of it later. Her younger sister was relentless, both in her admiration of the opposite sex and her longing to see the wider world.
From the few words Smitty had uttered before he darted out of the carriage, the shorter of the two pugilists was the Hammer of the Cornwall, a boxer favored to become the next heavyweight champion of England. She recognized the Hammer’s distinctive profile from an engraving in Boxiana which Smitty had left lying about (and Violet had taken a minute—or fifty—to peruse).
A brute of a fellow, the Hammer had dark hair and a bulbous nose that had been broken one too many times. The Hammer had arranged this bout with an unknown boxer in order to attract attention before a prominent fight at Fives Court in London next month.
Given all this, Violet was surprised to find the Hammer’s untried opponent holding her attention. “The Red Renegade,” Smitty had called him. “A pretty-faced newcomer with a ridiculous by-name. He’s a bit of a recluse who appeared on the circuit a few months ago. The Hammer should rout him quickly.”
Smitty neglected to mention that Red was a giant of a man, standing nearly a full head taller than the Hammer, his fiery hair glinting in the autumn sunlight. And, yes, he was admittedly young and handsome, with even features and a defiantly-straight nose.
But Smitty had misjudged Red’s abilities.
The man’s sheer size should have rendered him clumsy and slow, but Red darted in and out of the Hammer’s thrown fists with startling ease. Even to Violet’s untrained eye, the elegance of his form and the skill of his movements did not seem those of a newcomer.
Hammer was favored to win the bout handily. But instead, he seemed to be nearly on the ropes. Given the hoots and howls of the spectators, she was not alone in her surprise.
The Red Renegade lived up to his revolutionary moniker, throwing punch after brutal punch, each landing with a gruesome thwack. The Hammer was not entirely ineffectual, she supposed, as blood streamed from Red’s nose and dripped down his chest from a gash along his collarbone. A fa
int steam rose from their heated bodies.
Hammer darted inside Red’s long arms, throwing two hard punches to Red’s stomach. Red barely flinched at the violent blows.
Instead, Red swayed back with Hammer’s momentum and then rocked forward, using the entire force of his body to propel a harsh fist into Hammer’s jaw.
Hammer crumpled into a heap, a marionette doll with its strings cut.
He did not rise.
Red stood over him, chest heaving. The crowd roared. Two men rushed through the ropes to Hammer—the man’s second and water boy, surely.
A frown dented Violet’s brow. She spun the spyglass, scanning the bodies crowding against the ropes.
Where were Red’s men? His second and water boy, the people who supported him?
No one came to his side. Was the man . . . alone? Was that why he was called a renegade?
Hammer remained unconscious, the faint lift of his chest the only indication he yet lived.
Silence descended.
Spectators rose on tiptoes. Would Hammer revive?
His second tried to rouse the unconscious boxer—even going so far as to toss water on his face—but the Hammer lay unmoving.
Red’s hand was raised in victory.
The crowd bellowed its displeasure.
Watching as she was from a distance, Violet saw the ripples running through the gathered men, the outrage over Red’s triumph. Red was more skilled than they had supposed. Most of the men had surely bet against him. The bet-takers would lose a princely sum today.
The crowd surged against the ropes, the stakes straining, the prize-money bag swaying with the motion.
Violet saw the moment Red ascertained he was no longer facing spectators, but an angry mob. With that same startling agility, he snatched the stake money—his prize for winning—and launched himself over the ropes, pushing through a thinner section of the crowd with blinding speed and tearing up the hill. Men gave startled yelps before turning to give chase.
Violet was so taken aback by the turn of events, it took her several seconds to assimilate one important fact:
Red was racing toward the gathered carriages.
Racing toward her carriage, in fact.
Dropping her spyglass with a gasp, Violet pulled the curtain shut with a tight snap.
She sucked in a rapid breath, pressing a hand against her sternum. Was she truly trembling over this turn of events?
How ridiculous. Surely Red would not invade her coach.
Hers was only one of scores of carriages. The curtains were drawn; no one could see her. She would just wait quietly in the dim interior for Smitty and the servants to return. Red and the ensuing chaos would surely pass by.
It was just . . .
The panicked desperation in Red’s eyes as he ran had seared her vision. He was younger than she had supposed, not much older than her own eighteen years. His was not the face of a fraudsman.
No, his expression was more akin to how she imagined a sailor might witness his mainmast cracking in two during a violent storm . . . anguished panic and utter despair.
A single set of footsteps approached, the thump-thump-thump mimicking Violet’s own heartbeat. A rush of harsh breathing followed. Was this Red then?
She heard a roar of voices from farther away.
Solitary footsteps and rasping breaths rounded her carriage and then paused before moving off, retreating.
Violet loosed a sigh, but it was a short-lived reprieve. A flurry of boots approached at a run.
“Where did ‘e go?” a voice panted. “He wasn’t billed as a champion. Blimey bastard cheated us!”
“He won the fight fair, I reckon,” a second breathless voice added. “I thought he’d go down with those punches to his bread basket—”
“Bah! He shouldn’t have been capable of darkening the Hammer’s daylights like that. I want my money returned with interest. Coward ran like a scared dog!”
