Chapter Ten
After a pleasant late evening meal with the Davenports, Genevieve luxuriated in the warm bathwater that the footmen had carried to her room.
Since she was pretending to be a lower-class lady, and they did not have ladies’ maids, she’d dismissed Diana for the evening.
Not that she’d ever had a ladies’ maid. Horatio sat beside the copper tub, keeping her company as she scrubbed the sweat from her body.
“Oh, Horatio, The Silk Knuckles Saloon is amazing. I had so much fun. I think I did quite well.” Surprisingly, the secret fighting sessions with Christopher and the boys in town had taught her a lot.
She had also picked up more technique than she’d realized watching fights with the big man named Whale.
“Tonight, I worked on my stance, the basic punches, and grounding myself. I also skipped rope, which felt a lot like running and dancing at the same time. Can you imagine anything more wonderful?”
Horatio, amazing friend that he was, tilted his head attentively as he listened to her.
“On the morrow, I am learning to use dumbbells. Franny said they are ‘miraculous muscle makers.’ I dare say, she is quite humorous. But I digress, the point is, I should get stronger within weeks. I am also supposed to eat a lot of meat, eggs, beef broth, oranges, and porridge.” She sighed.
“I have become so gaunt. However, if I continue to eat like I did this evening, I will soon resemble an elephant.”
Horatio’s adoring gaze assured her that he found her perfect just the way she was.
“I thought I would be terrified, but I wasn’t nervous at all.
I suppose I was too fascinated to feel fear.
So many different types of people patronize the business.
Adolescent boys and ladies in their middling years go there.
Remarkable, truly. There were aristocrats, working-class individuals, and champion athletes, as well as a few ladies who were quite uncoordinated. ”
Genevieve chuckled as she pictured Bridget Wentworth flitting around like a dying insect.
If only she could have had a life where she could be friends with someone as daring as Bridget.
Her father’s acquaintances had never brought their wives or daughters to Thorn Manor—for good reason.
They knew her father. Her stomach clenched as she thought of him.
Horatio woofed, bringing her back to their conversation.
“Oh. Yes. I’m sorry. So. Everyone is there with the goal of being the best version of themself. Isn’t that inspiring?” She sighed. “I think ’tis so wonderful.”
“Wrawra,” Horatio murmured in agreement.
“Some of the ladies are very influential. They are leading the fight for women’s autonomy. There was even a duke there. Tristan Keats, the one who likes—” she leaned close to whisper in Horatio’s ear—“orgies.”
“Wrhat?” Horatio half woofed, half mumbled.
“Show off,” she teased her talking dog. “I know, so scandalous, and yet the duke is quite amicable. I dare say, I rather liked him. Although if Celeste Milton chose him over Lord Davenport, she needs her head examined because Jonathan…” His given name slid over her tongue like warmed honey. “Oh, Jonathan,” she murmured.
Lounging in the water as she whispered her handsome host’s name held appeal, and yet, so did sleep.
She lifted herself from the tub and stepped out. Then, after toweling herself dry, she slipped into her borrowed nightdress and brushed her hair until the strands were knot-free and silky smooth.
Leaving the lamp burning, she climbed into bed. Horatio leaped onto the mattress and plopped beside her. He nudged himself against her, and they stared into each other’s eyes.
“I miss my siblings,” she told him. “I pray they are safe.”
Horatio licked her cheek.
“Good night, boy.” She kissed his wet nose.
He closed his eyes and soon snored. Unfortunately, as exhausted as she was, Genevieve lay beside him, fretting.
What kind of big sister runs away, leaving her younger siblings behind?
A terrible one to be sure.
And yet, if she’d been carried off to Blackheart Manor, she might never see Christopher and Sophia again. Lord Kilsby would have forced her into his bed and impregnated her. Now, at least, she had the freedom to do something. But what?
Franny and Josie had told her that female prizefighters sometimes won large purses, especially if they caught the attention of a wealthy sponsor.
Might Lord Davenport sponsor her? Since he had already confessed that he did not want a commitment, and no viscount would court a driggle-draggle, sponsoring her was the next best thing.
