Chapter Seven
Lawrence stared at the note delivered by an unnamed rascal who had slipped into the wilderness of the street before he’d had time to take in more than a scrap of dark hair and filthy hands.
There were dirty fingerprints all over the paper, but the writing was still legible, even if the letter itself was rather blunt.
Lawrence.
He is in London. I received word from a boat that brought him across, and there is nowhere else we would expect him to be. Why have you not found him? Why is he not yet brought to justice?
Focus on the job at hand and do not permit anything to distract you. It would be death to another, surely, if you are unable to apprehend him.
Do not forget what he has done.
Dulverton
Lawrence read the note three more times to commit it to memory, then scrunched it up and threw it into the meager fire he had managed to build in the fireplace. A more impressive blaze scalded through his veins, anger overwhelming him.
Well, what in God’s name did they think he was doing? Just living here in squalor for the fun of it? Abandoning his name and luxurious life simply because he had nothing better to do?
Leaving his sister in her grief as they both mourned their murdered brother?
Lawrence’s jaw tightened as he leaned back heavily in his armchair. Well. Perhaps there was a small element of truth in that last one.
It had been painful, being home, watching his sister fall apart after the loss of their elder brother. Seeing her mourn as he could not bring himself to mourn. Seeing her grieve when it had felt, in some way he could not explain, that it was his fault.
Pain. His fingers hurt. Lawrence looked down to see he had been gripping his fists so tightly, his nails had dug into his palms.
Slowly, he managed to uncurl his fingers and saw half-moons of beading blood.
Damn. That was going to hurt the next time he stepped into the ring, which would be…
A quick glance at his pocket watch drew a groan from his lips. He was supposed to be in the ring in fifteen minutes. A good thing Alan had insisted on him taking lodgings so close to the damned place. A few streets away, and he may not have managed it.
After ducking past two carriages, avoiding a scrapping fight over the price of beef, and dodging a pickpocket who was about to relieve a gentleman of his wallet—a gentleman dressed much as Lawrence would have been…
The Duke of Penshaw stepped into Almonry Den.
Lawrence breathed it in. Strange, that after six months this place had become home in much the same way the Dulverton Club or Penshaw Place.
He knew the smell of the straw, the sawdust, the sweat of the men in the ring, the excitement of the crowd. The particularly sour ale that was served by grinning women with dirt-flecked shawls, the sharp notes of pastry as pies were passed along rows, thruppenny bits thrown down in recompense.
This was starting to become all he knew.
And it would stay that way, Lawrence told himself firmly as he strode over to the ring, pushing his way past the crowd as he got closer, until he found Mortimer.
He had to be here somewhere. If Dulverton was sure he was in England, he was in London. There was nowhere else for the damned blaggard to go.
And here was the only place Mortimer had friends—at least, acquaintances which could almost be guaranteed not to reveal his presence to the authorities.
“There you are!” Alan’s relief was palpable, the back of his hand wiping sweat from his brow. “I was almost about to enter the ring on your behalf!”
Lawrence snorted as he patted his boxing coach on the back. “Never fear, I wouldn’t let them eat you.”
The older man raised an eyebrow. “You think I wouldn’t survive in there?”
Instead of replying, Lawrence glanced up at the ring in which at that very moment two men were pummeling each other viciously. A tooth flew up in the air in a terrible arc as the crowd jeered.
He looked back at Alan, who had the good grace to shrug. “Fair point. You ready?”
Lawrence nodded. “Of course.”
It was a lie, one he had become accustomed to telling in the last few weeks.
Ready? Ready to fight, yes, ready to try and keep an eye out for the damned man he was seeking. Ready to exchange muttered words of congratulation or commiseration to the other boxers, to befriend them, to hear if they had heard anything…
But in the last fortnight, things had changed, and Lawrence was not about to admit it.
Because he was here for another reason, wasn’t he?
Julia Dryden.
Lawrence tried to swallow, but his mouth had gone dry at the very thought of her name. Her name? Dear God, he was losing all touch with reality if her mere name could overpower him. He was supposed to be a renowned boxer.
“Shall we return to Rotten Row, or do you wish to kiss a little longer first?”
He shivered. He groaned slightly, the noise hidden by the shouting masses, and despite himself, Lawrence’s gaze drifted toward the crowd.
Was she there? Was it possible he would be watched by her, as he so dearly wished to observe her?
“Ready?”
