Forever a Lord (4 page)

“No.” Coleman shook his head. “I abide by my boxing name, not my titled name, and want no other life than the one I have now. People depend on me. I have a purpose other than living with regret.”

The duke swung away, placing a hand to the back of his neck. “Yardley, speak to him. Because I am not thinking clearly. And neither is he.”

Yardley quickly strode toward Coleman and leaned in, his rugged features tightening. “To take on any other name than the one you were born unto, knowing everything you and my mother have suffered, would be an insult to her
and
you. By God. You have allowed a lifetime to pass. If you cannot face this now, when will you ever?”

The boy didn’t understand. This wasn’t about being unable to face the past. He’d faced it. He’d lived it. This was about facing the anger he had yet to unleash on the only person he’d ever wanted dead: his father. Not his captor.
His father.

Coleman widened his stance. “If I return to London, I’ll do more than face my father. I’ll kill him.”

Yardley pointed. “No you won’t.”

“You don’t know me,” Coleman said between clamped teeth. “I’ve beaten people into bloodied pools of unconsciousness for far less.”

“Killing him isn’t going to change what happened.”

“Neither will letting him live.”

His nephew touched his arm. “Setting aside all that has come to pass, surely you understand that you owe your mother a breath of peace. A peace my own mother never got in her lifetime.”

Coleman released a breath. Yes, he did owe his mother peace. But if the poor woman were to ever know the truth—Christ. What a mess. It was obvious he couldn’t walk away and pretend he didn’t want to go back. “I need time.”

Yardley lowered his shaven chin. “You’ve been gone for almost thirty years. How much more time do you need?”

Coleman pointed a finger at that mouth that dared mock him. “What you don’t understand,
nephew
, is that I have a life separate from the past. I’ve got people depending on me. Thirty-nine, to be exact. They were there for me when no one else was and I’m not about to pull their teeth out of their skulls by up and leaving. I can’t. I need time to make the transition.”

Yardley hesitated. “How much time do you need?” he asked more gently.

Coleman shrugged. “I don’t know. A few months. I share in a lot of responsibilities. Until I can shuffle off those responsibilities to people I can trust, I suggest you both return to London and let it rest.”

Yardley’s eyes widened. “We’re not about to leave without you.”

“You have no choice,” Coleman bit out. “Because when I walk out of here, you cease to exist until I find my way back to London. Why? Because I can’t have anyone in New York, or the United States for that matter, knowing I’m a fucking viscount. I’ll lose my credibility on the street and with the ward in half a blink and won’t be of use to anyone. It’s bad enough walking around this city with a British accent. It doesn’t earn you spit. Americans despise us Brits, and I can’t readily blame them the way our militia swept into their city and burned down Washington barely sixteen years ago. I was here when it happened and all of New York thought they were next. They were lynching Brits on the streets like they were rabbits.”

The duke swiveled toward them. “I respect that you need to protect your current way of life and that you also need time, but you cannot leave us to worry. At the very least, let my valet tend to your face, whilst we also trim off that hair so we can take you to a good tailor and invest in some new clothes and boots for you.”

Murder and hellfire. Did he look that pathetic? “Don’t talk to me about my face, clothes and shite that doesn’t really matter. I have clothes. I have boots. And I like my hair, thank you. I know how to take care of myself, gentlemen. I’ve been doing it my whole life.”

The duke gestured toward Coleman’s bruised face. “You call
this
taking care of yourself?”

Coleman sighed. He forgot what it was like having a family. “I’m a pugilist. It’s how I earn a living. And it may not look like it, but I’m good at what I do. Hell, politicians and pub keepers alike have been trying to buy me out for bigger mills since I was twenty. And unlike most of these bare-knuckle hoydens, I get better with age because I know how to train. I’m now known in the sixth ward for knocking men out in ten rounds or less.”

Yardley’s dark brows rose. “Ten rounds or less?” He let out a low whistle. “I would hate to get into a fight with you.” He shifted closer. “If boxing is truly your snuff, Uncle, London is the place to be. ’Tis incredibly popular with the masses.
Especially
the aristocracy. Many of the men I went to Oxford with were always betting on the fights. I never cared for the sport myself, per se, but you, as a pugilist, would feel like a horse at the derby.”

“Yardley.”
The duke glared. “You are digressing.”

“I am not.” Yardley glared back. “I am trying to get this man to London. What are you doing in your attempt? Grouching? Hardly helpful.”

It was like listening to two butchers arguing over who had the better cut.

“If he does come to London,” the duke continued with a huff, “it will be to take on his duty as lord. Not become the next champion of England by smashing in the faces of others. Whoever heard of such a thing? The aristocracy would faint.” The duke muttered something else, strode over to a sideboard and grabbed up a leather pocketbook. “How much money do you need, Atwood, until we see you again? Did you still want that thousand?”

