Forever a Lord (12 page)

“I’m certain he does. Though not in the way you think. The man knows absolutely nothing about women.”

Henry was wrong in that. Nathaniel knew a lot more about women than he let on. She felt it the moment he and she had danced, and he held her so boldly and protectively in his muscled arms. She could still feel his large hands intently touching her, his heat and his pulse molding against hers. It was like the music of that waltz had floated into her very veins and wanted to stay there for the rest of her life. Something told her that having faith in Nathaniel was going to reward her. She just had to convince Henry
and
Nathaniel of it.

Henry rubbed an agitated hand against his arm. “The idea of touching greatness overtakes us all at least once in our lifetime. Most of us simply know when it has meandered into insanity. And let me warn you, you just meandered into insanity.”

“I’m not investing ten thousand pounds unless I have some sort of a guarantee. And this is the only way to guarantee it. A husband cannot physically or financially elude his wife without legal ramifications. Or am I wrong in assuming that?”

“No. You aren’t.” He shifted. “I will do my best to ensure this doesn’t turn into a mess.”

She smiled. “I adore you for always having faith in me.” She leaned over and kissed him through the towel.

“Ow!”

She winced and leaned back. “I’m sorry.”

He sighed and fell back against the pillows. “God love you, Gene. God love you.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

In concluding this sketch, we cannot omit
stating of our hero that he is intelligent,
communicative and well behaved.

—P. Egan,
Boxiana
(1823)

Later that same night

U
PON
ARRIVING
AT
Limmer’s with Georgia’s diamond necklace in his pocket, which he knew was going to put a big smile on Matthew’s face, Nathaniel was astounded to discover that the door to Matthew’s leased room had been left wide-open.

Odd.

Jogging toward it, Nathaniel gripped the frame of the door and leaned in. The straw tick appeared untouched, its linen neatly folded over, smoothed and laid out across the mattress, as Matthew always prided himself on doing every morning after rising. It was like the man never even laid his head on his own bed. The cracked lantern beside the bed was eerily still lit and the lone crate which had once held all of Matthew’s belongings had been emptied.

Something was wrong. Matthew wouldn’t have left Limmer’s
or
London without telling him.

Shite.

Nathaniel sprinted down the narrow corridor and skidded down the stairs. Grabbing a man rounding the corner, whom he recognized as one of the men who emptied all of the hotel’s piss pots, he shook him. “Have you seen Milton? Room 18? You know, the man with the eye patch?”

The man shrugged.

Shoving the man away, Nathaniel darted out into the street. Last he knew, Milton was trying to raise money for them to make up for what little his boxing brought in.

After roaming not only the docks where Milton worked, but what felt like half the city, and still finding nothing, a squeezing sense of panic overtook Nathaniel.

A half hour later, he burst back into Limmer’s, wondering if he had overlooked something in the room.

“Coleman!” The head clerk pointed at him with a gnarled finger from the top of the narrow stairwell. “Richard told me you were looking for Milton. I hate to say it, but Scotland Yard up and nabbed him just a few streets from here. The poor soaplock never even saw the pillow. Several constables came by not even an hour ago to collect whatever he had in the crate. Apparently he did something.”

Nathaniel choked. “What the hell did he do?”

The clerk shrugged. “That I don’t know. If I asked those bastards about the charges every time they nabbed one of my tenants, I’d never get anything done.”

Leave it to Matthew to get arrested.

Morning

“H
EAVENS
ABOVE
,
ARE
you bricked?” the agitated voice of a woman called out to him within the haze of his sleep. “Half my cognac is gone.”

Snapping open his eyes, Nathaniel sat up. The decanter sitting on his thigh slipped from his hand and though he fumbled to catch it, it crashed onto the wooden floor with a shattering that sprayed amber liquid and crystal alike, slathering his boots with cognac. He jumped onto booted feet, kicking away what was left of the decanter, and shook off the liquid. “Son of a bitch.” He had fallen asleep.

After running around well into the morning hours trying to help Matthew, he’d ended up having to dart to Matthew’s aristo lover, who had damn well kept him waiting for over two hours whilst she “dressed.”

