Forever a Lord Page 5

  Nathaniel snorted. “If you mean posh as in us moving in with my father, I don’t think so. I’d sooner slit his throat. I plan on looking into some milling coves and try to make some money that way before I figure out what happens next.” Nathaniel stared at the misty horizon that swayed with the ship, knowing that once in London, bigger things on the horizon awaited him. Like facing a father he wanted dead for reasons he would never be able to share with anyone but Matthew. What if he really killed the bastard? What if he—

  Matthew nudged him again. “So where are we going to stay?”

  It was like answering a thousand and one questions. Nathaniel shrugged. “I don’t know. We’ll find a hotel.”

  “It better be cheap. I’ve only got six dollars.”

  “Whilst I only have four.”

  “Nice, that. It’s the dead leading the dead.” He paused. “Ey. I’ve got an idea. My ‘stepmother’ is in London. Maybe we can hunt her down. She’d put us up.”

  “What? Georgia?”

  “Yes. Georgia. How many stepmothers do I have?”

  “Don’t be dragging that poor girl into our mess.”

  “She ain’t poor anymore. She found herself a rich one.” Matthew smirked and readjusted his eye patch. “So what about this family of yours? Your sister’s husband and son. Can’t we stay with them?”

  “No. We’re not exactly their type of people, Milton. Nor do I plan on announcing myself to anyone until I figure out how to wade through this mess. A man just doesn’t show up thirty years later to yell out to the world, ‘Here I am, oh, and by the by I’m thinking of killing my own father.’”

  Matthew hesitated. “Why do I have this feeling London is going to make a mess of both our lives?”

  “Because it probably will. But in your case, it’s better than being dead.”

  “I’ll say.” Matthew eyed him and pushed away from the railing. “I’m going to settle into our cabin. You coming?”

  Nathaniel swallowed, feeling his throat closing up at the thought of those low timbered ceilings and that musty windowless room lit by a lone lantern. He was not sleeping below deck. “No. I plan on sleeping out here.”

  “On deck?” Matthew echoed, dark brows rising. “And what if you roll the wrong way and plunk into the ocean?”

  Nathaniel glared. “I know how to swim, Milton. But as you damn well know, I’m not one for small spaces. So take the fucking cabin and leave me to have my deck.”

  “All right, all right. Do you want me to sleep on deck with you?”

  Nathaniel rolled his eyes. “If I ever need a man to help me sleep, I give you permission to throw me overboard. Now go get some rest. I’ll see you in the morning. And sleep with your pistols. Just until we get to London.”

  “Fine. I’ll humor you.” Matthew nodded, shoving his hands into his great coat pocket, and strode down the length of the deck toward the cabins below deck.

  Blowing out a slow breath, Nathaniel leaned against the railing, letting the cold wind whip at his face. The ocean seemed overwhelmingly endless. It was amazing. There were no walls or ceilings, only vast, endless sky and water.

  When night eventually cloaked the ship, Nathaniel settled himself with a lantern below an eve, using his coat for a blanket and bundled ropes for a pillow, which he set under his head.

  Fingering the ropes, he stared up at the swaying night sky that had smoothed into clarity and revealed glimmering stars. Though he rarely got lonely, for his head kept him too busy for that, in that moment, with the roaring of the waves that meshed into silence, he would have liked a woman to keep him warm on deck beneath all those stars.

  He paused. No. What he really wanted and needed was to get fucked. It had been well over a month, which was the longest he’d ever gone without it. Aside from boxing, sex was the only thing he genuinely enjoyed.

  It was a good thing most women found him attractive enough to accept his proclivities, because he sure as hell had nothing to give a woman these days. Certainly not money. But then again, maybe London would change that.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The cup, filled with wine, having gone round, the Champion thus briefly addressed his patrons, “Gentlemen, for the honour you have done me in presenting this cup, I most respectfully beg of you to accept my warmest thanks.”

  —P. Egan, Boxiana (1823)

  Many, many weeks later—evening

  Cardinal’s Milling Cove

  London, England

  THERE HAD TO be a better way to make money.

