Chapter Three
June 18, 1817
Stapleton Boxing Salon
Mayfair, London
L ewis glanced through the long space that was the Stapleton Boxing Salon. Occupying the upper floor above a shoe seller’s shop, he and his brothers had worked for the last three months making the salon everything that they could ever want with their father’s teachings in mind.
The hardwood floor gleamed, and the windows that looked out over Brook Street let in copious amounts of natural light. Along the far wall, punching bags hung from the ceiling. Two contained hard-packed straw while the other two contained sand for more advanced boxers. Occupying the middle portion of the floor were four mattress ticks or pallets where instruction would occur, and they would provide padding if a client continued to fall or was sent to the floor. That was part of the learning process. Toward the door were two wooden structures to resemble a man’s form, wrapped with linen and padded so a student could practice their hooks and jabs. If the facial features drawn somewhat crudely on one of the oval-shaped faces loosely resembled himself, Lewis didn’t care. His brothers sometimes had a warped sense of humor.
Whatever helped a client hone their skills.
And at the back of the room, in front of the office’s windows, was a roped off section of floor where practice bouts would be held. It would prove a good way for clients to have a feel for a match and show them exactly how many feet of space they’d have to work with.
At the rear of the space was an office where he interviewed potential clients who wanted private boxing lessons. Unlike Gentleman Jackson’s Salon, they weren’t providing instructional classes for men who wandered in off the street. Their business model was based on appointment-only private lessons three times a week. On one of those evenings, they offered what they called “bout class” and that simply meant up to ten men could come in on those evenings to spar with opponents. It was a good way to gauge the skill of their private clients and perhaps find raw talent to further train for professional matches.
If a boxer wished to fight for the Stapleton salon, and he won a professional bout, that fighter would win fifty percent of the prize purse with the rest going into the Stapleton coffers. They would lend their notoriety while the fighter would lend his skill. It was a winning solution to both parties.
Beyond that, Lewis and his brothers had plans to perhaps offer boxing lessons in private homes once the salon turned a profit.
Their business venture had been open for a couple of weeks and though they currently had only a handful of signed clients, he was confident they would steadily grow. Already Duncan had made some meaningful connections. It was only a matter of time before men interested in indulging in the sport would make appointments.
Though it was two o’clock in the afternoon, there was only one client in the salon. The man, perhaps in his late twenties, was working with Alexander at one of the punching bags. Needing something to do, Lewis made his way into the office merely to stare out the window that overlooked the narrow, shadowed alley between this building and the next. He’d promised his mother that he would attend a rout tonight with her, for she wished to introduce him to the daughter of one of her friends. He’d only agreed to the scheme to circumvent the friction that would have come from outright refusing.
After all, there would be free brandy and perhaps food.
As he watched, a young man came into the alley. After looking furtively over his shoulder as if someone were following him, he prowled along the street, glancing to and fro, the upper portion of his face obscured by a slouch style cap. Then Lewis lost sight of him as he moved onto Brook Street itself.
Just as he was about to seat himself behind the desk, movement from the corner of his eye made him glance up and through the windows separating his office from the salon itself. The door from the narrow wooden staircase opened and the same young man that he’d seen in the alley stood there, peering about the room with shock and confusion in his expression.
How very odd. Perhaps a potential client?
When he looked at his brother, Alexander frowned and shrugged. Lewis nodded and lifted a hand in acknowledgement. He came around his desk and then moved out of his office and into the salon. As it appeared the young man might bolt, he hailed the newcomer.
“Welcome to Stapleton Boxing Salon. Is there something I can help you with?” The closer he came to the young man, the more clues became evident. Random dog hairs clung to the tweed jacket the boy wore that was much too heavy for the June warmth, and the sleeves were too long besides. Peaks of blonde hair were evident beneath the wool cap, but it was the large blue eyes that arrested Lewis’ movement and had confusion gripping his mind.
“Uh…” The young man glanced around the room. “I, um, I would like to learn how to box, to fight,” he said in a low voice that was either graveled with emotion, or raspy due to sickness, or some other anomaly meant to disguise said voice.
