Chapter 10
Concerning a Yapping Pug and a Twitchy Cock; And Jabs and Crosses and Hooks; Followed by an Exceedingly Impolite Series of Digs …
The series of short, sharp raps on the gleaming oak-paneled doors of Kinsale House’s ballroom startled both Phinn and Brutus.
Brutus began yapping wildly as he leapt down from the window seat and raced over to the double doors, while Phinn jumped so much, water sloshed out of the cut-crystal tumbler that was halfway to his lips and landed on his bare torso.
“Jaysus,” he muttered beneath his breath as he pulled off the towel that he’d slung about his neck and swiped at the rivulets running down his chest. He’d just finished a “training” session in the only room that seemed purpose built for his physical exercise needs and had been about to retreat to his suite (a whole feckin’ suite of rooms; he still couldn’t quite believe it)—to bathe and change before the new governess and her son arrived at one o’clock or thereabouts.
It was only a quarter past twelve according to the longcase clock in the corner of the room, so he had plenty of time to get ready and settle his nerves.
Yes, the former prizefighter “Cutthroat O’Connell” was inexplicably nervous.
Phinn had decided he needed to work off some of his pent-up energy before he set eyes on the lovely Mrs.—no, Miss—Mina Davenport again.
And performing one hundred press-ups before pummeling the hell out of the leather punching bag he’d had suspended from the ballroom’s chandelier seemed like the best way to do that.
Although, it seemed he was still as twitchy as a cock at dawn.
There was another volley of impatient knocks. “My lord,” called a sonorous voice through the panels. “Are you in there?”
Phinn scowled. It was the odious butler he’d inherited with the house and the title of marquess. A smug fellow by the name of Smedley.
Brutus apparently didn’t like the far-too-haughty servant either. He was growling now, his upper lip quivering and his teeth bared.
With a sigh, Phinn put down his tumbler on a spindly glass and gilt table that had been pushed against one silk-papered wall, tossed aside the towel, then threw on an emerald-green satin robe. Or “banyan” as Phinn’s meticulous valet, Frobisher, called it.
“C-come in,” Phinn called, running his linen-wrapped fingers through his sweat-damp hair.
The double doors swung wide and Phinn’s mouth dropped open in horror as standing beside the hawk-nosed butler was Miss Davenport and her son.
What the devil? It was clear that the supercilious Smedley was deliberately trying to embarrass both his master and his new employee.
Phinn wouldn’t put it past the man as he had the most insufferable sense of self-importance.
It was obvious he looked down his nose at the new Marquess of Kinsale with his Irish heritage and lack of refinement …
which included (amongst other frowned-upon habits such as cursing) boxing in the ballroom in a state of dishabille.
Young Christopher was seemingly oblivious to the social faux pas that was occurring.
Miss Davenport on the other hand, was not.
As she dipped into a curtsy, her countenance was aflame and her widened eyes were riveted to Phinn’s partially exposed chest and abdomen.
Indeed, her shocked gaze slid down his body, over his buckskin breeches to his bare lower legs and feet.
“My lord,” said Smedley, “the new governess, Miss Hermina Davenport is here. And another child.”
This last remark was uttered with such disdain, the governess’s attention immediately shifted from Phinn’s person to the butler.
“What on earth do you mean by that remark, sir?” she asked, a frown of disapproval in her voice.
“Are you suggesting my”—she placed a hand on her son’s shoulder and caught Phinn’s eye—“my young cousin is not welcome here? Because Lord Kinsale doesn’t have a problem with it. ”
Ah, so that’s how Miss Davenport was going to explain the presence of her child at Kinsale House. A very sensible ruse given she was a miss, not a missus. The servants certainly didn’t need to know she was an unwed mother. He’d hate to think they would look down upon her if the truth came out.
Phinn pulled his banyan closed and fastened the tie to secure it in place.
“Smedley m-m-means he’s not accustomed to havin’ children at Kin-Kinsale House, Miss Dav-Davenport,” he said, aiming a quelling look at the butler.
“But he’ll g-g-get used it. Just like he’ll get used to his new ma-master and his ways.
” Phinn cocked a brow. “Wo-won’t you, Smedley? ”
The butler’s expression became as shuttered as a window in a tempest. “Undoubtedly, my lord,” he said with a slight tilt of his body—a barely there bow. “Will there be anything else?”
Phinn gave a grunt. He rather thought the butler had done enough for now. Nevertheless, he said, “Could you ask Fro-Fro-Frobisher to draw me a b-b-bath?”
