The Viscount’s Silent Pugilist (The Silk Knuckles Saloon #2)

Prologue

Blessed with the shanks of a brown hare, Genevieve Bailey sprinted down the hill, loose hair flying behind her, leaves crunching beneath her feet, and a grin plastered across her face.

She reached the massive oak that delineated the finish line, whirled, and almost ran headfirst into her younger brother, Christopher.

He slid to a stop, hunched forward, and gasped for air.

By Jove, he could be so dramatic.

“Hell and damnation,” he said between pants. “Why was I cursed with a sister that’s faster than a bloody cannonball? ’Tis enough to make a bloke feel like a fribble.”

Entirely too giddy to reprimand him for his language, Genevieve playfully walloped his shoulder.

Christopher had recently taken to rolling his eyes at her gentle rebukes, so they weren’t worth the immense effort they took to mutter these days.

He would soon celebrate his eighteenth birthday—practically a man, and her very best friend.

At least this time, their eleven-year-old half-sister Sophia hadn’t heard his indecent language.

Hand over her brow, Genevieve shielded her eyes from the sun and perused the undulating terrain. Sophia was just now cresting the final slope. As usual, she’d struggled to keep up with her older half-siblings.

“Come on, Sophia,” Genevieve yelled, her voice uncharacteristically loud. “You can do it!”

Christopher straightened and squinted into the sun. “Come on, Sophia,” he called. “Poor thing inherited her mother’s Lilliputian legs,” he whispered to Genevieve.

Indeed she had. Sophia was petite and delicate, whilst Genevieve and Christoper had inherited their mother’s sylphlike, athletic physique. Thankfully, none of them had inherited their father’s evil constitution.

Sophia was almost to them when her slow jog morphed into a half-hearted walk. She stumbled over the imaginary finish line like an inebriated miscreant.

Ignoring that Sophia’s performance had been lackadaisical at best, Genevieve jumped and clapped. “Bravo!”

“Good job, Mouse,” Christopher said.

Sophia huffed. “More like a turtle.”

Pressing his thumb and index fingers at the corner of her lips, Christopher forced Sophia to smile. “Don’t pout or feel bad, Mouse. Gen is fast. I’m telling you, I can beat all the blokes—Horace, Eli, and James, but I can’t beat her.”

It was true. Not that Genevieve liked to brag, but she could run almost twice as fast as the boys from the village.

Christopher continued to chatter as the three of them cut through the meadow. Now that he considered himself an adult, it was as if Christopher prattled enough for both of them—trying to fill the silence surrounding her, Genevieve supposed.

Occasionally, Sophia interrupted Christopher with a question or an observation. Genevieve mostly listened, simply enjoying the company and the beautiful day.

It was easier for Genevieve to block out her dark memories on days like this, when the countryside was ablaze with orange, yellow, and red leaves. It was hard to feel sadness or dread when puffy clouds drifted overhead, and the air was crisp.

Autumn at their country home also meant her father was away for days at a time.

He claimed he was hunting with the other aristocrats and gentry.

Truthfully, she didn’t care where he was or why he was gone; she simply knew that for a few days, her heart didn’t threaten to explode out of her chest, and she could spend time with her siblings.

She tried not to dwell on thoughts of Sophia’s tutor being sent away, or that their father had not allowed Christopher to continue his studies at Eton.

Instead, she tried to fill the gaps, educating her siblings the best she could in their small library.

But this required her to have a voice. So, born out of duty and desperation, she could finally speak around the two people she loved the most in the world.

Unfortunately, despite her desire to communicate, she remained silent around everyone else.

They reached their favorite bucolic bridge at almost the same time as Genevieve’s stomach growled.

Perfect timing, indeed.

Today, the robins tweeted happily, and the brook babbled merrily. As was their habit, Genevieve, Christopher, and Sophia used the large rocks beside the stream as chairs while they nibbled on the biscuits they’d stashed in their pockets.

Sophia popped her last bite into her mouth. Frowning, she brushed crumbs from her lap. “I miss my mum today,” she said with a sigh that flamed the perpetual ache in Genevieve’s heart.

“I miss both our mums,” Christopher said as he ruffled Sophia’s hair.

Genevieve swallowed. She missed her mother so much that years later, memories of a beautiful woman with long, dark hair and a kind smile still sucked the air from her lungs.