Coleman would have gladly taken a thousand but it felt wrong exploiting his sister’s family—his family—that way. “Twenty dollars will do.” That would at least buy enough informants to help Matthew hunt down those girls.

“Twenty? Don’t be absurd. The cheapest ticket to cross the ocean to get to us will cost you almost ten.”

“You asked me how much I wanted and I’m telling you. Twenty. There is no need to insult what I consider to be a lot of money.”

The duke paused, pulled out a banknote and tossed the pocketbook onto the sideboard, his silvery hair glinting in the candlelight. Striding over, the duke also retrieved a small silver case from his coat pocket. Pulling out a calling card, he held it out, along with the crisp banknote. “You will find us at this address in London.”

“Thank you.” Coleman tugged both loose. Shoving the banknote and card into his pocket, he held out a hand, knowing he ought to be civil. “I appreciate knowing I have someone other than my boys to depend on. I haven’t been able to say that in years.”

His brother-in-law shook his hand and eyed him. “I have something else for you. Before you go.” The duke strode toward the four-poster bed on the other side of the room.

Slipping a hand beneath the pillow and linen, the duke withdrew a leather-bound book which had been fastened closed by a red velvet sash. Fingering it for a long moment, the duke drew in a breath, turned and strode back. “It was Augustine’s diary. Half of it pertains to you. She ceased writing in it when we married. She tried to move on. Despite her trying, she never could. She never did.” The duke blinked back his emotion and held out the diary.

Coleman felt those damn tears assaulting him again. He stared unblinkingly at the leather-bound book.

Although a part of him wanted to refuse it, to keep the past at a distance, he knew that by refusing it, he would be denying himself an opportunity to say goodbye to his sister. He doubted if he’d ever be able to bring himself to read it, but at least he’d be able to hold it until he was ready to go back to London.

Coleman grasped the book, his fingers grazing the soft velvet sash. He stilled, remembering her writing in it. He remembered seeing her dark head intently bent over its pages, writing under a lone candle’s light whilst sitting at her desk in New York. He’d once trudged into her room and had asked her why she kept a stupid diary, to which she had looked up and said,
We all have secrets, Nathaniel. I simply happen to write mine down.

He never had to write his down.

He was his own secret.

And damn it all, he couldn’t pretend anymore. He couldn’t pretend he was anything but Viscount Nathaniel James Atwood, the boy who had disappeared at ten. He had spent his whole life waiting for a sign as to what he should do with the secret he had carried for almost thirty years. And here,
this,
was his sign.

It wasn’t meant to be a secret anymore.

CHAPTER THREE

Why should a man, whose blood is warm within,
Sit like his grandsire cut in alabaster?

—P. Egan,
Boxiana
(1823)

London, England, February 1831
The Weston House

L
ADY
I
MOGENE
A
NNE
N
ORWOOD
traced a lone finger across the window, staring out into the cold, still night. Despite the darkness and shadows, a full moon illuminated the cobblestone street beyond the carriage gates and eerily outlined the oaks that swayed in the wind.

She glanced toward the French clock beside her bed, dimly lit by a single candle. A quarter after two and still no Henry. She doubted if her brother realized how much she worried about him. He smoked like a stove filled to the grates with ashes and spent most of his time watching men box as if seeing blood spray gave him genuine satisfaction.

He used to be so much more. But poor Henry had invested too much into a venture that had left them with nothing. In a desperate effort to erase what had been done, he had then sold his good name of Marquis to the highest female bidder in the aristocracy to save what remained of their lives. It wasn’t as if they had much to begin with.

Imogene couldn’t help but feel responsible for his endless quest for more money. Though she was now nineteen, countless doctors and quacks had paraded in and out of the Weston household since she was seven because of her. And they were anything but free. Neither was the sludgy, healing tonic she was forced to drink with a pinched nose every afternoon at four.

She was tired of being a burden to him.

She was tired of being defined by an illness.

Imogene turned back to the window. Her brother was probably avoiding his wife again. Not that she blamed him. Lady Mary Elizabeth Weston was a floating frock whose constant flaunting of her own wealth sent Henry into a fury. And that didn’t include the rest of the marriage or the whispers about Mary secretly meeting with Lord Banbury.

It was a good thing Mama and Papa had both long since passed and weren’t around to see how miserable Henry was. Each of his poor children had died within the first few months of their lives, and Mary hadn’t been with child since. That was about the time Mary had drifted off into the arms of another.

Life had been anything but kind to her poor brother.

The gates clanged open, making Imogene straighten beside the window. A black lacquered carriage with the Weston crest emblazoned on its doors, rolled through and rounded the graveled path toward the entrance.

Shoving her blond braid over her shoulder, she gathered her robe and nightdress and dashed across the room. Flinging open the bedchamber door, she sprinted down the moonlit corridor, rounding corner after corner and bustled down, down, the main stairwell.