  Nathaniel tugged his frayed linen shirt down and over his sweat-sleeked arms and chest, more than done with teaching others how to better swing. He had only made thirteen shillings that whole night offering a fifteen-year-old boxing lessons. He really needed to stop feeling sorry for people before he himself starved.

  He paused.

  Sensing he was still being watched by that fop against the timbered wall beyond the spectators, he blew out a ragged breath. Some no-name aristo with a fancy horsehair top hat and a Havana cigar had been coming around and watching him almost every night since he’d been in London.

  Given Nathaniel’s experience with strange men in top hats and cigars, he didn’t appreciate it. Tonight, realizing his money-making plans were progressing slower than he’d hoped, he really wasn’t in the mood for it. Shoving past several locals who had gathered around him, also asking him for a boxing lesson at thirteen shillings a piece, Nathaniel stalked over to the man.

  More than ready to take the bastard on, Nathaniel yelled out, “I don’t appreciate being followed or watched by some nameless prick. Are you going to stop? Or do you need me to make you stop?”

  Blond brows went up as the cigar was instantly lowered. Pushing away from the wall, and out of the shadows the lanterns didn’t illuminate, a rugged-looking blond-haired gent of about thirty with sharp green eyes met Nathaniel’s gaze from below the satin-trimmed rim of his top hat.

  The dandy angled toward him and wagged the cigar. “You, sir, are without any doubt the best pugilist I have ever had the honor of observing. I was hoping you and I could talk about a potential venture.”

  Nathaniel rolled his eyes. He should have known. Wealthy boyos like this one didn’t hang around milling coves unless they were sniffing for potential investments. “Unless you have five thousand to give, don’t fucking bother. I need real money. Not talk.”

  The man leaned toward him. “I can offer you five thousand on signing and give you a swing at the title. Are you interested?”

  Nathaniel perused the man’s evening coat, embroidered waistcoat and polished boots. He looked like he could afford everything he was offering. The sort of money he and Matthew desperately needed. They had both been living shilling by shilling. Nathaniel had even been playing cards with what little money they had in an effort to bring them quick money.

  Cards weren’t his thing. He’d lost every hand. He was incredibly good at betting on fights, though. The problem was one had to have at least ten pounds to get into any of the good bets. Which he didn’t have.

  Interestingly enough, however, this aristo was offering Nathaniel far more than money. This aristo was offering something other investors never had. A chance at the title. “You’re actually offering me a chance for the Champion of England?” he drawled. “A real chance?”

  “Yes. I think you have it in you to win based on what I’ve seen thus far. And unlike other men, I not only have a name, but the means to line up the right trainer and the right fights to make it happen. It’s simply a matter of if you want to make it happen.” Sticking his cigar between his teeth, the gent stuck out a white gloved hand. “The name is Lord Weston. But I prefer you just call me Weston. You go by the name of Coleman, yes?”

  Nathaniel eyed that hand but didn’t take it. He wasn’t stupid. “What do you want from me, Weston?”

  “I want your boxing skills in a ring. Because I’m beyond impressed.” Weston blew out a cloud of smoke in Nathaniel’s direction and pointed with th
e cigar toward the narrow, lantern-lit entrance. “How about you and I go to a local pub and talk?”

  Nathaniel’s nostrils flared from the acrid stench of smoke penetrating his throat. He hated cigars. They reminded him of his days in the cellar. “Put out the cigar first. It agitates me.”

  The man paused and pointed at him. “Don’t overstep your bounds, boy. I’ll smoke if I want to. I’m the one making the offer here, not you.”

  “Is that so?” Nathaniel snatched the cigar from that gloved hand and dashed it out on his well-calloused knuckles, the burning sting brief but welcome. “There goes your offer.” He tossed the cigar at the man, letting it bounce off his waistcoat. “I don’t do business with assholes.”

  Swinging away, Nathaniel muttered to himself about the rudeness of people and strode toward the crate where he kept his great coat whenever he came to train and box.

