Chapter 19

"Your reputation precedes you," Jonathan said mockingly as he shed his tailcoat and waistcoat though he foolishly retained his shirt.

Nathaniel, his own chest smeared with black streaks, smirked. "I'm surprised you've heard of me," he replied in a voice that imitated Bill's —rough and ordinary, not the clipped accent of a nobleman. "Not too many of your sort like to get their hands dirty. You always get someone else to do it for you."

"I am in the mood for some old-fashioned combat to conclude this rather exemplary evening." Jonathan allowed Arnold to wrap bandages around his hands. "I do not imagine that you have been permitted beyond these… I suppose you cannot call them walls. This tent, then. Outside is only for those of good breeding, and you seem to be just a level above the pigs."

Nathaniel chuckled. "You ought to get all your insults out now, ‘cause you'll not be able to speak much when I'm finished with you."

"I am not like those paltry competitors you have fought this evening," Jonathan insisted, puffing his chest. "I have experience."

Nathaniel could not help it. "Let me guess, from your Eton days? Did you learn how to box from the lads who stole your money and ruffled your hair and whipped your ankles with hockey sticks and sewed up your blankets?"

"Pardon?" Jonathan blanched.

"You look like an Eton boy," Nathaniel taunted. "Or are you a Harrowite?"

Jonathan took a half step back as if Nathaniel had already punched him. "How do you know about those boys?"

"A guess, m"lord," Nathaniel replied with a mischievous wink. "Now, this isn't like your schoolyard squabbles. You've got to fight clean, else Arnold here will yank you out of the ring faster than a scoundrel can get his name in the scandal sheets."

Jonathan frowned. "Do I know you?"

"I thought we'd established that with my reputation precedin' me an' all?"

Jonathan cleared his throat. "Well, let us not keep the masses waiting. They have been promised a fight, and we must give them one."

"You can change your mind if you're scared, or you think you won't get what you want out of this," Nathaniel said coolly. "All you have to do is say, or you could just sneak out and not tell anyone—let me tell everyone that you've decided against it. I hear you're used to doin' that. Or is there another reason you're standin' here, willin' to fight me? You desperate for some money or somethin'? If so, I hope you bet against yourself."

Jonathan's eyes widened, not with recognition but with outrage. "Who has been talking to you? Who has been whispering things?" He glared at Arnold and then at Bill. "Who is spreading rumors about me?"

That surprised Nathaniel. He had only mentioned the money because that was the primary reason people attended such matches—to make or lose decent chunks of wealth. It was where fortunes could be made from a couple of coins, for Arnold Merryweather had amassed enough fame and wealth of his own to have high stakes wagers in place. It was more of a business, in truth, and one that had made Nathaniel's father filthy rich when he was alive.

Perhaps, he is not the business virtuoso he would have everyone believe he is, Nathaniel realized, knowing he had struck a sensitive chord.

"I don't know nothin' about you," Nathaniel insisted as the crowd around them grew rowdier. "But looks like I'm not far off the truth. Seen it a thousand times before with your sort, comin' to these matches, riskin' their last coin on a wager that might change their lives and dig ‘em out of all kinds of trouble. Tell me, m"lord, what manner of trouble are you in?"

Jonathan flexed his hands. "I am in no trouble, but you are about to be."

He lunged for Nathaniel before Arnold had the opportunity to call the beginning of the match, avoiding the usual "keep it clean" speech altogether. But Nathaniel had expected as much from someone like Jonathan. Smiling, Nathaniel feinted to the side and felt the rush of air as the punch missed by a mile. He came back to his original position, enjoying the sight of Jonathan as the wretch stumbled forward, following the momentum of his harmless fist.

I wish you were here to see this, Nathaniel mused though he would not have dared bring Leah to such a place, even if they were technically in Kensington Palace Gardens.

