Forever a Lord

Nathaniel perused the man’s evening coat, embroidered waistcoat and polished boots. He looked like he could afford everything he was offering. The sort of money he and Matthew desperately needed. They had both been living shilling by shilling. Nathaniel had even been playing cards with what little money they had in an effort to bring them quick money.

Cards weren’t his thing. He’d lost every hand. He was incredibly good at betting on fights, though. The problem was one had to have at least ten pounds to get into any of the good bets. Which he didn’t have.

Interestingly enough, however, this aristo was offering Nathaniel far more than money. This aristo was offering something other investors never had. A chance at the title. “You’re actually offering me a chance for the Champion of England?” he drawled. “A real chance?”

“Yes. I think you have it in you to win based on what I’ve seen thus far. And unlike other men, I not only have a name, but the means to line up the right trainer and the right fights to make it happen. It’s simply a matter of if you want to make it happen.” Sticking his cigar between his teeth, the gent stuck out a white gloved hand. “The name is Lord Weston. But I prefer you just call me Weston. You go by the name of Coleman, yes?”

Nathaniel eyed that hand but didn’t take it. He wasn’t stupid. “What do you want from me, Weston?”

“I want your boxing skills in a ring. Because I’m beyond impressed.” Weston blew out a cloud of smoke in Nathaniel’s direction and pointed with the cigar toward the narrow, lantern-lit entrance. “How about you and I go to a local pub and talk?”

Nathaniel’s nostrils flared from the acrid stench of smoke penetrating his throat. He hated cigars. They reminded him of his days in the cellar. “Put out the cigar first. It agitates me.”

The man paused and pointed at him. “Don’t overstep your bounds, boy. I’ll smoke if I want to. I’m the one making the offer here, not you.”

“Is that so?” Nathaniel snatched the cigar from that gloved hand and dashed it out on his well-calloused knuckles, the burning sting brief but welcome. “There goes your offer.” He tossed the cigar at the man, letting it bounce off his waistcoat. “I don’t do business with assholes.”

Swinging away, Nathaniel muttered to himself about the rudeness of people and strode toward the crate where he kept his great coat whenever he came to train and box.

Weston veered in again and snapped up both gloved hands. “I’ll never smoke in your presence again. Just give me a chance to make an offer. I’ve been meaning to do so for a few days now.”

Nathaniel set his shoulders. There was only one way to know if the man was remotely serious. Nathaniel pointed to the floor on the other side of the lantern-lit timbered room, where men were lining up to spar. “Go in and box for me. I’ll watch and we’ll take it from there.”

Weston’s brows rose. “What?”

“Do you even know what you’re looking to invest in? I want you to show me you know how to box. Go on.”

A rumble of a laugh escaped the man. “I know what I’m looking to invest in. I’ve been part of the local boxing crowd since I was twenty. Ask around. People know who I am. There is no need for you to—”

“I don’t care if they know who you are. All I care about is whether you’re willing to box in the name of impressing me.”

Weston eyed him. “I’m more of what you call a spectator and have only ever boxed over at Jackson’s with a few peers of mine. Not—” He waved rigidly toward the unshaven, unbathed, half-dressed local men crowding for a chance at another fight.

Nathaniel widened his stance, determined to make his point. “I’m not asking you to win, Weston boy. I’m asking you to prove that you’re willing to take the same hits I am. A man who isn’t even willing to put himself into the ring isn’t someone I care to trust or go into business with or hand over my boxing career to. You decide what matters most. Your nose or the offer.”

This was about when most investors skidded out, which had only ever pleased Nathaniel. Rich investors had no qualms about taking advantage of boxers and Nathaniel knew better than to jump at every offer.

Weston glanced back over at the gruff, well-muscled men lining up. “Apparently, the devil has a sense of humor.” Casually removing his top hat, he handed it to Nathaniel. “Here. Hold this for me.”

Nathaniel hesitated and took the top hat. This was new. Wealthy men usually weren’t keen about getting their own blood on their shirts. At least not the wealthy Americans he was used to dealing with back in New York. He couldn’t help but feel a renewed sense of respect for the aristocracy. He didn’t realize they took their investments so seriously.

Weston removed his gloves from his hands and undid his cravat, stuffing everything into the top hat Nathaniel still held. Removing his coat, waistcoat and linen shirt, the man revealed a fit frame that bespoke many hours doing some sort of sport.

Weston draped the clothes across Nathaniel’s arm and pointed at him. “Don’t take off with my clothes, now. I know which hotel you’re staying at—Limmer’s—and I know who you associate with, including your one-eyed, pistol-toting friend, Matthew Joseph Milton.”

Nathaniel tightened his hold on the top hat and clothes. “Sniffing isn’t a quality I want in an investor.”

