Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
“Come now, Ashcroft,” Hugo panted, his handsome face already gleaming with sweat despite it being barely ten minutes into their bout. “Surely you can show a friend some mercy?”
Laurence’s mouth curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Where would be the sport in that?”
The Duke’s private boxing room was a space tucked away in the lower level of the estate, far from the ornate drawing rooms and stuffy formality above. Laurence Whitby, Duke of Ashcroft, circled his opponent with the predatory grace of a man who had spent years honing his body.
Hugo St. Vincent, Duke of Ravenvale, danced backward with less grace but considerable enthusiasm, his fists raised in what might charitably be called a defensive position.
He feinted left, and Hugo fell for it exactly as Laurence had known he would. Laurence’s right fist landed on Hugo’s ribs.
“Bloody hell,” Hugo wheezed, stumbling back. “How do you do that? You can barely see, and yet you read my movements better than I do myself.”
Laurence tracked Hugo’s movement through the blur of his limited vision, relying more on sound and instinct than sight. “You telegraph your intentions rather obviously, my friend. That shuffle you do before attempting a right hook? It might as well be a written announcement.”
Hugo groaned. “This is why I always lose to you. Even half-blind, you’re insufferable.”
They had been sparring partners since their days at Cambridge. Hugo’s natural charm and easy manner should have made them incompatible with Laurence’s cold reserve, but somehow they had balanced each other perfectly.
Over the years, they had maintained this tradition. Once a month, Hugo would travel from London to spar and share gossip and simply exist without the weight of their titles and responsibilities pressing down upon them. Even Hugo’s sister Octavia had gotten friendly with Laurence over the years.
Hugo came in fast with a flurry of jabs that Laurence deflected easily, then attempted one of his infamous tricks, a sudden lunge that was meant to catch Laurence off guard.
Laurence sidestepped and landed a light tap on Hugo’s shoulder.
“Damn it!” Hugo lowered his fists, breathing hard. “One of these days I’m going to actually land a solid hit on you.”
“I live in hope of witnessing such a miraculous event.”
Hugo’s grin was unrepentant. “Speaking of miracles, I’ve heard some interesting news about you, old friend.”
Laurence raised his fists again, inviting Hugo to continue their bout. “Have you?”
“Indeed.” Hugo began circling once more, though his tone had shifted from competitive to conversational. “Word has reached even London that the reclusive Duke of Ashcroft has been entertaining a very beautiful lady at his estate. Multiple visits, in fact. Alone. In his study.”
Beautiful, Laurence thought, momentarily distracted. Is she?
He hadn’t truly seen her. Only impressions through the fog of his damaged vision. A slender form. Long, dark hair. The graceful way she moved through his study.
But he had felt her hands when she had reached across the desk to touch him with what she claimed was mere sympathy. He had caught her scent and it lingered in his study long after she had departed. He had sensed an elegance about her, an innate grace that went beyond mere physical beauty.
The distraction cost him. Hugo’s fist hit his jaw.
“Ha!” Hugo crowed triumphantly, dancing backward with his fists raised in victory. “I did it! I actually landed a hit! You saw that, didn’t you? Well, probably not, but you felt it!”
Laurence worked his jaw, tasting copper. Despite himself, he chuckled. “Well done. You’ve achieved your monthly miracle.”
His fist shot out in retaliation, catching Hugo on the stomach. Hugo’s victory dance ended abruptly as he doubled over, wheezing.
“And there’s my response,” Laurence said mildly.
Hugo held up one hand in surrender, still gasping for breath. “Point… taken…”
They moved to the bench along the wall where towels and water waited.
Hugo collapsed onto the bench beside him, mopping sweat from his face. “So,” he said once he’d caught his breath, “are you going to tell me about this mysterious lady? Or must I resort to interrogating your butler?”
“There’s nothing to tell. She is assisting me with my account books and estate ledgers. A purely professional arrangement.”
“Oh, really?” Hugo’s tone was far too knowing. “And she comes to your study. Alone. Multiple times per week. To handle your private financial affairs.”
“Your point?”
“My point, dear friend, is that I’ve been offering to send you London’s finest accountants for over a year now.
Men with decades of experience. Men who could manage your affairs with perfect competence.
” Hugo paused significantly. “Yet you refused them all. And now suddenly you’ve engaged a young lady to do the work instead. Curious, don’t you think?”
Because I didn’t want London’s finest accountants in my business, Laurence thought.
But even as the justification formed, he knew it wasn’t entirely honest. Yes, he had needed someone outside London society. But there were plenty of country solicitors or men of business he could have hired.
Instead, he had chosen her.
“Mind your business, Ravenvale,” Laurence said, but there was no real heat in it.
Hugo laughed. “I’m just pleased you’re talking to a lady again, Ashcroft. It’s been years since you’ve shown interest in any woman.”
Laurence’s fist shot out, catching Hugo in the shoulder hard enough to make him yelp.
