Chapter 19
Richard sat on the edge of a narrow wooden bench, the air in the boxing club thick with sweat, sawdust. He methodically wrapped strips of linen around his hands, each pull of the cloth a futile attempt to rein in the storm churning inside him.
His chest burned with anger. His mind, with betrayal.
And his fists itched to make contact with something—anything—that might lessen the ache that words had left behind.
Sleep had eluded him the night before. Every time he shut his eyes, he heard her voice.
Saw the look on her face. Theodosia with her careful lies and inscrutable expressions.
He had suspected her from the start. Warned himself not to be taken in.
And yet... some foolish, idealistic part of him had hoped he was wrong. That she wasn’t what he feared.
“Why do you look like you could commit murder and enjoy it?” a familiar voice cut through the haze.
Richard didn’t bother lifting his head. “Go away, Alcott.”
Lord Alcott crossed his arms and grinned down at him. “Such a warm greeting. You’ve missed me, haven’t you?”
“I didn’t sleep.”
“That much is obvious. Let me guess—your unrest has something to do with a certain companion with lovely green eyes and a talent for deception?”
Richard’s jaw clenched. He finished the last twist of linen around his knuckles and yanked it tight. “I said, go away.”
Unperturbed, Alcott dropped onto the bench beside him. “You forget that I’ve known you since we were boys. I can tell when something is bothering you.”
“And I said I didn’t want to talk about it.”
“Well, then, let’s not talk. Let’s box. You look like you’re moments away from putting your fist through a wall.”
Richard stood and rolled his shoulders. “Fine. I would love an excuse to hit you.”
Alcott chuckled as he followed him towards the chalked ring. “You forget, I survived a French bayonet to the leg. I think I can manage your so-called rage.”
They stepped inside the makeshift ring, squaring off in familiar rhythm. Richard raised his fists, waiting.
Alcott gave him a wry smile. “I propose a game.”
“I loathe games.”
“For every strike that lands, you tell me one thing that’s bothering you.”
“No.”
Alcott’s fist shot out and landed a sharp blow on Richard’s shoulder. “Consider that the opening round.”
Richard swung in retaliation, but Alcott ducked with ease.
“Come now,” Alcott said, circling, “what did she do to deserve this delightful mood of yours?”
“She lied,” Richard growled, landing a solid punch to Alcott’s jaw.
Alcott winced and rubbed the spot, though the amusement never left his eyes. “Didn’t you already suspect that from the beginning? Wasn’t that why you hired her under false pretenses?”
“Yes,” Richard admitted. “But I was hoping I was wrong.”
“And Mr. Smith? He came for her?”
Richard’s next hit landed squarely on Alcott’s chest. “Yes. And she helped him escape.”
“But she didn’t go with him?” Alcott asked, stepping back.
“No,” Richard said, breathing heavier now. “She stayed.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. She didn’t say.”
Alcott raised an eyebrow. “She didn’t say, or you didn’t give her the chance?”
Richard’s hands dropped slightly as he bristled. “Does it matter?”
“To her? Probably.”
“I didn’t want to hear excuses. She made her choice—she protected him. He got away before I could challenge him to a duel.”
“Which means, if what you suspect is true, he’ll be back for her,” Alcott said. “Sooner or later.”
Richard adjusted the linen on his wrist. “Then I’ll get my answers. I’ll find out exactly how involved she was.”
“And when you do?” Alcott asked, raising his guard again.
Richard shrugged. “I’ll send her back home. And that will be the end of it.”
“Will it?”
“Of course,” Richard snapped. “I can’t marry a woman I don’t trust.”
Alcott’s lips twitched. “I never mentioned marriage.”
Richard glared at him. “You implied it.”
“I merely wondered if you finally fell in love.”
Richard lunged forward with another punch, but Alcott sidestepped with ease.
“Do we have to discuss this?” Richard muttered.
Alcott’s breath was steady despite the bout. “I think we just might,” he said with irritating cheer. “Someone has to make sure you don’t do something colossally foolish—like sending Miss Theodosia away without hearing her out.”
Richard exhaled sharply, his annoyance flaring. “What choice do I have, Alcott? She deceived me.”
“This may sound mad,” Alcott said, circling slowly with his hands still raised, “but have you considered—just briefly—letting her tell her side of the story?”
Richard scowled. “And what would be the point? So she can perfect her lies? Add to them?”
Alcott didn’t answer. Instead, he stepped forward and landed a clean, satisfying blow to Richard’s jaw. Not hard enough to damage—just enough to get his attention.
Staggering back a step, Richard growled. “Botheration, Alcott!”
“Perhaps she might be innocent,” Alcott said calmly, shaking out his wrist. “Or at least, not the villain you’ve made her out to be?”
