Chapter Twenty-Three
’Twas a rare sunny afternoon in London. Consequently, the carriage house was sweltering. Sweat pooled in Josie’s cleavage, coated her hands beneath her training mufflers, and dripped from her forehead as she circled Franny.
“He never showed up at breakfast,” Josie said between breathy pants. “Probably avoiding me. And yesterday, he sold his timepiece. Can you believe it? He sold a valuable family heirloom to pay for my bloody gown.”
Franny dropped her hands and straightened. “No, he did not!”
“He did. And I can’t punch if you aren’t protecting yourself,” Josie reminded Franny for the third time this session. Perhaps they should stop chattering like a couple of gossiping misses and fight like the logical women they were.
Franny resumed her stance. “What color is the gown?”
“Emerald. It will be beautiful,” Josie said, almost dropping her own fists to dreamily think about the gorgeous fabric. But then, disgusted for allowing herself to be distracted by a frock, Josie landed an uppercut worthy of a masculine brute.
Franny blocked and then knocked Josie’s fist to the side. “’Tis so romantic.”
“Romantic?” Huffing, Josie unleashed a flurry of jabs.
Franny effortlessly evaded the onslaught.
“He is marrying that cow,” Josie said. “He is simply giving up and marrying her. And after she trapped him. Why isn’t he fighting back?”
“Aristocrats have an odd sense of duty,” Franny said as she leaned to the opposite side, thwarting Josie’s cross.
“Indeed.” All this curtsying, bowing, and pretending to be something she wasn’t positively solidified Josie’s theory that the aristocracy hid behind insincere etiquette and outdated traditions.
“Would you throw a blasted punch?” Josie demanded.
Franny sniggered. “I can’t give you a bruise before your fancy party.”
Growling, Josie put her power behind her hook, twisted her hip, and smashed Franny in the side.
“Omph.” Franny doubled over and then quickly resumed her stance.
Josie bent forward and inhaled a calming breath. She couldn’t take her frustrations out on her best friend. This was supposed to be a training session, not a fight to the death. Once composed, she dropped into her stance and brought a protective fist to her cheek.
Franny followed her lead.
“Last night, Nicolas said that he wants to call off the wager,” Josie said. “He wants to march up to the duke and tell him I should be his champion.”
“Why are you frowning? Isn’t that what you want?”
“But then Nicolas doesn’t stand a chance of winning his estate back.”
A rake of a duke would never propose to a pugilist after two dances, Franny’s arched brow seemed to scream. At least she didn’t say it out loud, which was a godsend since Josie was currently struggling with self-doubt over this insane plan.
“Are you more concerned about Nicolas’s estate, his marriage to the cow, or Ruth being the duke’s champion?” Franny asked.
“All of it,” Josie huffed.
Performing fast footwork, Franny weaved around her. Josie doubled her speed to keep up.
“Nicolas says that my stance is too low,” Josie said. “Do you believe that applesauce?”
“Sometimes you are a bit heavy on your feet,” Franny said. “’Tis why I just danced around you.”
“Would you stop taking Nicolas’s side?” Josie’s fist shot out twice.
Franny chortled so hard that the second jab caught her cheek.
Even though the mufflers added padding, the hit still seemed to sober her best friend.
Consequently, for the next ten minutes, they sparred in almost silence, except for the tell-tale pugilist’s hiss matching the cadence of their punches.
They were both drenched with perspiration and gasping when the session ended.
Sitting side by side on an old wooden bench, they consumed oranges. The sweet, sticky juice dripped down their chins. They unwound their wrist wraps and used strips of fabric to blot sweat and citrus from their bodies.
“Thank you, Franny. I needed a good session,” Josie said. “You really are rather skilled. Better than most of my opponents. You should consider competing again.”
Franny shook her head. “My prizefighter days are behind me. I simply want to teach and coach.”
After seriously injuring one of her opponents, competition had become an emotional topic for Franny, so Josie changed the subject. “Soon, we shall have our very own gymnasium.”
“I’ve thought of a name,” Franny said.
Josie untied her sleeves and wriggled her dress into place. “Oh, what is that?” She turned her back to Franny.
As Franny secured the buttons, her words tickled Josie’s ear. “The Silk Knuckles Saloon.”
“The Silk Knuckles Saloon,” Josie said, testing out the name. “I love it. What does your father think?”
They swiveled so that Josie could secure Franny’s dress.
“He loves it, too,” Franny said. “I have been thinking, we should create a special room on the second floor where women can meet, and discuss important matters. Drink coffee, tea and chocolate during the day. Mayhap a glass of port or brandy at night?”
