Chapter 5
Concerning Blooming Bruises; Belgravian and Backstreet Boxing; a Lion and Lamb, Sewer Rats, and Alley Cats; And the Luck o’ the Irish (or a Street Urchin …)
“Is it noticeable?” asked Marcus, Viscount Hartwell, gingerly pressing his gloved fingertips against his jaw where a dark purple bruise was blooming. “I look like I’ve been brawling, don’t I?”
Phinn grimaced in sympathy. The light spilling from the gas lamp above the doorway of the gentlemen’s club, Boodle’s, was enough for him to discern that the facer he’d landed on Lord Hartwell during their friendly bout of boxing at the Belgravia Boxing Saloon an hour ago had been harder than he’d intended.
“Aye. I’m-I’m afraid it sticks out like a sore thumb,” he said ruefully.
“There’s no hi-hidin’ it. My apol-apologies. ”
The viscount clapped him on the back. “No hard feelings, old chap. It’s entirely my fault.
My hubris led me to believe I stood a fighting chance against Cutthroat O’Connell.
Of course, I did not. I deserved the right royal trouncing that I received.
I am a mere mortal whereas you are a prizefighting god. ”
Phinn laughed. “I’ll teach you to d-duck and weave fa-fa-faster.
All the same, I should o’ held back a wee b-b-bit.
” Lord Hartwell was one of the few British peers of his acquaintance who made Phinn feel welcome and not like an outsider.
Who didn’t openly look down his nose at the newly minted Marquess of Kinsale or offer him a smile that bordered on a supercilious sneer.
Or whisper behind his back that they had no idea how a misfit like him had inherited a title and fortune.
Peers of the realm shouldn’t have Irish accents or hail from the squalid backstreets of Dublin.
Nor should they have the physique of a laborer, or have scarred knuckles, a broken nose, or a stammer.
Phinn wasn’t just a fish out of water. He was a whale out of water.
He would never walk into a gentlemen’s club like Boodle’s or White’s unless he was in Lord Hartwell’s company. He knew the viscount had his back.
Marcus led the way into the club. Once they’d divested their coats, hats, and gloves into the care of a pretentious doorman—even the servant snootily regarded Phinn’s greatcoat as though it was an outlandish piece of apparel because of its sheer volume and weight—Marcus suggested that they repair to the library for a brandy or two.
“It’s darker in there than the gaming room,” he said sotto voce as he lifted a hand in greeting to a silver-haired gentleman who was exiting the club.
“And I don’t know about you, but I’m not quite ready for dinner yet. ”
Phinn was actually quite famished after his extended exercise session at the boxing saloon. But he was used to ignoring a rumbling belly. The brandy would suffice.
They found a pair of green leather wing chairs in a quiet corner not far from a black marble fireplace where a fire burnt brightly.
Even though it was still summer, the evenings were getting cooler—the nip of autumn was in the air.
After Marcus ordered brandies for them both—even summoning the words to place a simple order could be an ordeal for Phinn and he appreciated that his friend knew this—they fell to talking about Phinn’s recent trip to Kinsale to inspect his estate and new home, Kinsale Castle.
Phinn still couldn’t quite believe that he’d inherited a title let alone a whole feckin’ castle, but he had. An uncle on his late da’s side of the family had died without a direct heir, and apparently Phinn had been the next in line.
He examined the gold and emerald signet ring on his little finger that bore the crest of the O’Connell clan—a stag surrounded by three shamrocks—and his mouth curved in a wry smile.
The heir presumptive had been a nobody from the slums of Dublin.
But he wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth.
He’d take what he’d been given and he’d make the most of it.
Not just for himself, but for the people on his land. And beyond.
“I know you want to make a difference in the lives of your tenants,” said Marcus after Phinn had lamented the fact that most Irish tenant farmers had barely any rights.
“Indeed, it goes without saying that I’ll lend my support to any new bills you try to introduce in that regard.
But I fear you’ll face stiff opposition. ”
Phinn agreed. “I-I’m well aware that it will be an uphill b-b-battle to change the status quo. One thing I’ve learned firsthand is that the rulin’ classes do n-not readily like to give up p-p-power and their riches in f-favor of supportin’ the work-workin’ poor.”
