by A. W. Exley
Jackson snorted. “You’re not running anywhere the size you are, doll. In fact, I’m thinking I might start calling you Moby Dick.”
“I’ll leave you to supervise, Inspector. I have to deal with impertinent men.” Cara took Jackson’s arm. He might tease, but at least he offered a hand when she had trouble manoeuvring her growing bulk.
“Does Amy know you call me horrid names? I’m no whale, you know.” Whales moved effortlessly through the water. She was more like a beached whale, or possibly a walrus trying to climb up the beach.
Every day she thought it would be impossible for the babe to grow any more, and yet it did. Each night, Nate rubbed oil into her skin to help it stretch and accommodate his child. Red lines radiated upward where her skin had stretched too far, too fast.
More stripes added to the tiger’s hide.
Jackson was in a chipper mood as they headed back down the drive to the brightly lit house. “I can’t help it, doll, you’re such a large target.”
“I can only hope that one day you get Amy in the family way and make those jokes with her. I’d like to see how funny she finds it when she can no longer see her own toes.” If she hadn’t been so obviously pregnant, Cara would have been tempted to climb in the ring and go a few rounds with her husband. She had the urge to beat him for his part in her current predicament.
“I would consider myself blessed if that ever happened.” Jackson spoke the words quietly.
Cara glanced at him sharply and bit back the retort that rose to her tongue. He had lost his first wife and only daughter, killed because someone thought to send a message to Nate via the henchman.
She leaned closer to him. “If my plan works, no one would ever be able to gain access to your cottage to harm Amy or a child she might bear. They would be safe, Jackson.”
He grunted. That was probably as close as he would get to sharing his feelings on the subject.
They walked through the double height doors of the mansion, and Cara tightened her grip on Jackson’s arm in case she was swept away on the tide of activity. Staff swirled around in every direction, some carrying platters of glasses or crates of champagne.
Ticket holders left their carriages and headed to their seats in the ballroom that had been given over for the event. They jostled each other out of the way as they vied for the best tables closer to the action. Ladies who believed in being dignified at all times weren’t above pushing over another if it meant they got to a seat first.
A ring (although technically a square) dominated the centre of the dance floor. Each corner was an ornate marble pillar rather than a plain wooden post. Silver velvet cords were draped from pillar to pillar, where there would usually be rough rope hung. The bottom of the ring was covered by a square padded mat of deep blue—a colour Clarence decided would most complement his colouring.
Staff had arranged tables and chairs radiating out from the centre. No one would stand, not given what they paid for their seats. Floral arrangements with white roses and fluffy greenery more suited to a ladies’ afternoon tea adorned the middle of each table. The walls were hung in what seemed like miles of blue silk, and the chandeliers sparkled overhead.
The room was beautiful in tones of silver, white, and blue. It was fit for a debutante ball or a royal event, not a bout of fisticuffs. Already the tables were filling up with mostly women, but a few elegant men were scattered among the crowd. Laughter rose as those assembled downed champagne. Staff circulated with platters of delicate hors d’oeuvres to feed one appetite while guests waited to indulge a more primal hunger.
The men’s smoking room off the ballroom was given over to Nate to use for his preparations. Clarence would get ready in his suite upstairs. There would be two warm-up matches of eager young bucks who wanted a chance to impress the young ladies among the attendees. Those four young men and their supporters prepared in the billiards room.
Cara found a relaxed atmosphere within the smoking room. Fighting was nothing new to either Nate or any of his men. It was what they did on a daily basis to burn energy, settle disputes, and simply for fun.
She found her husband dressed in black trousers and polished black boots with a soft sole. His linen shirt was unbuttoned and would be removed for the bout. The lack of evening clothes was one point that had ensured women, and a fair number of men, clamoured for tickets to the match.
One unexpected couple among those clustered around Nate drew her eye. A man with a rakish goatee, a gold ring through his eyebrow, and a gleam in his dark eyes when he stared at her.
