Chapter 4
Victor had a splinter in his heart.
It had been there for most of his life, and he’d never really been able to get rid of it. It festered there, making most of life particularly painful. He knew that to all and sundry, he appeared to be a jolly fellow, and sometimes he was.
It was a complicated existence.
On the surface, he frothed and bubbled, like an exceptionally robust bottle of champagne, and made merry and joked. But if he did not joke and froth and make merry, he would descend into a pit of despair so intense that he would never come out of it.
And that was why the boxing gym was his second home.
Unlike most rakes who liked to lie in bed in the morning, oftentimes not getting up until well past luncheon, Victor got up with the rise of the sun and headed out after his morning ablutions.
He didn’t sleep particularly well because if he did, he dreamed. And if he dreamed, he felt fraught. And if he felt fraught, it was very difficult to start his day in the right working order.
But he’d never been able to shake the memory of his oldest friend, his dearest childhood friend, who had met such an ill-fated end that he had spent the rest of his life trying to somehow avenge her.
The very thought of her, of that cliff…of how broken she had been both of spirt and of body. The pain that had twisted his insides tightened, like a vise that imprisoned him in sorrow.
He’d never really succeeded in avenging her, or, at least, what he’d done had never been enough.
And that, of course, was why he’d been unable to leave it be when the duke’s son had bothered Miss Ernestine Foxley.
But he knew that he couldn’t go about his life punching everyone all the time.
So he had a bag and, of course, friends.
This morning, the boxing gym was full to the brim with gentlemen, but the only ones he particularly cared about were the ones who joined him almost every day.
The Duke of Rivers, Viscount Skyburn, and the Duke of Westfort. Also Westfort’s brother, Lord Phillip, and occasionally a strange but formidable man named Fennyman, who ran a gambling club.
Victor yanked off his shirt as he crossed the gymnasium and threw the garment onto a bench. He needed a good workout this morning. Ernestine Foxley had gotten into his head, and he didn’t know exactly what to do about her except…marry her.
He’d known countless ladies, but she? She was the stuff of dreams. Dreams to counter the dark visions that filled his nights.
And as his wife, he could damn well make certain that no one ever bothered her again.
The Duke of Rivers charged into the gymnasium, his long coat flowing behind him and his dark hair fluttering about his face.
The man was so handsome that one might have called him angelic, but not in a saccharine way. No, he was that fearsome, terrifying angel which might murder an entire city one night when God sent him down with a fiery sword.
Rivers was an odd one. Someone who didn’t quite know how to make the most of society, but he was a good man.
“Excellent day yesterday,” Rivers declared, peeling off his dark leather gloves, one by one.
“It was,” Victor concurred.
“It’s invigorating making sure the ladies are taken care of, isn’t it?” Rivers asked.
Victor nodded, rolling his shoulders, surprised by Rivers’ vigor about the whole thing.
He wasn’t usually so enthusiastic about thrashing a gentleman. Rivers lived by rules, or at least that’s how it seemed. It always rather amused Victor that one of the most powerful men in the land was so obsessed with doing things exactly so.
What was the point of power if one didn’t choose to do things with a little bit more flexibility?
Victor flexed his knuckles and crossed to the boxing ring. “Are we going straight at it, Rivers?”
Rivers swung his gaze about as if looking for another possible opponent. “It’s rather early for me,” he said. “I haven’t had enough coffee.”
“There isn’t enough coffee in the world to prepare anyone for what I will do to them,” Victor pointed out.
Rivers laughed. “Fine, fine, if you insist, but surely Skyburn is a much better match for you, or even Westfort.”
Victor smiled and he couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled up from him. “Westfort won’t tear himself from the arms of his brand-new bride. You know that better than I. You’re in his pockets so deep.”
Rivers looked pleased. Very pleased.
There was something there. A note of pride that Victor didn’t quite understand, but he was glad to see Rivers happy.
“It’s true,” Rivers agreed. “Those two are inseparable. I think they’ll be inseparable to their dying day.”