“We can certainly do that. If you’ll follow me into my office, I can then take down specifics and find out how we can meet your needs.” With that, he led the younger man through the salon and then into his office. “Please, feel free to sit.” As he indicated one of the high-backed wooden chairs that faced the desk, he once more went behind that piece of furniture and sank onto the worn leather of the chair. It had come over from his study at home. “Perhaps you should tell me a bit about yourself.”
“Right.” The other man nodded. His gaze went to the window behind Lewis’ chair, then darted toward the door that led into the salon. “My name is…” He cleared his throat. “Uh, my name is Nathan… Feathers.”
“I see.” Nathan Feathers. And was said as if being made up upon the spot. Lewis took a pen in hand, dipped the nub into the inkwell, and then began scribbling some notes. “Well, Mr. Feathers, how old are you?”
“Twenty-seven. Small for my age, I suppose.”
“How did you hear about the salon?”
As the other man spoke, Lewis took a few notes while he covertly studied the newcomer. Quite short, he probably didn’t top a couple of inches over five feet. Pale, smooth skin spoke to a middle to upper class life and not one that labored in the elements. The tweed jacket and waistcoat beneath went a long way into hiding full breasts, but wouldn’t do if someone were to stare too closely. Long blonde lashes framed the almost impossibly blue eyes, but it was the pink lips and the dainty Cupid’s Bow of the mouth that gave the secret away. If this person was a male, then he—Lewis—was a donkey. She might have fooled others on the street, but it didn’t take much scrutiny to see that her disguise wasn’t all that effective.
At least not in front of him.
The question now remained: why the devil was a woman here, and what should he do about the potential scandal?
“I beg your pardon, did you say you had encountered a bully recently?” That part of her story, at least, had penetrated his brain.
“Yes.” The woman in disguise nodded. “At the docks.”
What the deuce was a woman doing at the docks regularly, outside of making a living on her back? And this one didn’t have such an air about her. Again, he studied her, tried to imagine what her form would appear like without being hidden by a young man’s clothing. The curve of her breasts was quite the giveaway, and even if she’d wrapped them and somehow bound them with fabric, the longer he stared, the more he saw the womanly curves. She certainly wasn’t a slim miss by any stretch, but pleasantly plump; she would no doubt be quite eye-catching in a gown beneath candlelight.
“What sort of unwanted attentions are you referring to?” Besides wanting to know more about her life, he needed to understand how best to help her should he decide to keep her on and actually give her lessons.
She briefly held her bottom lip between her teeth. No doubt it was an unconscious move, and she probably wasn’t aware of it. “I am constantly being followed and harassed. Sometimes subjected to unwanted touches.” Her voice lowered, and by this time, she’d apparently forgotten to disguise her voice. “Having unwanted kisses forced upon me, by a great beast of a man,” she went on to say while keeping her gaze focused on his inkwell. “It is becoming a concerning problem.”
“I see.” Every word out of her mouth combined with the disguise furthered the intrigue surrounding her. Clearly, she needed boxing lessons for self-defense, but what was her daily life that she thought things had come to this? These were only two questions he needed to find the answers to. “Is anyone else in your family being picked on by this man?”
She gave a curt nod. “I have an eleven-year-old brother. It is my fear that he will be this man’s next target if I don’t submit to his demands.”
Ah, now they were discovering the meat of the matter. “Where is this unwanted attention happening?”
“The East India Docks.”
Why the devil did she ever have cause to be there? With every word she spoke, he grew more curious and concerned. “I beg your pardon, but what business do you have in that area of London?”
Her lips pulled downward into a frown, and from the way they curved and how the expression shifted on her rounded face, only a nodcock could believe she was a man. “My father owns a shipping and import business there. I do the books for him.”
Fair enough. “Does your family live there?” If so, the danger would increase exponentially.
“We used to, but when my mother died and Papa’s business became more lucrative, he decided to buy a modest townhouse in Mayfair. In Manchester Square. Thankfully, it is a quiet neighborhood with lush gardens, but…”
“But you are concerned this man of questionable morals might follow you there,” Lewis finished for her in an equally low voice.