Weston leaned in, those green eyes sharpening. “Sniffing is the only quality you want in an investor. It proves that I can protect not only my investment but yours, by thoroughly investigating everything before I put a boot into it. I’ve been bilked out of thousands before, so I damn well ensure I always sniff out every last rotting detail. The only thing that worries me about you, Coleman, is that you already have a reputation for taking meals from investors but never following through. Know one thing separates me from other investors—unlike them, I’m not here to own you. But I am here to make a profit. We’re talking about a quarter of a million pounds if you take the title. And all I’m asking in return for my investment is half.”

Nathaniel stared at the man. It was the first time anyone had ever thought him capable of taking the championship. Winning fights for bets was one thing. Fighting the championship was quite another. Even at half, taking the championship and the money that came with it could do more than change his life. That sort of money could make everyone lick his boots. And after a lifetime of kneeling, it was time to stand. “I’m genuinely intrigued.” Nathaniel thumbed toward the direction of the boxing floor. “Finish impressing me and we’ll talk more about your offer.”

Weston adjusted his trousers on his hips, his features tightening. “It’s my first go at bare-knuckle boxing, but in my opinion, you’re worth the sacrifice.” Staring him down one last time, Weston pushed through the crowd, lining up for the next match.

Nathaniel winced, knowing it was the man’s first go at bare-knuckle boxing. A part of him wanted to stop the poor bastard, but the morbid cynic in him, who had been dirked by too many people, had to see if this man was even worth blinking at.

CHAPTER FIVE

And now, Mr. Editor, I crave your attention

to a few words more, which I trust,

will quench the thirst of…(?)

—P. Egan, Boxiana (1823)

5:07 a.m.

The Weston House

IMOGENE LINGERED BY the rain-slathered window of her bedchamber and stared unblinkingly at the carriage gates that were blurred by the weather and darkness. She glanced toward the French clock. According to her lady’s maid, who had woken her barely minutes ago, the valet was beyond worried. Henry had not yet returned from the milling cove. Although the valet had also roused her sister-in-law, Imogene doubted the woman had even rolled over in concern.

Mother of heaven. Setting a shaky hand to her mouth, she wondered if she should call for Scotland Yard.

The gates unexpectedly clanged open, making her whoosh out a startled breath. A black lacquered carriage rolled through and rounded the graveled path. Henry!

Gathering her robe and nightdress from around slippered feet, she dashed across the room. Flinging open the bedchamber door, she sprinted down the darkened corridor, rounding corner after corner, and pounded down the main stairwell, heading for the entrance door.

Breathing hard against the pounding of her heart, she unbolted the entrance door, flung it open and waited.

The carriage stopped. When the door opened and the steps were unfolded, but no one stepped out, she panicked. Sensing her brother needed her, she dashed out into the rain. Ice-cold, whipping sheets of water stung her face and soaked her robe and nightdress as she hurried toward the stopped carriage that was dimly illuminated by lanterns swinging beside the driver’s seat.

Shoving her way past the footman toward the open door, she skidded against the wet gravel and angled herself closer to see inside the carriage. “Henry?”

Her brother, who was rising from his seat, yanked his coat over his head, burying himself in it before she could see him. “Jesus Christ, Gene! What—” Stumbling into the darkness of the upholstered seat, he roared, “Get back inside! You aren’t even damn well dressed!”

“Weston, sit,” someone gruffly commanded in a low baritone from within the shadows of the carriage seat. “And cease yelling at her. How is that helpful?”

Henry leaned toward that voice, still keeping himself buried within the coat. “I can’t have her seeing my face!”

“I understand,” that low baritone offered. “Cease yelling about it and let me get her inside for you, all right?”

Her throat tightened as she edged back. Who was in there with him? And what was going on? She swiped away the beading rain from her face in an effort to try to see.

A well-framed man with shoulder-length silvering black hair that fell around a chiseled face in wet waves loomed in the carriage doorway. Those broad shoulders barely fit against the opening as he hovered above her, setting one edge-whitened leather boot on the first stair, whilst keeping the other on the main landing of the carriage.

Her eyes widened, noting his frayed coat had been torn at the curve of that muscled shoulder. Dearest God. What sort of company was her brother keeping these days? A yellowing linen shirt, open indecently at his masculine throat without a cravat or a waistcoat, had been sloppily tucked into a pair of wool trousers.

Astoundingly pale eyes that reminded her of the clearest skies of a winter morning held her gaze from above for a thundering moment. The wavering light from the lanterns flickered shadows across his rugged face, accentuating high cheekbones and a fine nose that was a touch crooked. He lingered in the opening of that carriage as if to ensure she was aware of him.