Forever a Lord (3 page)

Vincent wheeled back and collapsed onto the ground. His
gnarled, swollen hands covered his side as he gasped. Bright red blood streamed
from his nose and lips as he rocked in anguished panting silence.

“Back!”
the umpire called, holding
out a hand and ordering Coleman to get back to the chalked line.

Peddling toward the chalk line with both fists still up,
Coleman waited, chest heaving and nostrils flaring. He could feel his right eye
swelling shut as sweat dripped from his forehead to his nose and down the length
of his chin. He swiped at it, smearing blood from his nose, and awaited the
verdict.

The crowd counted down in unison.

When Iron Fist didn’t rise, he knew he’d won.

The umpire pointed at Coleman. “Here be the champion of this
here quarter! The next and last quarter is set to begin with new opponents in
fifteen minutes. So place your bets, gents!”

Coleman sometimes felt like he was cattle. No one ever even
announced his name when he won. But that was street fighting for you. It was
about money and blood. Nothing more.

In a blur of shouts and the waving of hats in the dust-ridden
summer heat, Coleman dropped his arms, spit out the acrid blood that had
gathered in his mouth and staggered over to the side fence where his earnings
waited. Stanley, who always assisted Coleman in coordinating his street fights
at fifty cents a piece, tsked, his unkempt whiskers shifting against his round
face. “Why the hell do you keep doin’ these measly dollar street fights? You’re
not gettin’ any younger, you know. In fact, most boxers your age are not only
retired but dead.”

“I appreciate the confidence, Stanley.”

“You need to cease runnin’ out on the investors I bring and
take on bigger fights over on Staten Island, is what. Because it’s breakin’ you.
And it’s breakin’ me. I can’t make a livin’ at fifty cents a fight.”

“If you don’t like the money I bring, walk. Because I’m not
about to take on an investor. Every one I’ve met is nothing more than a
money-licking asshole looking to own me.” Coleman could feel the welts on his
body swelling, stretching his pulsing skin. He refocused. “I want my ten.
Now.”

Stanley grumbled something and held out the tin bucket. A tied
sack, filled with coins, waited. “Ten. And I booked another street fight for you
in two weeks. You can pay me then.”

“Good. I appreciate it.” Coleman reached into the bucket and
yanked out the muslin sack. Shifting the weight of the coins in his swollen
hand, he jogged back toward the fence.

He ducked beneath the planks and rejoined the crowd. Leaning
toward Mrs. Walsh, he grabbed her bare hand and set the muslin sack into it.
Goodbye, Jane. I’m sorry it ended like this for
you.
“Take all of it. Buy her the wreath and the flowers and a new
gown and keep whatever is left for yourself and the boys.”

She glanced up. “You loved her. Didn’t you?”

Coleman said nothing. He didn’t want to lie to her. Because
he’d never loved Jane. He’d learned to help women like Jane get out of stupid
situations, yes, and enjoyed having sex with said women he got out of stupid
situations, yes, but love? He’d never known it or felt it. Nor did he want to.
Love was a messy business that not only fucked with a man’s head, but made a man
do things he shouldn’t.

Mrs. Walsh grabbed hold of him and yanked him close. “Come to
the funeral.”

He flinched against the touch that seared his bruised body.
Unlatching her arms, he stepped back and shook his head. “I really don’t want to
see her in a casket.”

“I understand.” She patted the small sack of coins. “May God
bless.” She nodded and moved into the crowd.

The Walsh boys lowered their gazes and disappeared after their
mother, one by one.

Coleman blankly stared after them, knowing it would be the last
time he’d ever see them now that Jane was gone.

Matthew rounded him and held out his linen shirt. “I’ve known
you for eight years, Coleman.
Eight.
Why the hell
didn’t you tell me you were married?”

Coleman grabbed the shirt and pulled the cool linen over his
sweaty, blood-ridden body, wincing against the movements. “Because it wasn’t
much of a marriage. It was more like me helping a girl out of a situation and
keeping her legally out of other people’s hands.”