She slid to a halt as the entrance door opened.

A cold wind swept through, setting the candles flickering within the sconces as Henry strode in and stripped his top hat, scattering blond hair across his forehead. Closing the door, he jerked to a halt, startled green eyes settling on her. “Gene. Why are you still up? Are you not feeling well? Do you need me to call for Dr. Filbert?”

“No. I’m fine.” Imogene hurried into his arms and tugged him close, squeezing out the cold clinging to his evening coat. The heavy scent of cigars clung to his clothing. “I couldn’t sleep. Where were you? You reek of cigars.”

“I know. I had one too many.” He patted her head with gloved hands and pulled away. “There was a boxing exhibition over at Bloomsbury. I stayed to the end.”

“Another boxing exhibition?” She sighed. “I keep telling you, ’tis a waste of respectability and time.”

“It depends on how you view waste.” He leaned in and said in a low, riled tone, “Did you know that the last boxing champion of England made almost a quarter of a million pounds for himself and his patron, Lord Ransford?
A quarter of a million!
If I could get my hands on several thousand of my own money, money I wish to God I had, I’d find myself a boxer capable of taking that title, fist the money from the win and divorce Mary on grounds of adultery. With money like that, no scandal could ever touch us. The problem is I’m worth nothing more than my name and she knows it. In my opinion, she and Banbury deserve each other. I only wish she had the decency to keep it quiet. Everyone knows. Even all of the men at the boxing coves. It’s humiliating.”

That wretched, wretched woman. It was the first time Henry had ever dared speak of divorce. Which meant he was well beyond miserable. To even whisper of divorce in London society was to speak of ruin, not only for him but her. Knowing that made
Imogene
want to invest in said quarter of a million just so he could live the way he deserved. In peace.

Imogene paused. A quarter of a million pounds? For a mere boxing title? Bumblebees on high. That would be like meeting God. No, no. That would be like
being
God. It was an obscene amount of money.

She blinked. “How much would it cost to invest in a boxer?”

He eyed her. “About four to five thousand, not including any and all training costs. Why?”

Her heart pounded. Her inheritance from her grandmama, which was set to be released from the estate in the next week now that she was finally of age, was ten thousand. “I have ten thousand that will soon be mine. I want you to invest it for me.”

“Invest? In what?”

“In finding us a boxer so we can turn our ten thousand into two hundred and fifty thousand. Will you do it?”

A startled laugh escaped him. “Gene, I wasn’t by any means insinuating we—”

“Why not?” She grabbed his arm and whispered, “We could split the profit and neither of us would be dependent on anyone ever again. As you yourself just said, with money like that, your divorce would be but a puff of passing smoke we could avoid by leaving town. After everything you have endured, Henry, and most of it on my behalf, let me do this one thing for you.
Please
.”

His amusement faded. “You aren’t serious, are you?”

She set her lips and face to show him just how serious she really was. She was tired of them struggling for their dignity. It was time to invest in said dignity. “Find us the best boxer there is and I will cover the investment up to a full ten thousand.”

Glancing toward the stairwell to ensure they were alone, Henry hoarsely whispered, “For God’s sake. Aside from the throat slitting my divorce would create, your first Season is set to commence this upcoming April. I cannot and will not gamble with your future by placing myself before your good name. That money is also meant for you and whatever husband you take. You know that.”

She swallowed and shook her head. “I have already professed how I feel about taking a husband. I would only be a burden to him. And I don’t want to burden anyone anymore. Look at what my illness has done to your life. I have stripped you down to nothing. I have turned you into nothing.”

“Gene.” He leaned in close and seized her hands, squeezing them hard. “You need to cease blaming yourself. You are
not
a burden. By God, you are the only joy I have left.”

She said nothing.

Henry searched her face. “Surely you don’t want to live the life of a spinster. You have so much to give in both mind and soul. You will deny yourself children, happiness and a home of your own because of my stupidity? You can’t. I won’t let you. What is more, everyone in our circle is expecting you to debut.”

She shrugged away his hands, knowing he didn’t understand. “I will debut, for that is what you want of me, but based upon my health, I am not about to submit. It would be nothing but a hardship for whatever man takes me. I would rather we speculate. Think of what all that money could do for us. We would never be dependent on anyone ever again.”

He shook his head. “No, Gene. After having lost everything in a venture I should have never invested in, I know better than to embark upon this. We simply have to accept that neither of us will ever rise above what we have. It is what it is.”

Tears pricked her eyes and what felt like her soul. “There has to be more to life than me choking on medicine and you choking on a bad decision. We can’t—” Her throat tightened beyond its ability to let her breathe. She jumped toward him and grabbed his hands, causing his top hat to roll to the floor.