She hadn’t connected with her stepmother like Christopher had.

He’d been blessed with a positive disposition that made him resilient as the dickens.

Naturally, their stepmother had befriended the charismatic boy—everyone did.

After God had endowed Genevieve with athletic attributes, he must have decided he’d given her enough gifts.

Bereft of social charms, she’d struggled to fit in for as far back as she could remember.

She did not begrudge the Great Creator for either her personal shortcomings or her siblings’ naivety. The truth was that she had done everything to protect Christopher and Sophia from the shocking truth. No child should think their father a stone-cold murderer, even if he was. Times two.

Genevieve knew this to be true because on a summer afternoon a decade ago, she’d been sitting on her mother’s bed when he’d pounded on the chamber door, bellowing obscenities. Genevieve had been so afraid that she’d hidden in the wardrobe just in time, because he’d barged into the room.

“Whore,” he’d screamed at her mother. “I know what you did with my brother. I saw the two of you whispering secrets. Think to cuckold me? I think not.”

Peeking between her mother’s dresses—the blue silk and the red satin had etched themselves in her mind’s eye—Genevieve had watched him wrap his hands around her mother’s neck.

She’d pressed her palm over her mouth to stifle her gasps, and then she’d remained hidden in the closet, crying, until Doctor Lewis found her.

She’d never told a soul what she’d witnessed.

Perhaps if she’d been braver, she would have leaped from the closet, attacked her father, and saved her mother.

Since she’d still had her voice back then, she should have screamed until someone came to the rescue.

If she weren’t so defective, maybe she could have told someone the truth.

But who? The doctor who’d lied and said her mother had hung herself from her bedroom chandelier?

A butler loyal to her father? An uncle who hadn’t visited since her father sent him away at pistol point?

No one ever inquired after or cared about what had truly happened.

Forced into silence, Genevieve’s secret turned into toxic bile that burned and choked.

A few days after her mother’s death, Genevieve had a new stepmother. Almost ten years later, that unfortunate woman was found in a field with bruises around her neck.

“A nefarious blackguard strangled my wife while she was out for a constitutional,” her father had told the magistrate as fake tears streamed down his face.

If anyone else doubted the story, to Genevieve’s knowledge, they did not say so.

The truth was that their stepmother did not take constitutionals.

Ever. But a few days before her death, her father’s attention had become focused on their young maid.

Kitty was constantly shaking as if she’d caught a chill.

Meanwhile, her father watched the quivering servant with a lecherous glint in his eyes and dragged her into his chamber every chance he got.

Enough of her macabre thoughts on this glorious day. Right this minute, Cook was probably preparing a delicious meal they could enjoy without their terrifying patriarch. After they ate, they could curl up in front of the fire in the drawing room and listen to Christopher tell ghost stories.

Genevieve stood. “We should head home now.” Her soft voice was barely a whisper over the chirping birds and the babbling brook. Even animals and water were better at communicating than she was.

Sophia intertwined her fingers with Genevieve’s, and they strolled side by side, their hands swinging between them, Christopher bringing up the rear.

They picked up their pace as Thorn Manor came into view.

Since their stepmother’s death, invasive brown vines had taken over the right side of the old structure.

For the first time, the irony hit Genevieve; just like her mother and stepmother, both she and their estate were being strangled to death.

A visitor’s carriage was parked on the far side of the drive, but their guest hadn’t bothered to untether the horses. Hopefully, this meant they weren’t staying.

Unlike Genevieve, Sophia seemed delighted by the prospect of a visitor and her eyes brightened. “Who do you think it is?”

Christopher shrugged, and Genevieve balked. They rarely had company these days. Unless it was one of their father’s friends, most of whom Genevieve considered unpalatable. However, if their father was hunting, she had no idea who might be calling.

Sophia tugged on Genevieve’s hand. “Hurry. Let’s see who it is.”

“You go on ahead, Mouse,” Christopher said.

Sophia dropped Genevieve’s hand and scurried toward the main entrance, her short legs pumping and her arms swinging by her side.

Christopher chuckled. “Imagine that. All we had to do to make her move faster was announce visitors.” His good-humored laugh turned into a low moan. “Gen, what if it’s Lord Kilsby? There is a K on the side of the carriage.”

Genevieve squinted, then winced. Sure enough, the sunlight glinted off the top of an ominous black K.