Chapter Twenty-Four #2
They were ushered into the drawing room, where the duke greeted them with an amiable smile. Gen did a double take because Roseanna sat on an elegant burgundy chair that could have been in Louis XV’s castle, a dainty teacup clasped in her hand.
The interior’s design and fancy china were not what Genevieve found shocking; what had frozen her in her tracks was that Roseanna looked like a woman. A very feminine woman wearing a turquoise dress. A dress, by God. Golden tendrils of hair framed her forehead and cheeks.
Genevieve waved to her opponent. Roseanna waved back.
At first glance, the lady fighter appeared larger-than-life and confident.
It was only after regarding her closely that Genevieve noticed the teacup quivered.
The poor woman must be as nervous as she was, although, probably for a different reason.
Roseanna was a working-class woman in a duke’s home.
Genevieve herself was an odd goose who possessed an unreliable throat and was predisposed to the jitters.
The four male fighters, who perched around the room in various relaxed postures, looked dashing in their crisp cravats, form-fitting waistcoats, and tight breeches.
“Clinton, now that everyone has arrived, we are ready for our meal,” Lord Griffendale told the butler.
“Yes, sir. I will let Cook know.” Clinton bowed and took his leave.
“I thought a buffet would suit for our afternoon repast,” Lord Griffendale said.
“Afterward you can rest in your rooms, or the drawing room, whichever you prefer. Chef Laporte is preparing an exquisite meal this evening to be served at seven of the clock. Ladies, you can retire to the drawing room after dinner and amuse yourselves with lady things.”
Josie’s brow rose. “Lady things?”
Franny tapped her foot. Even Roseanna, who seemed in awe of the duke, scowled at him.
“Like tittering and gossiping?” Josie asked.
Griffendale dismissed her with a swish of his big wrist. “If you like. Or spitting, belching, smoking cigars, tipping brandies, and cussing if you prefer.”
“Don’t tempt us, Duke,” Josie said.
Griffendale grinned, solidifying Gen’s opinion of how very charming he was. Now that she was coming to know him better, his arrogance seemed insignificant when sandwiched between his enthusiasm and hospitality. Besides, he was leading the fight for female autonomy.
“Gentlemen, we can play cards in my study. Afterwards, I assume everyone would like to get a good night’s rest.”
Genevieve craved sleep. However, she suspected her nerves would keep her awake most of the night.
“There will be a buffet in the morning,” the duke continued. “The carriages will depart for the mill at ten of the clock.”
Franny strolled to Roseanna and squeezed her shoulder affectionately. Then she met the duke’s gaze. “My lord, is there a place where we can stretch and do some light exercising later today?” Her gaze dropped to something on the side table, and she frowned.
“Of course,” the duke said. “Feel free to use the ballroom.”
Josie joined her best friend, and together, they gawked at whatever had distressed Franny.
Josie was the one to pick the object up. “Griffendale, what is this?” She waved a light gray sheet of paper about.
The duke grinned. “A broadside. I hired the artist in London and had him go to the gym to sketch the ladies as they worked out. I didn’t say anything—I had him be stealthy and sketch them in full activity.
He got their likenesses exact, did he not?
” He rocked proudly from heel to toe. “I had them made and placed them around the village. And, before I left the city, I had them posted at The Purple Rabbit and a few taverns in London. I’m expecting a large crowd on the morrow. ”
Jonathan, who was standing close to Josie, grabbed the handbill from her. “Bloody bollocking hell. Why isn’t Gen in her ghost disguise in this depiction?”
The duke opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again. “It did not occur to me to ask the artist to draw her wearing the paint. Perhaps because I’ve never seen her in it.”
Genevieve fought her panic as she made her way to the angry trio, Horatio by her side. The second she saw the handbill, her heart thumped, and the wind was knocked from her lungs.
Come one, Come all. Step in from the cold and celebrate His Grace’s Frosty Set-to, she silently read. Feast your eyes on two female professors of the sweet science. Stay for the grand display of the manly art. Considerable purses.
A sketch of the four male fighters, their gazes intense, their fists poised to strike, stared back at her. In the center, two women, hair unbound, and their likenesses precise, stood. Her and Roseanna. Beneath it all, written in big letters was the location, date, and time.
Bloody hell. It would take someone all of five seconds to recognize her.
“You hung these up all over London?” Jonathan practically bellowed.
“Not everywhere in London.” Griffendale’s shoulders slumped as if he were a child who’d just had an unexpected reprimand.
“Just at The Purple Rabbit and a few taverns. But I had my footmen post them all over the village.” His voice dropped until he was almost whispering. “And a few other village taverns.”
“Horse’s arse,” Josie grumbled under her breath.
Genevieve hunched forward and fought to breathe as Franny caressed her back. “’Tis going to be fine, Gen,” she said. “The chance that someone recognizes you from a handbill is highly unlikely.”
Jonathan let out a long exhale and shook out his clenched fists. “It will be fine, Gen. Franny is correct. No one will recognize you. It barely looks like you.”
Obviously, he was trying to comfort her, because the likeness was indisputable.
“I am sorry.” The duke’s handsome face contorted into tight lines and sharp angles. “Truly I am. I will send my men to gather the handbills. Right away. I can also send someone into the city. They will all be destroyed before evening.”
Obviously, the man felt horrible. She needed to put on a brave face of nonchalance so that he didn’t fret over much.
Don’t be a quivering goose, she told herself. There is no way someone is going to recognize you in your face paint. Even so they would have to tell Father or Lord Kilsby and by the time they found out, she would be back at Greenpark House. Besides, you are an intrepid pugilist.
At least, she desired to be courageous more than anything in the world.
*
In Genevieve’s humble opinion, the duke’s cook and chef were equally talented.
Still, she took Nicolas Wentworth’s advice and did not overeat.
The movement and stretching session in the ballroom soothed both her tight muscles and her all-consuming trepidation.
And the evening with the ladies, whom she now considered friends, was enjoyable.
She’d never had a friend—other than her siblings—and now she had three.
All of them were intelligent, genuine, and unpretentious.
They never made her feel inferior because she struggled to speak.
Someday she might even be able to talk to them.
For now, listening to their conversations filled her with warmth.
By bedtime, Genevieve was back to fretting.
Roseanna is so much better than you.
What made you think you could compete? You can’t even talk.
Why didn’t Jonathan break down your chamber door to make love to you this week? He would have, if he wanted you enough.
What if one of Father’s friends sees a handbill and tells him and he shows up on the morrow and strangles me?
What if Father has already hurt Sophia or Christopher?
She hadn’t considered that possibility before, and it filled her with competing feelings of terror and anger.
“I will kill him,” she told Horatio. And she meant it because, for the first time in her life, she pictured her fists repeatedly slamming into her father’s face.
Tomorrow she would fight Roseanna for sport and to prove to herself that she had a pugilist’s heart and soul. After that, she would finally confront her father. Whatever happened, she and her siblings were coming out of this with their freedom.
But tonight…? To the devil with the suggestion that she abstain from sexual congress to keep her legs strong and her mind focused.
That arbitrary rule was probably for men, anyway, because Josie and Franny raised their brows every time Coach Valentine reminded their prizefighters, “Abstinence is the highest form of physical discipline.” Tonight, she was claiming her muscle massa, and a night of unbridled passion with the man she loved.
She wrapped her shawl around her shoulders. “Good night, Horatio. You can have the entire bed to yourself.” Then, Genevieve slunk across the hall, letting herself into Jonathan’s room.