Victor snorted. “One would hope that a wife and husband would be so, but most of the time it’s not. Perhaps they shall prove different.”
Rivers nodded. “I think they shall. After all, they’re better suited than most.”
“I won’t disagree with you there,” Victor said as he stretched his neck. “What an odd pairing that was. Who would have ever thought it?”
Rivers’ eyes widened, and he coughed. “Yes, exactly. Whoever would have thought such a thing possible?”
Victor cocked his head to the side as he circled the ring, getting a good feel for the place where he felt so at home. “Are you coming in or not?”
Rivers grinned, threw his great coat to the benches, and then tugged off his waistcoat and shirt. “Wouldn’t want to get blood on them. My man would despair for a week. Horrible to get blood out of linen.”
“You’re prodigiously thoughtful with regards to your man,” returned Victor.
And with that, Rivers, who was no small gentleman but rather a towering behemoth, climbed into the ring.
“I haven’t warmed up,” Rivers said, frowning.
“Are you old?” Victor asked.
“Positively geriatric,” Rivers replied, “compared to you.”
Rivers was not yet thirty-five years of age.
Victor had not hit thirty. So neither of them was exactly geriatric, but he was rather amused by the idea that Rivers felt that he needed to warm up.
Victor, though he had been stretching, didn’t need to warm up to do anything.
Something had compelled him from a very early age to throw himself into anything and simply do it—and do it rather well. It was a blessing and a curse because he had never really attained any sort of discipline.
Who needed discipline when one could simply do the thing and not have to work towards it?
“Come on then.”
Rivers winced. “Are you going to give me a bruise? It could be quite awkward as I am meeting a committee of ladies later this afternoon to discuss a new soup kitchen in St. Giles.”
“I promise I won’t bruise you as intensely as I did Allworthy.”
Rivers let out a growl. “That man deserved it.”
“He did,” Victor said. He lifted his hands, curling them into fists.
Rivers matched his stance, and they began circling each other, but before either of them could hit a blow, Viscount Skyburn entered the gymnasium and crossed towards them, looking like the energetic racehorse of a person that he was.
Skyburn was like those great Arabian stallions rippling with sinew, muscle, and energy, ready to take on a race at the smallest urging.
“Oh,” Skyburn said, letting out a note of exaggerated disappointment, “I thought I was going to get a chance at you this morning, Seaborough.”
Victor tutted. “Too late. You must get up earlier, Skyburn.”
“Look, my latest amour kept me up until almost dawn. You’re lucky that I’m here at all.” Skyburn grinned, looking rather pleased. “Coffee has made it possible.”
“Excuses, excuses,” Victor returned. “I never let a lady be my excuse for anything.”
Rivers cocked his head to the side. “What about your occasional violence?”
“Oh no, they’re not the excuse for that,” Victor clarified. “The men always are. Never the lady’s fault,” Victor said. “It’s always the men’s when I feel the need to intervene.”
Rivers gave a solemn nod. “Can’t argue with that. Men are complete fools most of the time. And when the ladies are the ones who are acting rudely, well, it’s usually as a result of the framework that gentlemen have set up.”
All of them had peculiar views on society.
Victor knew that. He wondered how they had all been brought together in such friendship, but that was likely the reason they were friends, because they agreed on so many things. They held similar worldviews, views that most powerful men did not share.
And before he could say another word, Rivers pulled his fist back and punched him.
“What the devil was that about?” Victor growled, even as he began to laugh and his teeth shook in his jaw.
“I know you,” Rivers said. “If I don’t get a blow in now, it’s not going to happen. And you like it.”
Victor did like it. He was not hung up on rules. He far preferred surprise. Because that was real life. Real life did not operate where honor reigned.
Skyburn let out a low whistle. “Forgive me. Is this a back-alley fight or a pub brawl? I thought this was the West End of London and a gentlemen’s gymnasium.”
“I’m trying out new things,” Rivers said with an inclination of his head towards Victor. “Inspired by our friend here.”
