Chapter 18
18
C harity paced her bedchamber, gripping her most recent letter, while Georgette mended the hem in the day gown she’d worn the day before during a ride in Hyde Park with Lord Percival. “Mama told me I ought to put Huntly Manor out of my mind, but after I received this missive from Mrs. Fletcher, I feel as though someone from the family should hasten to the manor at once.”
Georgette pulled the needle through the fine muslin cloth. “Surely it canna be all that bad. ’Tis a house full of docile females. What does she say?”
“Och.” Charity moved to the window embrasure and sat where the light was better. “The good news is that more boarders have arrived.”
“I suppose that is good news.”
“Aye, except Mrs. Fletcher thinks it is too crowded, and has started doubling up the bedchambers even though there are plenty of rooms at the moment.”
“I dunna see why that would cause too much of a stir. After all, most of the ladies are happy to have a roof over their heads.”
“But that’s not the half of it.” Groaning, Charity pressed the letter against her chest and looked out the window. “She intends to cast Martha Hatch out.”
“Martha? Whatever for?”
Charity shook the missive. “’Tis awful.”
“Surely you can tell me, m’lady.”
“First of all, Muffin isn’t even the woman’s dog…and Martha was not born into the aristocracy.”
“Oh dear. She lied?” asked Georgette, tying off a knot.
A chill spread across Charity’s skin. Something was awry for certain. “Aye, but I ken the lass, and I dunna think she did so to deceive us.”
The lady’s maid reached for the shears. “No?”
“Mrs. Fletcher, well, ye ken she’s rather severe, but as I read between the lines, Martha was dismissed from her former post as the lady’s maid to the Baroness of Abergavenny, because Miss Hatch was caught in a compromising position with Her Ladyship’s son—but I distinctly remember Martha saying something about how men can be brutal and evil. I clearly remember how chilling her voice had sounded when she uttered the words—it was as if she had been victimized by a cruel man.” Charity, swiped an errant strand of hair away from her eyes and reread Mrs. Fletcher’s account. “As I was saying, if my intuition is right, our Martha was ravished by a hideous rogue, and now she is with child.”
“With child?” Georgette asked, the shears clattering to the floor.
“Aye, at first Mrs. Fletcher thought it was the mince pies causing the increase of Martha’s waistline over the holidays, but now there is absolutely no question, and the woman I have left in charge has asked permission to turn the helpless lass out on her ear.”
“But you dunna reckon ’tis right, do you? Even though she lied about being a lady, and about Muffin?”
“It is more difficult to ken I’ve left that wee dog at the manor after he and I formed such a bond, but no. I dunna give a fig if she’s a lady or a lady’s maid, the poor dear is in dire straits. And if I had probed further with her when she told me her tale, I might now better understand. We canna cast her out in her gravest hour of need.” Charity resumed her pacing. “Furthermore, to add fuel to the fire, Julia wrote to me and confirmed that Mr. Mansfield…I mean, the Earl of Brixham, has demanded an accounting of Huntly Manor’s household effects.”
“Demanded?” asked Georgette, returning needle, thread, and shears to her sewing basket. “I never thought him the type of man who would be brash.”
“Mind you, becoming an aristocrat can bring out the scoundrel in many a man, and His Lordship is within his rights to walk into the manor and remove every last item that had formerly belonged to Julia’s da.”
The maid stood and shook out the day dress she’d just repaired. “But Mr. Mansfield wouldna do that, even if he is a high and mighty earl now.”
Charity bit her thumbnail. Though her sister-in-law had said she’d asked Harry to meet with Willaby and give notice of the items he wanted to remove, she couldn’t be sure. And she would need to be hogtied if Mama expected her to sit idle and attend countless soirees, balls, and recitals without doing something . Of course, she would write to Mrs. Fletcher immediately, and tell her by no means was she to turn Martha out. She would also instruct the housekeeper to summon Dr. Miller straightaway to ensure that the lass and bairn were in good health. But more importantly, she had to find a way to speak to Harry.