Matthew held out the rest of his clothing, which Coleman also
grabbed and put on. “I’m still sorry to hear she passed.”

Coleman shrugged. “It was only a matter of time. She was overly
wild and consumed laudanum and whiskey like water.” He perused the trash-strewn
ground. Finding the advertisement he’d earlier tossed, he swiped up the balled
newspaper and shoved it into his pocket. For later.

Three hefty men, including a tall, well-muscled negro in a
frayed linen shirt and wool trousers, suddenly pressed in on him and
Matthew.

Coleman’s brows went up, realizing it was Smock, Andrews and
Kerner—members of their group, the Forty Thieves. “You missed the fight.”
Coleman thumbed toward the milling fence and smirked. “Although Vincent’s blood
is still on the ground. Feel free to look around.”

Smock swiped a hand across his black, unshaven face. “We’re not
here for the fight.”

Everyone grew quiet.

Oh, no.

Matthew quickly leaned in. “Jesus. Is someone dead?”

Andrews scrubbed his oily head with a dirt-crusted hand. “Nah.
But it ain’t good, either.”

Kerner’s bearded face remained stoic.

Coleman stared them down and bit out, “Does someone want to
tell me what the hell is going on? Or are we going to stand here like bricks and
play charades?”

Kerner’s bushy brows rose to his shaggy hairline. “Apparently,
two girls went missing from the local orphanage. There’s been grumblings in the
ward as to what happened. We’re talking prostitution. Sister Catherine called on
me this morning and is terrified knowing the rumors are true. These missing
girls are barely eight.”

Coleman hissed out a breath. The amount of sick bastards in
this world taking advantage of children made him want to break rib cages all day
long. He was damn well glad he wasn’t the only one putting up fists. The sole
reason he and Matthew had created the Forty Thieves was to clean up the rancid
aspects of the slums they all lived in. The trouble was, there was too much to
clean and very little money to clean it with. “I say we get the boys together
and decide who can resolve this mess best. Milton? When and where?”

Matthew pointed at Coleman. “Anthony Street. In three hours.
The usual place. Someone has to know something. Maybe we can buy a few tongues.
Though God knows with what. Informants these days only want money. Kerner,
Smock, Andrews, come with me. We need to get our hands on twenty dollars.
Coleman? Clean yourself up. Your face and nose need tending.” Matthew rounded
into the crowd with the boys following suit and disappeared.

A humid wind blew in from the wharf, feathering Coleman’s
pulsing skin. He made his way back to the milling fence and stood there, amidst
the dust and shouts, staring at nothing in particular.

He probably shouldn’t have given Mrs. Walsh all ten dollars.
Informants were anything but cheap and expected at least a dollar apiece.

Coleman momentarily closed his eyes, knowing what needed to be
done. All that mattered was doing right by those girls and the countless others
like them, and giving them the chance he never got when he was their age.

Reopening his eyes, Coleman slowly pulled out the crumpled
advertisement from his wool coat pocket and stared at the words
well rewarded.
He didn’t know who the hell this Duke
of Wentworth and Lord Yardley were or why they were looking for Nathaniel after
almost thirty fucking years, but he did know one thing. He would swallow what
had once been and use these men to get as much money as he could, to set him and
the Forty Thieves up to help anyone in a similar predicament to these girls.

Everything in life came at a price. And knowing there were
children whose very lives depended on whatever he and Matthew could buy, it was
a price he was more than willing to pay.

CHAPTER TWO

Distinction of rank is of little importance when an offense has been given, and in the impulse of the moment, a Prince has forgot his royalty, by turning out to box.

—P. Egan,
Boxiana
(1823)

The Adelphi Hotel
Evening

L
EANING
AGAINST
THE
silk embroidered wall of the hotel lobby, Coleman scanned the polished marble floors and rubbed his scabbed hands together.

