Chapter Eighteen

As Annabelle had hoped, Theo took to her bed for a nap, and Annabelle lingered only long enough to leave a note for Nathanial informing him that she had gone to Hatchards. Ever since discovering that Jacob lived opposite, she had avoided it in favour of smaller bookshops and circulating libraries, but for her purposes, Hatchards was necessary—she needed no one to doubt the veracity of her story.

She sneaked out of the side door, closing it softly behind her, and started down the road. She had never been on her own before, and especially not like this, but no one could know where she was going, or what her intentions were. After some deliberation, she'd decided to visit Lady Bolton; as one of Jacob's oldest friends, she no doubt knew all about this young lady Jacob had ruined, and she would even perhaps be able to take Annabelle to see him.

She needed to see him.

Henry had been so angry, as though he had known a thousand things she didn't. And perhaps he did. Perhaps this girl was only the beginning. After knowing Jacob better, she had dismissed most of the stories about him as being rumour, but perhaps she'd been wrong. All this time, even when she had hated him, she had assumed he was, in his heart, a good person. He had agreed to this engagement for her sake—if there was one thing she believed, it was that he did not care for his own reputation.

Ergo, he cared for hers.

But was that possible when he had done so much to hurt others?

His own brother's betrothed?

She dashed a hand across her eyes and tried to focus on what she knew for certain. He had stopped drinking for her sake, although he said something about needing to drink for ‘liquid courage'. At the time, she hadn't thought too deeply into it, but now she stopped to analyse every moment, turning it over and examining it from all sides. Unspoken implications, the way he had touched her, the things he had said to her. The longer she had known him, the more she felt as though she had been peeling back the layers defending himself—the armour he wore to defend against the arrows of Society's derision, as Lady Bolton had said. But what if she had been deceiving herself?

Perhaps he truly was as bad as everyone thought him to be, and she had seen what she had wanted to see, because the attention had been pleasant.

If so, then she was a fool.

By the time she arrived at Lady Bolton's house, she was in a state, sweaty hair sticking to the nape of her neck. It was a particularly warm May day, and her thoughts had made her increasingly heated. Her nerves were frayed, and when the butler led her into the drawing room where Lady Bolton was having her footmen place a new painting on the wall, she found herself alarmingly close to tears.

"A little to the left," Lady Bolton said, cocking her head as she examined the angles. "Higher. Higher—there. Perfect."

"A Lady Annabelle here to see you, ma'am," the butler said.

"Lady Annabelle?" Lady Bolton whirled so fast her skirts tangled around her legs, and Annabelle had a glimpse of wide hazel eyes before her expression settled into a smile. "Goodness, my dear," she said, advancing with her hand outstretched. "I wasn't expecting to see you today."

"I need to speak with you," Annabelle burst out.

Lady Bolton took one look at Annabelle's face and took charge of the situation. "That positioning is excellent," she informed her footmen. "Ralph, have some tea sent up to my dressing room. I have a few dresses I would like to show Lady Annabelle."

The butler bowed. "Of course, my lady."

"Come," Lady Bolton said to Annabelle, leading the way through the house and up the stairs until they reached her large and extensive dressing room. The moment the door closed behind them, she sank onto the couch and motioned for Annabelle to do the same.

"Well?" she asked. "What is so urgent that you have come here at this time?" Her eyebrows rose. "And alone?"

"Is it true Jacob seduced his brother's betrothed and her father disowned her?"

Lady Bolton stiffened. "Who told you that?"

"Then it's true?" Annabelle wrung her hands together. "I hadn't thought him capable of that."

Lady Bolton's eyes softened as she looked at her. "That's not entirely the full story. But I'm not the one to tell you the particulars. Let us just say, it does not have a happy ending, and Jacob cut himself off from the world ever since. I met him shortly after, and I had never encountered a man so broken."

"But—" Annabelle bit her lip, doing her best to hold herself together in the presence of a lady who struck her as always being together. "His brother's betrothed?"

"That was unfortunate," Lady Bolton agreed. "And a poor decision on his part. I believe it began precisely how you're wondering. He and Cecil . . ." She sighed. "Has he ever spoken to you about his upbringing or family?"

