Forever a Lord (21 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Tremble!

—P. Egan,
Boxiana
(1823)

Nine weeks later—Late afternoon
18 Berkeley Square

N
ATHANIEL
’
S
POPULARITY
in the boxing community had reached an unprecedented crescendo that had sold out every last ticket in Covent Garden at a guinea and a half apiece for the Terry-Atwood fight. Nathaniel, bless his fists, had already beat Norley, Gill and Hatchet. All that was left was to beat Terry and then the next fight was for the title itself.

Sitting in her receiving room at an hour when every man in London, including her own brother, who was acting as Nathaniel’s second in the match, was gathering to watch the Terry-Atwood fight, unnerved Imogene.

Nathaniel had asked her to stay home, as he did whenever it came to every real fight. Even though she didn’t want to, she did because he had asked her to. Everything she did as of late, she did for him and because of him.

And he knew it.

He had changed her life in so many glorious ways. She never felt alone anymore. And though they never really once said the word
love
to each other, she knew he loved her as much as she loved him.

Since she had ceased taking her medication, she no longer felt dizzy and hadn’t fainted once. Not once. It was unbelievable.

She felt…incredible.

That is, until she had commenced vomiting due to overwhelming nausea whenever she ate anything. She thought it odd until she noted her menses had also ceased and spoke to her lady’s maid about it. It was rather obvious she was pregnant. Though her belly had yet to show, she knew she was set to have Nathaniel’s babe. It was as exciting as it was unsettling. She decided it was best to announce it after his fight tonight. So he wasn’t so distracted with the news.

She couldn’t deny she was exceedingly fond of her life with Nathaniel. Overly fond. Every night, after his training and a bath and a supper the cook would always have waiting, he would nestle them into bed and tell her all about his progress and how much he was learning from Jackson. His voice was always so husky and eager to share. Sometimes they fell asleep talking, while still in each other’s arms, and sometimes they stayed up, rolling around until all the clothes came off and words were no longer a necessity or an option.

It was glorious.

He
was glorious.

And yes, she was madly in love with the man.

During the day, when she wasn’t at Jackson’s watching Nathaniel train, she would call on the quirky but fabulous Miss Tormey or her brother, Henry, who was already laying out all divorce plans and had hired a solicitor. Imogene also busied herself with accepting or rejecting endless invitations to dinners and gatherings, all whilst going through newspapers and gazettes, reading through anything she could find pertaining to Nathaniel.

She made it a priority to ensure nothing was being printed that might damage his growing popularity.

Imogene burrowed into a chair beside the window for better light and angled the latest sporting chronicle toward her. She perused the
Remarks
section, wondering if there was anything that had been written about Nathaniel, and sat up.

There was one.

And it was a remark written by none other than Mr. P. Egan himself. Her eyes widened. Mr. P. Egan. It was something Nathaniel and Mr. Jackson had been ardently waiting for. A remark from the man.

She only hoped it was good.

Bringing the paper closer, she read aloud:

“The Honourable Lord Atwood, known as the ‘Missing Heir’ to the sporting world, has far exceeded the anticipation of this pugilistic observer who has been keenly watching him through every fight. What has been noted repeatedly is a man not only of gigantic strength, but one possessing a degree of scientific knowledge and impressive self-possession. He stands well on his legs, goes fearlessly against his opponent, and uses both hands with equal quickness, hitting well out from his shoulder, and throwing all
his energies into the force of his blows. At present, I regard him as a ‘rara avis in terris.’ For those unfamiliar with Latin, and for shame on those of you who are, allow me to translate: ‘A rare bird on earth.’ If there is any remarkable man capable of taking the title of Champion of England, it is our missing heir. Let it be known, that, as always, I was the first to scribe it.”

Imogene jumped from
her chair with a bursting squeal, shaking and shaking the paper. If Mr. P. Egan thought Nathaniel was taking the title, it was not only possible, but it was going to happen.

It was going to happen!

A blurred movement from the street made Imogene turn to the window. She froze as a lacquered, black carriage pulled by enormous, midnight-colored stallions rolled up to the town house.

A footman opened the door of the carriage, unfolded the stairs and dutifully guided the hand of a veiled, petite female draped in lavish, verdant morning attire.

As the stallions restlessly pawed the ground, the woman, whose face was eerily hidden beneath a black lace veil, turned her head toward Imogene. Though Imogene couldn’t see any eyes or a face, she felt the woman’s gaze penetrate her straight through the window.

It was like death making a personal call.

The newspaper floated with a rustle from her hands to the floor. A knot formed in her stomach that had nothing to do with the babe as the woman gathered her skirts and made her way up the entrance stairs.

The calling bell rang.

In panicked dread, Imogene glanced toward the open doorway of the receiving room as the butler passed.

Her throat closed up and though she wanted to call out to the butler not to even open the door, she couldn’t move or think or get her tongue to cooperate.