Infuriated and so red that Nathaniel waited for steam to blow out of his ears, Jonathan whirled around and charged back at Nathaniel. But Jonathan was clumsy and ungainly, too tall to be agile, too bulky to be light on his feet, too furious to utilize any skill whatsoever. It was like a windmill of flesh, coming toward Nathaniel, and Nathaniel knew how to leap unscathed between the blades.

Ducking underneath Jonathan's flailing arms, Nathaniel delivered a hard blow to the man's gut, winding him. Jonathan bent double, spluttering as the men around him booed.

"You can surrender whenever you like," Nathaniel teased, leaning back on the ropes as the crowd lifted their boos into a cheer of approval for their reigning champion.

Jonathan snorted like a bull, thundering across the sawdust, drawing back his arm to land a powerful blow. Nathaniel weaved out of the way, bobbed under Jonathan's arm, and landed a powerful blow of his own to the back of Jonathan's ribs. The impact sent Jonathan into the ropes where he hung for a moment like a shirt that had been pinned out to dry.

"Any time you like," Nathaniel repeated, enjoying himself for once.

Usually, when he entered the boxing ring, a sort of trance overwhelmed him, every thought and emotion and flare of anger concentrated into the fight. But it was not about him this night. It was about her. And the more he saw Jonathan struggling, purple with humiliation, already slicked with sweat, the lighter Nathaniel's soul felt.

For a friend, he reminded himself. This is no less and no more than I would do for anyone I cared about. But as he waited for Jonathan to recover, he wondered if he really would do something like this if another of his friends were to ask him.

"You wretched pig!" Jonathan untangled himself from the ropes and returned for more, fists flying, feet shuffling. Yet, he could not find a way to strike Nathaniel, no matter how hard he tried. The closest he came was the slight graze of knuckles against Nathaniel's cheek, but it was no worse than a rug burn: a small sting.

"Should he give up?" Nathaniel called to the crowd as Jonathan swayed in the center of the ring; the recipient of countless expert rabbit punches designed to weaken the opponent bit by bit.

"Highwayman! Highwayman! Highwayman!" they chanted back.

A moment too late, Nathaniel sensed the air behind him change. He whipped around in time to see Jonathan barreling toward him with murder in his eyes though the man's legs dragged with fatigue, sweat pouring from his face. Jonathan was using the very last of his strength to make one last attack.

Nathaniel twisted his body, just not quite quick enough. Jonathan's knuckles made contact with Nathaniel's cheek—a feeble punch by any boxer's standards but more tangible than the earlier graze. There'd be a small bruise at least. But Jonathan did not have the strength to pull himself back to land another punch, and as Nathaniel delivered a finishing blow to Jonathan's jaw, the short battle was over.

Jonathan teetered, and like a tree that had just received the final cut, he fell backward, collapsing onto the ground with a puff of sawdust. The tent erupted with cheers, everyone roaring Nathaniel's nickname. Undoubtedly, he had earned many of them a healthy sum that night. Nathaniel's own payment, however, involved no coin whatsoever.

He walked toward the panting, sweating, half-conscious figure on the ground and leaned over him. "Be careful, m"lord," he said darkly. "I knew a man once who thought he was untouchable, thought he could do as he pleased, say what he pleased, and treat people however he pleased and never pay penance for it. Toward women, mostly. But his crimes came for him in the end, and he paid the greatest price of all. So, m"lord, let this be a warnin' to you. Watch what you do, take pains to be a better man, or you might find yourself meetin' the same fate as him."

Jonathan blinked up at him, his right eye already beginning to swell. "You… dare to… speak to me… like that?" he wheezed.

"You're not the high-and-mighty lord here," Nathaniel replied, smiling. "I am. So, consider this a lesson learned."

He walked toward his corner and climbed through the ropes, heading for the curtained-off rear of the tent to the glorious sound of "Highwayman! Highwayman! Highwayman!" He could have soared upon the feeling for hours, had it not been for the sharp jolt of someone grabbing him by the back of his trousers.

Thinking it might be Jonathan trying to save some dignity, Nathaniel whirled around and braced for another round, only to find Bill standing there with a scowl upon his permanently disgruntled face.