“That’s very true,” said Marcus, swirling his brandy around in his glass. “But I trust that there are some peers who want to make amends for what happened during the Great Famine. Your people have suffered greatly and I, for one, think it’s unconscionable.”
“Aye.” A hard note had seeped into Phinn’s voice.
His bone-deep resentment, his roiling anger for what the English had put Ireland through for six long, hellish years, could not easily be set aside.
And he wouldn’t set it aside. Could not.
There’d been too much cruelty and neglect.
Too many unnecessary deaths, and Phinn had witnessed it all firsthand.
His fingers tightened around his brandy glass until his scarred knuckles turned white.
He’d lost his mother and sister because of it. His da, too.
And these men—Phinn cast his fulminating gaze around the room—these English men who were born with silver spoons in their mouths and were cloaked in privilege, some of whom owned vast estates in Ireland and had taken everything that fair isle had had to give and more. They would listen to him.
They must.
But that was going to be a virtually impossible mountain to climb because of the monumental cock-up that Phinn had made of his maiden parliamentary speech when he’d taken his seat in the House of Lords in May.
He’d been so nervous, so unsure of himself, he’d hardly been able to get a word out.
He could still hear the sniggers of his so-called peers in his head as his stammer had rendered him practically speechless, with his mouth twisted up, and his face turning red.
He’d wished the floor of the chamber had opened and swallowed him up whole.
Even now, as flaming mortification engulfed him anew, Phinn could sense superior, judgmental glances being aimed his way.
Across the room was the Duke of Albemarle.
When Phinn’s gaze connected with the middle-aged nobleman’s, the man’s lip curled into a sneer.
In fact, Albemarle had been the peer who’d started jeering at Phinn during his maiden speech.
Even though Phinn knew the bastard was nothing more than a king-sized bully, it didn’t help that it was men like him who had the Queen’s ear.
That a word from the duke could quite possibly crush any of Phinn’s proposed reforms if he came across as an imbecile.
Of course he wasn’t. But perception mattered.
It’s why Phinn’s boxing manager had dubbed him Cutthroat O’Connell.
The coarse Irishman’s words echoed through Phinn’s mind as he tossed back a mouthful of brandy.
Remember, O’Connell, yer opponents need to be scared o’ you before ye even enter the ring.
Prize fightin’ is a game o’ the mind as much as a game o’ the fists. Never forget that.
While Phinn was nothing but relieved that his boxing days were over, one thing he’d learned about himself was that he was a fighter. He would not be silenced by the likes of Albemarle. The House of Lords was simply a new sort of boxing ring that he had to adapt to. Failure was not an option.
Clearing his throat, he turned his attention back to Marcus.
“I can-cannot sit on my hands and d-do nothin’,” he said, his voice gruff with determination.
“If I can m-m-make sure that Irish tenants can-cannot be so easily moved off the land, if I-I can advocate for agra-agrarian reform, I will feel I’ve made g-good use of me newly f-f-f-found influence.
While I don’t … while I don’t want to be an absentee land-landlord, I know I n-n-need to be here, in London, m-makin’ me voice heard in the House …
in the House of Lords.” His mouth slid into a rueful grin.
“After I grow b-b-big enough bollocks to show me f-f-face again and attempt to make another speech.”
Marcus laughed at that. “I’m sure that not a single man in the House of Lords would doubt the size of your bollocks, my friend.”
Phinn wasn’t so sure about that. Parliament’s autumn session was due to start in October, but despite the fire in his belly, he would be foolish indeed to think that he wouldn’t be ridiculed when he entered the chamber again. Or even worse, ignored completely.
Marcus, Lord Hartwell, on the other hand, was the epitome of urbane and appeared to be well-liked by his peers.
Their mutual friend, Xavier Mason, the Duke of St Lawrence, was a horologist of great renown.
Indeed, the Astronomer Royal had recently announced that the duke had won the commission for the grand clock design—the “King of Clocks”—that would grace the top of St Stephen’s Tower at the new Palace of Westminster.
In Phinn’s opinion, the Duke of St Lawrence was as clever as ten professors.
Not only that, but he possessed a natural gravitas and a manner that was more cultured than Irish butter.
People noticed the duke when he walked into a room. He commanded attention.