Lady Burton tartly stared him down, now dressed from throat to boot in an ominous black gown, looking like death and vengeance. Her black leather gloved hand tightened around a black bonnet that was bundled with a long black lace veil.

Nathaniel lifted a brow and gestured toward her austere attire. “The objective is not to harm the man but to get him out of jail.”

She brought her gloved hands before her, a beaded reticule swinging from her wrist. “That is your opinion, not mine.”

It was fairly obvious Matthew had already crossed the woman. But then again, she should have assumed that outcome from the start. “Don’t play pious with me. You knew full well what you were getting into the moment you handed that boy your fancy little calling card out on Rotten Row.”

She set her chin. “That was before he strapped me with a set of leather belts against my will and left me bound for half the night. Merely because I tried to reason with him after he robbed the vault of a former lover of mine.”

Milton, Milton, Milton. Old habits died hard, it would seem. “That wasn’t very nice of him, was it?”

She puckered her lips, clearly not amused. “Is he even worth saving?”

“Would I have stumbled in here half-asleep and drunk half of your cognac demanding you assist a man I’d rather see hang? Of course he’s worth saving. I also can’t have these goddamn barristers digging into
my
life and putting this into the papers.”

“Your life. I see.” She casually placed the bonnet on her head, tossing back the veil from her face and tied the ribbon beneath her chin. “Georgia told me quite a bit about you. She and I are friends, you know.”

Leave it to Georgia to talk. “Most of it is probably true. So don’t hold it against her
or
me.”

“I take it you find yourself amusing.” She yanked the black veil over her head, her face disappearing beneath the lace. “How much money do you think it will take to get Matthew out of my life?”

Ouch. Matthew wasn’t going to swallow any of this, given how smitten he was with this woman. “You’re not going to actually toss the poor bastard merely because he got jealous and raided one of your lover’s vaults, are you?”

“Leave,
my lord.
I will oversee Matthew’s release on my own. And if he ever comes near me again, tell him I will do more than let Scotland Yard hang him by the throat. I will ensure they hang him by the cock so he never uses it again.”

This love affair between her and Matthew was clearly over. He’d probably have to play martyr and ease the blow for the man by convincing Matthew that it wasn’t all his fault. At least there was an upside to this. The boys would finally be getting Milton back. Amen.

Days later
On the corner of Maiden Lane

“I’
M
GLAD
SHE
was able to get you out. I only wish things could have worked out between you and her.” Oddly, given it was Matthew, Nathaniel actually meant it. He knew the man had always wanted a family and children. And before his most recent interaction with Lady Burton, it had appeared she had been as interested in him as he was in her.

Trying not to think of missing the bastard too much, Nathaniel thumped Matthew heartily on the back. “Stay away from doing any more heists. All right?”

“I will. And give back those diamonds to Georgia, will you? The last thing I want is to owe her a diamond necklace.”

“It goes back to the woman tomorrow.”

“Good.” Matthew hesitated. “So what about you? Any news from that investor of yours?”

Nathaniel leaned toward him and bit back a grin. “As a matter of fact, yes. I received a missive from Weston this morning.”

Matthew angled his good eye toward him. “And?”

“He wants me to meet him at Jackson’s tomorrow afternoon. It’s a boxing academy for the nobility and gentry. Rather serious invitation. And listen to this. His offer includes not five, but a bloody
seven thousand
pounds with all expenses paid at a chance for the championship. I would be stupid not to take it.”

“Good for you. You’ve earned it.” Matthew elbowed him. “I’ll look for your win in the papers. New York always prints English jargon.”

Nathaniel playfully shoved Matthew away. “You won’t even have to read about it. You’ll hear the roar well across the ocean, my man.”

Matthew smirked. “I have no doubt I will.”

“Take care of yourself and the boys. All right? Now go. Before you lose your seat.”

Matthew’s features sagged. “I’ve already lost everything else,” he muttered. “What’s a seat?” Glancing toward the waiting stagecoach, Matthew swung up the wool sack with his clothes onto his shoulder.

Nathaniel held up a hand. “May our paths cross again.”

“I have no doubt they will.” Matthew held up his hand, in turn, and jogged over to the curb, hopping onto the crowded stagecoach.