Richard rubbed his jaw but otherwise ignored the pain. “You’re daft.”
“I’ve been called worse,” Alcott replied. “But I’m not daft—I’m clever. And more to the point, you left yourself open. You never leave yourself open. Which means you’re distracted and are not thinking clearly.”
Richard rolled his shoulders, trying to shake off the punch and the sting of truth beneath it. “Why don’t you just shut up and box like a normal man?”
“Because normal men let their pride ruin perfectly good things,” Alcott said, dropping his hands to his sides and stepping in closer. “Someone has to be the voice of reason.”
“I’m not wrong,” Richard muttered, more to himself than to Alcott.
“Then prove it,” Alcott challenged. “Get the facts first. All the facts. Let her speak. Then you can throw her out, if you must, but at least you won’t be haunted by what you didn’t let her say.”
Richard let out a long, frustrated sigh. He hated how easily Alcott could see through him. “Why is this suddenly your crusade?”
“Because I’ve watched you brood over this woman,” Alcott said. “You have changed since she arrived—and not for the worse. Because maybe, just maybe, she matters more than you’re willing to admit.”
Richard said nothing. He hated how close his friend was to the truth. He’d been so consumed by fury the night before that he hadn’t even given Theodosia the dignity of a defense. In spite of everything, her eyes had haunted him, filled not with guilt—but sorrow.
Would she lie to him again? Could he trust her?
Could he risk it?
Alcott placed a hand on his shoulder. “Listen to your heart, Wilton. What is it telling you to do?”
Richard huffed a laugh, though it held no humor. “Since when did you become a hopeless romantic?”
“I haven’t,” Alcott said, dropping his hand. “When I marry, it’ll be for practical reasons. Someone to help with Charlotte. Someone steady.”
Richard raised an eyebrow. “Is Charlotte really so terrible?”
“She ignores half of what I say,” Alcott responded. “And she’s always scribbling in that blasted notebook of hers.”
“Is that truly so awful?”
“There are worse vices, I suppose. But sometimes I feel like I’m guardian to a whirlwind.”
A small line was forming beside the ring. Richard glanced over and noticed several men waiting for their turn. “I think I’ve had enough boxing for today.”
Alcott inclined his head, following him out of the ring. “How is Lady Olivia handling all of this?”
Richard paused beside the bench and sat heavily. “She doesn’t know. She’d already retired to bed when Mr. Smith arrived.”
“You need to tell her,” Alcott said. “Soon.”
“I know,” Richard murmured as he began to unravel the linen from his knuckles. “But once she learns what Theodosia’s done—or what I think she’s done—she’ll be devastated. She trusted her.”
Alcott sat down beside him. “Are you sure she did something?”
Richard shot him a look.
Alcott held up his hands. “All I’m saying is… I’m not convinced she’s the villain in this story.”
“She acts innocent,” he said quietly. “Too innocent.”
“Or,” Alcott countered, “she is innocent. You just don’t want to believe it because then you’d have to face what you feel for her.”
Richard gave a hollow laugh. “You’re infuriating, you know that?”
“Constantly,” Alcott agreed cheerfully. “But I also happen to be an excellent judge of character. And something tells me Miss Theodosia deserves better than your current opinion of her.”
“I would prefer,” Richard said, raking a hand through his damp hair, “if we talked about something else. Anything, really.”
Alcott, to his credit, didn’t press. He simply nodded as he settled back on the bench. “Very well. How is your bill coming along?”
“Warwicke and I are drafting it now, but I’m not optimistic about its reception.”
“That doesn’t sound like you,” Alcott remarked. “You’re usually more stubborn than that.”
“This isn’t about stubbornness,” Richard replied, reaching down to untie the last strip of linen from his wrist. “It’s reality. If this were my father’s bill, it would pass without debate.”
Alcott leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Yes, well, your name is attached to it, not his.”
“Exactly,” Richard remarked. “My father had sway on both sides of the aisle. Tories and Whigs alike deferred to him. He spoke, and votes followed. I’m not afforded that same courtesy.”
Alcott studied him a moment before replying, “You will have that influence. It doesn’t come overnight.”
Richard shook his head. “I’m not so sure. The House of Lords still sees me as my father’s son, not my own man. And they’re watching—waiting for me to misstep.”
“They’re also watching to see if you rise to the occasion,” Alcott pointed out. “Which you will.”
“That’s wishful thinking.”
Alcott’s mouth tugged into a grin. “Then it’s a good thing you’ve caught me on an unusually optimistic day.”
Richard glanced at him sideways. “Remind me to ask again when you’re in a foul mood. Perhaps then I’ll get the truth.”