Forever a Lord

Matthew smiled. “You’re a good friend. You know that?”

Nathaniel rolled his eyes. “Don’t play the harp. You’ve saved my ass many a time, you know.”

“And I would do it again.”

“Which I also appreciate.”

Matthew hung over the railing, watching the waves beneath. “So what made you decide to go back to London now? Why didn’t you go home with your family when they first came to you all those months ago?”

Nathaniel glanced toward Matthew. “I never run out on people who need me. Not after everything I’ve endured. And you and the boys needed me.”

Matthew reached out and pinched his jaw. “Now, now, don’t get prissy on me. That isn’t like you.”

Nathaniel smirked and shoved his hand away. “Keep those hands to yourself. I’m not interested.”

Matthew let out a laugh. “Don’t flatter yourself, Mister fecking Viscount.” Matthew nudged him. “But ey. At least we’ll be living all posh once we get to London what with you being an aristo, right?”

Nathaniel snorted. “If you mean posh as in us moving in with my father, I don’t think so. I’d sooner slit his throat. I plan on looking into some milling coves and try to make some money that way before I figure out what happens next.” Nathaniel stared at the misty horizon that swayed with the ship, knowing that once in London, bigger things on the horizon awaited him. Like facing a father he wanted dead for reasons he would never be able to share with anyone but Matthew. What if he really killed the bastard? What if he—

Matthew nudged him again. “So where are we going to stay?”

It was like answering a thousand and one questions. Nathaniel shrugged. “I don’t know. We’ll find a hotel.”

“It better be cheap. I’ve only got six dollars.”

“Whilst I only have four.”

“Nice, that. It’s the dead leading the dead.” He paused. “Ey. I’ve got an idea. My ‘stepmother’ is in London. Maybe we can hunt her down. She’d put us up.”

“What? Georgia?”

“Yes. Georgia. How many stepmothers do I have?”

“Don’t be dragging that poor girl into our mess.”

“She ain’t poor anymore. She found herself a rich one.” Matthew smirked and readjusted his eye patch. “So what about this family of yours? Your sister’s husband and son. Can’t we stay with them?”

“No. We’re not exactly their type of people, Milton. Nor do I plan on announcing myself to anyone until I figure out how to wade through this mess. A man just doesn’t show up thirty years later to yell out to the world, ‘Here I am, oh, and by the by I’m thinking of killing my own father.’”

Matthew hesitated. “Why do I have this feeling London is going to make a mess of both our lives?”

“Because it probably will. But in your case, it’s better than being dead.”

“I’ll say.” Matthew eyed him and pushed away from the railing. “I’m going to settle into our cabin. You coming?”

Nathaniel swallowed, feeling his throat closing up at the thought of those low timbered ceilings and that musty windowless room lit by a lone lantern. He was not sleeping below deck. “No. I plan on sleeping out here.”

“On deck?” Matthew echoed, dark brows rising. “And what if you roll the wrong way and plunk into the ocean?”

Nathaniel glared. “I know how to swim, Milton. But as you damn well know, I’m not one for small spaces. So take the fucking cabin and leave me to have my deck.”

“All right, all right. Do you want me to sleep on deck with you?”

Nathaniel rolled his eyes. “If I ever need a man to help me sleep, I give you permission to throw me overboard. Now go get some rest. I’ll see you in the morning. And sleep with your pistols. Just until we get to London.”

“Fine. I’ll humor you.” Matthew nodded, shoving his hands into his great coat pocket, and strode down the length of the deck toward the cabins below deck.

Blowing out a slow breath, Nathaniel leaned against the railing, letting the cold wind whip at his face. The ocean seemed overwhelmingly endless. It was amazing. There were no walls or ceilings, only vast, endless sky and water.

When night eventually cloaked the ship, Nathaniel settled himself with a lantern below an eve, using his coat for a blanket and bundled ropes for a pillow, which he set under his head.

Fingering the ropes, he stared up at the swaying night sky that had smoothed into clarity and revealed glimmering stars. Though he rarely got lonely, for his head kept him too busy for that, in that moment, with the roaring of the waves that meshed into silence, he would have liked a woman to keep him warm on deck beneath all those stars.

He paused. No. What he really wanted and needed was to get fucked. It had been well over a month, which was the longest he’d ever gone without it. Aside from boxing, sex was the only thing he genuinely enjoyed.

It was a good thing most women found him attractive enough to accept his proclivities, because he sure as hell had nothing to give a woman these days. Certainly not money. But then again, maybe London would change that.

CHAPTER FOUR

The cup, filled with wine, having gone round, the Champion thus briefly addressed his patrons, “Gentlemen, for the honour you have done me in presenting this cup, I most respectfully beg of you to accept my warmest thanks.”

—P. Egan, Boxiana (1823)

Many, many weeks later—evening

Cardinal’s Milling Cove

London, England

THERE HAD TO be a better way to make money.

Nathaniel tugged his frayed linen shirt down and over his sweat-sleeked arms and chest, more than done with teaching others how to better swing. He had only made thirteen shillings that whole night offering a fifteen-year-old boxing lessons. He really needed to stop feeling sorry for people before he himself starved.

He paused.

Sensing he was still being watched by that fop against the timbered wall beyond the spectators, he blew out a ragged breath. Some no-name aristo with a fancy horsehair top hat and a Havana cigar had been coming around and watching him almost every night since he’d been in London.

Given Nathaniel’s experience with strange men in top hats and cigars, he didn’t appreciate it. Tonight, realizing his money-making plans were progressing slower than he’d hoped, he really wasn’t in the mood for it. Shoving past several locals who had gathered around him, also asking him for a boxing lesson at thirteen shillings a piece, Nathaniel stalked over to the man.

More than ready to take the bastard on, Nathaniel yelled out, “I don’t appreciate being followed or watched by some nameless prick. Are you going to stop? Or do you need me to make you stop?”

Blond brows went up as the cigar was instantly lowered. Pushing away from the wall, and out of the shadows the lanterns didn’t illuminate, a rugged-looking blond-haired gent of about thirty with sharp green eyes met Nathaniel’s gaze from below the satin-trimmed rim of his top hat.

The dandy angled toward him and wagged the cigar. “You, sir, are without any doubt the best pugilist I have ever had the honor of observing. I was hoping you and I could talk about a potential venture.”

Nathaniel rolled his eyes. He should have known. Wealthy boyos like this one didn’t hang around milling coves unless they were sniffing for potential investments. “Unless you have five thousand to give, don’t fucking bother. I need real money. Not talk.”

The man leaned toward him. “I can offer you five thousand on signing and give you a swing at the title. Are you interested?”