“Loki!” Cara exclaimed.
“Cara.” The pirate grinned and strode over to kiss her cheek. Then he held her out at arm’s length. “Good God, Nate, what sort of demon seed did you plant in the poor woman? She looks ready to give birth to an airship.”
Cara ignored him and turned to the dark-skinned woman at his side. A green-black tattoo covered her lips and chin. “You must be Paniha. I’ve heard so little about you.”
Loki snorted. “I’ve told you all sorts of things about her.”
“Nothing I can repeat in polite company,” Cara murmured as she took the woman’s hand.
The other woman leaned forward and pressed her nose and forehead to Cara’s. Warmth and family embraced Cara as she drew a deep, calm breath.
“It’s a Maori greeting called a hongi,” Loki said from beside her.
If the Maori were as warm and tactile as this woman, no wonder Loki found his spiritual home in their country. “Is Hone with you?”
A brief wave of sadness flitted over Loki’s face. “No, he doesn’t travel.”
“Hone is the tether that allows us to fly free. No matter where we journey in the world, we will always find our way home to him,” Paniha said. Her voice was rich and lyrical, and her slight accent conjured up images of deep forest and a waiting warrior.
“Did you at least bring back Miguel?” Cara cast around the room but didn’t see him.
“Yes, he’s getting ready in the other room. He’s taking on one of Clarence’s men in the opening bout.” Loki waved a hand in the direction of the billiards room.
Cara frowned. “How did he end up on my playbill?”
The two warm-up bouts were supposed to be minor nobles. Clarence had picked them because they had fine forms, some ability with boxing, and were well bred enough to cause a murmur in the audience. The duke had joked it might spark a trend, with debutantes demanding boxing matches to assist in ranking their suitors.
Jackson stepped in with an explanation. “One of the young fellas got cold feet, and we offered up Miguel as a replacement. Most people assume he’s your brother anyway, so we encouraged that belief.”
When she first met Miguel, she was struck by the similarity in their colouring and face shape. Cara had examined her father’s diaries for any mention of a liaison with Miguel’s mother, but Lucas recorded his pursuit of artifacts, not women. Only one person knew the truth—Miguel’s mother—and she had died when he was a young child. Cara had asked Helene to try to reach her beyond the veil, but so far the former opera singer wasn’t returning her messages.
Whether they shared ties of blood or not, she still regarded the youth as a younger brother and had always been protective of him. Cara waggled a finger at Loki. “You’re supposed to be looking after him, not getting him into fights.”
Loki draped an arm around Paniha’s shoulders. “I am looking out for him. I finally managed to get the lad laid in Aotearoa and tattooed. I’m still working on how to remove the stick from up his arse.”
“I thought you might have changed.” An exasperated sigh left Cara.
“Kahu has changed. He has grown up and found his heart,” the Maori woman said.
“I hope you found it by poking a stick through it,” Cara muttered.
A wide grin broke over Loki’s face. “I’ll tell you what did get poked—”
“I don’t want to hear it!” Cara held up her hands to ward off another unsavoury and lewd Loki story.
&
nbsp; She waddled over to her husband and rested a hand on Nate’s shoulder. He leaned down to kiss her expanding middle while his second saw to his hands.
Boxing matches were usually bare knuckled, but Brick—and Clarence—baulked at the risk of permanent facial damage. Jackson wrapped bandages around Nate’s hands before he donned horsehair padded gloves that would minimise facial injuries.
“This is being taken so seriously,” Cara said.
“The wrap keeps the joints together when he throws a punch and stops him messing up his hands.” Jackson wound bandage around Nate’s wrist and through the fingers.
Cara mentally ran through the rules for the match. “Are we following all the London Prize Ring Rules? There’s one in there about inspecting the combatants’ under drawers.”
Nate glanced at her from under dark brows. “Nobody is poking around in my underwear.”
A mischievous smile touched Cara’s lips. “Oh? I assumed that prospect might be what lured Loki back for a flying visit.”
