Chapter Eleven
Drayton’s Boxing Salon
Mayfair, London
I still can’t believe I lost the bloody case.
After spending three hours on the floor, arguing for his client, and giving one of the best speeches of his life—at least he thought so—the judge ultimately ruled in the plaintiff’s favor.
Had it been last-minute evidence submitted, or the judge’s bias, or simply an argument that wasn’t convincing or didn’t provide enough empathy?
He would never know, but the feeling of being disgruntled would continue for days to come.
Which was what led him to the boxing salon, so he could punch a sand-filled bag and work out his disappointment and aggressions.
After an hour of punching the hell out of various bags that hung from chains on the ceiling with his bare hands, Gregory paused to wipe at the sweat on his brow.
At the half hour mark, he’d wrapped strips of muslin around his hands and knuckles to protect them from repeated blows.
He’d stripped down to just his breeches, and his bare feet allowed him to dart about as if he traded blows with an opponent.
Ever since he’d started boxing a few years ago, he’d been able curtail the urge to lash out in anger or explode in a temper when cases didn’t go his way.
The visceral feel of slamming his fists into something that wouldn’t cause pain or damage—unless it was to his hands—gave him a sense of satisfaction, and working all the muscles of his body cleared the cobwebs from his mind.
It allowed him to focus, make plans on how to be a better barrister.
“I am open to sparring with you if you want.”
He glanced over as the Earl of Holdcraft walked slowly over to his location. “How did you know I’d be here?”
“I didn’t.” As he spoke, the earl began removing clothing until he’d stripped down to his breeches as well.
Garments littered a wooden chair and the surrounding floor.
“I only knew I wanted to get in some exercise this afternoon, but I’d heard about your defeat yesterday so assumed you’d want to work through your mental disappointment. ”
“Good assumption.” Gregory huffed out a breath. “Who did you hear the news from?” It cut him to the core knowing his most recent failure was fodder for gossip.
“I was at White’s last night. A couple men with ties to the judge were talking.” He briefly dropped a hand to Gregory’s shoulder. “I’m sorry. This loss doesn’t mean you’ve failed as a barrister. It only means you’re one hell of a fighter and will come back all the harder with your next case.”
“Ha.” He slammed a fist into his opposite palm. “Let’s hope so. As much as I’d like to land that judge a facer, this is the next best thing.” With a gesture, he strolled over to a section of the floor covered with thin mats stuffed with straw. “I’ll spar with you.”
“Good. Grab a set of mittens. I’ll do the same.” He shot Gregory a wide grin. “I’d hate to mar that pretty face of yours. I’m certain your mistress wouldn’t like that much.”
“Shut up, Holdcraft.” But he couldn’t help the grin that tugged at the corners of his mouth.
Men who were sparring or punching bags of sand or straw grunted and groaned around them.
None paid the slightest attention to them.
“Constance would fuss over me, order that I lie down so she could ply ointments to my face.” The thought of her trying to take care of him sent a distinctive warmth through his chest. Then those thoughts bounced to the day before yesterday when he’d pleasured her while she’d lounged in the bathtub.
That had led to a rather long and quite wicked session out of the tub until they’d both been winded, exhausted, and very much sated.
In fact, he planned to head to her townhouse once he finished here. To make up with her. They had been scheduled to attend the opera last night, but after his defeat in court, he hadn’t been in the mood for socializing or even carnal endeavors with her.
“Somehow I believe that’s not all she would do to you.
” Holdcraft chuckled while pulling on a pair of cracked, brown leather mittens that were stuffed with straw.
They protected a boxer’s fingers and hands, as well as his opponent’s face and skin while sparring, which was learning how to fight and move in preparation for a boxing match.
“Has your relationship progressed since last we talked?”
“Progression is open to interpretation.” If he meant had Gregory coupled with her in places beyond her bedchamber, then yes.
But if he meant anything else, it was a gray line.
He yanked on a pair of padded mittens, tightened the laces with his teeth.
“But I missed the opera with her last night, so I’m sure she’s not pleased. ”
“Ah. While you were feeling sorry for yourself last night, no doubt drowning your defeat in a brandy bottle, she was home cursing your name?”