“Yes.” When she finally raised her gaze to his, he bit back a gasp, for those blue pools were all too inviting as they reflected vulnerability and a trace of fear. “That is why I came here. I saw the lettering being painted on the windows last month. I thought that if I could learn how to fight, I might have a chance at defending myself.”
“A noble pursuit, surely.” With one huge difficulty. The young man was definitely not male. They couldn’t exactly have a female in the salon. Not only would it provoke unwelcome questions, but the scandal and wagging tongues would bury their fledgling business before it even got started. “Bare knuckle boxing and fisticuffs is a highly physical sport. It requires endurance and close contact with one’s opponent.” To say nothing of an innate trust in oneself. The woman was so petite, she would easily be overpowered by any of the clients they’d already signed. Also, women could be more delicate and didn’t tend to develop muscle mass as quickly as men.
This is a terrible idea. Intriguing, but terrible.
“I am well aware of that and will do whatever it takes.”
For long moments, he rested his gaze on her, assessing the possibilities. How the devil would he even do such a thing, for at the heart of the matter, she was a female, and if he couldn’t ensure her safety while out in the salon with other men, this would never work.
Besides, wouldn’t he need to ask his brothers their opinion?
Tentatively, he would move forward, for the fear she felt, the fear that had motivated her to even come into the salon was quite real. “Well, I am the Earl of Lethbridge, but here I am Lewis Stapleton, part owner of this establishment. My two brothers are also here as instructors and owners. We offer private lessons three days a week with one day as an open bout class wherein all our students, as well as folks wishing to try the salon, can drop by to fight bouts with each other. Is this something you might find of interest?”
If possible, her face went even more pale than it already was. “It is going to have to be. I have no other choice.” When she raised her gaze, she tugged at the brim of her cap to keep it shading part of her face. How anyone could think she was a young man was beyond his ken. “I grow weary of being attacked on a near daily basis. Even now, it terrifies me to know that I still have a job to do at my father’s office, but when I go there, at some point, I will be molested.”
If she were a man, the admission would have been concerning enough, but since she was a woman in disguise, his chest tightened with apprehension for her, and that made him curious. About both her and his reaction to this stranger.
“All right. Let me speak with my brother for a moment, then I will come back to you.” As he spoke, Lewis rose from his chair and moved around the side of the desk. “I shouldn’t be long.”
As he exited the office, he pulled the door closed behind him. Then he sought out Alexander, made eye contact with him. “I would like a word, please,” he said in low voice.
“Is this going to be another of your lectures on how you know best?” He made an excuse to the man who currently punched at a sandbag, then led Lewis over to the fall wall where they could have relative privacy. “What is it?”
“Do you see the young man in the office?” When his brother glanced that way, he nodded. “I suspect that is a woman in disguise. There is something about her eyes that makes me think she is, in fact, not a man. There are other things there, as well, but that is beside the point. Regardless, she is frightened, and she wants boxing lessons so she can defend herself against an attacker.”
“While I can understand that, her gender presents a unique problem for this salon.” Alexander frowned as he continued to stare in the direction of the office. “You already know this.”
“I do. However, is the greater crime not teaching her the skills she’ll need to no doubt survive out there on her own?” If he turned her away today, would the next time she came into contact with her attacker be the last? How could he live with himself after that?
“Never say you’ve been a victim of a pair of pretty eyes.”
“Come off it, man. This is a serious question.” Lewis frowned and crossed his arms at his chest. “What should I do?”
“Is she willing to pay full price for lessons?”
He shrugged. “I haven’t gotten to that part of the interview.”
“Then you must have been distracted, hmm, when coin isn’t uppermost in your mind?” When Lewis didn’t answer, his brother continued. “If you do wish to teach her a few survival skills, how would that be possible? We simply can’t have women in the salon.”
“I am aware of that, but I could privately teach her in the office. We installed Venetian blinds at the windows in any event, and if we closed them, she would effectively be hidden from view of the salon.” It had been one of the features they’d had installed on all the windows of the salon, not only to keep the harsh afternoon sun out but also to provide another layer of privacy for lessons during the evening hours.