One of Nate’s men attracted her attention. “They are getting ready for the first bout, my lady.”
“Good luck. I shall go be charming and attentive to the count so I can strike a wager with him.” She kissed Nate and then started her slow way through the ballroom.
Cara moved through the mass of people to her table close to the ring. Very few made eye contact, and even fewer called out a greeting. Whispers followed in her wake, most of them mortified that a heavily pregnant woman would dare to be seen in public.
Let them gossip. She had their money.
She had personally picked the people seated around the table with the best position. Included in their number was a slender man with a goatee beard groomed to a dagger-like point. He wore a jacket of red velvet with a snowy cravat and orange waistcoat that clashed horribly with the jacket. His hair had once been black, but was now more salt than pepper as he advanced through his fifties.
He stood and bowed at her approach.
“Count Alfonso Mancilla, my lady. At your service.” He took her hand and kissed her knuckles.
His fashion sense was off, but he wasn’t quite as gaudily dressed as she expected from Brick’s relayed description. “Lady Cara Lyons. A pleasure to meet you, Count. I suspect we have much in common.”
The safety of her dragons now rested in her hands; she just had to figure out how to proceed. A few more glasses of champagne for the count and she would ease in the idea of a wager.
The count held out her chair, and Cara lowered herself with a grateful sigh. She missed the ability to stand and sit with ease. As pregnancy progressed, she found herself increasingly reliant on others to help her out, like a turtle flipped on its back.
Loki walked Paniha to the table and pulled out the chair next to Cara. Then he kissed the maiden’s lips before winking at Cara and sauntering over to the ring. The insufferable pirate had upset all her plans and not only inserted Miguel into the fight, but replaced her referee with himself.
Typical Loki to appear and steal the limelight. Although Paniha attracted a fair amount of attention herself with her striking dark looks and facial tattoo. She wore a simple gown in a deep green silk that made her resemble a forest goddess.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen.” Loki’s voice carried around the ballroom. While he didn’t yell, he had years of experience making his orders heard on the open deck of an airship. “Are you ready to be entertained and a little titillated?”
The crowd applauded and one bold woman cried out, “Yes!”
“For your inspection, may I present our first two fine, strapping lads.” Loki swept his arm low as the men walked from the billiards room.
Four men entered the ring. Miguel and another of Nate’s men took the left-hand side, and two young nobles the right side. Miguel shrugged off the robe around his shoulders and tossed it to his second. He had changed in his time as Loki’s lieutenant. The youth had added muscle to his lithe frame and a tribal tattoo swirled down his right shoulder. His hair had darkened as he grew older, but the flashes of auburn, so similar to Cara’s fiery hue, remained.
“Who is that?” the count leaned close to her and murmured.
“My half brother, Miguel,” Cara replied. A slight fib on her part, but she didn’t like the hungry look in the count’s eyes. She gestured to one of Clarence’s footmen.
“Canape?” she asked the count as the silver platter was presented.
Perhaps salmon and cucumber would take the edge off his appetite until she could serve up a half-naked duke.
17
Cara had often sparred with Miguel, since the two were of a similar size. But she had not seen him for some months, and the youth had developed power and speed since she last saw him fight. No doubt skills he needed to survive as Loki’s second in command. The pirate had a knack for ending up at the bottom of any brawl or riot.
Miguel dispatched his opponent by knockout in the third round, and Cara had a strong suspicion he had played for time. There was a confidence and economy of movement to the young man’s strikes that was entirely lacking in the noble he fought. His opponent, now being carried away between two footmen, looked like a man who was used to fun matches and making a display for the ladies.
Loki introduced the next two fighters, and one had many admirers in the crowd who waved handkerchiefs in his direction. Cara took the opportunity to talk to the count, who had a particular topic in mind.
“I understand we are both collectors of rare and beautiful things, and I am most jealous to hear you are the possessor of dragons, my lady. Would one be available for sale, by chance?” The count had a glint in his dark eyes as he regarded her over the top of his champagne flute.