“Over there! Near the trees!” someone else shouted.
“No, mate! He’s in the carriages!” another called.
Several minutes of footsteps coming and going ensued, voices retreating and shouting questions.
In other words, absolute confusion.
Violet sat quietly, that hand still pressed to her chest.
A measure of outrage slowly furrowed her brow.
Red had not cheated. Though others may have discounted his talent, he had won the fight fairly to her eyes.
But her compassion for Red aside, she faced a larger problem—what if someone opened the carriage door? Would the men assume her to be a lightskirt? Or would she be recognized? And, if so, how damaging would this be to her reputation?
Most importantly, how angry would her mother be?
Violet’s mother was the Countess of Kildrum suo jure—an earl in her own right. Occasionally, titles in the Scottish peerage were created in such a manner that they could pass to the eldest daughter should she have no brothers.
Violet’s mother had been an only child. And Violet herself had no brothers. Just three younger sisters—Dahlia and the twins, Aster and Rose.
As any heir to an earldom, Violet had been raised to shoulder the mantle of countess when the time came, assuming the responsibility of thousands of lives. Part of that duty was to marry well, something the gentlemen of the ton well-understood. Lady Violet Kerr was more than just a wealthy, titled heiress; she was a stepping stone into the Peerage itself. By marrying her, a gentleman would launch an aristocratic dynasty of his own.
Consequently, since being presented at Court six months ago, Violet had been lauded and eagerly pursued. She thought again of Alton’s carriage beside hers and Lord Michael’s courtship. How would Lord Michael react were he to find her here? Angry? Or would he laugh at the lark?
And how troubling to be considering marrying the man when she knew him so little.
This was the problem with decisions, she decided. The older one became, the more life-altering one’s choices. A single poor decision could have far-reaching effects.
A voice called at a distance, startling her. Scuffling noises and voices passed by her carriage again, shouting for vengeance against Red.
What would happen if the mob caught him? Would he be able to fight his way free?
She pursed her lips, facts and conclusions flitting through her mind.
Red had fought a popular champion at great personal risk. His were the actions of a man who had little to lose and much to gain. What desperation fueled his fists?
More footsteps approached, quieter this time.
A faint skitter of sound.
Violet stilled.
Closer. Closer.
Silence.
The door handle of the carriage wiggled.
Oh!
Now someone decided to try the door?
Violet wrapped her hand around the barrel of the metal spyglass.
But . . . what good would the spyglass do? Any violence or screaming on her part would only bring more onlookers.
She sucked in a breath and shrank farther into the dim interior, all but pressing herself into the opposite corner.
The door cracked open. A giant of a man loomed, scanning his surroundings, his back to her.
His enormous back.
His enormous, bare back.
The man stepped rearward into her carriage with an astonishingly lithe grace, folding his body nearly in half to squeeze through the door, his weight so perfectly balanced that the carriage scarcely rocked. He half sat on the seat opposite Violet, beginning to close the door.
Finally, Violet exhaled.
The man’s head whirled at the sound, one hand still on the door handle.
Violet stared into Red’s bloodshot eyes.
She should scream.
That was the decision she should make. It was an obvious, clear conclusion.
Scream, summon Smitty or Lord Michael or someone, and deal with the consequences—
Violet knew this.
> And yet . . .
The utter bleakness of Red’s gaze pinned her in place.
The man had no hope. None. He fully expected to be torn to bits by the angry mob.
His hopelessness clutched at her heart, wrapping tightly around that impulsive part of her that did not turn away from horror.
This man was not looking for a savior.
But Violet was the product of generations of women raised to protect and care and, most significantly, act.
So she made her choice. A tiny one.
Violet pinched her mouth shut and gave the faintest nod.
Red needed no further encouragement. He pulled the door shut and slid fully onto the seat opposite her.
He braced his forearms on his thighs, chest heaving, attempting to catch his breath.
His labored breathing mimicked Violet’s own rapidly rising panic.
Of all the decisions to make—!
To allow a half-naked hulk of a man inside her carriage?!
If anyone were to catch him with her—!
Merciful heavens, . . . whathaveIdone!
Red had been large from a distance. Up close, he was positively overwhelming. A thrumming mountain of a man.
Sweat dripped from his body, streaking through the blood and dirt on his chest, giving him the appearance of a half-melted candle. He still clenched the stake bag tightly in one giant battered fist. Blood money in truth.
Violet leaned away, pressing against the squabs at her back.
He lifted his head at the subtle movement.
“I willnae hurt ye.” His voice rumbled, a low whisper of sound, Scotland thick in his accent.
Her lungs hiccupped.
A rush of voices and footfalls sounded outside, men calling and whistling.
He studied her, his own breathing slowing. For all his brawn, his eyes held a softness that even the dim light could not mask.
Red’s brogue was familiar . . . and yet, not.
Though Violet would inherit a Scottish earldom, she considered herself more English than anything. After all, most of her life had been played against the background of the family townhouse in London and her English father’s small estate near Marton Hall in Warwickshire. Her family only visited the ancestral estate—Kilmeny Hall, in northern Scotland—every summer into autumn.