Chapter One
Now that she’d finished the week’s bookkeeping, Frances Valentine took a moment to rest in front of her office door and survey her queendom.
Over the past month, she’d stood in this spot more times than she could count, pride coursing through her.
A palpable energy zinged from their patrons, infusing the old-factory turned gymnasium with life-affirming vibrations.
It mattered not that the scent of sweat tickled her nostrils, or that the crack of knuckles against flesh echoed, because despite her past trauma she loved the sweet science, and here at The Silk Knuckles Saloon, the mind, body, and soul were nurtured.
Who would have guessed that the daughter of a boxing coach could create something so perfect?
Alongside her father and her best friend, Franny had done just that.
Tonight, London’s heavyweight champion Pete the Trojan was studying with Franny’s father. His anvil-sized fists flew at her father’s straw-filled mitts. Surely, if Pete became a regular patron, other pugilists of great repute would follow.
The reigning female champion, Lady Jabbing Josie, was, in fact, Franny’s best friend and business partner, and she currently led a half dozen women in an exercise session involving defense techniques.
To Franny and Josie’s delight, these female mavericks had forsaken their reputations to frequent the scandalous boxing gymnasium and saloon.
“Shocking, I dare say,” the minister next door had said upon meeting his new neighbors. “A club where women drink upstairs and punch each other downstairs.”
“Men can also train with us,” Franny had explained. “They just aren’t permitted upstairs in the women’s saloon. There are many clubs in London they can frequent, but women have so few spaces.”
The vicar had gasped. “Indecent!” He’d stared at Franny and Josie as if he might be exorcising demons. Good luck with that. Franny rather liked the devil occupying her left shoulder.
“You are encouraging women without chaperones to run around the streets at night.” The vicar had brought a hand to his heart.
“Exercise keeps ladies nimble and healthy,” Papa had explained. “And we encourage them to walk with other women.”
Most of the ladies arrived in carriages but that was none of Vicar Williams’ business. Although with the way he spied, he had to know this already.
“Ironic, indeed.” Now that Josie had married into the aristocracy, she enjoyed showing off her “fancy” vocabulary. She’d even lost her heavy East End accent. “They won’t need a chaperone if we teach them to protect themselves. Besides, we can’t carry all of our equipment to their homes.”
True; they had tried. Aristocratic ladies quite enjoyed hitting and kicking bags of sand, and lifting dumbbells, but the heavy equipment did not make for easy travel.
Unimpressed after their first encounter, Franny exaggerated a friendly wave whenever she saw the vicar wandering around the church gardens.
Without fail, he ignored her greeting and scurried in the opposite direction.
Deep inside, watching him run away like a cowardly chicken gave her a thrill. Men could be such silly creatures.
Not all men, though. Franny knew two exceptions, her father being the first and most important. He believed in female equality. He’d even risked his reputation to go into business with his “girls.”
“If a man chooses not to train with me because I am supporting my girl’s dreams, ’tis his loss. I am the best coach in London,” Papa often said.
Yes, indeed, she’d been blessed with the best father in the world.
And then there was Harry Simpson, her loyal friend and The Silk Knuckles’ caretaker. His admirable work ethic kept the building and grounds immaculate.
If she were honest with herself, maybe she was being a bit prejudiced towards men.
Currently, her father’s students showed her tremendous respect.
Hell, many had even studied with her or Josie.
Yet, her father had lost many students when he left the gym in St Giles to move into their new, safer space on Tavistock Street.
Franny wasn’t naive. Those defectors would never patronize a place co-owned by women.
Josie caught her gaze and curled her finger, motioning for Franny to join the class. “Shall we demonstrate a knee to the bollocks for the ladies?” she yelled across the gymnasium.
“Only if I get to be the knee,” Franny called.
She didn’t care if she played the perpetrator or the victim in a demonstration.
However, she enjoyed being the reason the ladies broke from their calisthenics to giggle.
Prizefighting might not be fun and games, but these female empowerment classes should be enjoyable if they intended to attract women and turn a profit.
Franny was halfway to the sweaty females when the front door opened and two blokes in threadbare greatcoats strutted in like they owned the place.
Slightly unnerved by their bold entrance, Franny pivoted and charged toward them. “Hello. I’m Frances Valentine, one of the owners. Can I help you gentlemen?”