He mused on how Venetian blinds may have originated in Persia, not the canal city of Venice, Italy; the origins of slatted blinds had existed for centuries. Ancient Egyptians tied reeds together to use as a window covering, and the Chinese used bamboo strips in the same way. The first examples of such were from around 1760—early Venetian blinds were made of two-inch wood slats hanging along cloth ribbons.
“God, you and the Venetian blinds.” Alexander chuckled, but then he slowly nodded. “It could work, though. At least for today’s lesson. Subsequent ones can be either early in the morning or in the evening after hours to keep her identity hidden.”
“You wouldn’t mind?” The more Lewis thought about it, the more the scenario began to take shape.
“Mind? Not while she’s a paying customer.” His brother shrugged again. “I won’t begrudge anyone the ability to defend themselves, but I will caution you to be careful and to not get involved over and above what happens here in this salon. We have our own problems and don’t need to take on anyone else’s.”
“I am not that man, and you know it.” Though he did have his charitable causes he championed, he had never been in the habit of involving himself in the affairs of others. “Very well. I’ll tell her the cost of each lesson and go from there.”
Alexander nodded. “Go carefully. This could explode in our faces, and we have worked too hard to get the salon running.”
“Agreed.” With a nod at his brother, Lewis returned to the office and once more closed the door behind them, which caused the woman on the chair to startle. Then he manipulated the Venetian blinds, slowly closing them to block the view from the salon. “All right, Mr. Feathers, my brother and I are in agreement. We’ll take you on as a client. Each lesson costs two pounds each. It sounds steep, but you can use these lessons over a lifetime.”
“I can pay it.” The woman in disguise reached into the pocket of her waistcoat and withdrew the necessary coins, leaned forward, and then laid them on the desktop. “When shall we begin?”
“Soon, of course.”
“I would enjoy that immensely.” Slowly, the faux Mr. Feathers stood, came into a clear space within the office.
He gestured to where she needed to stand and tried to curb his curiosity. “Once you’ve mastered the basic fighting techniques, we’ll begin sparring practice.” In her case, it would be in Hyde Park, early enough to provide privacy instead of in the salon.
“All right.” Her eyes rounded. “You won’t… injure me, will you?” Once more, her voice was graveled as one of her hands crept to her neck. “I couldn’t begin to explain the bruises to my father or brother.”
The fear in her expression tugged at his chest. “No, I won’t. In fact, this first lesson, you and I won’t share punches.” What was her life like that fear always lurked in the backs of those bluer-than-blue eyes? Had she ever known happiness? “Let’s get to it.”
Mr. Feathers nodded. “What would you have me do?”
“Best to remove the jacket for better range of motion.”
Once she took the garment off, Lewis fought to keep his expression passive. Bloody hell. How did she think he’d think she was a man? The buff-colored men’s breeches, a linen shirt, and the waistcoat over the top of that that did nothing to hide her natural curves; he had difficulties maintaining concentration. Scuffed and worn Hessian-style boots—had she borrowed them from her brother?—completed the ensemble.
“Now what?”
“Uh…” Lewis resisted the urge to pull at his suddenly tight cravat. Dear God, those legs! His gaze went on a leisurely trip down the length of her body to pause at the tempting vee of her thighs. He took a ragged breath and firmly pinned his regard to her face, where indecision brewed. The disguise would fool no one… unless they weren’t paying attention. “Fighting is easier without extra clothing. Here at the salon and in the ring, we box bare-chested and sometimes bare footed for that reason.” But during public bouts, the crowd enjoyed seeing a well-worked physique.
Panic joined the fear in her expression. “I won’t need to take my shirt off, will I?”
He understood her concern. “You will not.” But she would need to be the one to admit to her gender. In the meanwhile, he would keep her secret. Shoving the fetching image of her in breeches from his mind, Lewis nodded. “I will write up a contract for my teaching services. It lists the payment amount per week. You can sign before you go today since you have already made the first deposit.”
“Thank you.” Mr. Feathers—for lack of a better moniker—stood with several feet of space between them, her posture stiff. No doubt she was ready to run.