Cara stared at the bubbles in his drink and then picked up her own—boiled water with a slice of lemon. “Dragons are not for sale, nor are they owned, Count Mancilla. It is of their own volition that they have come to stay at our estate.”
“Yet something must have drawn them there?” A sharp intellect peered out through his narrowed eyes.
“While some may think Lowestoft a cold and inhospitable place, by comparison to Siberia, the dragons think it quite inviting. They do like to sun themselves and go fishing.” Cara wanted to protect her dragons, not sell them off. The count could keep that calculating look to himself.
A smile tugged at his lips as though he suppressed the urge to scoff. “How remarkable. I had assumed something in particular drew them to that area. Perhaps they knew you would watch over them.”
Cara sipped her water and tried to feign indifference, not easy to do when a fellow collector was sniffing around her dragons. “Perhaps indeed. They do arouse my maternal instincts.”
“Speaking as one collector to another, I’m sure you can understand my desire to have such a magical beast for myself.” The hard glint remained in his eyes, as though he tested for a chink in her resolve.
“The world seems to be lacking in magical beasts. I do what I can to protect those that remain.” Cara had been horrified to find a unicorn head amongst the Curator’s belongings. What sort of person would hunt and kill a unicorn? Although she knew the answer to that already: the sort that would try to obtain a child to keep in a glass-walled room. She wondered what sort of collector the count was. Would he prefer a living, breathing creature or one stuffed and mounted above his fireplace?
The two boxing matches and copious amounts of champagne had warmed up the crowd. Stern-looking matrons loosened up and laughter cackled from many a table as they goaded each other to yell and cheer.
Loki walked to the centre of the ring and raised his hands. The riotous calls hushed.
“Are you enjoying yourselves, ladies and gentlemen?” He wore a devilish grin on his handsome face.
A loud cheer that rattled the chandeliers was his response along with a few piercing whistles.
“Are you ready to witness the classic battle of good versus evil?” Loki asked.
The cry that went up around th
e room made Cara wince. Judging by the flushed complexions, snorts, and giggles, there were going to be quite a few sore heads in the morning. And probably lighter pocketbooks as women waved wads of banknotes at the men taking bets.
“Allow me to introduce you to our contender from the shadows. The dark prince, or as you whisper behind your fans…the villainous viscount. Nathaniel Trent, the Viscount Lyons.” Loki threw out his hand and gestured to one side.
The double doors slid open as Nate appeared. Tight black breeches emphasised his muscular legs, and as he passed by, women murmured about the firmness of the rear view. He passed silently in the soft-soled boots and an unbuttoned black shirt. He deliberately hadn’t shaved that morning, and dark stubble clung to his chin. His black hair was dishevelled where Cara had pulled her fingers through it before she left earlier.
He had grumbled and complained for a full week about what Cara decided he would wear. You’d have thought he was a debutante who didn’t get his pick of ballgown, the way he went on. Cara finally put her foot down by pointing out the event required a touch of theatre. His clothing was a costume, designed to raise the pulses of the society women present.
It was doing things for Cara too, and she licked her lips when he winked at her on his way into the ring. Win or lose, one sure bet for the evening was what she planned to do with him once they were alone. It wasn’t like she could get any more pregnant.
Jackson stood behind Nate, his crossed arms emphasising the bulk of the henchman and his face etched with a permanent scowl among silver scars.
Loki spun with outstretched arms. “Are you ready for our shining knight? The golden angel who will fight for all that is good and decent…the Duke of Clarence!”
The assembled crowd surged to their feet and cheered. The woman behind Cara screamed so loud she worried the poor dear might pass out.
The Duke of Clarence knew how to make a grand entrance. At his name was called, a procession came down the stairs to the ballroom. Clarence reclined on a blue velvet divan carried by six silver-clad footmen. They set the sofa down at the edge of the ring, and Brick took Clarence’s hand to help him rise.