Within moments, the butler returned with a silver tray and presented her the card.

Imogene hesitated and leaned over the tray, not wanting to touch it. The ivory calling card read:

Lady Sumner

She glanced up
in startled astonishment. Dearest heaven. It was Nathaniel’s mother.

“Are you at home, my lady?” the butler inquired.

She swallowed against the tightness in her throat and nodded. “I… Yes. I’m at home. Show her in at once.”

“Yes, my lady.” The butler departed.

Imogene lingered in the middle of the receiving room, her heartbeat as erratic as her thoughts. After snubbing the wedding and repeated letters and invitations she had sent to the Sumners despite Nathaniel’s grudging mutters about her letting the matter go, what would make his mother break her silence now?

The veiled figure Imogene had seen through the window appeared in the doorway and lingered.

“Is he here?” the woman asked in an eerily quiet but regal tone from within the veil.

Imogene pressed her hands together in an effort to remain calm and crossed the room toward her. “No, my lady. He is not and won’t be until after midnight. He usually joins my brother and the boxing community at Cardinal’s after a fight.”

Lady Sumner gathered the veil with gloved hands and, with a trembling sweep, folded it back onto her bonnet, exposing beautifully assembled grey hair. An aged face with startling blue eyes that reminded her of Nathaniel’s held her gaze.

Imogene drew in a breath, not at all expecting what she saw.

The entire left side of the poor woman’s aged face, including her eye and the corner of her mouth drooped from what appeared to be an ailment. “I apologize for the state of my face,” Lady Sumner said matter-of-factly.

Imogene shook her head. “Please don’t…don’t apologize, my lady. ’Tis an honor to be in your presence. I was hoping you would eventually call. Nathaniel is incredibly proud and refused to make the call himself after he had already sent several missives, which all went unanswered by you. Though he never admitted to it, I know he was incredibly hurt by your silence.”

Lady Sumner averted her gaze and dug her gloved fingers into the side of her face, indenting that disfigured flesh with every tip.

Imogene swallowed, sensing something wasn’t quite right with this woman. “Are you unwell, my lady?”

Lady Sumner’s hand fell away and instead now dug into her arm. “I didn’t want to hope.” Her voice sounded eerie, almost faint. “I doubted it. Sumner made me doubt it, too. He said it wasn’t possible. Until I saw a sketch of him in a sporting chronicle this morning that Wilkinson insisted I see. The moment I saw it I…I knew. This overwhelming, inexplicable feeling that I was looking at a grown version of my son seized me. It was as if—” A sob escaped her. She set a hand to her ruined face, those shoulders quaking against emotion.

Imogene hurried to the woman, tears blurring her vision. She gathered the woman into her arms and tugged her close. “I’m so sorry.”

The woman sobbed against her. “I need it to be him.”

Imogene cradled the woman, rocking her through tears. “It is indeed him. Have no doubt in that.”

The woman drew away from Imogene, using the veil to dab her eyes, though her hand prevented her from doing it properly. “I have yet to accept any of this as true.” She sniffed several times and buried herself within the veil. “Have him call on me tomorrow morning. The earlier the better. Tell him I will be ardently waiting.” The woman nodded through the veil and grabbed Imogene’s hand again. “Forgive me for not having attended the wedding. Are you and he happy?”

Imogene smiled. “Yes. We are. Very.”

“Good.” Lady Sumner shook her hand and kept shaking it. “What is he like? What has he grown into? A good man? The sort I can be proud of?”

Imogene’s heart squeezed. “Indeed. He is that and more, my lady. Though I will say he is haunted by whatever happened. He doesn’t tolerate small spaces and sometimes falls into silence when certain topics of conversation are introduced. Despite that, he manages to rise above it. I think his boxing helps him with that.”

Those fingers now dug savagely into Imogene’s hand, almost startling her. “He shouldn’t be boxing,” she rasped. “Lest he get hurt. Tell him to cease. Tell him I will not tolerate it.”

Imogene stared, wanting those digging fingers to let her go. She understood Lady Sumner’s concern, but something didn’t feel right. “I ask you ease your grip upon my hand.”

Lady Sumner’s digging fingers eased. “Does he mention my husband at all? Does he blame him for anything?”

Imogene’s throat tightened. Even though Nathaniel had alluded to it many times, it was not her place to say it. “I know nothing, my lady, for he does not wish to speak of it. All I know is that your son has suffered greatly.”

“My daughter believed he was alive up until the very last breath she took. She believed in a way I did not.” Lady Sumner released Imogene’s hand and sobbed. “What a wretched mother I am to have ceased believing in my own son.”

“Shhhh. No. Do not say such things. You have endured far too much to—”

“I betrayed him by not believing.” Lady Sumner leaned in, swaying the veil against her face. “Tell him to call on me in the morning. Tell him I must see him and hold him.
Tell him.
”

Imogene tried not to cry, sensing that this poor woman was almost too broken. It was so sad. “I will tell him.”

