The Lawman’s Fiery Pugilist (The Silk Knuckles Saloon #1)

Prologue

Edward Robinson strutted through the rookery, whistling a happy tune. Just let one of the loitering reprobates try to ruin his good humor, because he’d plant a facer that would have them seeing double.

A few days ago, Edward had discovered he was a deuce of a pugilist. With a single punch, he had knocked out a thief who had tried to pick his pocket.

Edward was of the not-so-humble opinion that when one was blessed with innate talent, they should cultivate said talent, even if they had to traipse down a street that smelled of ripe sewage to reach their goal.

Days earlier, Edward had thought being one of Fielding’s Bow Street Runners was his higher calling.

He’d dreamed of wielding a brass tipstaff engraved with the message, City of London.

But things had changed seconds after his fist met flesh, and now he knew his destiny was to be a champion in the purist of all sports.

Rumors circulated that Coach Valentine was one of the best coaches in the city.

Some in the boxing circle known as the Fancy claimed he was even better than Gentleman Jackson.

Valentine was probably more affordable than Jackson, and since coin, or the lack thereof, was now a concern for Edward, Valentine was the logical choice.

Not to worry, bloke, Edward assured himself because blunt was about to fall from the sky and rain down over his head—so much blunt that he could rent a lovely flat and hire a cook.

Not that he gave even half a shite about riches, but he favored the idea of being the best at something.

Having a lovely home and a full belly also appealed.

His father owned a garment factory in the East Midlands, so he’d been raised in a certain amount of comfort that he aimed to maintain now that he’d moved to the city.

A toothless man in filthy rags barred Edward’s path and extended his hand palm up. “Kind sir, can ye spare a coin for a hungry mate?”

Not one to turn his back on a person in need, Edward ensured no one was watching.

He couldn’t feed every indigent person on this street, after all.

Fishing in his pocket, he produced his last coin.

“ ’Tis all I have today.” However, he’d be rolling in winnings soon.

He placed the coin on the beggar’s palm.

The man wrapped his fingers around it. “Bless ye, mate.”

Shoulder back, his gaze focused in front of him, Edward sauntered forward. He could not make eye contact with anyone else if he meant to reach the olive-green building at the end of the street without further interruption.

“Gov, ye too fancy to fight with yer bare fists?” some arse off to his left side called.

If the imbecile was referencing the mufflers hanging over Edward’s shoulder, he could sod off.

Evading his daft heckler, Edward almost careened into his next adversary. The blighter poked him in the chest. “Look at the pretty boy. How much ye wanna wager he is on his way to get them perfect teeth knocked out?”

“Won’t last in there for more than a minute,” another bloke said.

“I don’t know.” A short round ball of a man with a red nose barred Edward’s path. “I wager he makes it at least five minutes.”

Edward couldn’t help that he was well-made, and he would not be made to feel shame for it. More importantly, there was no way someone could knock him out. Stepping around the portly fool, he continued toward his destination.

Unfortunately, the group of scalawags tagged along behind him, calling jeers about his fancy clothing and pretty face. Although his garments were not fancy, they were clean.

Keeping his temper in check and ignoring his unwanted parade, Edward entered what he hoped was The St Giles Gymnasium.

“Ahh, yes.” He inhaled the scent of physical exertion, which was a more palatable odor than the piss and filth on the other side of the door.

Humming with energy, the room was large enough that two roped rings still left plenty of space for a half dozen men to pound on sandbags hanging from the ceiling. Edward smiled. This was where he belonged.

His gaze settled on the closest ring. Two young women, their hair secured in tight plaits, wrapped fists raised, circled each other.

Even more shocking than the sight of comely chits in a boxing ring was their state of dress.

“Undress” might be the more appropriate description, since their frocks were unbuttoned.

Their lowered bodices exposed white chemises, and the dress sleeves knotted around their trim waists held their skirts in place.

Edward should look away, but he was much too fascinated to peel his gaze from the beauties. He’d heard female pugilists existed, but he had never seen one back home in Nottingham. A wave of masculine inclinations shot to his cock.

“May I help you?” someone behind him asked.

If he faced whoever approached he’d have to take his eyes off the pleasing scene in front of him, and it wasn’t every day a man got to watch two half-dressed chits engaged in sport. Feeling slightly disappointed, he swallowed his lust and turned.