“Sir?” a hotel footman called out, holding out a white gloved hand. “Could you please not lean against the wall? It’s silk and damages easily.”

Coleman shifted his jaw and pushed away from the wall. Although he’d scrubbed with soap and shaved around every scab from his last fight, his patched wool clothing lent to a dirtiness no soap could touch. He was used to it, but sometimes, just sometimes, it still agitated the hell out of him when others treated him like some thug. He was a boxer. Not a thug. There was a difference.

Quick, echoing steps drew his attention.

An older, dashing gentleman with silver, tonic-sleeked hair jogged into the foyer of the hotel, dressed in expensive black evening attire from leather boot to broad shoulder, save a white silk waistcoat, snowy linen shirt and a perfectly knotted linen cravat.

Skidding in beside that older gent was a good-looking man of no more than thirty, whose raven hair had also been swept back with tonic. A black band hugged the upper biceps of his well-tailored coat.

Apparently, everyone was in mourning these days.

It was depressing.

They faced him, their brows rising in unison at realizing he was the only person waiting for them in the lobby.

Coleman knew the best and only way to go about this was to make these men believe Nathaniel was dead. Because that part of himself was.

Adjusting his wool great coat, Coleman strode toward them. “I’m here on behalf of Nathaniel. You have two minutes to convince me you’re worth trusting.”

Both men stared, no doubt weighing his words.

The younger of the two approached. “Two minutes? I suppose we had best talk fast.” Grey eyes, that eerily reminded him of someone he once knew, searched his face. “Are you— What happened to your face?”

Agitated by the question, Coleman widened his stance. “The same thing that’s about to happen to yours, if you don’t tell me who the fuck you are and why you’re looking for Atwood.”

The man leaned back. “I can see you’re exceptionally friendly. Which would explain the face.” He cleared his throat, adjusting his evening coat. “The name is Yardley. Lord Yardley.” He gestured with an ungloved hand toward the older gentleman. “That there is my father, His Grace, the Duke of Wentworth. We, sir, are Nathaniel’s family.
Close
family. If he is still alive, as you are leading us to believe, we would like to speak to him in person. Not through another person. If you don’t mind.”

What if these men had been sent to hunt Nathaniel down? To silence him? It was possible. “I never said he was alive. But if you want further information, it’s going to cost you.”

“How much?”

“A thousand.”

“A thousand?”

“Yes. Dollars. Not pennies. Consider it a bargain. You look like you can afford more.”

“So you actually
know
something?”

“Yes.”

Lord Yardley lowered his shaven chin against his silk cravat. “You wouldn’t be the first claiming to know something. The question is,
do you
?”

Coleman wasn’t about to trust either of these men to shite. “I need a thousand before I say another word.”

Lord Yardley narrowed his gaze. “Keep at this and I will personally ensure you forget your own God-given name. The information comes first. Money last.”

The Duke of Wentworth approached. “Yardley. Enough. Calm down.”

Swinging away, Yardley threw up both hands. “These people are leeches. Every last one of them. All they want is money. What happened to humanity wanting to help others for the sake of goodwill? I’m going for a walk down Broadway. It’s the only thing that ever calms me down.”

The duke pointed. “No. No walks. Not now. You will stay and finish whatever this is.” Brown eyes that were surprisingly intelligent, albeit solemn, observed Coleman for a moment. “We have been in New York, sir, for months making endless inquiries. We are beyond exhausted and are hinging a breath of hope on the possibility that you may know something. Do you?”

Coleman shifted away from the duke, trying to distance himself from the eerie reality that the past was tapping on his shoulder. “It depends on what you want with the information.”

Those features tightened. “If Atwood still lives, which we hope he does, inform him that his sister’s husband and her son are here to collect him. If, however, he is dead, we also wish to know of it. All we want is information that will lead us to resolve this matter and give it peace.”

Coleman stared, his plan to claim the money crumbling with every word. This man was married to his sister? It wasn’t possible. Trying to keep his voice steady, he confided, “Allow me to speak to his sister first. I will decide then.”