He shrugged. “Not Constance. I haven’t noted a temper with her.
Instead, she was probably disappointed, and if she was worried, she could have had an episode brought on by anxiety.
” I should have been there. I should have kept our plans, but instead, I behaved like a prick because my pride was wounded.
“I wonder if you kept that appointment would she have nursed your wounded ego and stroked… other things,” the earl said in a soft voice.
“I don’t know.” Gregory moved onto one of the mats. The faint crunching noise of the straw in the muslin pad filtered his ears. “Are we going to spar or what?” He didn’t wish to talk about Constance, for he might inadvertently betray what he was feeling for her.
“Of course we are. Perhaps a good facer will help bring things into perspective for you,” his friend said with a grin.
“My perspective is fine.” As Gregory circled his opponent, he curled his mitten-covered hands into fists as best he could and held them up to protect his face. “I’m merely nursing the disappointment of yesterday.”
“Failing to defend your client in front of a judge or missing the opportunity to escort your mistress to the opera?” Though there was a hint of teasing in the earl’s voice, a note of concern lingered there as well.
He mimicked Gregory’s stance and soon they circled each other, looking for a weakness, an opening.
“Perhaps both.” A quick huff of breath escaped him.
“Why can’t I remain aloof toward the widow, Holdcraft?
Why has she managed to worm her way beneath my skin?
” In all his years of being an adult man, he’d never made the fatal mistake of having his heart engaged, but then along came Constance, and suddenly his whole world had upended.
“You have made the classic mistake most men do at some point in their lives.”
“Such as?” Striking out, his padded fist connected with the earl’s shoulder.
“You have developed feelings for a woman incredibly wrong for your life. She was supposed to have remained a mistress, yet somehow, you’ve made her into a companion, a friend, I suppose.
Over and above a lover that you should have only seen a few times a week.
” He cocked a brown eyebrow. “And what is more, I’ll wager you’ve thought more than once about how lovely it would be if you could see her every day. ”
Was that true? Did he feel more for her than he probably should? “You’re wrong. I just enjoy having someone to talk with at the end of a day.”
“And share dinner with, take out into society, share your love of the opera with, have the ability to converse on intelligent topics. Shall I go on?”
“I never asked you to start.” God, what a coil.
Constance was his mistress and could only always be that.
It was what they’d agreed upon when they’d begun walking this path together.
Yet what Holdcraft said was also true. There was something about her that invited confidences, and that sense of being domesticated wasn’t as painful as he’d once thought.
Over and over, they circled each other. Both of them had mastered the art of quick footwork over the course of the last year, and that skill certainly added another level of satisfaction to sparring.
Whenever Gregory tagged the earl, Holdcraft followed up and returned the punch.
It didn’t take long until the sheen of sweat covered them both, and they punctuated each jab with grunts.
“If you were suddenly separated from Mrs. Knight tomorrow, how would that make you feel?” the earl asked as he got off a punch that landed on Gregory’s left cheek.
“Bad form, Holdcraft.” Almost immediately, he returned the favor by drilling a mitten-covered fist into the earl’s abdomen, which sent him back a few steps. “But to answer your question, I don’t know.”
“What a bammer.” His friend came roaring back, got off an uppercut that snapped Gregory’s head back. Mild pain went through his jaw. “I can see it when you speak of her, in the change of your voice that you are in far too deep to merely shrug her absence off as if you don’t care.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.
” Of course, that was a lie. He spent far too much time thinking about Constance, had even done the nodcock thing of trying to pen a bit of poetry as an ode to her eyes.
But being that vulnerable had embarrassed him, so he’d torn the poem into shreds and tossed it in the rubbish.
“Why do you insist on dissembling? What would you tell your clients if they did the same to you?” The earl followed the inquiry by drilling a fist into Gregory’s shoulder.
“I would counsel them that such a thing wasn’t in their best interests, and that the truth would always win the day.
” Unless the judge had been bought or the supporting evidence had somehow been compromised.
There was much about the law that wasn’t fair, but he still believed in the process, and that was why he persisted.
People with no voice needed hope that somehow, somewhere, they would have the justice they—or their loved ones—deserved.