A red-haired man in his middling years eyed him up and down, snuffing what was left of Edward’s arousal. “Here to train?” the man asked.

“Yes,” Edward said. “I’m looking for Coach Calder Valentine.”

The man grinned. “You found him.”

This was easier than Edward expected. “Edward Robinson.” His grip firm, he shook the coach’s hand. “I just moved to the city last week and heard you are the one to see if I’d like to be a prizefighter.”

“You think you got what it takes to be a champion?” Coach Valentine asked.

“Yes, sir,” Edward said, his chest confidently thrust forward.

Coach Valentine tsked. “You need to gain a stone.”

Edward stiffened. He wasn’t exactly small. Hell, his biceps bulged, and his thighs were practically tree trunks, but arguing with his new coach might not be the best way to start this relationship.

“I plan to hire a cook with my winnings,” Edward said.

Coach Valentine sniffed and then wrinkled his nose as if Edward’s words stunk. “How are you paying me?”

Wait. Didn’t pugilists compensate their coaches when they won?

Bloody bollocking hell, he hoped so because he’d used the last of his blunt to pay for two weeks’ rent, mufflers, and a meal for some hungry street beggar.

On second thought, he’d probably bought the chap a pint of ale.

Not that it mattered. The point was, his money was gone.

“I thought I could pay you with my winnings,” Edward said. “I can start fighting right away.”

“What’s your record?” Coach Valentine asked.

Inwardly, Edward suffered a maelstrom of self-doubt. Outwardly, he displayed delusional confidence as he dodged the question. “I used to spar with my brothers, and I knocked a thief out the other day. One punch and he was on his back seeing stars.”

From behind Edward, a female scoffed.

Even though he couldn’t see them, Edward knew both women glared at his back because the scent of feminine sweat infused with rose-scented soap tickled his nostrils.

He whirled to face them. Hands on hips, the brunette stared at him as if he was maggot dung. Although quite pretty, she must be daft because he was a damn handsome bloke, and no woman had ever looked at him with such scorn. Obviously, she’d taken too many blows to her brain.

However, the redhead watching him with curiosity stole his breath. Her green eyes assessing, she pinched his bicep, then pursed her lips. “You need to gain a stone.”

Coach Valentine chuckled. “That’s what I said.”

Since ladies didn’t pinch men in public, Edward was rather taken aback. He did not appreciate being treated like a hunk of meat.

Actually, that wasn’t quite true. He rather enjoyed the spark of heat her touch elicited, but he could do without her wrinkled nose. He definitely did not favor the brunette’s sour puss countenance.

“These are my girls. Frances is my daughter, and Josephine Martin is my ward,” Coach said. “This is Edward Robinson. He wants to be a prizefighter.”

“We heard,” the brunette said. “But what’s a toff doin’ in St Giles?”

“I’m not a toff,” Edward said.

The brunette snorted a few times as the redhead continued to rake her gaze over him.

If only she found him as attractive as he found her.

Then he decided it didn’t matter because if she was his new coach’s daughter—hopefully, his new coach—then she’d have to be off limits, and his ward would be, too.

“Step into the ring with Franny, and let’s see what you got,” Coach said.

What the bloody hell? Edward shook his head. “Sir, I am not getting in the ring with a female.”

That must have been the wrong thing to say because the redhead bared her teeth like a rabid wolf and hissed. How unfortunate that she was as brain injured as her sparring partner.

“Go on, son,” Coach Valentine said. “Let’s see what you got. No trading punches for now. Just move around and let me see your footwork.”

The brunette, who must have been Josephine, smirked. “Franny’ll punch ye after we see yer footwork.”

Edward would not allow himself to be baited into this absurdity. “How about I spar with him?” He pointed at a large bloke enthusiastically pounding on one of the sandbags.

“How about you leave my gymnasium,” Coach Valentine said.

Nonplused, Edward sifted through the conversations that had transpired since he’d entered the gymnasium.

Was he being dismissed because he refused to punch a woman who could not be more than eighteen years old and barely came to his chin?

Good God, he was a man of one and twenty and had to be three stones heavier than her.

Coach Valentine could sod off. Edward would be one hell of a prizefighter, and he’d find a coach who believed in him, and if not, he would become a lawman.

He’d be damned if he’d apologize or kowtow to this lot after the way they’d treated him, which was a crying shame since the redhead made his blood pump wildly, and he’d like to see what lay beneath her chemise and frock.