  Weston veered in again and snapped up both gloved hands. “I’ll never smoke in your presence again. Just give me a chance to make an offer. I’ve been meaning to do so for a few days now.”

  Nathaniel set his shoulders. There was only one way to know if the man was remotely serious. Nathaniel pointed to the floor on the other side of the lantern-lit timbered room, where men were lining up to spar. “Go in and box for me. I’ll watch and we’ll take it from there.”

  Weston’s brows rose. “What?”

  “Do you even know what you’re looking to invest in? I want you to show me you know how to box. Go on.”

  A rumble of a laugh escaped the man. “I know what I’m looking to invest in. I’ve been part of the local boxing crowd since I was twenty. Ask around. People know who I am. There is no need for you to—”

  “I don’t care if they know who you are. All I care about is whether you’re willing to box in the name of impressing me.”

  Weston eyed him. “I’m more of what you call a spectator and have only ever boxed over at Jackson’s with a few peers of mine. Not—” He waved rigidly toward the unshaven, unbathed, half-dressed local men crowding for a chance at another fight.

  Nathaniel widened his stance, determined to make his point. “I’m not asking you to win, Weston boy. I’m asking you to prove that you’re willing to take the same hits I am. A man who isn’t even willing to put himself into the ring isn’t someone I care to trust or go into business with or hand over my boxing career to. You decide what matters most. Your nose or the offer.”

  This was about when most investors skidded out, which had only ever pleased Nathaniel. Rich investors had no qualms about taking advantage of boxers and Nathaniel knew better than to jump at every offer.

  Weston glanced back over at the gruff, well-muscled men lining up. “Apparently, the devil has a sense of humor.” Casually removing his top hat, he handed it to Nathaniel. “Here. Hold this for me.”

  Nathaniel hesitated and took the top hat. This was new. Wealthy men usually weren’t keen about getting their own blood on their shirts. At least not the wealthy Americans he was used to dealing with back in New York. He couldn’t help but feel a renewed sense of respect for the aristocracy. He didn’t realize they took their investments so seriously.

  Weston removed his gloves from his hands and undid his cravat, stuffing everything into the top hat Nathaniel still held. Removing his coat, waistcoat and linen shirt, the man revealed a fit frame that bespoke many hours doing some sort of sport.

  Weston draped the clothes across Nathaniel’s arm and pointed at him. “Don’t take off with my clothes, now. I know which hotel you’re staying at—Limmer’s—and I know who you associate with, including your one-eyed, pistol-toting friend, Matthew Joseph Milton.”

  Nathaniel tightened his hold on the top hat and clothes. “Sniffing isn’t a quality I want in an investor.”

  Weston leaned in, those green eyes sharpening. “Sniffing is the only quality you want in an investor. It proves that I can protect not only my investment but yours, by thoroughly investigating everything before I put a boot into it. I’ve been bilked out of thousands before, so I damn well ensure I always sniff out every last rotting detail. The only thing that worries me about you, Coleman, is that you already have a reputation for taking meals from investors but never following through. Know one thing separates me from other investors—unlike them, I’m not here to own you. But I am here to make a profit. We’re talking about a quarter of a million pounds if you take the title. And all I’m asking in return for my investment is half.”

  Nathaniel stared at the man. It was the first time anyone had ever thought him capable of taking the championship. Winning fights for bets was one thing. Fighting the championship was quite another. Even at half, taking the championship and the money that came with it could do more than change his life. That sort of money could make everyone lick his boots. And after a lifetime of kneeling, it was time to stand. “I’m genuinely intrigued.” Nathaniel thumbed toward the direction of the boxing floor. “Finish impressing me and we’ll talk more about your offer.”

  Weston adjusted his trousers on his hips, his features tightening. “It’s my first go at bare-knuckle boxing, but in my opinion, you’re worth the sacrifice.” Staring him down one last time, Weston pushed through the crowd, lining up for the next match.