Lady Sumner reached out and blindly patted Imogene’s cheek with a gloved hand, those fingers skimming Imogene’s cheek on an angle. “You have such a pretty face,” she murmured. “I used to be pretty, too. When I was younger.” Lady Sumner grew quiet. “I have nothing now. Not the love of my husband and not even a face.”

The poor, poor woman. “You have the love of your son. And I promise he will come to you tomorrow morning.”

“Yes. Do. Tell him I will have crumpets and strawberry preserves waiting for him. They used to be his favorite.” Lady Sumner nodded. “My husband didn’t believe it was our son. But I will make him believe. You tell Nathaniel that.” Stepping back, the woman slowly turned away and drifted down the corridor without so much as bidding a farewell.

Tears blinded Imogene as she rubbed a hand against her belly in disbelief and stood in the silence of the receiving room. Lady Sumner seemed anything but grounded.

Whatever Nathaniel had endured, and whatever his father had done, was about to make itself known. Imogene only prayed it didn’t break him
or
her.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

His pugilistic talents, perhaps, might have been forever obscured from the world, and himself content to drag on a life of rustic insipidity, had not the smiles of the fair sex awakened his brave heart and brought them to action.

—P. Egan,
Boxiana
(1823)

Covent Garden

I
T
WAS
LIKE
the man was made of iron.

A determined roar ripped from Nathaniel’s throat, which was instantly swallowed into the echo of the shouting crowds. Terry barely stumbled against the savage hit Nathaniel had squarely delivered to the side of the man’s head.

Jumping forward again, Nathaniel straight punched and felt his fist finally penetrate through those upheld hands. Smashing Terry’s nose with a masticating crunch he could feel against his knuckles and arm, Nathaniel felt blood spray across his chest and slather his hand.

He had him.

Nathaniel hit the man again and again, from jaw to temple, determined to finish him.

Terry staggered back, his gashed features distorted from the fight that had lasted well past sixty rounds. Terry suddenly collapsed onto the wooden boards, limp.

“To the line!” the umpire shouted at Nathaniel as the crowd boomed with riled shouts and cheers that muted the words. “Thirty seconds! And I count!”

Jogging over to the chalked box, Nathaniel waited with both fists still up as the umpire counted out the time. The pulsing of Nathaniel’s battered flesh seemed to swell against the afternoon sun, and though he felt his mind wanting to leave his body, he knew he had to stay focused.

Terry’s second jumped out from the corner post and yelled down at Terry to get up, shaking him repeatedly. “To the line, Terry!
Terry!
For blood’s sake, to the line! Don’t let the bastard take this from us!”

Rolling onto his back, Terry momentarily stared up into the afternoon sky, his chest pumping hard.

“Stay down,” Nathaniel chanted against his own fists that hovered before his face. “Stay down, you son of a bitch. I need this more than you do.”

“Thirty!”
the umpire boomed as he pointed a finger at Nathaniel. “And this here ends the fight! I proclaim Atwood to be the lead for the next and last fight of Champion to be set by any contender!”

Nathaniel dropped his hands heavily to his sides and closed his eyes as cheers drummed against his head and his soul. He had done it. A part of him couldn’t believe it. He’d taken down a man who hadn’t gone down against anyone. And the title of Champion was next.

It was as though the world was finally kneeling to him.

Finally.

Reopening his eyes, he swung toward the crowd. Weston picked up a bucket of water from the corner post and tossed it at him with a celebratory whoop. “To the upcoming Champion of England! It’s yours! I damn well know it is!”

The cold water drenched Nathaniel’s face and body like the heavenly blessing that it was. The heat of his throbbing body flickered away into a soothing, cooling bliss. Swiping his face, he let out a laugh he couldn’t even hear and scanned the bobbing crowds of well over several hundred men.

It was astounding to know
he
had brought them here.

He paused at glimpsing the duke and Yardley both grinning up at him from the masses pressing in against the wooden posts that roped off the crowd from the fight.

They came. Like they always did.

Nathaniel grinned past the biting pain and held up a fist toward them, shaking it in the air in their honor.

Yardley and the duke held up their fists in turn and also shook them, sending out mutual support.

In that moment, as Nathaniel threw out both arms and walked about the wood stage, welcoming the attention of the crowd that chanted,
“Atwood! Atwood! Atwood!”
he believed anything was possible.

Though he had a long night ahead of him, including debriefing with Weston and Jackson and cavorting with the entire boxing company from Jackson’s club, he couldn’t wait to go home and announce his win to the woman who had made all of this possible. To the woman who made his life worth living and was his, all his.

Biting back an exasperated grin, he leaned over the side of the posts and shook countless hands that were repeatedly being thrust his way.

Life didn’t get any better than this.