“Of course. Quite, my lord.”
But as the butler turned to go, Miss Davenport cleared her throat. “Perhaps you could summon the housekeeper, Mr. Smedley. I believe it’s customary for the head female servant to show new staff—particularly fellow female staff—to their quarters. But I’m sure you know that.”
Smedley’s lip curled ever so slightly as he faced the governess.
“Indeed, Miss Davenport,” he said. “I’ll summon her straightaway.
No doubt she’ll be here directly.” And then he tipped his spare, long-limbed frame into another cursory bow before he stalked off down the hall toward the kitchen where the housekeeper’s office and butler’s pantry lay.
Phinn, acutely conscious of the fact that he was shockingly underdressed, and his butler had been shockingly rude, cast about in his head for the right thing to say at this particular moment.
This was not how he’d envisaged his next encounter with Miss Davenport.
It didn’t help that Brutus was still growling.
Although his attention seemed to be focused on the toy rabbit Christopher appeared to be so fond of.
“My lord,” said Miss Davenport, “I’m so sorry to …
to have interrupted”—she gestured at the ballroom and the punching bag—“your boxing session. Our train arrived earlier than I expected. And, well, I … If I’d known you were otherwise engaged, I would have asked your butler to send for the housekeeper to show us to our quarters.
But he insisted that you wished to receive us.
” She gently touched Christopher’s head.
“I’m sorry as w-w-well, Miss Dav-Davenport. Smedley is …” Phinn struggled to find the right word.
“Far too full of himself?” suggested the governess, with a light tinkling laugh that seemed to reach right inside Phinn and turn parts of him into a squishy pudding.
“I shall soon knock that out of him.” Her gaze transferred to the punching bag.
“It might surprise you to learn, Lord Kinsale, that I sometimes engage in a bit of boxing.”
What? This lovely young woman, with delicate features and warm hazel eyes, boxed?
Phinn’s surprise must have shown on his face as Miss Davenport laughed again.
“Surely Mrs. Temple told you that all Parasol Academy nannies and governesses are trained in the art of self-defense. For the protection of our charges of course. I can also fence, and wrestle, and shoot a pistol. I’m rather a good shot if I do say so myself. ”
“I … er … I-I had no idea,” mumbled Phinn as he tried not to imagine wrestling with the comely governess in ways that were not befitting of a gentleman.
Especially in the presence of her child.
Although, Christopher wasn’t paying attention to their conversation.
The boy had wandered across the ballroom to the other end to examine a magnificent mural depicting nymphs and winged sylphs frolicking about a shaded lily-pond while a small band of centaurs and satyrs playing lutes and pan pipes looked on.
Brutus had followed, his large black eyes fixed upon the toy rabbit.
“You look skeptical of my boxing prowess, my lord.” The governess grinned.
“But I assure you, I can throw a decent punch. Let me show you.” Miss Davenport removed her dark blue bonnet, revealing her sleek chestnut hair, placed the hat on the glass and gilt table, then crossed to the punching bag and took up a perfect fighting stance, left foot to the fore.
Then she fisted her gloved hands and delivered a neat series of punches—a right jab, a left cross, a right hook, then finished with an even stronger left hook.
Phinn was most impressed and he said so. “But m-m-may I suggest that when you throw a … throw a jab or a c-c-cross, rotate your shoul-shoulder a bit more. The punch will be more f-f-forceful.”
“I see,” said Miss Davenport. Then she bit her lip and frowned. “Might I … might I ask you to show me, Lord Kinsale? I hope you don’t mind, but Mrs. Temple told me that you used to be a professional boxer. A prizefighter.”
“Aye, I was,” he said. “And no, I … I don’t mind.
” Studying the governess’s expression, Phinn suddenly wondered if she might be impressed by his former occupation, rather than shocked.
A tiny glow—a flickering warmth—sparked in the center of his chest. One of pride rather than the usual shame he’d come to associate with his past.
Well, if the lass wanted a bit of a demonstration, he would give her one.
As he approached the punching bag, the governess took a few steps back.
“It’s-it’s best to tack-tackle a punch like this,” he said.
With his left foot forward, he then threw all his not inconsiderable weight behind a series of powerful right jabs at the sand-filled leather bag.
“See …” He delivered a volley of left and right crosses to the punching bag, then a hook that sent the chandelier above them shaking.
“See … how I throw me shoulders … into each b-blow?”