Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

H is study was at the end of the corridor on the first floor, a comfortable space paneled in oak. Leather seats were clustered by the stone fireplace, with bookshelves on both ends of the room, and a massive desk sat by the front window.

A semi-circle of leather chairs was arranged around a coffee table and to the side, a velvet chaise longue—which is where Lady Rosa reclined seductively.

“It’s scandalous to show that amount of stocking,” William greeted her. “Helped yourself to my wine collection, I see.”

“Of course, dear,” she murmured, while drawing a hand up her shapely legs to her garter. “You are such a hospitable host.”

Leaning on the edge of his table, William shed his jacket and fiddled with the cufflinks. “Shall we do away with the pleasantries and get to the reason you decided to visit me so abruptly?”

She slid off the chaise and ambled to him, her hips swaying, before dancing her fingers up his chest. “Can’t old friends visit each other without prior correspondence?”

“They can,” he replied easily. “But in your case, there are always conditions, strings, complications. What do you need, Rosa?”

“Nothing but your male company, Your Grace ,” she replied, her hand sliding from his chest to his abdomen and further. “The physical gifts you were blessed with…”

Her proprietary caress over his burgeoning arousal, paired with her practiced husky whisper, did draw a physical response, and thinking back to the last time he’d had relations with a woman, William allowed it, just for the feel of physical release.

He stiffened, however, and though he had no true lust for the woman, he would take an uncomplicated dalliance with a willing lady. Peeling her hands from his person, he rounded the desk, tugged a drawer open, and pulled out a white box of French Letters.

Plucking out a white tube with red strings dangling at one end, he unfastened his waistcoat, undid his cufflinks, and dropped them in a small box. “Well, toss up those skirts, sweetheart.”

Her eyes lowered. “I’d prefer a bed.”

“I don’t take lightskirts to my bed,” he said. “Those four-posters are sacred to me.”

“Sacred,” she pouted. “Why sacred? You hardly have a wife.”

“Matters not,” he smiled wolfishly. “The chaise or the door, Rosa, you choose.”

“Good work on Lady Ruth’s daughter’s gown,” the seamstress, Mrs. Abernathy, peered at the almost invisible stitching with her spectacles perched on her nose. “Your needlework has grown leaps and bounds in the past four months.”

Smiling, Bridget agreed. “Your tutelage is why I am so good.”

If she felt confident in anything, it rested in her aptitude as a pupil. Back in her schooldays, she had prided herself on being a student with good sense. Her tutors had always remarked on her quickness in acquiring proficiency in various subjects, from French to music to painting.

“Nevertheless,” the widow pulled her spectacles away and hung the dress so it would not wrinkle. “The lady will be most pleased, and I am sure she will reward you handsomely.”

A knock on the door had them turning to it, and when it was pushed in, a young man in shades of brown and tan stepped inside, doffing his hat. Shaking his flaxen hair, he smiled, blue eyes bright. “Pardon me, but I am told a Lady Bridget is—”

“Adam!” Bridget shot up from her seat at seeing her brother’s old friend who made it a habit to drop in on her when he was in town. “I mean, Baron Howell,” she dropped into a curtsey. “How good to see you.”

Instead of replying, Adam turned his bright blue eyes to Mrs. Abernathy. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Abernathy. I hope you are doing well. Would you please give Lady Bridget and I a moment to talk?”

“Of course,” the portly woman stood. “You have been by here months ago, My Lord, you’re quite familiar. I shan’t deny my prize apprentice of time with her friend, but please keep it to a quarter of an hour. We do have other jobs to attend to.”

“Thank you,” Adam replied, then took Bridget’s hand and kissed it. “How are you, dear?”

“I’m fine,” she replied, overjoyed at his company. “How are you though? I am surprised you can come here at will. Shouldn’t you have a doting wife by now?”

He grinned. “I have been asking you for that honor for years, but still you refuse me,” Adam teased while reaching into his bag and pulling out a tin of her once favorite lemon drops. “I come bearing gifts, my dear.”

Her lips parted at the sight of the treat. “You… remembered?”