The duke swiped his face. “I cannot produce her.”

“Why not?” he demanded, unable to remain calm.

“She died.” That voice, though well controlled, bespoke a deeply rooted anguish.

Coleman staggered, the marble floor beneath his boots momentarily swaying. For the first time in a very, very long time, tears connected to who he had once been pricked his eyes. Auggie was barely six years older than him. She couldn’t be dead. This had to be a trap. “I don’t believe you. Auggie isn’t dead. You’re lying.”

The duke’s gaze snapped to his. “How did you know her name?”

Lord Yardley watched Coleman. “Glass-blue eyes and black hair. And his accent. ’Tis anything but American.” He stepped closer, lips parting. “Dearest God. It’s him. It’s Atwood. It has to be.”

Fuck. He’d stupidly outed himself. Coleman swung away and stalked toward the entrance of the hotel. He wasn’t staying for this. He didn’t even want to know what had happened to Auggie. He didn’t.

Booted feet drummed faster down the lobby, after him.

“Nathaniel?”
the duke called out. “Nathaniel, stay. For God’s sake, stay! Atwood?
Atwood!
”

Sucking in a breath, Coleman darted toward the entrance leading out to the street. Grabbing the oversize doors, he tried to shove them open, but his scab-ridden hands were too disconnected from his body to cooperate.

“Atwood!” The duke grabbed his shoulders and yanked him away from the doors.

Though his fists instinctively popped up to swing, Coleman knew pulverizing his own sister’s husband was not what he owed her. “Atwood doesn’t exist anymore,” he rasped.

The duke slowly turned him. “I have stared at the painted miniature of you as a child so many times. No one has eyes quite like yours. I don’t know why I didn’t see it. The bruises on your face were very distracting.”

Coleman couldn’t breathe.

The duke leaned in. “Your sister devoted everything to the hope of finding you. And this is how you repay her? By running from her family when they come to you? Don’t you care to know what happened to her? Or how she died?”

A warm tear trickled its way down the length of Coleman’s cheek. He viciously swiped at it, welcoming the pinching from grazing the bruise on his face.

The duke held his gaze. “She died in childbirth. Many years ago. It would have been a girl. Our third. Neither survived. I just lost our eldest son, as well. Typhus took him. Yardley here is all I have left of her.”

Coleman stumbled outside that grasp and leaned back against the door, feeling weak. He had been running and running from the past to the point of delusion, and now, it would seem, he had become that delusion. At least he had protected Auggie’s good name to the end.

Dearest God. None of this seemed real. “And what of my mother? Is she dead, too?”

The duke shook his head. “No. She is very much alive.”

He drew in a ragged breath. “I’m glad to hear it.” He nodded. “She was good to me.” He swallowed, trying to keep his voice steady. “And my father? The earl?”

“Still alive.”

Coleman set his jaw and tapped a rigid fist against his thigh. “Of course he is.” He pushed away from the door, knowing his father’s face had replaced so many faces in the ring since he took up boxing at twenty. His pent-up hatred for the man was but one of many reasons why he’d never sought his family out. Because he would have smeared his father’s blood across every last wall in London. “Is he here in New York?”

Yardley approached. “No. He doesn’t know we have been looking for you.”

Coleman raked long strands of hair from his face with a trembling hand. “And why doesn’t he know?”

The duke sighed. “Augustine always believed he was responsible for your disappearance. And I have seen more than enough to believe her. I therefore opted to never include him in whatever investigations we conducted. Including this one. We feared he would impede.”

These men clearly knew his father.

Yardley leaned in. “Come upstairs and have a brandy. Talk to us in the privacy we all deserve. Please.”

Coleman half nodded and drifted across the lobby alongside them, submitting to the request. He followed them up, up red-carpeted stairs until he was eventually ushered into a sweeping lavish room graced with windows facing out toward Bowling Green Park.