  Nathaniel winced, knowing it was the man’s first go at bare-knuckle boxing. A part of him wanted to stop the poor bastard, but the morbid cynic in him, who had been dirked by too many people, had to see if this man was even worth blinking at.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  And now, Mr. Editor, I crave your attention

  to a few words more, which I trust,

  will quench the thirst of…(?)

  —P. Egan, Boxiana (1823)

  5:07 a.m.

  The Weston House

  IMOGENE LINGERED BY the rain-slathered window of her bedchamber and stared unblinkingly at the carriage gates that were blurred by the weather and darkness. She glanced toward the French clock. According to her lady’s maid, who had woken her barely minutes ago, the valet was beyond worried. Henry had not yet returned from the milling cove. Although the valet had also roused her sister-in-law, Imogene doubted the woman had even rolled over in concern.

  Mother of heaven. Setting a shaky hand to her mouth, she wondered if she should call for Scotland Yard.

  The gates unexpectedly clanged open, making her whoosh out a startled breath. A black lacquered carriage rolled through and rounded the graveled path. Henry!

  Gathering her robe and nightdress from around slippered feet, she dashed across the room. Flinging open the bedchamber door, she sprinted down the darkened corridor, rounding corner after corner, and pounded down the main stairwell, heading for the entrance door.

  Breathing hard against the pounding of her heart, she unbolted the entrance door, flung it open and waited.

  The carriage stopped. When the door opened and the steps were unfolded, but no one stepped out, she panicked. Sensing her brother needed her, she dashed out into the rain. Ice-cold, whipping sheets of water stung her face and soaked her robe and nightdress as she hurried toward the stopped carriage that was dimly illuminated by lanterns swinging beside the driver’s seat.

  Shoving her way past the footman toward the open door, she skidded against the wet gravel and angled herself closer to see inside the carriage. “Henry?”

  Her brother, who was rising from his seat, yanked his coat over his head, burying himself in it before she could see him. “Jesus Christ, Gene! What—” Stumbling into the darkness of the upholstered seat, he roared, “Get back inside! You aren’t even damn well dressed!”

  “Weston, sit,” someone gruffly commanded in a low baritone from within the shadows of the carriage seat. “And cease yelling at her. How is that helpful?”

  Henry leaned toward that voice, still keeping himself buried within the coat. “I can’t have her seeing my face!”

  “I understand,” that low baritone offered. “Cease yelling about it and let me get her inside for you, all right?”


  Her throat tightened as she edged back. Who was in there with him? And what was going on? She swiped away the beading rain from her face in an effort to try to see.

  A well-framed man with shoulder-length silvering black hair that fell around a chiseled face in wet waves loomed in the carriage doorway. Those broad shoulders barely fit against the opening as he hovered above her, setting one edge-whitened leather boot on the first stair, whilst keeping the other on the main landing of the carriage.

  Her eyes widened, noting his frayed coat had been torn at the curve of that muscled shoulder. Dearest God. What sort of company was her brother keeping these days? A yellowing linen shirt, open indecently at his masculine throat without a cravat or a waistcoat, had been sloppily tucked into a pair of wool trousers.

  Astoundingly pale eyes that reminded her of the clearest skies of a winter morning held her gaze from above for a thundering moment. The wavering light from the lanterns flickered shadows across his rugged face, accentuating high cheekbones and a fine nose that was a touch crooked. He lingered in the opening of that carriage as if to ensure she was aware of him.

  Which she most certainly was.

  Those dominating ice-blue eyes momentarily erased everything, including every last drop of cold rain. She blinked, realizing that the rain had, in fact, stopped. It was as if the heavens had cleared in the name of this man.

  He leaned down toward her, holding on to the side of the open door with a large, scarred hand. “Weston had his first go at real boxing earlier tonight and lost. Miserably. You don’t want to see how miserably. Just know he and I are now good friends because of it. We actually spent most of the night talking and cleaning him up. Or at least trying to.” His voice was smooth, deep, and bore a surprisingly sophisticated accent given his rough appearance. “You really don’t want to see him in his current state. I suggest you retire, tea cake.”