Chapter 11
11
M artin rapped the silver handle of his cane on the door to the steward’s chamber. “Smallwood, are you ready?”
The man immediately opened it, his expression a tad thunderstruck. “Good morning Your Grace. You wouldn’t mind if I begged off for today? I-I’m afraid have a fair bit of correspondence to attend.”
Grasping the steward by the elbow, Martin tugged him into the courtyard. “You’ve had your head bent over that writing table for too long. A man needs to stretch his legs. Exercise is good for the soul.”
On the way out, Smallwood plucked his hat from the peg. “I daresay I agree. Though boxing isn’t my sport of choice.”
“Nonsense.” Martin headed through the mews at a brisk pace. “All men need to be able to spar a few rounds.”
“Wonderful,” Smallwood mumbled, donning his hat. He pointed to a sedan chair covered with a dusty tarpaulin. “I say, does anyone use that contraption?”
“Not since my grandmother passed, I suppose.”
“Hmm. Have you considered selling it?”
“Nay. With three sisters growing up faster than I can blink, I’ll wager it will come into use sooner or later.”
“Very good, sir.”
Leading the way out the rear door, Martin glanced over his shoulder. “Do you ever think of anything aside from your work?”
“I…” Smallwood brushed a bit of lint off his lapel. “Yes, I think about a great many things.”
“Such as?” Martin asked, turning onto Grosvenor’s Square from the mews and heading for Jackson’s Saloon on Bond Street.
“I read the papers. There’s a war on…and at a time when King George is no longer in his right mind and the country is in the hands of his foppish son, forgive any impertinence.”
“You’re not being impertinent when you are telling the truth.” Martin tipped his hat to a passing carriage before crossing the road, his cane tapping to the cadence of his footsteps. “But what of other activities and family?”
“I have no family nearby. And I’ve said before I like long walks. London has been particularly helpful in that respect because I’ve been able to walk almost everywhere.”
Martin had never met a single man who didn’t smoke cigars, enjoy a turn or two at cards, play billiards, enjoy shooting, horse racing, chasing the odd skirt. But Smallwood never spoke of any of the typical manly pursuits.
Reading and walking? The man may as well be a monk.
No wonder he appeared to be so effeminate. Well, Martin intended to help the wee fellow along. Though most servants didn’t marry, it wasn’t unusual for a steward to take a wife. After all, the steward to a duke made a handsome wage. Moreover, if Smallwood were to marry, Charity might start taking the marriage mart more seriously.
Martin pushed into Thirteen Bond Street and spread his arms, gesturing to the expansive space with three rings, and a strength-building section along one wall. “I’ve arranged for you to have a lesson with the champion himself, Gentleman John Jackson.”
When there was no reply, he glanced over his shoulder, only to see the outline of Smallwood’s form through the etched glass. Martin opened the door. “You are meant to step inside.”
“Yes, sir.”
Martin tugged the little fellow into the saloon and pointed to a sparring ring, surrounded by ropes where Jackson was ducking and weaving while giving instruction to a pimple-faced lordling. “Ye ken not just anyone can obtain a lesson from the great.”
Smallwood blanched a bit as he gaped at the enormous boxer. When the bout ended, the wee fellow turned in place, taking in the weights, fencing equipment, and the walls festooned with paintings of men facing off in famous bouts. “Perhaps I’m not highly born enough to meet Mr. Jackson’s clientele requirements.”
“Balderdash. You are the guest of a duke, not to mention the son of a knight.”
“Your Grace!” said Jackson, throwing out his hand and gripping Martin’s with an iron fist. “It is good to see you back in Town. Please accept my condolences for the loss of your father.”
“Thank you. Da will be sorely missed.” Martin gestured toward his steward. “This is Mr. Jules Smallwood, a friend . As I mentioned in my correspondence, I do believe he could benefit from a few lessons.”
“Is that so?” Jackson crossed his arms and looked the steward from head to toe. “What training have you had, sir?”
If it was possible, Smallwood seemed to shrink an inch or two. “Aside from being somewhat skilled in archery, I’m afraid I’m a far better poet.”
Martin squeezed one of Jules’ arms, surprised at how scrawny it seemed. “On that I can concur. The man’s quill is over-exercised for certain.”
Gentleman Jackson rubbed his meaty palms together. “Not to worry, we’ll start with some basic moves, shall we?”
“Oh, yes, please. The more basic the better.” Jules stepped away from the very large fighter and waved his hands in front of his face as if already conceding defeat. “Just look upon me as malleable as a lump of clay.”
Giving the boxer a knowing nod, Martin had been right to bring the steward here. If anyone could help Smallwood find his vigor and manly prowess, it was this gentleman.
How in the name of human civility had Julia ended up in a boxing ring of all places? The only fight she’d ever seen was when she was about nine years of age after a pair of neighboring brothers came to blows. And the lads weren’t much older than she at the time.
“That’s it, dance in place,” said Mr. Jackson, mirroring Julia as she hopped from one foot to the other, except this boxing champion had to be well over twice her size and built like the hind quarter of a work horse. Never in her life had she seen such a hulking fellow. Merely looking at his fists made her quake all the way to her toes.
“Now show me your best jab.”
Jab?
She glanced to her fists.
Ah yes, he wants me to throw a punch.
“Like this?” she asked, making her voice as deep as possible, as she whipped a punch through the air.
“That’s the idea.” The man clapped his hands together and held up his left palm. “Plant your best jab right here.”
Eying her target, Julia threw her fist with all her strength.
Mr. Jackson stopped dancing. “What the hell was that? A bloody flea?”
Julia dropped her hands to her sides. What did the brute expect? He already knew she had no experience. She glanced at Martin out of the corner of her eye.