Feeling a stutter coming on, she fiercely clamped her teeth together, wishing she had been born with a different life. She wanted so desperately to convey everything within her, but knew it would only tumble forth broken and stupid and worthless.

So instead, she shook his hands and kept shaking and shaking them within her own, letting him know that if they didn’t try to change their lives it was
never
going to change. It wasn’t right.
It wasn’t right!

“Gene!” Firmly prying his hands from hers, Henry nudged her chin up hard, forcing her to look at him. “Do you need me to send a missive to Dr. Filbert?”

She winced and shook her head, knowing it would only cost them money for the call. Trying desperately to calm herself, she squeezed her eyes shut and focused on what always helped. Envisioning a field. Swallows dipping low. The sun rising, causing hues of pink to smear the sky. And the soft wind caressing her face, sending strands of hair floating.

Shades of her panic lulled and the strain on her throat faded. She opened her eyes and drew in a shaky breath, letting it out in renewed calm. She could breathe. Though, oddly, her limbs felt like they were floating and the room was swaying.

Henry’s features tightened in concern. “I will send a missive to Dr. Filbert at once.”

She shook her head.

“He can help you. And he has. You know that.”

“No,” she choked out, forcing her words to obey. Fortunately, the stutter had passed. “I…I have my medicine. I…I’m fine.”

“He is genuinely concerned for the state of your health and mind, Gene. As am I. It isn’t normal what you keep doing. It isn’t normal to keep playing the role of a goddamn mute when you get riled or panic. Are you telling me it is?”

She plastered her hands against her ears, not wanting to listen to him anymore. She hated when he reminded her of what she was. She knew what she was.

Henry flinched. Tugging her close, he smoothed her bundled hair with a comforting hand. “I’m sorry. You know all I ever do is worry. Ever since the incident, you…you’ve never been the same.”

She lowered her hands and nodded against him, fingering his embroidered waistcoat that pressed into her cheek. Sometimes, she wished she had enough money to buy everything. Including the happiness her brother deserved. And maybe, if there was any money left over, she could buy a new life for herself. One where she was in control of
everything
and one word from her and it was done. “Let me do this,” she pleaded against him. “For you
and
for me. Please. We won’t know until we try.”

He drew away, rubbing her shoulders, and slowly released her. Raking both hands through his hair, he let them drop and eyed her. “And what if we lose it all? What then?”

She inwardly cringed. “Then our lives remain the same. We remain under the jurisdiction of your wife. And…
Banbury
.” It was cruel, but the man needed a little push.

Henry shifted from boot to boot, his features tightening. Glancing intently toward the stairwell, he met her gaze again. “If we do this, you can’t breathe a word of it to anyone. Especially Mary. Aside from the investment itself, divorce is a messy and barbarous business. Do you understand?”

Her heart skipped, knowing that both of their lives were about to change with this decision. “I won’t say a word.”

He swiped his face. “I’ve been watching fights long enough to know exactly which men to invest in. Give me time. The best pugilists are usually hidden between the cracks.” He hesitated. “All I ask in turn is that you debut and take on the Season. Not necessarily a husband, but the Season. You never know how things will turn out or who you will meet. Can you agree to that much? For me? Knowing what I’m about to agree to myself?”

Imogene half nodded. “Yes. Of course. I can. I…” She blinked rapidly against the dizziness overtaking her ability to focus or speak. The edges of her vision frayed. Oh, no. It was happening again.

“Gene?” her brother echoed.

She fainted.

On the other side of the ocean

N
ATHANIEL
—
AS
HE
’
D
become accustomed to calling himself again—could see the boys still waving in the distance as they blurred against the horizon of buildings. It was surreal to be leaving the Forty Thieves and New York behind. It was like abandoning the only family he’d ever known.

But at least Matthew was still at his side.

It would make the transition easier.

It was also the best way to keep the man alive.

The chugging vessel trailed constant veils of sooty smoke from its stacks, strong winds sweeping them out toward cloud-ridden skies and massive waves that relentlessly swayed the packing ship.

Knotting his hair back against the whipping wind, Nathaniel drew in a deep breath of cold, sea air. His sister’s words, which he had tucked against the inside of his great coat, weighed in reminder. Although he had undone the journal’s sash many a time throughout the months, he only ever tied it back up, unable to read a single word. He still didn’t have it in him to swallow the reality that all he had left of his sister was pages.

Matthew leaned in against the iron railing of the boat beside him, still staring out at the coast of New York City that had shrunk to the size of a hand, fading against the sea’s vast horizon. “So you’re telling me you’re an aristo and that your father was an aristo who pissed on another aristo who then pissed on you?”

Nathaniel paused. God bless the son of a bitch for oversimplifying everything. “More or less.”

Matthew glanced toward him, his patch shifting against his cheekbone. “So what do you want me to call you? By what name?”