Victor gave him a dangerous smile. “And I do love something new, Rivers. I’m glad to see you be so bold. You’ve always been so straitlaced.”
“Yes, well, your influence is having an effect on me,” the duke said as they circled each other, looking for an in. “I really admired the way you punched Allworthy yesterday.”
“Oh, I’m glad you’re taking lessons.” Victor lifted his fists to his face, ready to dart about. “Next thing we know, you’re going to have fisticuffs with a gentleman over the punch bowl at a party.”
Rivers shuddered. And as he did so, Victor swung round and managed to slam a blow right into his kidney.
Rivers managed to dance away, grimacing. “You seemed particularly passionate about Allworthy yesterday, as if it was somehow personal.”
Victor snorted. “Well, I like the young lady he’d accosted more than just a little bit. She gave him what for with her parasol. I love a lady with that sort of spirit.”
“Do you indeed?” Skyburn asked, waggling his brows. “Love, is it? Marriage bells in the air, are they?”
Rivers gave a quick, exaggerated shake of his head. “Surely not. We know Victor has said he must marry, but he hasn’t sown all his wild oats. It’s not going to happen.”
Victor dropped his arms for a moment, and Rivers slammed another punch right into his jaw again.
“Look, I thought you were worried I was going to bruise you,” Victor managed, adjusting his jaw.
Rivers waggled his brows. “You’re not paying attention, my friend. A little conversation about marriage and suddenly I’ve managed to clock you one? That doesn’t seem like you.”
“Well, maybe I am turning a corner. I’m getting old, you know. I must produce an heir. And the lady… She seems perfect.”
Rivers laughed, but there was a satisfied gleam in his gaze. “If you’re old, then I’m—”
“Well, you are,” said Victor, as he drove a punch into the duke’s middle. “You need to get married too.”
The duke groaned, curling in, then quickly bobbing left.
Victor shoved his damp hair out of his face. “I think we should all make a sworn pact that we’re all wed by the end of summer, and then we shall start producing heirs, and we needn’t worry about it anymore.”
Skyburn let out a shudder. “Married by the end of this summer? No, thank you. I’m supposed to marry posthaste. Perhaps I will, but, God, it does feel as if one is putting one’s head right into the noose. Have you been reading the newssheets of late?”
Rivers and he circled around.
Victor kept looking for another in, but Rivers was being clever today.
“Indeed,” Rivers said tightly. “Most upsetting. I can’t handle another criminal conversation case. And so, yes, I agree with you, Skyburn. We must be very careful in our choice of bride.”
Victor shrugged. “I don’t think so. I think one should throw oneself in headfirst, think later, and have fun, which is why I think—”
“Oh, dear, you think?” Skyburn mocked.
Victor threw him a dangerous glance, and just as he did so, Rivers began to throw in another punch, but this time Victor blocked it and delivered a blow right to Rivers’ side.
Rivers fell to one knee and pounded the ground. “That’s enough. I’m good. In addition to the committee of ladies, you know I am hosting a ball this evening. I need to actually be able to waltz with a lady or two.”
Victor grinned. “Am I invited?”
“I sent you a card,” Rivers said. “You had better attend. You cannot leave all the ladies to me. I cannot bear it. You adore it.”
It was true. He thrived in the company of ladies.
But…he didn’t want just any lady. He wanted one lady.
“Could you invite someone for me?” Victor ventured.
Rivers lifted his gaze to his. “Who?” he asked.
“Miss Ernestine Foxley.”
“Oh!” Skyburn winced. “She’s the talk of the town, you know.”
“What?” Victor asked, swinging his gaze to Skyburn.
“Oh, yes, it’s gone all about town the way that you nearly fought a duel over her honor.”
“There was no duel,” he said dryly, “and her honor was never in question.”
Skyburn folded his arms across his broad chest. “That’s not what the Duke of Lindly’s son is saying.”
Clearly, Victor had not punched the man hard enough. “The Duke of Lindly’s son can tip a pike.”