When the coach rolled away and disappeared on the horizon of the narrow, cobblestone street, Nathaniel sighed and felt as if he’d waved goodbye to the only person who ever understood what it was like to be a pariah.

CHAPTER TWELVE

It is an opinion strongly entertained in the Army,
that it is much easier to make a good dragoon out
of a
man
who never mounted a horse in his life,
than a post-
boy
who has been riding all of his days.

—P. Egan,
Boxiana
(1823)

Jackson’s
13 Bond Street

U
NLATCHING
THE
ENTRANCE
,
Nathaniel stepped in and closed the door. The acrid smell of leather and perspiration wafted toward him as grunts, thuds, commands and shouts filled the air.

Scanning the vast, high-ceilinged room which was relatively crowded with well-dressed men at different marked stations, Nathaniel rounded toward a wall of hooks. Boxing gloves neatly hung by their strings, most of them appearing unscuffed and so new the leather still had a shine to it. Posters of prizefights from all over England, city and countryside alike, were tacked and framed on all of the blue-grey walls serving as decor.

The space and cleanliness was beyond impressive. He was used to dingy, cramped rooms with spit, blood, cigar ash, mounds of sweat-slathered clothes and piss from overturned chamber pots all over the training floors. But here…the entire expanse of the wooden floors had been swept so meticulously he could see the scrapes in the floor.

It was boxing at its finest. A sense of excitement drummed through him. One he hadn’t known since he’d first gotten into boxing. This opportunity was a real chance at becoming something.

A tall, stocky, grey-haired gentleman strode decisively toward him, dressed in a flowing linen shirt tucked in tan knee britches, blindingly white silk stockings that outlined well-muscled calves and black leather slippers that barely covered his heel and toes.

Nathaniel hoped to God he didn’t have to dress like that. He cleared his throat. “I have an appointment with Lord Weston.”

“Ah. So
you
are the infamous missing heir.” The gentleman scanned him, before issuing a civil incline of the head. “The name is Gentleman John Jackson. I look forward to personally training with you over these next few weeks. I ask that you please remove your coat so we may weigh you in and put it on the saloon record before you join Weston.”

Nathaniel blinked, wondering if he was being mistaken for someone else, because he had never received such a gracious reception. He certainly hadn’t expected to be greeted by
the
Gentleman John Jackson who won the title of Champion of England in 1795.

It was unbelievable. He was going to actually train with a legend. “’Tis an honor, sir. A great, great honor. I have read so much about you in all the New York papers. Your incredible ten-minute set with Mendoza is something I aspire to achieve.”

Jackson held out a hand. “Your coat, my lord?”

Right. Stripping his great coat from his shoulders, Nathaniel hurriedly bundled it, aware of its sorry state. He handed it to the man.

Jackson turned and let out a whistle.

A young boy in a velvet pea-green morning coat and brown trousers darted over. Standing at marching attention, the boy snapped both heels of his polished black leather boots together. “Yes, sir?”

Jackson held out the coat. “Throw it away.”

“Yes, sir.” The boy grabbed the bundled coat and darted off.

Nathaniel was too stunned to even object.

Jackson swiveled back to him. “Try to remember that whenever you step into my academy, you represent far more than yourself. You represent me. Training is different from the ring.” Jackson pointed toward the windows. “You see that? Those there are windows that face out to the street. Any respectable soul, including women, can see you. You will therefore invest in appropriate boxing attire that will include a waistcoat. Is that understood, my lord?”

The man was gruff but intelligent. Which was rare for the boxing crowd. They were usually gruff but never intelligent. “Yes, sir.”

“Good. You will also shear off most of your hair. Otherwise, I am not letting you box with me or anyone else in London.”

Nathaniel lowered his chin. “I prefer my hair at its current length. I can knot it and it stays out of my face when I fight.”

“This isn’t New York.” Black button eyes remained affixed on him. “Few people know what I am about to tell you. I took Mendoza down in a mere ten minutes not because I was a better pugilist than he, but because he had enough hair for me to grab hold of, which I then used to keep him in place whilst I bloodied his flesh into full submission and ended his career. I don’t know what the rules are in New York, but there are no rules here in England against holding your opponent’s hair. So let me ask you this—do you want what happened to Mendoza to happen to you?”

