Chapter Three
Josie peeked into the hallway and let loose a string of expletives. As much as it pained her to admit it, there was no way she was taking on the six guards in the hallway. She closed the door and stomped into the center of the office that was now her prison.
She untied her sleeves and pulled her bodice into place before she growled and dropped into the nearest chair where she crossed her arms over her chest. She nervously tapped her foot while the infuriating man beside her sat completely still, his citrus soap permeating the air.
His scent was doubly disconcerting because she desperately craved her post-mill orange and would prefer he smelled like something that didn’t make her mouth water—especially since she reeked of sour body odor.
Even more disconcerting was her niggling question.
Why had she helped him in the brawl when the entire thing was his fault?
He’d seemed to be under some mistaken patriarchal delusion that she’d required his protection when the crowd had been carrying her to her destination.
And now, she was locked in a room with this handsome citrus-scented fool while Ruth was probably solidifying her role as the duke’s new prize fighter.
Most toffs knew a bit of pugilism. However, they couldn’t protect themselves in a street brawl even if their lives depended on it. Interestingly, this delicious-smelling man beside her knew how to throw a punch in a real fight. Which she appreciated, even if he was a nosey blighter.
With her subsequent realization, she moaned. She’d been hauled away before she received her share of the purse. Hopefully, Franny and Coach retrieved her winnings.
“Are you still angry?” the toff asked.
Was he serious? She turned an incredulous glare on him. “I’m furious, I am.”
He tilted his head and regarded her. “Were you trying to reach the duke?”
How in the deuce had he known that? Had he read her mind? “None of your bloody concern,” she growled, then realized she sounded like a petulant child.
“I suppose not,” he said.
The ensuing silence felt suffocating. Or maybe it was being locked in a room with her own stench that stole her. Unless it was this man, unnerving her in a way she didn’t fully understand. No man had ever made her feel off balance, yet the room seemed to be rocking.
Egad! She simply needed to hydrate with a protein beer, a cup of water, and an orange.
He thrust his hand in front of her. “Nicolas Wentworth.”
Did he expect her to introduce herself and shake his hand congenially as if he hadn’t just ruined her life? Well, he could sod off. She ignored him.
He sighed. “And you are Jabbing Josie…”
“I ain’t telling you my surname, guv.” She stood and paced the room, eventually halting in front of him. “Martin. Are ye happy?” She threw her hands in the air. “Josephine Martin. And I did want to talk to His Grace.”
Addlepated, she sank back into her chair. Why in the blazes was she talking to him? Perhaps because there was nothing to do but blabber since she had been locked away with him for who knew how long.
He studied her, his blue eyes soft. “You want to be his fighter at The Duke’s and Dame’s Mill?”
Closing her eyes, she blew out a lip vibrating huff. “And now he’s probably asked Ruth the Charlatan.”
His chuckle was void of humor. “I believe he did.”
She hated Nicolas Wentworth and his pretty blue eyes and clean citrus scent. She detested his fancy clothes and aristocratic voice. To the devil with his do-good mentality. And that humorless laugh? Well, he could stick it up his arse.
“Sod off,” she said.
He shifted in his seat. “Fair enough.”
The room was again quiet. Since there was nothing else to do, she counted the red flowers on the papered walls. Once she reached one hundred, she stared at the mahogany desk in front of her—an oil lamp, a stack of papers, a quill pen, and an inkpot.
Dear Lord, could one die of boredom?
Oddly, she preferred his voice to the suffocating silence. Which must have been the reason her words spewed. “What do ye think she is going to do to us?”
“If you mean the widow, I suspect she has locked us away to unnerve us and make us more pliable.”
What a suspicious toff he was. Although she wholeheartedly agreed.
“Do ye think she means to call the magistrate and accuse us of starting the brawl?” Josie asked. Not that she was in any way responsible. Unless one counted her jumping from the stage into the middle of a blood-thirsty crowd. Bloody hell.
“I highly doubt it,” Nicolas said. “’Tisn’t as if she wants the law to know she is hosting mills—especially female fighters—in her basement.”
The dashed man was correct again.
The door opened unexpectedly, and the Black Widow entered. One of her big wolves followed her. He positioned himself beside the door and stared into the high corner of the room.
What a toad eater. He was lucky the tip of his nose wasn’t brown from shoving it up the proprietress’s arse.
“Are the two of you talking about me?” the widow asked.
Although Bessie Dove-Lyon proclaimed respect for female pugilists, she unnerved Josie.
It was as if the woman could hear through walls and see into the future.
And read minds, apparently, because the widow tossed a heavy velvet pouch onto Josie’s lap.
“You forgot your winnings when you decided to instigate the crowd.” She sat behind the desk and folded her hands beneath her chin.
Damnation, Josie wanted to see the woman’s face. Look into her eyes. Know her thoughts, as she would for any opponent. Discover her strengths and weaknesses so she could plan her battle strategy.
Since her instincts told her to advance, she did just that. “I didn’t instigate nothin’.” Josie tossed the purse right back. “Keep it. I’m hiring ye.”
“Oh?” the widow asked, her tone emotionless.
This woman would not intimidate her. Josie pulled her shoulders back. “I’m interested in the Duke of Griffendale.”
If Nicolas bloody Wentworth didn’t close his gaping mouth, Josie would close it for him.
“I see,” the widow said. “And what, precisely, are you paying me for?”
“Well, ye are a matchmaker, aren’t ye? The greatest matchmaker in London, the rumors say.” Josie thumbed toward Nicolas. “’Cause I need ye to fix the mess Lord Meddlesome made of me life.”