"What was that?" Bill hissed. "You're not a peacocker. You've never been a peacocker. You could've got yourself worse than a graze on the cheek if you'd been any slower at the end there. Why were you tauntin' him like that?"

Nathaniel sighed. "It would take too long to explain."

"You think I've got anywhere else to be?" Bill shot back, like the father Nathaniel wished he might have had—a tough man with a gentle heart instead of a cretin with a heart of stone.

Nathaniel paused, dropping his chin to his chest. "I wanted to punish him."

"Aye, I saw that," Bill grumbled.

"He hurt someone I… care for. I thought it only fair that I humiliate him in front of his peers the way he humiliated her in front of all of society," Nathaniel said, feeling somewhat chastened. It had been foolish of him to parade in front of the crowd like that, riling them up, making them see Jonathan's shame, instead of just finishing the bout quickly. Yet, the thought of Leah standing alone in a church, realizing no one was coming, steeled his resolve that he had done the right thing.

The ghost of a smile lifted one crinkled corner of Bill's lips. "You were defendin' the honor of a lass?"

"I suppose so."

"That lass?" Bill nudged Nathaniel in the ribs.

Nathaniel rolled his eyes. "I have told you all you need to know, so do not scold me too harshly. I am tired, and I have other engagements to attend to."

"Well, at least I got you to admit you care for her," Bill teased, leading the way to the fighters' area, so Nathaniel could transform himself back into a respectable Duke and return to the carnival.

And Leah, his mind whispered.

"I almost feel sorry for the man," Bill continued as he set to work passing Nathaniel a basin of water, a cloth, and some soap to clean the black paste from his face. "Heard him out in the cattle pen pleadin' with Jonesy to let him owe the rest of the wager once he won. Kept tryin' to give Jonesy a piece of paper instead of coin, too. Nosy bird that I am, I took a peek at the paper. Was some share in a graphite mine. Same mine they closed two years back ‘cause there was no graphite to be found. A friend of mine was workin' there. Told me all about it—he's back on the ships now though his wife weren't too happy. And when Jonesy wouldn't take it, that fella said he could offer a share in a tin mine—a tin mine that closed last month for the same reason."

Nathaniel stared at Bill. "What did you say?"

"I'm sayin' that fella must be fallin' on some hard times if he was that desperate," Bill replied, gathering up Nathaniel's shirt, waistcoat, and tailcoat. "I mean, he willingly fought you, so he must be either despairin' or insane."

"No, you said something about mines," Nathaniel urged, scrubbing hard at his face.

Bill nodded. "Aye, both the mines that gentlemen mentioned have been closed. I reckon he got himself involved in a couple of speculations—swindles, really—and now has himself a few useless mines and mountin' debts. He wouldn't be the first. Your father used to swindle other gentlemen like that all the time, sellin' fake businesses or useless ones, leavin' ‘em in the mire while he counted his money. Nothin' they could do about it, neither, since your father had the likes of Arnold protectin' him."

"Do you know where my father kept that information?" Nathaniel knew it was highly unlikely that his father had sold such a business to Jonathan, considering Jonathan would have been no more than twenty when Nathaniel's father passed, but the nature of such swindles intrigued him. Perhaps, Bill was right. Perhaps, all was not rosy in Jonathan's financial endeavors.

Bill shrugged. "You'd have to ask Arnold, but I reckon all of that got swiped by the ones who ended your father." He shook his head, handing Nathaniel his clothes. "I tell you, I haven't thought about all of this in an age. It makes me want to laugh thinkin' of all the things your father was involved in. He was so deep in his own muck, it's a wonder he didn't drown sooner. Anyway, you'd best be I' back to that lass of yours and tell her you beat the fella who hurt her to a pulp."

"She is not mine, Bill," Nathaniel protested, but even he could hear the lack of conviction in his voice. Meeting her had changed something in his brain; he had realized that tonight. Or, maybe, it was simply that he had never had anyone to fight for before. It felt… different. Strange.