“Can you slip into Andrew’s chamber and borrow a pair of knee breeches, a coat, a shirt, and a bonnet…or mayhap a flat cap from one of the grooms?”
Georgette set the dress aside and clapped her hands over her mouth. “Och, nay. Please tell me ye are no’ planning to impersonate a man.”
“Not a man—a lad—one of those newspaper runners. Did ye not hear? It was in the papers—The Butcher is going to face Harvey Coombes at the Brewer’s Tavern.”
“Please, m’lady.” Georgette took her hands and squeezed. “There must be some other way.”
“I’ve wracked my mind and I canna think of any other way. It is exceedingly improper to write to the man. I canna stand outside Parliament and wait for him to emerge. I’ve tried to confront Andrew, and he’ll not hear a word. And ye ken Mama insists I forget I ever set foot inside Huntly Manor. The only ally I have in the family where that house is concerned is the duchess, who is presently preparing to give birth to my brother’s heir. I canna possibly prevail upon her to calm the seas.”
Charity squeezed her lady’s maid’s fingers before she released them. “Nay. I must take matters in hand myself.”
In a back room at Brewer’s Tavern, Harry danced in place, rolling his head from side to side.
“You dunna need a new suit of clothes to impress the dandies in Parliament; however ye do need to look the part of an earl to attract an heiress, or at the very least, impress the lassie’s da,” said Lord Andrew. “That is why I insist you buy yourself a finely tailored coat, silk breeches, a shiny pair of Hessian boots?—"
“Firstly, I need the money to pay the extortionist fees at my flea-infested boarding house, after which I will consider adding modestly to my wardrobe.”
Mr. Jackson rubbed Harry’s upper arms, making the muscles loose. “Win or lose, you’ll be able to buy yourself a suit of clothes and pay your rent for a month or two, mark me.”
“See?” said Lord Andrew. “You’ve nothing to worry about.”
“So say you,” Harry replied throwing a left, a right, followed by two uppercuts. Andrew had absolutely no idea what it was like to be poor. He watched the fellow out of the corner of his eye. Several weeks had passed since Harry had inquired as to Charity’s welfare. He’d pretended that he was unaffected when learning that she was being courted by the eldest son of a marquess, but he could not escape the fact that she would soon find a husband, and that man would not be Harold Abbott Mansfield.
“How is Lady Charity coming along with His Lordship?” Harry blurted, trying to make the question sound off-the-cuff.
“First of all, you need to never think on my sister again.” Andrew clapped him on the back. Hard. “I like you, m’lord, but I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again—my family has specific plans for Lady Charity’s hand. I dunna need to tell you that dukedoms remain dukedoms by increasing wealth, and a jewel like my sister will marry well. Mark me, my mother will make certain of it.”
Jackson held up his palms and nodded his head, indicating for Harry to spar. After Andrew’s blunt discourse, he needed no further encouragement. Harry pummeled the champion’s hands while a fire raged inside his chest. No, he wasn’t good enough for a lady like Charity MacGalloway. He would never be good enough for such a woman. The truth of the matter was, no man was good enough for her, least of all a wet-eared, sonnet-writing son of an arse-licking marquess. Damnation, if Harry ever caught wind of the fop disrespecting her, he would thrash the cur to within an inch of his life.
And he wasn’t a goddamned fool. Earning a title had done absolutely nothing for him in the eyes of Lady Charity’s family, or in the eyes of the nobility for that matter. The snobbish aristocracy looked at him as an outsider—like a pauper trying to hobnob with society’s elite. The only thing he could hope for was to make a match with some spoiled heiress whose father who had more money than sense.
God save him, Harry would be stuck in a loveless marriage for the rest of his days.
“Enough!” hollered Jackson, giving Harry a shove in the shoulders. “By the saints, Butcher, save it for the ring lest you’ll have no strength left to face Harvey Coombes. Mark me, that man is a scrapper from the gutter of St. Giles. He has the wherewithal to murder you.”
Harry rubbed the backs of his aching knuckles. “I’d like to see him try.”