Annabelle shook her head. "Only that he despises his family and everything they stand for." Annoyingly vague—she was not sure what to make of it.

"I suppose that is the long and short of it, although even I don't know the full story. From what I understand, his childhood was not precisely . . . happy." Her face took on a distant look, and Annabelle wondered what could have been so terrible that Jacob hated his family name even when the rest of them were dead. "His father in particular was . . . cruel to him. Well, I believe he was a cruel man to begin with, and there were some questions surrounding Jacob's legitimacy."

Annabelle's eyes widened. "You mean he thought Jacob wasn't his?"

"The black sheep in more than one sense. You perhaps recall how Cecil was fair? The rest of the family were fair, and Jacob has never been." She shook her head, and there was sorrow at the corners of his mouth. "As for Cecil—you can imagine how he was treated in comparison. There were enough misunderstandings between them to fill a book. I believe Cecil would have been a decent man if he were not taught to be proud and cosseted. Jacob was taught to be wild and resentful. It's hardly surprising the two never saw eye to eye."

"But that doesn't explain why Jacob set out to seduce his brother's betrothed," Annabelle whispered, even as she felt a pang of sympathy. Her upbringing had never been precisely easy as the younger, shyer, lesser sister, but she'd always had Theo in her corner. When she didn't have a voice, Theo spoke for her.

Probably because I've never been taught to respect my opinions.

The sound of Jacob's voice pounded around her head. The odd way he had spoken, free from his usual smirk or lazy, wicked smile, had seemed almost surprising at the time, but now she understood it.

"I know it must seem strange to you," Lady Bolton said. "But there was no love lost between them, especially then, and Cecil wasn't marrying for love. He had recently inherited the title and Jacob was left with nothing, of course, and Jacob . . ." Lady Bolton lifted an elegant shoulder in a shrug, and they were interrupted by the tea. "Thank you, Maria. That will be all."

The maid bobbed a curtsy and left the room again. Annabelle stared at the tea set blindly, trying to put the events of Jacob's life into an order that made sense. He had intended to hurt his brother by taking something that was his, but by the sounds of it, he had been the one hurt.

"You must ask him the rest of the story," Lady Bolton said, pouring the tea. "Believe me when I say it is not my story to tell. Nor, I suppose, do I know all the details."

"The ton discovered it, presumably."

"There were rumours, although no one knew the details, as I say. But Jacob's reputation was set then, and he decided that was how he was content to be known."

Annabelle shook her head, hands trembling as she took a sip of her tea. "This girl," she said quietly, "did he love her?"

Lady Bolton gave her a long look for a moment, her brows pulling together as she considered. "What do you think?"

If he were alive now, he would be the man I would choose.

I assure you, you would not be the first.

"I think he did," she whispered. "You said he was broken. You can't hurt without loving something first."

And she, mindless of the hurt she was causing, had told Jacob she would have preferred to marry his brother. What a foolish, ridiculous statement. But he needed to know she had said it without considering him as a potential candidate for her hand.

She looked at Lady Bolton pleadingly. "I need to go to him. Please help me."

Jacob wiped the sweat from his brow as he faced his opponent, a large man with fists like hams. His bottle man handed him some water, and he took a swig, not caring as the cold rivulets dribbled down his throat. All morning, he'd been trying to decipher Cecil's papers until his head hurt, and he needed this opportunity to be someone else.

The scars on his back meant nothing. His reputation meant nothing. The men in the crowd were betting on Jacob, not Lord Sunderland. They believed he was one of them. Even the few gentlemen milling around seemed oblivious. There were few today, considering the match was being held in the lower rooms of a tavern, and the doors were being well guarded to ensure no magistrates found their way inside.

His entire body burned with excess energy that he had not been able to shake, and he rolled his shoulders a few times before approaching the line in the middle of the ring. This man was large enough to feel like a challenge, although truthfully Jacob hardly cared if he won or lost, so long as he could lose himself in the fight.

Jacob exhaled, finally finding the peace he had been searching for, and the match began.