Nathaniel shifted his jaw. “No.”

“Good. Shear it. Short. ’Tis fashionable anyway.” Stepping toward him, the man grabbed Nathaniel’s shoulders hard. With marked strength, Jackson’s hands worked through the frayed linen of Nathaniel’s shirt, fingers digging into and feeling the expanse of every muscle on his upper torso. The man thumped his way down Nathaniel’s arms and then stepped back, his features brightening. “Incredible muscle tone. Weston certainly has an eye. You are, as he said, impressively fit.”

“I should think so. The Five Points is the best training ground there is.”

“It shows.” Jackson eyed him. “Was the Five Points the sporting club you attended? I know I never heard of it. Was it exclusive?”

Nathaniel lifted a brow and decided against explaining to the man that the Five Points was no gentleman’s sporting club. There were sports, yes, and there were men, yes, but no gentlemen. Only pimps, whores and thieves. “Oh, yes. It was very exclusive. I could barely afford it.” He tried to keep his tone serious.

Jackson leaned in. “Permit me to confide the deep respect I have for the story that surrounds you. Most of your peers have
no
understanding of why a man boxes. They think it valiant, masculine and designed to keep a man fit. And yes, of course, it does, but what they don’t realize is that life forces some of us into putting our fists up long before we even knew it was a sport.
That
is a true boxer.”

He liked this man. “Well said, sir.”

“I say a lot of things well, but for some damn reason my fists get all the glory.” Jackson smirked. “Come with me.” Wagging a hand, Jackson made his way past a group of young aristocratic-looking men who had ceased training to acknowledge him.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Jackson!” the young men called out almost in unison.

“Good afternoon, my lords.”

The group of men eyed Nathaniel and then Jackson. “By God, is that him?” one of the five asked, pointing to Nathaniel. “Is that
the
missing heir who is setting aside his title for a boxing title? Do we get to fight him?”

Nathaniel smirked. He already felt famous.

“Yes, yes,” Jackson called out. “You will all get a chance to spar with him later. Now get back to swinging.”

“Yes, sir!”

There was no doubt Jackson, who, according to sporting papers had once worked as a mere corn porter before rising to fame, had earned an impressive and high place in respectable society among aristos and gentry alike. Being the Champion of England earned that for a man.

Nathaniel could only imagine what the title was going to earn for him.

Jackson tapped at a tall, wooden tripod bearing a large scale with iron weights on one side and a wooden seat hanging by ropes on the other. “Sit. And lift your feet until I’m done.”

With a swift turn, Nathaniel lowered himself onto the wooden seat. Grabbing the ropes to steady himself, he lifted both booted feet into the air, causing the seat to sway.

Jackson added an iron weight to the set of weights already on the scale and glanced at the bar above the tripod to see if it was level. He added another weight, then another and another before finally stepping back.

Jackson sniffed, looking at Nathaniel’s weight on the scale. “It could be more given your height.” Pulling out a small pencil from the pocket of his britches, he grabbed up a ledger from beside the scale, flipped it open and wrote something in it. Setting both aside, Jackson asked, “What do you usually eat?”

Nathaniel shrugged. “Stew, mutton, yams. Whatever I can afford.”

“You will need to learn to focus on eating better. I will ensure you get a list of what you should be eating. Focus on not only eating well, but eating often. Except during days of combat, that is. Get off the scale.”

Nathaniel jumped off, leaving it swinging, and adjusted his linen shirt. “What next?”

Jackson pointed to a door beyond the scale. “In there. Weston is waiting to negotiate the terms.”

Nathaniel blew out a breath and strode around the scale, opening the door beyond it. Despite getting to work with Jackson, he felt nervous about handing over his boxing life like this. But it was his best and his only chance at crawling out of the dirt hole he was living in without having to rely on Auggie’s family, and he absolutely refused to be a burden.

Stepping in, Nathaniel closed the door with the heel of his boot and turned toward a cluttered room lit with several lamps.