The duke threw a couple of punches in front of his nose. “Sharp, deadly jabs, Smallwood. Don’t lash out like you’re batting away flies.”
Wonderful. Her employer thought her a weakling—which she well and truly was. If only she could tell Dunscaby to climb into the ring with this behemoth and allow her to watch.
Can I return to my tranquil little chamber by the courtyard now? I happen to enjoy idling the days away in my chamber, not bopping anyone in the nose.
“Perhaps if you give me a demonstration, I’ll understand better the type of jab you wish for me to issue.” There. At least she sounded in control. She’d even managed to keep her voice from trembling.
“Very well.” Mr. Jackson swept his gargantuan fists in front of his face, issuing a pair of speedy punches. “You’ll need to parry away my strikes like this. Come, sir, you’ve dropped your guard. Hands up.”
Julia complied, slapping her hands in front of her face, she parried just as he showed her.
“Now stay on your toes. A fighter who stands in one place is asking for a click to the muns.”
Julia had no idea what the devil a click to the muns was, but she figured it was best not to ask. “I think I have the idea, sir.”
Thwack!
Before she blinked, Jackson’s fist flew between her hands and landed a blasted click to the muns on her jaw. With her grunt, her head snapped back as she struggled to keep her feet beneath her. But her efforts were to no avail. Wobbling backward, her arms whipped in circles while Dunscaby’s voice sounded as if he were shouting in a tunnel. “Smallwoooooood!”
Julia swallowed her urge to scream as gravity took over and sent her crashing to the floor in an ignoble heap.
“Ow,” she whimpered.
Mr. Jackson’s brutish face hovered above her. “Why did you not parry? I gave you ample warning.”
Julia moved her jaw from side to side. Thank heavens it still seemed to be attached at the hinges. “Gave me warning? Is that what you call brutally striking a man with the speed of an asp?”
Dunscaby’s face came into view—clear blue eyes filled with concern and far too beautiful. Julia well and truly swooned if that were possible when one was flat on her back. The duke would never smack her in the face even if he did think her a man. “Well done, laddie. It’s never easy to take a punch but we’ll make a fighter out of you yet.”
Perhaps she might have misjudged his good-naturedness a tad. In truth, no matter how much Julia adored the man, if she didn’t want him to strike her, she must never step into a boxing ring with His Grace—especially while impersonating Jules Smallwood. “That was quite invigorating,” she said, sitting up and rubbing her jaw. She’d be bruised in the morning for certain. And just when she needed to confront Mr. Skinner, blast it all.
Mr. Jackson took her by the arm and pulled her up with such force, she nearly toppled forward onto her face. “Good God, man, no wonder you were lambasted by my little jab. I reckon you weigh no more than a bushel of oats.”
Julia squared her shoulders and stretched her neck, doing her best to appear as tall as possible. “No one has ever accused me of being too large, of that I can attest.”
Keeping his hand on her upper arm, the boxer squeezed. “I’d best send a weight home with you with which to practice. You’ll need to put on some muscle afore you step into my ring again.”
Julia glanced to Dunscaby. “Do you engage in such exercise, Your Grace?”
“Aye, and driving a team helps to build my strength as well.”
The boxer jammed his fists onto his hips. “As does hefting barrels and bushels, I’ll say. I can turn a dockyard laborer into a fighting man in no time.”
Julia followed as Mr. Jackson stepped through the ropes and out of the ring. “I can move casks and the like in the kitchens every morning. Would that suffice?”
“It will help.” The boxer picked up an iron rod with what looked like two cannonballs attached to each end. In fact, there was an entire row of the things in different sizes. “How’s this dumbbell suit?”
As she grasped the bar, the blasted torture device was so heavy, she had to brace it with her other hand to keep from dropping it on her toes. “My, there’s a fair bit of weight in it, is there not?” she said, her voice straining.
“Merely twenty pounds.”
Perhaps twenty pounds was a trifle for a chap who spent his days boxing, but to Julia, twenty pounds was quite enough.
Mr. Jackson picked up a smaller dumbbell. “Let’s go with ten. Bend your elbows and lift it from your waist to your shoulders twenty times on each side. And do the same from your shoulders over your head like so.”
He demonstrated a half-dozen exercises that he expected her to accomplish twenty repetitions each.
I’ll be lucky to manage half that.
They exchanged weights and Dunscaby clapped her on the back. “Perhaps we can add a bit of exercise in the mornings before you delve into your ledgers.”
She gave him a weak smile. “I’m sure you have far more important things to do, Your Grace.”
No matter how invigorating Julia might find it to watch the duke flex his muscles, if he realized exactly how pathetic her weightlifting abilities were, he’d peg her as a woman for certain. She’d not only be unemployed, Mr. Skinner would find a way to boot Papa out of Huntly Manor in a heartbeat.
His Grace wrapped his arm around her shoulder and gave a squeeze. Though she knew it was but a gesture of fellowship, Julia couldn’t help but close her eyes and lean into him. Oh, how heavenly it was to melt into his warmth and brush her cheek along his coat’s soft wool. Even though he thought her a man and his hand squeezed her shoulder so powerfully it caused a tad of discomfort, she would endure any amount of pain to have Martin MacGalloway surround her in his arms. Truly, if she were not a destitute young woman, she undoubtedly would allow herself a hearty sigh.
Alas, the moment of intimacy passed much too soon and Dunscaby headed for the door.
She didn’t follow right away, but rather admired his bold stride, his broad shoulders, and the confident way he carried himself. He took his hat, gloves, and cane from a footman then eyed her over his shoulder. “Come, Smallwood. There’s much to do.”