Hers By Summer’s End (A Society of Scandal #2)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

In a battle of wills, Miss Cecelia Townsend had no equal.

Drawing herself to her considerable height, she glared down her nose at the weedy doorman barricading the entrance to the Yukon Gold Athletic Club. His Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat, but he only clutched his handful of tickets more tightly.

“For the third time,” she said with forced patience, “I’ll take one ticket to the prize fight.”

“And I’m telling you,” he insisted, swiping his brow with a handkerchief already soaked through, “that this establishment does not, would not, and cannot host prize fights!”

Well, that was patently false. She followed every development of Andrew Sutton’s career with the same attention she gave her prize dahlias. She knew perfectly well he was fighting at the club tonight. Then she reconsidered the doorman’s wording, the peculiar emphasis placed upon prize fight—

“Lady!” A man hollered from farther down the sidewalk. “Ain’t no more prize fights in Seattle! This here’s a smoker!”

Ah. Of course.

Seattle’s latest fit of civic morality had apparently been enough to shackle even one of the most prestigious social clubs around. Thank goodness men could still punch one another senseless before a cheering crowd, so long as everyone agreed to call it something else.

“One ticket for the smoker, then,” she corrected smoothly.

“The amateur bout between club members requires a membership,” the doorman spluttered. “One you cannot possibly—”

“One membership, please.”

“Ma’am, this is a gentlemen’s club!”

Without breaking eye contact, Cecelia reached into her coat pocket and withdrew the strip of black felt reserved for if all else failed. She pressed it firmly beneath her nose. The adhesive softened against the perspiration gathering on her upper lip in the warm evening air but held.

“Better?”

The doorman’s mouth opened and closed, producing nothing whatsoever.

Behind Cecelia, the line waiting to enter swelled in number, a ragbag of local men primed and ready to glorify violence.

A ripple went down the line at the delay.

Someone snickered. Someone else muttered, Christ Almighty.

Yet the doorman remained incapable of speech.

She sighed and adjusted her bowler hat. Seemed she had broken another man—such terribly delicate creatures, when it came down to it.

“Can’t get any worse,” a nearby man drawled. “She’s as big as the Fighting Florist himself!”

“And nearly as ugly,” another said with a guffaw.

Cecelia turned slowly. Lamplight spilled across the sidewalk, catching the afternoon’s drizzle still clinging to the brick building. The two men shrank a fraction under her attention. Sensible of them. She’d heard the same insults—and considerably more creative ones—all her life.

“I am indeed a large woman,” she replied. “Far too much woman for the likes of you.” She gave the thinner of the pair a brisk once-over, then clucked her tongue. “I’d snap your spindly frame in half without so much as trying.”

Laughter burst down the sidewalk. Even the doorman choked out a snicker before catching himself.

“Let her in,” someone shouted. “She can entertain us between rounds!”

“If she don’t care about her reputation, why should we?” the thinner man added. “Good God, man, hurry up. Some of us are dying for a beer!”

“All right, all right,” the doorman said at last. “This membership,” he said pointedly, tearing off a slip from his pad and handing it over, “expires after the bout. I trust you won’t return?”

Cecelia smirked as she tucked the ticket into her green leather handbag. “Not until the next one.”

He gestured for her to move ahead, muttering, “This is no place for ladies.”

On that point, at least, they agreed. Good thing she was no lady—just a confirmed spinster who’d rather study the hereditary traits of dahlias than attend the latest soiree.

Besides, she had a message to deliver, and it must happen tonight.

Tradition demanded it. She stepped over the threshold, wetting her dry lips.

Her nemesis was close.

A low, steady din pulsed from inside the bowels of the building.

She strode down the corridor, her gaze flicking this way and that.

Her first gentleman’s club. The sleek oak paneling, velvet-curtained windows, and brass fixtures were impressive; the lack of plants was less so.

What was wrong with a little greenery? Shaking her head, she reached a crowded doorway.

Two young men with patchy beards and ill-fitting sack suits blocked the way forward.

“Pardon me,” she said firmly.

The taller of the two glanced over his shoulder. She raised a brow and waited. He slunk backward, dragging his friend by the elbow. They stared, agog, as she swept past.

Once inside, she paused to get her bearings.

The spacious room, most likely the banquet hall, had been transformed for the evening—stripped bare of furniture, with a platform erected in the center.

