Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

B ridget was having trouble breathing, and not just due to the strip of linen binding her bosoms beneath her dress. Perspiration pricked along her hairline at the sight of the same man whose face—and touch—haunted her dreams at night.

The feel of his muscular arms as he caged her; the memory of how her heart had beat a rapid staccato as his heavy-lidded eyes latched onto hers, and the crimson scar pulled taut along the right side of his face.

He is here, that rogue who kissed me is here.

She felt mortified at how easily he had awakened a hidden unknown emotion inside of her. After the moment he had taken—or rather stolen —her first kiss, she’d had… urges. What could another kiss from him feel like? A touch maybe? She may be virginal but was not a featherbrain.

“Bridget? Dear?” Ellie’s concerned voice cut through the shocked haze in Bridget’s mind. “Have you seen a phantasm?”

“No.” She turned, trying to ignore the thudding in her ears from her heightened awareness of everything around her. “I just feel… unwelcome. It’s clear that I don’t belong here, and Lady Ophelia, or should I say, Lady Obnoxious’ smug superiority set my teeth on edge.”

“Let’s ignore them,” Josie said quietly, as she led them to an empty gazebo near an artificial, ornamental pond.

All around the sprawling gardens of Tollerman Manor, butterflies floated, dipping to perch on plants with sweet pollen while ducks and ducklings splashed on the water’s surface, and sunshine rendered the still part of the pond into faceted prisms. Everything seemed more vibrant, more alive. A warm breeze caressed her skin, and she breathed in the scent of clipped hedges, lavender, and spring roses.

For a moment, her eyes rested on the faded posts of the gazebo, before trailing to the tall stone wall that protected the garden and manor house from prying eyes beyond it.

“…not sure if he will be a good husband?”

Snapping at attention to Eleanor's words, Bridget sequestered her thoughts about the Beast of Brookhaven aside for another day. Blinking with embarrassment at her thoughts, she asked, “Pardon?”

“Lord Weatherly,” Eleanor replied, dropping another square of sugar into her delicate cup. “My latest suitor. He is a decade and a half older than I am, but mama says he is a staid choice. Not once has he ever been implicated in a scandal or had any illegitimate children.”

“Plus, his investments have made him very rich,” Josie added. “He sounds like a true gentleman in every sense of the word.”

Ellie did not look as eager or happy as Bridget thought she would be. A suitor was a wonderful thing to have… not that she had any experience. Why did her friend look so hesitant?

“So what is troubling you, Ellie?” she asked quietly.

“Rumor has it that the man is as predictable as vanilla trifle after Sunday dinner,” Eleanor sighed, gazing into the depths of her tea. “I know I should not complain about such a thing, there are many ladies without a suitor—” her eyes flicked apologetically to Bridget “—but is it too much to ask for a little spontaneity in a man?”

“Maybe you can teach him spontaneity,” Josie offered. “I know they say you cannot teach an old dog new tricks but maybe you can inspire him to change a little?”

“If we marry, that is,” Ellie replied.

“And if you do not, you are still young,” Bridget added. “With two or possibly three seasons ahead of you. If this is not what you want, what is the harm in looking for another?”

“It’s not that I…” Ellie shook her head, “I feel as if I am explaining this so, so wrong. I don’t want to give up on what could be a good match, but I fear exchanging a good match for the joie de vivre I do have.”

“Then what are you…?” Bridget did not know what to ask.

“I do not think it will be a love match, but if it is a marriage of convenience based on mutual respect and shared goals, I shan’t complain. I just don’t want to be bored out of my mind in a monotone routine,” Ellie explained.

Looking away, Bridget bit her lip. In her heart of hearts, the girl inside her believed in true love, the triumph of good over evil, and fairy tale endings, but as she grew older, her mind was changing to that of a realist.

She leaned her elbows on the table and grasped Ellie’s hand, her friend’s heart-shaped face twisting with indecision. “You’re beautiful, generous, and caring. Any sane man will see that and cater to it.”

“I agree,” Josie affirmed. “And I think you need to speak to him, tell him what you would like in your courtship and marriage, and go on from there. If he does say he will try to accommodate your wishes, watch and see if he does. Actions do trump words, dear.”

Going back to her cooling tea, Bridget sipped before plucking a warm blackberry tart from the tiered tray and nibbling on it.

“What about you, Bridget?” Ellie asked. “How are you on the marriage front?”

“For now, I prize my independence,” she said. “I do hope to go home soon, however. My brother has not sent word about the estate and no matter how many times I write to him, I get nothing back. It’s been two years and I have saved enough to return home.”

“Oh,” Josie nodded. “I assume when you return to your old station, it will be easier for you to find a fitting match.”

“Speaking of matches,” Bridget teased Josephine, “you’re one to talk. You turned down two proposals this year!”

“For the first, he proposed a marriage based on mutual respect and shared goals and was happy I am the sort of woman who keeps to herself, but He doesn’t believe in love, and told me in no uncertain terms that falling in love with him would be to my detriment,” Josephine said.