“Well, damn. If ye ain’t prettier than a princess.” A stocky bloke who looked like he had taken a hundred too many blows to his face doffed his tweed cap. “I wasn’t expectin’ that.”
Franny glowered at him. “What were you expecting?”
The man thumbed to his swollen-eared companion. “Whale here with girl parts.”
Since the man reminded her of the largest mammal on earth, she assumed he was a Whale instead of a Wale and she did not want to in any way be compared to him. Both her jaw and fist clenched.
The man held up his hands in surrender. “Hold on there, miss. I’m here on friendly business. Adam Thorton at your service. But you can call me ‘Bear’.”
Franny considered the name Adam Thorton. It sounded familiar. “Are you a pugilist?” she asked.
“Retired,” Bear said. “Now in the business of hosting and promoting fights, and I have a particular interest in lady pugilists. I find they are the best way to start off a night. Get the wagers rolling in, they do. I find enthusiastic female fighters to be way more interesting than disgruntled blokes pounding the shite out of each other.”
“And why are you telling me this?” Franny asked.
“I want you, Fiery Franny, and your mate Jabbing Josie to fight for me.”
Franny swallowed. “You must not have heard but I’ve retired from prizefighting.”
He leaned close to whisper, “I heard about your unfortunate fight. But that was over a year ago. It’s time to get back on the horse.”
Unfortunate was not a strong enough descriptor.
Franny had knocked out her opponent, Laughing Lucy.
It had taken Lucy so long to recover that she’d been carried away on a litter, as Franny tried not to cry in front of the blood-thirsty spectators.
Her opponent had struggled with her memory for months.
Franny visited her while she was recovering, and thankfully Lucy eventually returned to her normal self, although she’d never climbed back into the ring.
Neither had Franny. She might live and breathe the pugilistic lifestyle, but her prizefighting days were behind her. For good. Forever. There was no climbing back on that bucking stallion for her.
“No thank you, Mr. Whale and Mr. Bear,” she said. “I appreciate your offer, but I must decline.”
Josie approached. “Can I help ye gents?” she asked, her accent appearing as it often did when she was emotional or trying to blend in.
“You must be Jabbing Josie.” Bear tipped his cap. “Why, you are also as pretty as can be. A gymnasium full of lovely chits. I wouldn’t believe it if I weren’t seeing it with my own eyes.” His grin showcased emptiness where his front teeth should be. “Whale and Bear at your service.”
Just as Franny’s had, Josie’s fists clenched and unclenched by her side.
“They want us to fight for them,” Franny explained.
“What do you get out of it?” Josie asked.
“Fair question. Since I promote both pugilists and the fight in general, Whale and I keep ten percent of the night’s purse.”
Franny rested her hands on her hips. “In other words, you make out no matter who wins?”
“Absolutely,” he said. “Keeps the fights fair. No fixing fights at The Purple Rabbit.”
“I’m not currently prizefighting,” Josie explained. “I’ll return at some point, but for the time being, I’m focused on The Silk Knuckles Saloon and my family.” Trying to have a baby to be exact. Although to Franny’s knowledge, Josie’s womb remained childless.
“Anything we can say to persuade you to change yer mind?” Bear asked.
“Not currently,” Josie said.
“Nothing,” Franny said. Not unless they could snuff her memories of that tragic fight.
Whale swung his finger toward their female students.
Bear nodded. “Any of those ladies promising fighters?”
Franny regarded their group of aristocrats, some who were in their middling years. “I’m afraid not.”
Bear wrinkled his nose as he surveyed the ladies. “Enh. I suppose you’re right. But if either of you change your minds, you can find us at The Purple Rabbit in Whitechapel.”
“Fighting within the city is illegal,” Josie said.
“Only if ye get caught,” Bear declared with his toothless grin.
“Whitechapel?” Franny huffed. “Do you run a brothel?”
“We don’t tup our fighters,” Bear declared, his shoulders thrown back defiantly.
Whatever in the devil that meant.
“Thank you for your offer,” Josie said. “But we must return to instructing our class.”
“Of course. Have a fine evenin’, ladies,” Bear said with a flourish of his cap.
Franny’s shoulders sagged the second the door closed behind the men.
Perhaps she’d been too hasty in her dismissal of their offer.
Deep inside her soul, a small part of her ached to compete again.