“Of course, little sister,” Adam smiled. “You have such simple desires that one cannot help but fulfill one or two of them. Here, it is yours, and do not tell me I shouldn’t have, because not only did I want to, but I am also able to. A tin is just a few pennies.”

Taking it, she smiled. “Thank you. It means a lot to me. How—” she swallowed. “How is my brother?”

Adam’s face fell. “I have not heard or seen him, dear, as I am not in that part of the town much due to my frequent travels. But, believe me, when I do go back to York, I will search high and wide for him.”

With her chest swelling with affection and appreciation, she smiled and hugged the tin to her chest. “Thank you, Adam. You are such a wonderful friend.”

He inclined his head. They chatted for a little longer before he reached for his hat, “I believe I have used up all our allotted time. I am sure we’ll speak again and during that time, rest assured, I shall find your brother.”

“Adam,” she swallowed. “When you find Frederick, please tell him that I do love him, and I will come back home as soon as I am able. Which is looking to be very soon.”

“I surely will,” Adam smiled before heading for the door. Pausing, he stopped at the door and turned to her. “Keep being the sweet soul you are, Bridget.”

“I’ll try,” she replied, watching him as he left the shop.

Happy, she looked at the tin in her hands and quietly slipped it into her satchel before going to find Mrs. Abernathy. She found the older lady in the second part of the shop where the bolts of cloth were laid on the shelves and at hooks on the walls.

“He has left, Mrs. Abernathy,” she began. “What are we doing now?”

“I think…” She reached for a book on a pedestal and glided a finger down a list. “Lady Westlake needs a new riding habit and Miss Antoinette Tulloch would like a new set of chemises for the season. She has even supplied the silk for the chemises.”

Fingering the soft cloth, Bridget nodded, “We’d best get to work then.”

Agilely, William dodged a blow from his opponent and landed a blow in the man’s middle. “You’ve got to be faster than that, Magnus.”

Mist had barely risen from the ground when William was stepping into the door of Gentleman Jackson’s pugilism saloon. In the past weeks, a routine had emerged—getting to the saloon by dawn, training, and going home to run the trails of his lands had built up more than his musculature. It also exhausted him to no end, but he got up and repeated it every day.

The man, half a foot taller than William’s six feet, grabbed onto the ropes and hunched over, breathing hard. His hair was wet to the roots, yet they had only begun their bouts fifteen minutes ago. Though larger, the seasoned boxer was showing signs of fatigue, his forehead drenched with perspiration, his broad chest heaving.

William circled him in the ring, trying to look for a good opening. Magnus had a few tells, the man was prone to throwing an uppercut with his right, and following with double jabs by his left. When he prepared to do that move, his left foot slipped to the front before he launched.

Anticipating it, William ducked and landed a blow on the man’s sternum, then braced himself for the blow that would come. The punch caught his lower belly, and though he grunted, he welcomed the jolt of pain. Rebounding, he bounced lightly on the balls of his feet, his arms up in guard position once more.

With his fists up once more, he let them fly, landing blow after blow, staying light on his feet, ducking strikes, and landing his own in a fierce return. The burn in his muscles was sweet—the quick flurry of his thoughts predicting moves and planning counterattacks made him feel light while he punched with calculated restraint.

Breathe in, breathe out. Do not lose control. Measure your punches, measure your steps, keep the energy up .

He flung out a blistering right hook that sent Magnus right into the ropes and the man stumbled, a foot slipping out from under him. He dropped to the mat and grunted. “Devil and damn, Your Grace, you pack a hard punch. We can stop for today. I give up.”

William stopped bouncing on his feet and took stock of his sparring partner. “Did I injure you too much?”

The older fighter stripped off his practice gloves and touched a hand to his jaw and cheek, wincing. “Not any worse than I have suffered before. You know—” he grabbed the rope and heaved himself up. “—you’ve got good eyes and sense, Your Grace. I have seen how you assess things, and you seem to have the ability to predict moves based on patterns.”

“That’s… not a good thing?”

“It is a great thing, but you need to be wary,” Magnus reached for his water and swallowed half of the waterskin in one gulp. “Relying on patterns may deceive you, and a seasoned fighter will use patterns as feigns and unleash unexpected attacks while you are preparing for another one.”