“As for the second suitor, Mother found out literally a day after the proposal, that the man was buried in debt. He hid it carefully, but apparently, a lord spotted a known gambling debt owner banging on his door, and now, it’s all over Town.”

“Goodness,” Eleanor pressed a hand to her breasts. “Thank heavens you escaped the clutches of that fortune hunter.”

Once again, her mind flew to the mysterious man who had kissed her and she fit her hands around the cup. Unsure of what to do, if she should confess what happened to her friends or keep it to herself, Bridget pulled a corner of her lips between her teeth.

What to do…what to do…

“Bridget, dear, that Ceylon tea, though fine and so gentle on the mouth as it may be, can hardly be worthy of such studious observation,” Eleanor remarked. “Would you care to discuss what is holding your attention and is clearly bothering you?”

Bridget’s eyes darted to her friend’s face. “It’s… nothing much… well, I- I don’t know if it is nothing, to be honest. What do you know, if anything, about this Beast of Brookhaven?”

Her two friends shared a look before Ellie pronounced, “He is the worst rakehell in London, or should I say, was . Years ago, every scandal sheet had his name splashed across it, alleging that he had relations with this woman or the other.”

“I too have read about him in the scandal sheets,” Josephine added with a gasp. “They say he is wicked and unprincipled, a ravenous wolf in lord’s clothing.”

“I’ve read one, mind just one, that described him as less than a lecherous hellhound but a handsome and masterful lover, and blessed with godlike looks, wealth, and charm. He was said to cause a female frenzy wherever he went.”

“Where-where do these scandal rags get that knowledge from?” Bridget felt her head start to spin.

After setting her cup down, Josie added, “One of the most lucrative scandal rags even claimed to have interviewed a few of his past lovers, but kept these women named as ‘ legitimate anonymous sources,’ . One of the women said his stamina is unparalleled and his tastes are diabolical.”

Her stomach twisted. Was that why he had said she tasted of innocence? Was he one of those men who demanded unspeakable things from his women?

Bridget knew it was not wise for her to know, but she asked anyway. “Diabolical how ?”

“Fantasies that would shock the senses,” Ellie said, dropping her voice to a whisper. “Some say he likes his women bare and bound, blindfolded and at his mercy.”

“It matters not,” Josie waved her slender hand. “He is cursed with ennui , my dear. Even if a woman succeeds in attracting his notice, they will not hold it for long.

“If the scandal sheets are to be believed, his affairs are short-lived and too numerous to count. Some even equate them to be incendiary, flaming hot for a long while before they burn to ash, and he moves to another without a look behind him.”

Swallowing, Bridget could sum up what she knew of this Beast in three words: arrogant, seducer, and disreputable , characteristics that any virtuous lady would take pains to avoid— but the kiss still lingered in her mind.

“Oh,” she mumbled.

Once again, her friends shared another look, and this time Josephine asked, “Why did you ask, Bridget?”

“Erm… I overheard a lady speaking about him when she and her mother came to the seamstress shop.” The lie felt heavy on her tongue as she knew neither of her friends would take it well when she admitted to the titillating encounter that night. “I wondered about it.”

“Hm,” Eleanor gently lifted her cup. “We shall all pretend you are not lying to us, but we will wait until you are ready to tell us what really happened.”

She blushed to the roots of her hair and turned away. “I am not.”

“Sure, dear,” Ellie patted her hand. “Sure, you aren’t.”

The unintrusive hackney William had hired to carry him into the depths of the Spitalfields clattered down the streets. As they got deeper into the town, shuttered storefronts lined both sides of the street, and people and horses jostled along the cobblestone.

They arrived at a street wedged in between two buildings in Petticoat Lane, the two-story building sandwiched between a bakeshop and a gin store. Wrapping on the roof, he waited until the carriage stopped and hopped out, pulled the rim of his hat down to shield his eyes, and headed to the steps.

Bypassing the front door, he took the side staircase and headed to the door around the side before rapping on the peeling door, hoping Silas Gilliam, a middle man in the boxing industry, was home and not tousled up in a gutter somewhere.

“Or nursing an injury in a hospital,” he muttered.

On the fifth knock, the door opened. Silas’ lean boxer-honed frame filled the doorway. His hair was scruffy and his jaw stubbly with the beginnings of a night beard, and his fine lawn shirt was partially unbuttoned, revealing the corded column of his throat, while the robe he wore only gave a glimpse of the edge of his trousers. His large, masculine feet were bare.

“What are you doing here?” the middleman asked. “Well, I shouldn’t ask that. I bloody well know why you’re here, but the answer is no .”

“I endeavor to change your mind,” William said affably. “Are you going to let me loaf on your doorstep like a wretched urchin or will you let me in so we can discuss it?”