Bill went to a gap in the tent and peered out, beckoning. "Now's your chance. No one will see you leave."

"Thank you, Bill." Nathaniel paused to rest a hand on his friend's shoulder. "Truly, I do not know what I would have done without you for all these years. I know you said you never had the opportunity to have children of your own, but understand this—you have been more like a father to me than my own, and even if I never return to the boxing ring, you will always be welcome at my door."

Bill mustered a throaty laugh. "Aye, try tellin' your mother that when I show up, stinkin' of the docks." He clapped Nathaniel on the back. "Away with you. Marry that girl, have yourself a happy life, and don't you worry about me. That's my wish for you, Nathan. Understand that."

Not unlike Nathaniel's real father, Bill was a man uncomfortable with displays of affection, but that clap on the back was as meaningful as a tight hug. And as Nathaniel headed out into the dark, he turned back, seeing his smile reflected upon Bill's weathered face.

Breathing in the woodsmoke scent of the night air, Nathaniel weaved through the shadows, making his way toward the arena that had been erected for the horse riders. He doubted Leah and her mother would be there as he had been away for longer than an hour, but there was something restless in his heart that would not settle until he at least bid them both a goodnight.

"Lady Leah!" he gasped, spotting her in the glow of torchlight, standing beside a stall selling roasted chestnuts.

She looked up, her eyes brightening for a moment. "We thought you had absconded," she said, her tone not matching her expression. "Indeed, we were about to leave, but Mama insisted on waiting a while longer."

"My apologies." Nathaniel bowed his head to Sarah, who looked smug, chewing happily on a chestnut. "Sir Christopher is a babbler. Once he begins talking, it is impossible to quieten him. I have heard about his family lineage all the way back to the fifteenth century when all I asked was what manner of wine I should bring to his party. Then, of course, he told me the history of wine."

Leah smiled. "You must have been standing very close to one of the bonfires."

"Pardon?" Nathaniel frowned.

Leah stepped closer to him, drawing the attention of a group of young ladies who gossiped nearby. Taking a silk handkerchief from her reticule, she stood on tiptoe, bringing the delicate cloth to his temple. She dabbed in gentle strokes, her gaze flitting from whatever she was wiping away and his eyes. "You have some soot on you," she explained in a whisper, her eyes suddenly glimmering with worry. "Did you get into an altercation with Sir Christopher?"

"Me? Not at all. Why do you say that?" Nathaniel's insides transformed into anxious serpents. In his rush to see her, he had forgotten all about the graze on his cheek. And if she caught even the slightest whiff of the "soot," she would know it was something else.

She brushed her thumb lightly across the injury, wincing as if she was the one hurt. "You have a bruise. A new one." She furrowed her brow. "Or is it a scratch. I cannot tell."

"I came through the trees," he explained quickly. "One of the pine fronds smacked me in the face. I thought I emerged unscathed but apparently not. That does sting a little."

Leah sighed, her smile returning. "Someone ought to wrap you in an entire outfit of thick quilts and make you wear one of those old knightly helmets at all times. You are alarmingly clumsy."

"It is my curse," he told her, relieved by her smile.

"And… you are telling the truth?"

He nodded, taking hold of her hand and bringing it to his lips. "I am. Colin is the lover of nature. Meanwhile, nature seems to despise me."

"Very well," she said softly. "I believe you, but you really must put some ointment on that, or it might scar."

"Just as soon as I return home though I hoped I might convince you and your mother to stay a while longer, so we can wander together," he replied, his heart aching as if it had been punched that night. For how could he tell a woman as lovely as her that he was not what he appeared to be, that he was not the gallant gentleman she saw before her, that he was not worthy of he, even if he had wanted to be. No matter what Bill said, Nathaniel knew he carried a darkness within him—just because it had not revealed itself yet did not mean it would never do so.

And if I ever hurt you, dearest Leah, I would never be able to forgive myself… He needed to remember that, at all costs. He needed to remember that all of this, every moment, regardless of how real it felt, had to remain a performance and nothing more.