The tavern was dark and smoky. Annabelle had never been inside such an establishment before, and she was unprepared for the dirty straw on the floor, the scent of cigar smoke that seemed to cling to everything, and the tang of unwashed bodies mingling with alcohol. Somewhere underneath the floorboards, a roar rose that shook the entire building.

"It's not seemly for ladies to enter," a man was telling Lady Bolton. Annabelle watched, half in amusement and half in awe as Lady Bolton narrowed her eyes at him.

"It is convenient, then, that I am a lady only in name," she said, and stepped forward. Surprised, the man stepped back. "Do you think I fear a little blood? This is not the first boxing match I have attended, and I doubt it will be the last. Now, unless you wish to have every magistrate in the air discovering this little illegal match, allow me downstairs at once."

The man faltered, evidently not accustomed to being spoken to in such a manner, and Lady Bolton brushed past him. Annabelle followed, staying close enough so she would not get lost.

They were akin to parrots among pigeons. The brightness of Lady Bolton's maroon dress and Annabelle's blue morning dress stood in stark contrast to the greys and browns of the working men's suits. There were a few other gentlemen present, but even they were wearing more muted waistcoats. A far cry from the flamboyant colours she often saw while promenading or at social events. This was not a social event. The floor was sticky with spilt beer and men were jeering at the figures in the ring.

Ring was perhaps an optimistic term for the boxed rectangle in the centre of the room, featuring the two fighting men.

Annabelle paused to stare at the men in shock and horror. They fought with bare knuckles, shirtless, bruises already blooming on their ribs and stomachs. One man, a veritable giant, had his back to her, which meant she could see portions of the other man's torso and the way his ridged muscles tensed and moved as he struck.

Blood splattered the ground as the large man's nose crunched. The other man seemed to have got off lightly in comparison, although he was breathing hard and his bronzed skin was gleaming with sweat.

He looked up, and Annabelle's stomach bottomed out. His eyes looked so much darker than she could ever remember them being, and his lip was bleeding, but his face was painfully familiar. For a moment, their eyes locked, and his opponent sank a fist into his stomach.

Annabelle gasped in shock at the raw violence of the blow. Jacob doubled over, and she stumbled forward a few steps as though she could personally shield him from attack. But already he was moving, not giving himself time to recover, dodging the other man's next blow.

"Come," Lady Bolton said, reappearing. "We're not here to distract him."

"When you said he would be boxing, I didn't know you meant boxing." Annabelle tried to get the shock of his dark eyes and the way the other man had struck him. "I thought you meant he would be attending the boxing."

"He's boxed as long as I've known him," Lady Bolton said. "There's always been a bit of darkness in him, and this is his favourite way of expressing it. Here, there are some chairs." The current occupants moved out of the way for them to sit, and Annabelle sank into the rickety wooden chair, her head spinning. In the ring before her, Jacob knocked the larger man to the ground. A small bell rang.

How long would this last? Her stomach churned, but she forced herself to keep watching as the larger man picked himself up. A referee to one side had his gaze glued to his pocket watch. Jacob turned to look at her, something furious in his expression. There was no sign of the suave, charming man she had encountered in Society.

"He's angry," Lady Bolton noted cheerfully from beside her. "No doubt he will channel that into his fighting. He's very good, you know."

"Do you think he'll be hurt?"

Lady Bolton shrugged. "Not unduly. Fear not—he has been doing this for years, and he's never come to serious harm. A few bruises are nothing. I have a feeling he craves the pain."

"I can't bear to see him fight." As the two men took their places again, Annabelle squeezed her eyes half shut, peering at them through her eyelashes.

"Watch," Lady Bolton said, her tone gentle even as she tapped Annabelle's arm with her fan. "You should know all the sides to the man you're going to marry."

Annabelle linked her hands too tightly in her lap. "I thought you knew—Jacob and I are not intending to marry. Our engagement is a sham."

"Piddle." Lady Bolton's gaze never left Jacob, but there was something assessing in it. The next round began, just as terrifyingly, aggressively violent as before. "I have only seen him fight like this once before, and that was when I first met him. Shortly after Madeline."

"What does that mean?"

"It means," Lady Bolton said with a grim satisfaction, "you are the first person he has cared about in five years, whether he admits it or not."