Grunting, Ambrose stood aside, and William stepped in, doffing his hat and tugging off his great coat. As ragged as the outside was, the inside was the opposite; the furnishings were rich wood and pelt with wing chairs of leather, with cigar smoke curling in the air.

“You aren’t in the middle of a rendezvous , are you?” William asked, looking around for female paraphernalia. “If you are in the middle of—”

“Do you think I’d answer the door if I had some youthful chit lounging around?” Silas scoffed as he went to a cupboard and liberated a bottle of Tobermory whisky. “A glass?”

“Just one, thank you,” William gazed at a portrait. “More than that and I am a danger to myself.”

Shame clamped William's insides when he thought back to two years ago, when he had woken up half naked on the floor of a whorehouse, covered in his rancid sick and up to his neck in debt.

His drinking and gambling had spiraled out of control, his rakehell ways had found him jumping from one bed to another, in the abyss of ignominy.

He thanked the Gods that his father had not been around to witness his ultimate disgrace; he'd wagered the Brookhaven Castle—his papa's legacy—on a round of hazard.

By a stroke of luck, he had won.

When it came to personal virtues, William could claim only one: he had the ability to see his own faults clearly, well, without the haze of liquor covering his mind.

A glass plunked on the bookshelf beside him and William took it, then sipped. “The Circuit is approaching, where all the prizefighters will compete for a hundred thousand pounds. I need you to get me in.”

“I know you’re good, Your Grace. As the Masked Marauder, you have trumped a lot of n'er-do-well competitors, but those were silly boys doing silly things for shillings and half-pennies. This race is for the big boys, respectfully, Arlington,” Silas replied.

“See, how this works is you put in your bid, and the powers that be choose you . Sixteen of the seeds are chosen from all over England. In their respective areas, eight advance to the semis, and four rough it out for the first spot against the reigning champion.”

The Circuit Matches, a play on the Circuit Court, the highest-level administrative division of His Majesty's Courts, was an open secret in the rounds of pugilism. The tournament had no set date or year but when it came around, all the best prizefighters in the realm endeavored to win it.

Hundreds of thousands of pounds traded hands at a single match, and the winner gained not only the prize money, but a share of the bets as well.

Slamming the glass on the table, William turned. “I can handle it. What I need from you is to arrange the matches I need to qualify.”

“No offense.” Silas threw back his drink. “But unless you have been living in a corner of Gentleman Jackson for the past three months to half a year, you are not ready.”

William was getting irritated. “Do me a favor and shelve the condescension and judgment, old boy. I do not need to prove to you that I am ready, I am telling you to prepare the match. I will take care of the rest myself.”

“No,” Silas repeated.

“Well, then I have wasted my time here,” William shrugged and moved to get his jacket and hat. “But mark my words, when I do win, you’ll rue the day you lost a five-thousand gratuity.”

“The prize money is a hundred thousand pounds,” Silas narrowed his eyes. “And five thousand is all you would hand me?”

“Would you prefer nothing?” William asked, a brow lifted. “Because if I go to another, you will lose it all.”

Scowling, Silas said, “If you do this, if I arrange all of it, you will do everything to make sure you get to the top. You must train from dawn to dusk, cut out all the rich food you lords eat every day—incorporate some healthier options.”

“I see.”

“No wine, no sherry, God forbid Blue Ruin, and if you must drink, brandy and cordials. I know you toffs love the stuff but limit your intake of coffee too, and no liquid or powder enhancements if you get my meaning,” Silas continued. “As for sparring partners, I can arrange those as well, and if you need them to keep it quiet—”

“I do.”

“—I will arrange that as well,” Silas added. “When the matches come about, I will have a bottle man, a knee man, and a physician lined up. They, too, will need a cut of the profits.”

“From the grand matches,” William negotiated. “Not the matches that lead up to it. I actually need that blunt.”

“But what if you lose?” Silas grunted. “We’d come out with nothing.”

“Alas, there is the crux. I won’t lose,” William replied with a wide grin, thinking back to how long and hard he had been training his entire life. Taking his hat, he fixed it onto his head. “Send notice for my acceptance and the first match as soon as you can arrange it. I will be ready and waiting.”

The carriage trundled through the wrought iron gates of Brookhaven Castle while William was running down a mental list of things he had set out to accomplish that day, and felt satiated knowing he had completed them all.

Alighting from the carriage, he sent the driver off with a good night and headed inside to be met by his valet, Oliver Lane, an impeccable man who had served William’s father before him.

“How are things this fine evening, Lane?” William chimed while handing off his hat and coat.

“You have a visitor, Your Grace,” Lane replied. “Of the female disposition. A Lady Rosalind , I believe.”

Although careful with his words, William could tell by his manservant’s tone alone that he disapproved—and he did have a point; Rosa was a gentlewoman who plied her body as currency for favors.

“And where is she located presently?” he asked.

“In your study,” Lane replied. “With a bottle of wine as her companion.”

“I see…” William nodded as he headed to the grand staircase. “Please see to it that we will not be disturbed, this might take a while.”