Swiping the sweat from his eyes, Magnus added, “If you keep training like this, the first match will be a shoo-in for you.”

“But the others?” William reached for a rag in his corner.

“Those blighters are crafty.” Magnus sat again, this time with his back to the post behind him. “They have years, nay, decades of tricks up their sleeves, dirty ones too. You’ll have your work cut out for you when you start to climb the ranks.”

Rolling his neck, William grunted. “I wouldn’t think anything else.”

“Your Grace,” a man beckoned to William while he had his back on the ropes. He stuck out a folded paper. “A message for you.”

Unfolding it, he read Silas’ slashed writing, You’ve been chosen. First match is in eight days.

It was only when Lady Ruth, a countess that had been a beauty in her heyday, her daughter, and their three footmen stepped out of the shop, did Bridget suck in a breath and let the tension in her shoulders fade.

The lady reminded her of goshawk with a mouse under its piercing gaze and Bridget felt like that mouse. Comments like ‘girl’ or ‘child’ and the most demeaning one, ‘chit’. It made her feel dejected and diminished.

She could not— would not—dare admit to being a lady of the ton for they would declare her a liar and laugh into her face.

“Is she always so… direct?” she asked Mrs. Abernathy, afraid to say the more suitable word she wanted to say.

“Well, she was married three times, widows for two and her now husband is a milksop who cannot say no to her, so yes, she is that unyielding,” Mrs. Abernathy nodded while taking another bolt of cloth from the shelf. “Take comfort in her compliment, Bridget, she does not give them out freely.”

“I surely will,” she agreed.

That evening, just as Mrs. Abernathy closed the shop, Bridget stepped out and wrapped her shawl around her. She knew her godmother would be very happy with the half-crown; it would buy them food for two weeks. She made to walk off when a very familiar carriage came around the corner.

“What is Ellie doing around here?” she wondered aloud to herself.

When the blue lacquered carriage came to a stop beside her, the footman jumped down and opened the door for her. Stunned, Bridget stared into the plush interior as if she had never seen or ridden in a carriage before.

Ellie, clad in a peach carriage dress, tilted her head to Bridget, then sighed. “What are you waiting on, Bridget? Do I have a stain on my dress or a smudge on my face? Come in, for heaven’s sake. You and I need to have a conversation, and this time I need you to listen to me.”

Apprehensive, she stepped into the carriage and sat across from her friend, hunching in on herself. Eleanor’s eyes grew concerned. “What’s wrong, dear?”

“Nothing,” Bridget replied, but her still voice and subjected form said otherwise. Knowing her friend was not going to accept that answer, she admitted, “Today I had another client that showed me how much I am disconnected from the ton, from the other ladies. A lady came in with her daughter, eligible for marriage, dressed as pretty as a picture.

“It’s… not my nature to be woe-is-me, but when these moods descend, once in a blue moon, I’d say, it shows me what I could have become, and knowing it might never be… it made me feel invisible and… hopeless.”

Sympathetic, Ellie reached for Bridget’s hand. “I know it’s been tough, Bridget, and the card life has played for you can and will be shuffled. You might feel like a jester now, but you’ll be a Queen soon, and I know just how to go about it.”

“What do you mean?”

“I have secured an invitation to a ball where, if the rumors are to be believed, a certain gentleman will attend that most eligible ladies of the ton would sell their eyeteeth to marry, while the lesser ones would sell much more for half a chance at that.”

Bridget blinked. “But if there are so many ladies after him, many with more fortune and higher station, I’d imagine, how would I ever get closer to gain his attention?”

“That is the magic of a masquerade, dear,” Ellie smiled mysteriously. “With a mask on, you may have the freedom to charm him more than if you had met him face-to-face.”

“I—” Bridget paused. “I do not know how to flirt. It is an art I never mastered.”

“Even better,” Ellie smiled. “He might be bored to death with women batting their lashes at him and their coy euphemisms. Your fresh honesty is your best bargain, and I know you can and will use it to your advantage.”

“Meaning… I have one chance and one only,” Bridget swallowed, her fingers tightening over her skirts.

“And you must use it wisely.”