After removing his own jacket, he tossed it across his desk. “Let’s begin.” Lewis closed the distance. “You need to learn how to make a proper fist.” He held up a hand, fingers curled, thumb across his digits.
She experimented with her own fingers. “Like this?”
“No. Mind your thumb. It’s too easy to break if tucked under.” Again, he held up his own fist as he drifted to her side. A slight intake of breath betrayed her unease at his proximity, and that didn’t sound like a man. Had she forgotten her disguise already? “There you go. Just like that.” He nodded, and relief broke over her brow. “Now, let’s work on your stance. Plant your feet, knees slightly bent, arms up and fists at the ready.” He demonstrated the correct form. “The fists are what connect to your opponent, but your arm is where the power lies. As Gentleman Jackson says, you’ll make more of an impact with a well-timed blow than using your body as a battering ram.”
His father had employed a mixture of that man’s methods with many of his own, and that was how Lewis taught the discipline.
Awkwardly, she assumed the position. “How do you know which fist to punch with and when? It seems overwhelming to me.”
“All that will come in time. Right now, I’m only concerned with the basics.” He demonstrated how to throw a punch. “Lead with your first two knuckles. Where they go is where your fist will land.”
“Ah.” She moved her fist but twisted her arm slightly in the process.
“Let me show you.” He maneuvered himself behind her. The faint scent of violets drifted to his nose—another mistake in assuming the disguise. “Straighten your arm when you swing.” He framed her body with his, leading her arm like how it should be if she were punching on her own, but her whole being stiffened, the muscles tensing as if she would dart from the room. “You must relax. Boxing while stressed will injure you.”
What the devil was she enduring in her home life that led her to be so on edge?
“Sorry.” The woman flinched when his head came too close to hers. She shied away from him and spun about, facing him with alarm in her expression and fear in her eyes. Her pulse beat fast in her neck while her chest heaved. “It will take some time for me to be at ease with all of this.”
“Or with me as your teacher,” he added in a soft voice. When she gave him a tight nod, he sighed. Obviously, he had a different sort of fight ahead and needed to address her fear before moving forward. “Boxing is a sport of gentlemen.”
“I shall be the judge of that.” Was she even aware her voice had changed, and she talked as she probably was in real life?
“It is a sport of control. Gentlemen don’t fight to kill or intimidate.” When she remained silent, he stifled the urge to sigh again. Slowly, Lewis. Go slowly. “You have my promise that I won’t hurt you; I want you to learn self-defense as much as you do.”
She nodded, but the fear didn’t leave her eyes. “Thank you.”
“However, you will need to work with me. In doing this, you’ll learn trust and courage.” When she eyed him with trepidation, he sighed. “In order to do that, feel the fear, defy it, and go forward anyway.” He made certain to modulate his voice into soothing tones. “Boxing will give you the confidence you seek, and it will make you stronger. In that, I speak from experience.”
“You were once pestered by a bully?”
“No, but I have two brothers. Also, my father was a prize fighter of some acclaim… and I was a bit of a problem at times at university.”
They both shared a laugh.
He gestured to his side. “Would you like to try again? My promise stands.”
“I…” When her eyes darted to the door, he stifled a sigh. “I’m sure I’m a disappointment for a man, but I don’t trust other men immediately.”
“Understandable.” How long did she hope to perpetuate her disguise? He suddenly wanted to be the one she could count on. “I’m going to teach you everything you need to know about boxing and defense, yet trust must be present.” He held up his hands, palms out. “I mean no harm.”
One corner of her lips quirked with the beginnings of a smile. It fascinated him. What would it take for her to grin in genuine pleasure? “I am trying my best, Mr. Stapleton.”
“Good.” Yes, damn it, he was a gentleman, and that meant keeping her a student in his mind, no matter that her subtle floral scent teased his senses and her scandalously clad form distracted him. “Now, assume the stance. If I touch you, it’s to correct your posture, not for a nefarious purpose.”
“I appreciate your willingness to teach me despite my reticence.” Though her smile was slight and tremulous, he relaxed.
“As with any relationship, we will go slowly until we are able to move around each other seamlessly.” And devil take it all, he couldn’t wait to delve into the mystery of her past as well as her home life.