If she won, she could afford to hire someone to retrieve Christopher and Sophia.
Then, if she continued winning, she could earn enough blunt to buy the three of them, and Horatio, a small but comfortable home.
That was, if she could find someone willing to sell to a woman.
Once her father died, Christopher could claim his inheritance, including Thorn Manor—if there was anything left of it.
Either way, the three of them would forever be safe from their father’s machinations.
She winced, recalling Lord Kilsby on the front stoop of their London property. He had to have been looking for her, which meant he suspected she was in the city. If he were lurking about, she and Christopher would struggle to find each other.
She fought the panic washing over her, eventually shoving it deep. She would no longer be a victim because she’d been blessed with this opportunity to become a champion. She would ask Viscount Jonathan Davenport to sponsor her, and then she’d win enough to save herself and her siblings.
“Yes,” she declared. “I am going to be a bareknuckle boxing champion.”
But after tossing and turning for what felt like forever, Genevieve still stared at the ceiling, obsessing over her handsome host, living happily ever after with her siblings, and becoming a prize fighter.
“Silly woman,” she scolded herself. She may have replaced her fretting with happy sentiments but sleep still eluded her.
Sometimes, reading helped focus her racing thoughts. Unfortunately, she’d left the copy of Emma in the drawing room. The Davenports were so hospitable; surely, they wouldn’t mind if she stole to the drawing room in the middle of the night to retrieve it.
Moments later, she was wrapped in Caroline’s robe, lantern in hand, navigating the hallway. She boldly pushed on the door, entering the softly lit room. It seemed that her newfound sport was already bringing out her brazen side. Chuckling, she headed for the side table where she’d left the tome.
“Good evening,” someone said.
She squealed.
“I am sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. ’Tis just me, Davenport.”
She aimed the lantern in the direction his voice had come from. He was lounging in front of the hearth, the firelight silhouetting him in a golden glow. His long legs were stretched out in front of him, and he held a drink in his hand.
Her heartbeat continued to gallop because Jonathan was waistcoatless.
His hair was so disheveled that he looked as if he’d just climbed out of bed, the light winking through the stands of his impish waves.
His unbuttoned shirt revealed the length of his neck and the dip between his defined pectorals.
The man was the epitome of elegant masculinity.
Nibbling on her bottom lip, she pointed at the side table.
His gaze followed her finger. “Ah,” he said. “Looking for your book?”
She nodded, then crossed the room to retrieve the volume.
“Gen, there are a few things I should probably tell you,” he announced.
Now that he knew she understood him, she supposed it was fine for him to share his thoughts, and truthfully, she wanted to be here with him, listening to his rumbling voice as the flickering flames from the fire warmed her.
Turning slowly, she faced him. Breathless with anticipation, she waited for him to speak.
“Firstly—” He tilted his head back and gulped the amber liquid.
Surely, a man as confident as Lord Jonathan Davenport wasn’t nervous.
“I feel foolish for thinking you were a foreigner,” he said, a slight quiver in his voice.
She’d been mistaken. It seemed even handsome, popular, overly confident viscounts suffered with the jitters from time to time.
“And secondly, I am sorry that I told you my woes because I didn’t think you understood me. Truth be told, I’m actually quite ashamed. Especially for the things I said about Griffendale and Lady Milton. Celeste deserves better than that.”
She’d known he’d regret spilling his secrets, so thank heavens she’d stopped him when she had.
“I suppose I was too busy today to give much thought to the things I said. ’Twas only when I tried to sleep that the sheer stupidity of my words and actions hit me.”
Holding up her index finger, she perused the room searching for the stationery and pencil.
Luckily, it was still in the spot she’d left it.
She retrieved the writing supplies and settled on the settee, tapping the cushion beside her.
Hopefully, he did not think her too forward, because she had so much she wanted to tell him—first and foremost, that he should not worry.
He hesitated, swigged the rest of his libation, placed his empty glass on a table, and then stood.
If only it were lust making his eyelids drift over his pupils.
But it was far more likely that his sensual, intoxicated look was due to tippling or lack of sleep.
She held her breath as he sauntered to her.
He sat in the corner of the settee as far away from her as possible while still sharing the same piece of furniture.