It was like he was ten again and looking out over New York City for the first time. It was eerie. He awkwardly sat in the leather chair he was guided into.

A glass filled with brandy was placed into his hand. He could barely keep it steady. The amber liquid within the crystal swayed. The last time he had touched crystal of similar quality was when he had smashed a decanter against that cellar wall he was being kept in and screamed until he could feel neither his body nor soul. He felt like a freak then. And he felt like a freak now. For here he was sitting with his long hair and butchered face holding an expensive tonic meant to be sipped by lace-wearing fops. He’d never felt like he truly belonged anywhere. He was neither fop nor street boy. His boxing was the only world that made sense. Fight or fall.

Yardley slowly sat in a chair across from him. “My mother had a dream you were still alive. It induced her to create a map of your whereabouts which I had kept since her death. That is why we are here. Because of her. Her soul was clearly connected to you. She was never able to let you go.”

Coleman drew in a ragged breath. He had dreamed of Auggie on occasion, too. She had once appeared in a boxing match beside him, startling him into missing a swing. She never said a word in his dreams. Only smiled. And now, he knew why. She’d been smiling from beyond.

The duke brought his chair closer and sat. Leaning forward, he whispered, “What happened to you the night you disappeared? Can you speak of it at all?”

Coleman stared into his glass of brandy. The boy he once knew insisted he say something. In the name of his sister. “I spent five years confined to a cellar after my father had crossed a man he shouldn’t have.”

Yardley dropped his hand to his trouser-clad knee. “
Five years?
By God, what was done to you?”

Coleman continued to stare down at his brandy.

The duke leaned in closer. “Were you beaten?”

Bringing the brandy to his lips, Coleman swallowed the burning liquid. “I wish I had been. I take physical pain incredibly well.”

Both men fell silent.

Coleman sensed they wanted him to say more. But in his opinion, he’d already said enough.

The duke searched his face. “How did you escape?”

Coleman took another quick swig. “I didn’t. One day, my captor opened the cellar door, put a wad of money into my hand and told me to start life anew. So I did. And you’re looking at it.”

Yardley observed him for a moment. “After holding you hostage for five years the man just let you go? Why?”

Coleman shrugged. “It might seem difficult to believe, but we became incredibly good friends. He knew he had kept me long enough and wasn’t interested in taking me to Venice. He was getting married and people in his circle would have started asking questions. They were already asking questions.”

“You
befriended
this man? After he— Did you not go to the marshals after you were released?” the duke demanded. “To press charges?”

Coleman shook his head, his breath almost jagged. “I didn’t want what I knew of my father touching my sister or my mother. It would have destroyed their lives if I had resurfaced.”

The duke held his gaze. “How many were involved in your disappearance? Who were they? And when were you smuggled out of New York?”

“There was only one man involved in my disappearance. A Venetian. And I never left New York.”

“You never…? All this time, you’ve been…?” The duke closed his eyes and grabbed his head with both hands. “Jesus Christ.” He rocked against his hands for a long moment.

Coleman set aside the brandy on the small table beside him and rose in a half daze. “I appreciate that you shouldered my sister’s plight, even after her death. I know if she had been the one missing, I would have fought for her to the end, as well. My only regret is that I didn’t get to see her one last time. I would have liked that. She and I didn’t part on the best of terms and I—” He swallowed hard, trying not to give in to emotion. With his sister gone, what more was there to return to? Nothing. Their mother had always lived for their father. Who was he to break her delusions of a man she loved? “I should go.”

Yardley rose. “Go? No. You can’t. We are here to take you home with us. To London. Where you belong.”

Coleman walked backward toward the door and swept a more than obvious hand to his beaten face. “Do I look like I belong in a ballroom, gentlemen? Too many years have passed for that.”

The duke rose. “Atwood. You can’t leave when we’ve just now found you. We have yet to know you and genuinely wish to assist you in making the transition back into our circle. It will take time, mind you, but—”