Damn her cowardice to hell, but she couldn’t return to the ring where winning at all costs was all that mattered, even if it meant maiming another human.
Hell, people died in boxing mills all of the time. No, thank you.
Josie seemed to read Franny’s mind because she wrapped a comforting arm around her shoulders. “Lucy was not your fault.”
But everything about that exceedingly violent fight was entirely her fault. Every decent fighter knew facial bones were hard on their knuckles, so they kept hits to areas with less flesh to the minimum. In her zealous enthusiasm, Franny had aimed at Lucy’s face and head multiple times.
“And she recovered, so you need no longer fret,” Josie reminded her.
Despite the constant encouragement from her friend, Franny continued to struggle with her fears and worries.
If she were entirely honest with herself, she needed to consider the obvious.
Perhaps she was terrified of being at the end of a punishing blow that stole her intellect.
It wasn’t every day that the daughter of a boxing coach could read and write as well as any scholar and do sums like a clerk.
Her late mother’s tutelage was a gift she was not willing to trade, not even for glory in the ring.
The front door opened again. Franny and Josie whirled around.
Franny expected the peculiar Whale and Bear to barge back in, but instead their youngest student, Sky Johnston, stumbled to them.
“Fire,” Sky panted. “The building is on fire.”
Franny froze in place. What was he talking about? The building was just fine. Unless the sudden tang in her nostrils was smoke?
“Hurry, Harry is dying,” Sky yelled.
Heart hammering, Franny sprinted to the exit to care for her beloved caretaker.
*
Thank heavens, ten Thames watermen had ridden in on their horse-drawn cart and pumped water at the building. They’d saved most of the structure, although part of one wall was now timber and ash.
Apparently, Vicar Williams had been taking his evening constitutional when he’d seen the flames.
He’d immediately sent his altar boy to notify the Fire Office.
Afterward, the vicar callously confessed he had not saved their building due to heroic kindness.
He’d been fearful that the fire would spread to his church.
Had the wind been blowing in the opposite direction, the nasty curmudgeon probably would have left the gymnasium burn to the ground with a dozen people inside.
By the time they’d extinguished the fire and called for a doctor to attend to Harry’s injuries, it was well after midnight.
Luckily, the second floor was untouched by fire.
A haze of gray smoke that caught deep in one’s lungs still permeated the upper floors.
They sat occasionally coughing in Josie’s second floor office, all the while discussing what was to be done about their singed dreams.
Exhaling loudly, Franny dropped her head on the table.
“The Davenports will take care of Harry,” Josie’s husband, Nicolas Wentworth, the future Earl of Shiredale, said. “They will allow him to stay with them until he is healthy. He will be so well fed and entertained that he will never want to leave.”
“That is true. I loved my stay with the Davenports.” Josie patted Franny’s back. “I could have stayed there forever. Harry is in good hands.”
Franny knew with every fiber of her being that Nicolas’s dear friends, Viscount Davenport and his mother, the Dowager Viscountess Davenport, were kind and generous and would make sure Harry had the best doctors.
Over the past few months, they’d welcomed her and Papa into their home and treated them as if they were equals.
She was also reasonably certain that Lady Davenport romantically fancied Papa.
However, Papa was much too set in his ways to allow himself to be seduced by a woman—especially one not of his class, even if she was as lovely and generous as Agatha Davenport.
Although Franny feared that nothing would ease the pain from Harry’s burns, there was no time for despair, so she pulled herself together and sat tall. “Why would someone hit Harry from behind? Everyone adores him. And who would want to destroy our business?”
Josie harrumphed. “That nasty vicar next door.”
“That makes no sense.” Papa’s soot-covered brow furrowed. “Why would he risk his church burning?”
“Because the arse didn’t realize the wind would carry the flames toward his building,” Josie said.
Franny wholeheartedly agreed.
Nicolas sighed. “Unfortunately, you can’t rule out that there are many men who do not believe women should have a business or teach female empowerment classes.”
“What are you saying?” Franny asked. “Do we have numerous enemies? Could one of them tried to burn down our building?”
“Unfortunately, that is precisely what I am saying,” Nicolas said.
“Bloody infernal hell,” Josie said.
Franny’s sentiments exactly.
“Whoever they are, they picked the wrong people to wage a war against,” Papa said.
Oh, had they ever.