Behind a mahogany writing desk piled with books, papers and ledgers was none other than Weston, casually leaning back in a chair with an open newspaper held chin-high before him. Weston’s dark blond hair was meticulously brushed back in its usual sleek fashion. A grey pin-striped morning coat and matching wool trousers made him look like the well-to-do dandy that he was.

For some reason, the man ignored him and kept reading.

Nathaniel couldn’t help but feel irked. “Don’t tell me the paper is more interesting than my career.”

Sharp green eyes lifted and met Nathaniel’s. The paper slowly came down, revealing a smatter of yellow-blue and black bruises across Weston’s cheekbone and entire square jaw. “Sit.
Now.
”

Nathaniel didn’t like the tone
or
that stare. What the hell was this? “Addressing me like a dog isn’t wise on your part. You might end up with a few more bruises.”

Weston tossed the paper to the floor with the flick of his wrist and rose to his height of almost six feet, adjusting his morning coat around his broad frame.

Veering around the desk and heading toward him, Weston rigidly pointed. “You—
Atwood
—are an asshole. A real asshole. And I am tossing the word
asshole
at you not because it’s a word I frequently use, for I consider myself to be a gentleman, but because you had the bloody gall to use that vile word in the presence of my sister. My nineteen-year-old untainted—
until now!—
sister. What the devil do you have to say for your lack of refinement and crude conduct?”

Nathaniel leaned back. Although he might have said it the first night she and he met, he honestly couldn’t remember. He’d said a lot of things to her that night, which all blurred together into his head because he spent half their conversation trying not to…touch her. “I’m sorry if I did. In all honesty, I don’t remember.”

“Oh, but you did. How do I know? Because she up and called
me
an asshole.
Me.
Her own brother.”

Nathaniel rumbled out a startled laugh. “Now, now, I doubt that little bird even knows what it means.”

“Let me assure you, that little bird used it in the context in which it was supposed to be used,
asshole.
”

Nathaniel rumbled out another laugh. “Are you certain she didn’t hear it from you? Because you seem to be using the word quite a bit.”

Weston narrowed his gaze. “Listen here and listen well. I spent the last week and a half taking coaches from one side of town to the other and back again, digging tirelessly into who the hell you really are. And I will say, I have
never
come across anything more bewildering and muddled than the story of your so-called life. American Loyalists, panels in a wall leading to hidden tunnels, countless investigators, including that of the Crown’s, baffled at having no evidence, and a calling card with the words
Death to the British
given to the Duke of Wentworth, years after the boy’s disappearance, by a nameless man who was never seen again.”

Nathaniel widened his stance in agitation. “If you know everything there is to know about my so-called life, why talk to me about it?”

Weston angled toward him. “Because I’m far from done. The Duke of Wentworth, whom I greatly admire and respect, vouches that you are indeed this missing heir. I am inclined to believe him for he is a man of worth and honor. But then there is your father. Another man of worth and honor. I visited him to discuss these same details. After he ushered his wife out of the room, who was intently asking me questions about the man who claims to be her son, he then locked us away in the farthest part of the house as if we were about to discuss the origin of human nature with God himself.”

Weston grabbed Nathaniel’s shoulder and squeezed it hard. “Not only does Lord Sumner deny your claim, but when I asked him to see a portrait or a sketch of what you might have looked like as a child, to assist me in seeing any resemblance and coming to my own conclusion, he had none to show. None. He
destroyed
them out of grief. Now, whilst I am no longer a father, for sadly, every child I have ever tried to conceive never survived beyond their first few months of life, I do know one thing. Grief doesn’t make a father destroy his own child’s likeness. I have a lock of every one of my children’s hair I keep in a drawer and look at to bring me closer to what might have been. And had they lived long enough, I would have had their likenesses painted and kept all of those, too. So why would a father do such a thing?”

Nathaniel felt a part of himself crumble, the way it had many, many years ago in his youth, but otherwise said nothing. Because he knew all too well why his father had annihilated all evidence. Because he, Nathaniel, represented everything his father had tried to bury. Everything his father had hoped would never resurface. The old man was no doubt panicking but was too much of a coward to do anything about it.