Still, he was close enough that his alluring scent wrapped around her.
It seemed he’d also just washed, because he smelled like his almond soap.
After inhaling her fill, she tore her gaze from him to write: I didn’t mean to deceive you.
I am sorry. I didn’t know how to tell you that I could understand you.
Truthfully, I don’t know why I sometimes can’t speak.
I try, but no words come out. ’Tis humiliating.
Do not fret over much, because I will never repeat what you said. Your secrets are safe with me.
She handed him the message. He stared at it, his expression blank.
He must be even angrier than she’d anticipated. Hoping to smooth over her unintended deception, she penned another note: Your home is wonderful. Lady Davenport is delightful. Thank you for making Horatio and me feel welcome.
She attempted to hand it to him, but he sighed and shook his head. “I am afraid I did something stupid tonight.”
Stupid? Egad. No! Obviously, he’d changed his mind about Lady Milton, and that was the reason he’d brought her name up.
Even though his relationship was none of Genevieve’s concern, since he’d brought it up, he should just tell her what he was referencing. She placed the stationery on top of the book and wrote in big letters: What? She held it in front of his face so that he couldn’t ignore her this time.
His brow furrowed as he squinted.
She held it closer to his eyes in case he was struggling to read in the dark.
“What,” he finally read. “If you are asking me what I did that was stupid, I’m an imbecile around Griffendale, and I agreed to have you fight Roseanna.”
How exciting! This news had nothing to do with the beautiful Celeste and must mean the viscount was sponsoring her without her even asking. A squeak of joy escaped her.
“A mill. In a week’s time. At his country estate.”
Earlier today, Genevieve would have panicked over an unexpected pronouncement of such significance.
But after meeting Josie, Franny, and Roseanna, she wanted to be a pugilist more than anything.
However, as quickly as she’d mastered today’s lessons, there was no way she would know enough in a week to compete in an official fight.
I don’t think I will be ready by then, she wrote.
He glared at the note.
Where was his smile? The mischievous glint in his eyes? His confident wink? Wherever they’d fled to, it was entirely unfair of him to be angry because she wanted more time. She might be rendered mute most days, but she wasn’t delusional. She glowered at him.
“You were wonderful tonight,” he said. “I was quite proud of you.”
She was proud of herself. But still…
“But you won’t be ready in a week. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
Exactly. Thank heavens that he understood her without her having to say a word.
“Hell, I wasn’t thinking. On the morrow, I will tell Griffendale that the mill is off.”
Off? But that wasn’t what she wanted.
He scraped his fingers through his hair until it curled all willy-nilly.
“Why in the hell do I let him goad me?” he said, talking to himself. He met her gaze. “Do not worry. You don’t have to do it. I’m calling it off. My decision is final. He won’t convince me otherwise. I won’t let him.”
“No,” she mouthed, shaking her head for emphasis.
“No?” He regarded her with a confused expression. “Gen, I don’t understand.”
Give me two months, she scribbled and shoved the paper at him.
He closed his eyes, opened them, and sighed.
One month, she wrote.
He rubbed his jaw, opened his mouth to say something, then clamped his lips closed.
Three weeks. Please. She frantically waved the paper in front of him.
He grabbed the stationery and tossed it over his shoulder.
“I said I was sorry. I know it was an arse thing to do. I don’t want you to get hurt.
You can still go to the gymnasium and take the ladies’ class, and my mother can introduce you to the Ladies’ Autonomy League.
You don’t have to train. No one is going to force you into the ring or make you fight Roseanna. ”
But she wanted to fight Roseanna. She just wanted more time, and she would have told him again, if he hadn’t just rudely thrown her paper onto the side table.
He stood, picked up his glass, and then walked across the room to the decanter. He poured himself another drink, guzzled, then faced her. “Gen, please return to your chamber and get some sleep.”
“More time,” she mouthed, but he’d already turned his back to her.
Closing her eyes, she swallowed the lump of disappointment before it morphed into tears. Her shoulders caving forward, she clasped the book to her chest, grabbed her lamp, and left Jonathan Davenport alone with his scowl and beloved decanter.