“I surrender! I surrender!” Hugo rubbed his shoulder with an exaggerated wince. “You’re entirely too violent for a man supposedly engaging in friendly sparring.”
They had been young when they’d met at Cambridge, Laurence barely eighteen, Hugo nineteen. Even then, Laurence had possessed a reputation for coldness that kept most people at a safe distance.
The young ladies who had flocked around him during those university years, daughters of professors, sisters of fellow students, had quickly learned that the handsome young duke-to-be was not interested in their flirtations.
His sarcasm could flay skin from bone. His rejections were delivered to wound pride and discourage further attempts.
More than one young woman had left his presence in tears, and Laurence had felt not a shred of remorse. He had no time or patience for simpering misses who saw only his title and his face. He had shorter patience for young men trying to flatter their way into befriending him.
Where others had retreated from his cutting remarks, Hugo had laughed. Where others had given up in the face of his coldness, Hugo had persisted with good-humored determination.
Eventually, Laurence had stopped trying to push him away.
Now, fifteen years later, Hugo was the closest thing Laurence had to family. The only person in the world who knew about his injury and hadn’t treated him differently because of it.
Hugo retrieved two more glasses of water and handed one to Laurence, settling back onto the bench with a satisfied sigh.
“Did I tell you about the scandal that’s rocked London these past weeks?” Hugo asked, his tone shifting to the gossipy inflection he adopted when sharing particularly juicy rumors.
Laurence drank his water and let Hugo talk. This was part of their ritual, after sparring, Hugo would regale him with news from town, venting his frustrations with the greed and duplicity he encountered in his business dealings.
For all Hugo’s charm and easy manner in social situations, he had built a reputation as a ruthlessly shrewd businessman. He could smile and jest with a man over dinner, then destroy his commercial interests the next morning without a shred of hesitation if that man proved dishonest or dishonorable.
It was exhausting, Hugo had once confessed, to always be performing. To always be calculating whether the person speaking to him wanted something or was trying to manipulate him for their own gain.
With Laurence, he could simply be himself. Could drop the mask and exist without pretense.
“There’s this absolutely ridiculous situation,” Hugo continued, warming to his subject. “One of the upper classes—an earl, in fact—was betrothed to a perfectly respectable young lady. Decent family, scholarly bloodline, everything proper and arranged.”
He paused to drink, then shook his head in disgust. “But the fool had gotten a courtesan pregnant. Some woman from a brothel in Covent Garden. And rather than handle the situation discreetly, he decided to move this pregnant mistress directly into his London residence. Can you imagine?”
Laurence made a noncommittal sound, only half-listening. His mind kept drifting back to earlier—to the feel of Miss Sinclair’s hand on his, to the soft catch in her breath when he’d held her wrist.
“The bride-to-be fled, of course,” Hugo continued.
“Ran away on the very morning of the wedding. At first the rumors claimed she had eloped with some mysterious lover—the earl made certain those stories spread, trying to save face. But then the truth came out when he installed his pregnant courtesan as his permanent companion and started trying to introduce her to society as though she were respectable.”
Hugo’s voice had taken on an edge of anger now. “People aren’t having it, naturally. The man’s own mother won’t speak to him. His friends have begun cutting him. But the real tragedy is that poor girl, the one who fled the marriage. Her reputation is in tatters through no fault of her own.”
He sighed heavily. “I heard her family had to leave London entirely. Send her away somewhere quiet until the scandal dies down. Sad business, really. They’re a respectable family—the Sinclairs, I believe. The brother holds a position at Court. Decent people who didn’t deserve this mess.”
Laurence’s head snapped up. “The Sinclairs?”
His mind raced, connecting pieces he hadn’t realized were scattered before him.
My brother’s reputation has already suffered considerably from our family’s recent scandal, Miss Sinclair had said. Opening a school would only make matters worse. It would affect my younger sister even more.
So that’s why, Laurence thought. That’s why they’re hiding in the country. Why she’s so desperate for something meaningful to occupy her time. Why she won’t return to London.
He pictured Joan in a wedding gown, her dark hair arranged beneath a veil, her soft hands clasped in another man’s grip. Pictured her bound to someone unworthy. Belonging to someone else.
His jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached. His hands, still wrapped from their sparring, tightened into fists.
Why does it matter, he demanded of himself, if she was involved in some scandal?
But the agitation wouldn’t subside. It churned in his chest.
“Ashcroft?” Hugo’s voice held a note of concern. “Why do you look so angry? Did I say something—”
Laurence stood abruptly. “Another round.”
Hugo groaned. “We’ve already been at it for nearly an hour! My ribs are going to be one giant bruise tomorrow as it is.”
“Unless you’re conceding defeat?”
That, of course, was all it took. Hugo’s competitive nature, easily manipulated when properly provoked, flared immediately.
“Fine,” Hugo grumbled, pushing himself to his feet with obvious reluctance. “But at least go easy on me this time. I’d like to be able to walk normally tomorrow.”