Bloody oath, he’d like to take on every scrapper in the city. He’d only been here a little over a month, but he was already sick to death of the London crowd. The city was filthy and full of the smoke from coal fires belching their poison from the thousands of chimneys as far as the eye could see.
Harry might have lived in the shabby rooms above his shop, but it was clean there, and the air clear. When he filled his lungs, he didn’t hack out a cough—neither did his eyes sting nor his nostrils burn. But here he was, an earl living in squalor. Since he’d received the news from Mr. Anstruther, his life had become miserable. He needed to be in Brixham for his mother when she had her attacks. He needed to be there for Kitty, and he hated that he had to rely on Ricky to run the shop, when his friend already had a farm to till and a family to feed.
Moreover, Harry was a goddamned earl, yet every bastard in the House of Lords looked down upon him. Thank God he wasn’t illiterate—being uneducated would be the blackened-iron nails in his coffin. After this stint in London, he had already decided he’d damned well make sure that Kitty fully learned her letters as well. As the sister of an earl, Kitty would need to have her Season when the time came, and Harry needed to have the money to provide it for her in high fashion.
He snapped out of his reverie when the door opened and one of Jackson’s men popped his head in. “It is time.”
Andrew clapped Harry on the back. “My money’s riding on you, Butcher.”
“At least God gave you a sound mind,” he growled, eyeing Charity’s brother and wishing he could go a few rounds with him. Not that he didn’t like the MacGalloway lad—the fellow wasn’t ever going to be an earl, yet by his birthright he was a part of the ton in a way that Harry could never be.
As he followed Jackson’s man through the crowd, the shouts from the fanatics nearly shook the timbers. Scowling, Harry growled and bared his teeth, ratcheting up the fire burning in his gut and glaring with contempt upon the wild faces of the men who’d come to watch a bloodbath. All walks of men mingled together, from chimney sweeps covered with soot, to dandies dressed in the finest suits of clothes. He even recognized a lord or two from Parliament. Yet every one of them was waving a fist full of money, shouting odds for the contender, Harvey Coombes.
Catching his eye, a lad with a stack of newspapers under his arm gaped at him, his eyes round as silver coins. Harry’s scowl fell for a moment as his heart flew to his throat.
Charity?
“Keep moving!” Jackson prodded him in the back.
Harry blinked and focused ahead, throwing punches in the air. By God, he was a sorry sop, and he would stop thinking about that woman here and now. How daft could a man be, projecting the image of a female onto some newsboy? He thumped his chest and glared at the crowd. “Ye bastards better put your money on me, else you’ll be going home pounds lighter!”
Charity pulled the flat cap she’d borrowed from the stable boy low over her brow. Beneath her arm, she tightly clutched a few newspapers she’d taken from Andrew’s castaways, while she squeezed through the throng, pushing her way up to the front of the ring. Harry and the other fighter were already prancing to and fro, throwing their fists, and egging the crowd into a frenzy.
“Coombes will be the victor, mark me!” shouted a crazed man beside her. “I’ll be taking home a fortune.”
“No one can beat The Butcher,” she shouted in a deep voice, praying she sounded masculine. Had Charity thought about it, she might have practiced affecting a manly voice while Georgette was helping her don the disguise.
“What’s this?” asked the man, glaring at her while shaking an accusing finger at Harry. “No one knows The Butcher. Look at the sorry sop. He has nowhere near the girth of Coombes—a tried and true contender, mind you.”
Charity pursed her lips, eyeing Harry’s opponent. She wasn’t about to engage in an argument, but in her estimation, Mr. Coombes was a little thick around the middle in comparison to Harry Mansfield. But then again, Coombes was a proven London fighter. The pair were of similar height, and she didn’t doubt that the opponent outweighed Harry by a stone or two.
But she had little time to dwell on the comparison because the umpire stepped into the ring and started into a discourse of the few rules and fewer guidelines for etiquette.
“Fighters to your corners!” he ordered.
With a slice of his hand, the bell rang while Charity clutched the newspapers over her heart, watching the two men circle like predators. Coombes threw the first punch, his fist hitting Harry’s stomach with a sickening thud. She curled forward as if she’d been the recipient of the blow, her body jolting and twisting with every strike while the crowd grew louder and more frenzied around her.