Rapidly filling benches and folding chairs circled the cordoned ring.

Men milled about, puffing on cigars and slinging back glasses of yeasty beer and vanilla bourbon, by the smell of it.

Ignoring them all, she hunted out her perch.

A stout column near one corner of the ring was unoccupied, no doubt avoided by those who wanted an unobstructed view.

Their loss was her gain. She strode forward to claim it.

Leaning one shoulder against the cool, black marble, she pantomimed throwing with the other.

She nodded with satisfaction. This would do nicely.

“Cecelia,” said an all-too-familiar, all-too-aghast voice. “You said you wouldn’t come tonight.”

She sighed and turned to face her cousin. “Hello, Theo. I lied.”

He groaned and ran a hand over his perfectly arranged hair. “There I was, enjoying a civilized evening with Rosie, except for the fact that she couldn’t stop fretting over your recent lack of judgment. Naturally, she convinced me you’d be here.”

Cecelia smiled at the mention of her best friend. “She was right.”

“She’s always right,” he said sternly. “But this rivalry with Drew cannot continue tonight. Not here. Not with half of Seattle gathered as witness!”

“It’s not that serious, Theo. So there are a few more people than normal—”

“Cece.” He seized her forearms. “I say this with all the love in my heart: you don’t know what you’re talking about.

” She frowned and tried to tug free, but Theo clung to her with the determination of a snapping turtle.

“The last challenge between you two resulted in pneumonia and a broken ankle. You vanished for weeks. Months! And while you were gone, do you know what happened?”

“I read the papers—”

“Then you know Drew has been winning. Winning big. Winning every bout they put in front of him.” He leaned closer, lowering his voice despite the increasing thrum of the crowd around them.

“Bankers have started showing up. Shipping men. Politicians. Men who will make large bets tonight, then spend tomorrow morning pretending they never set foot near this place.”

“Their hypocrisy doesn’t concern me.”

“It’s not them I’m worried about,” he snapped, finally releasing her. “What if one of them recognizes you? What if they let it slip to their wives or daughters? You’ll be ridiculed.”

A small—very small, practically infinitesimal—part of her wondered if she was making a mistake.

No. No.

She’d spent her whole childhood worrying about what others thought of her. Gap-toothed, frizzy-haired girls who loomed over every boy in their class tended to do that. But she’d freed herself of those chains long ago, and she wouldn’t don them again now.

Besides, she’d been absent long enough. While she’d languished inside, the world had continued on without her.

Even worse, Drew had continued on without her.

Every newspaper seemed particularly eager to remind her that Drew won another fight.

Drew landscaped another garden. Drew did this. Drew did that.

It wasn’t fair.

Then three things had happened in quick succession: the doctor declared her fit to stand on her own two feet, the leaders of the Alaska-Yukon-Pacific Exposition announced Cactus Dahlia Day to take place in late August, and Drew accepted a last-minute fight.

The signs were practically emblazoned across the sky—it was time for another challenge.

Might as well be on the worldwide stage where she was bound to find glory.

“It can’t be helped,” she said finally. “This is important.”

“I would prefer society not devour you alive over a misguided rivalry.”

“Theo, that’s almost sweet.” She patted his arm. “But I still intend to make my own decisions.”

His shoulders sagged. “You’ll tell Rosie I tried?”

“Most earnestly.”

A cheer at the rear of the room claimed her attention.

She craned her neck, her heartbeat kicking up three notches.

In the span of a few minutes, the hall had transformed into a heaving sea of bodies.

Every chair was filled. Men hugged the perimeter of the room, spilling into aisles and doorways until the room seemed to shrink around them.

Even her spot-with-a-poor-view had encroachers.

Then a dark head of hair bobbed its way toward the ring, and the crowd stomped its feet and began to chant.

Fight-ing-Flor-ist. Fight-ing-Flor-ist.

Andrew Sutton had arrived.

All six foot two inches of him vaulted into the ring to an appreciative roar of the crowd. He threw a few practice jabs, bouncing on the balls of his feet, surprisingly graceful for a man who weighed two hundred and twenty-five pounds.

Cecelia smiled.

She’d always enjoyed watching him move. His was a body crafted in the garden, not the gymnasium.

She’d seen him unload wagonloads of shrubs, transplant trees normally requiring two men to lift, and spend twelve hours on his feet—all before entering the ring.

The end result was difficult, if not impossible, to duplicate.