“Wh-What?” Lawrence said, turning round hastily.
Alan was frowning again. “You’ve got awful jumpy these last few days, boy. Are you sure you aren’t having…second thoughts?”
The memory of the note he had received not twenty minutes ago rang through Lawrence’s mind.
Focus on the job at hand and do not permit anything to distract you. It would be death to another, surely, if you are unable to apprehend him.
Do not forget what he has done.
He was not here to become distracted by a woman. He was not here to be dazzled by a pretty face, or a pretty nature—or a woman who felt delectable under his—
Lawrence swallowed. He was here to find a murderer, a traitor to the British Crown.
Not take a romp with a lady who had no idea he was a duke.
“I’m ready,” he said, far more firmly than he felt.
Alan hesitated, then glanced up at the ring as the victor proudly promenaded out… and the loser was dragged along the floor. “If your head is not—”
“I’m fine, Alan, trust me,” Lawrence said, allowing just a little of the haughtiness he had been known for when living under his true name to seep through.
He pulled a hand through his wild hair and hoped to goodness no one could sense the wild butterflies rushing in his stomach. Nothing to do with the impending fight and everything to do with the hopes of seeing a pretty young woman.
Thankfully, it appeared his boxing coach was satisfied.
“Go on then,” barked Alan. “And give him what for!”
Lawrence heard the rising cry of excitement from the crowd as he stepped under the rope and into the ring, and though he knew he was only here to enact justice on an evil man, he could not help his stomach turning with pride of his own.
They adored him, revered him—betted against him, often, but Lawrence did not mind.
At least here he could leave behind his worries, his mind’s constant whirling, his obsession with vengeance and easily distractable loins, and focus on two things.
Spotting Mortimer in the crowd.
And punching the man before him as hard as he could.
It was therefore quite unfortunate that as his fresh opponent, a man he suspected was called Tom but could not be certain, had stepped into the ring, Lawrence’s eye had been caught by a figure in the crowd.
And not a tall dark man with a scar just above his eye.
“Go on, Lawrence!” cried Julia with a wide grin, her hands clapping along with those of the rest of the spectators. So how could he hear hers clearly above all the rest? “Come on, Lawrence!”
Lawrence stumbled as he stepped forward to shake the man’s hand. Jeers mingled with the cheers.
“Drank too much already?” sneered Tom, grasping his hand and squeezing it so tightly, Lawrence was amazed his fingers were still attached.
He did not deign to reply, merely squeezed back equally as hard, then released the man before turning to wait for the bell.
“Ohh!”
The crowd gasped as Tom did not bother for such niceties. A heavy fist pummeled the back of Lawrence’s head, causing stars to appear, and he stumbled, trying to find his footing as Alan shouted something, but he could not make out the words and—
Wham! Lawrence coughed as his stomach rippled with the pain of the punch he had just taken to his side, but he had managed to find his footing now, twisting around to face his foe.
Tom was grinning. “What are you, some sort of gentleman who waits for a bell?”
Lawrence did not bother pointing out that regardless of the fact that he was, actually, a gentleman, there were bets being taken on this match and it behooved them to play fairly. There was no point. One did not engage in reasonable discourse with men like Tom.
Squaring himself up, lifting up his hands to his face in preparation for a punch Lawrence was sure would knock the man to the ground, it was indeed unfortunate that just above Tom’s shoulder was…
His stomach lurched. Julia. She was standing now, her blue gown a shimmering refuge of color in the dark, her eyes wide with fear for him, her lips—
The next punch rocked his head so severely that he fell.
Lawrence breathed in sawdust, heard celebration far off as his head spun, and it was only a few minutes later that he had sufficient wherewithal to rise.
Alan was shaking his head. “You lost focus there, my boy, and—”
“Lawrence! Lawrence, are you quite well?”
Lawrence smiled bitterly as he sat on the edge of the ring, slipping down to stand beside his boxing coach and a beautiful woman who had rushed over, it seemed, the moment he had taken a tumble.
Well, damn. It was bad enough that Julia—that Miss Dryden, he had to at least attempt some sort of decorum—had seem him knocked down once. Did she really have to see it again?
It wasn’t just his jaw that was smarting. It was his pride.
“You are quite well, aren’t you?” Julia said anxiously.
Lawrence tried to remind himself that he was supposed to be hunting a murderer. His brother’s murderer.
If only Julia did not smell so wonderfully of…was that lavender?