Once Franny’s dress was buttoned, she faced Josie, her cheeks red from exertion, and her green eyes shimmering. Feeling as elated as Franny looked, Josie grinned. “I love that idea. Men have special clubs. Why shouldn’t we?”
“Exactly,” Franny said, and then, “This was exceedingly fun.”
Josie hummed her agreement. “Please stay for the tea.” She sent Franny her pleading eyes that, occasionally, made her stubborn friend cave to her whims. “Do not leave me alone with Lady Davenport’s company. They shall eat me alive.”
“Not for a million biscuits.” Franny chortled. “Although it sounds like they wouldn’t let me eat my fill anyway.”
“Oh, bollocks.” Josie’s pathetic look proved useless today.
“Remember your genteel language today. No—”
“Bloody hells, shites, arses, or friggins,” they chanted together and then burst into giggles.
Franny kissed Josie’s cheek. “Don’t give up on Nicolas.”
What had made Josie think they could be together? “We aren’t of the same class. As awful as Lydia is, she would make him a better wife.” How unfair that in his pretentious world, a woman who wanted him for his title made a better wife than the one falling in love with him.
Falling in love? Egad!
“Make him see the error of his ways,” Franny said so nonchalantly it was as if she didn’t understand class differences in the least. Of course, her mother had been a governess and her father a pugilist, and they’d defied society by falling in love, so maybe she didn’t. Not entirely.
“How am I to do that?” Josie asked.
“I am sure you will think of something,” Franny said. “Good luck this afternoon. Don’t let the nobs get the best of you.”
“You could say something a bit more comforting,” Josie grumbled.
Franny smiled. “I believe in you. And obviously, so does Lady Davenport, or she would never have agreed to this.”
That was true, wasn’t it? Josie could do this. All of it.
Arm in arm, their boxing equipment swung over their shoulders, they strolled from the carriage house, discussing The Silk Knuckles Saloon sign they’d hang in front of their new business.
Using only a bar of Pears soap, water, a brush, hair pins, a velvet choker, and a borrowed dress, her lady’s maid turned Josie from a sweaty athlete into a regal lady. Diana was such a miracle worker they even had a few minutes to spare before Josie was expected at the tea.
Doing her best to move gracefully, Josie entered the drawing room.
Large vases of fresh flowers adorned the elegant space. Silver trays, polished until they shone, held colorful iced cakes, biscuits, sliced fruit, and sweetmeats.
Agatha’s gray hair had been fashioned into a simple but elegant coiffure, and her green dress, trimmed in matching satin, was the same color as her eyes.
Those lovely eyes sparkling, Agatha patted the cushion of the settee she sat on. “Come join me. Our guests shall be arriving any time now. By the by, you look positively beautiful.”
“As do you, Cousin Agatha,” Josie said as she perched beside Agatha and concentrated on breathing slowly and steadying her nerves. She was almost calm by the time Peters ushered the first guests into the room.
“Allow me to introduce my cousin, Miss Josephine Martin,” Agatha said as she presented Josie.
Josie concentrated as if her life depended on it as Agatha introduced Lady Lucille Hillcaster and the dowager countess, Lady Helena Siddons.
The ladies chatted as they sipped tea from delicate china cups. As conversation whirled around Josie, she did her best to speak slowly and move carefully so as not to betray her upbringing and make a buffoon of herself.
“Is this your first time in London?” Lady Hillcaster, the pinched-faced marchioness in the modest blue dress, asked.
“I’ve visited before,” Josie said. “But this is my first extended stay with Cousin Agatha.”
Feeling quite pleased that she hadn’t made a muddle of anything during her first few minutes, Josie placed a cake on one of the floral plates, poured herself a cup of tea with sugar, and resumed her seat on the settee.
Her relief was short-lived because Helena Siddons approached and sat in the wingback next to Josie.
She was certain that Lady Hillcaster meant to share the settee with her, but Agatha hastened over and plunked herself into space, forcing the marchioness to sit in one of the nearby chairs.
“Now that I have met you, I am exceedingly pleased that you will accompany Agatha to my ball,” Lady Siddons said.
“How kind of you to say,” Josie said. “I am exceedingly pleased to be attending.”
If Lady Siddons’ subtle smile was any indication, Josie had answered as a proper lady should.
“’Tis simply wonderful that you shall bring a group of young people with you, Agatha,” Lady Siddons said. “The truth is, I have held this ball the last few years, hoping that one of the young ladies in attendance suits my nephew and he settles down.”