“Protect your face,” she growled through clenched teeth, urging Harry to heed his own words. But he took strike after strike until he was red with blood.
“Go in for the kill!” shouted the cur beside her. “He’s as good as done.”
“He’s favoring his left!” Charity countered, no longer able to keep her voice low.
As if he heard her, Harry threw a jab to Coombes’ left flank, making the contender buckle forward. With the man’s oomph , Harry threw a hook and another, attacking the fighter’s tender spot. And as Coombes staggered forward, Harry added an uppercut to the jaw.
The crowd went wild as the contender’s head snapped back, right before he toppled to the floor.
The umpire jumped between the fighters, ordering Harry to his side. Charity hopped in place, finally allowing herself to take a breath. “Stay down!” she hollered at Coombes, praying the bout was over.
Harry wiped the blood and sweat from his face and handed the rag back to a man on the other side—a man who looked decidedly like Gentleman Jackson from the depictions she’d seen in the papers. When Harry moved, she caught a glimpse of the fellow who was standing beside Jackson and shrank. Andrew shook his fist at Harry, egging him on while Charity shifted the newspapers high enough to cover her mouth and nose. She tugged down the rim of her cap for good measure as well. Blast it all, she should have known Andrew would be here. Nearly half the men in the tavern were nobles—the other half were from all walks of life—working men who Charity imagined didn’t have the means to place wagers on this fight, let alone pay a whole shilling to watch.
As Harry straightened, his gaze shot to her face. His eyes narrowed. His lips grew thin.
Did he recognize me?
As the thought crossed her mind, Coombes pushed himself up and raised his fists, indicating he was ready for another round.
Harry’s attention swiftly shifted away, giving Charity a moment to snatch another glimpse at her brother. With the shouts from the crowd, Andrew pumped fists and egged Harry on, clearly with no idea she was standing across the ring, thank heavens. The Butcher couldn’t have recognized her either. She’d hardly recognized herself before she left the town house. Georgette had even smudged a bit of dirt on her cheeks for good measure.
But there was no time to ponder her appearance, not while Harry launched into this round like a man possessed, battering Coombes’ left side while issuing a thwack to the face now and again. Still jolting with every strike, Charity cringed whenever the opponent connected with a vicious jab.
Just when she could take no more, Harvey Coombes staggered across the ring and dropped to his knees. Without hesitation, the umpire began the count. Time slowed as Charity prayed for the end, crumpling the newspapers in her fists, until at last the umpire belted, “Ten!” He grabbed Harry’s wrist and raised it in the air. “The victor!”
Within a heartbeat, the entire tavern turned into riot with men shouting and mobbing the ring. Charity had no choice but to move with the throng, doing her best to skirt around to where Gentleman Jackson, and a host of frightening-looking laddies escorted Harry from the ring and toward a door. After pushing against the crowd, she slipped behind the wall of fanatics and found an opening. She headed for the rear door—except Andrew filled the space, presenting his back and then hastening after Harry and his mob.
Charity hid in the shadows while the door closed with the men disappearing on the other side. She rushed after them and tried the latch, but it was locked.
“What ’ave we ’ere? A stray dog?” a man growled in her ear. Grabbing her collar, he pulled her against his chest. “Digger and me ’ave a use for a boy as fair as ye.”
“Unhand me!” she snarled, jabbing her elbow into the smelly cur’s solar plexus and stomping on his instep.
“Ow! Ye spiteful rodent.” The fiend wrenched her arm up her back. “Yer comin’ wif me.”
As she opened her mouth to scream, a filthy rag gagged her while the cur made quick work of binding her wrists. Fighting, she struggled against the ropes, growling, doing her best to attract attention, but nary a soul bothered to glance her way.
The two scoundrels pulled her out a rear door and tied her into the back of a wagon. Charity attempted to explain who she was, but the gag muffled her words. “’elp!” she shouted over and over, until Digger smacked her in the side of the head, making stars dance through the chilly night air.