Chapter Eleven

Briggs

London, the next week

“Come on, Goswick, have at it!” The volume and pitch of my instructor’s voice is particularly keen this early in the morning, and especially when I’m only standing three feet away.

My gloved fists hit his, time after time, and I hardly need his verbal encouragement to give him my best punches. We’ve only been practicing in his club for a little over half an hour, and already my white linen shirt is dripping with sweat, clinging to my torso.

“There we go, there we go,” says Sebastian. “Easy there, man. You’ll wear me out!”

But I keep throwing punches, fist following fist, until finally Sebastian ducks under one of my blows, lowering his gloves, and my fist collides with the wall.

“Hey,” he says, pulling his gloves off his hands as I rest my forehead against the wall, panting. “What’s wrong, Goswick? You’re throwing a lot around, and I don’t think it has anything to do with wanting to be a more skilled pugilist.”

My chest heaves, and I roll so that my shoulders brace up against the wall. I wipe my soaked face with the sleeve of my shirt, but it doesn’t help. “I had a lot of energy stored up, I suppose.”

He raises his eyebrows. Sebastian Lambert can’t be much older than I am, though I can only begin to imagine the different lives we’ve lived. Surely being a young, prosperous Black man in London hasn’t been a stroll in the park. Prior to my knowing him, he made a modest income as a solicitor, but he’s since inherited his uncle’s boxing club and all of his clients, and his business in town is doing better than ever. Here, he trains fighters from all standings in the city, and he teaches gentlemen and nobility the art of boxing. He also provides me with whisky and a place that feels safe to exchange whatever’s on our minds. No one except Westley could be closer to me.

“Aye, it’s more than that, Goswick. I’ve known you too long.”

My breath still comes quickly, like I can’t get enough of it into my lungs. I start removing my gloves and shake my head. “Just something I did.” I consider this. “With someone else. That surprised me. And then something I allowed her to believe about me that might not be the most accurate representation of myself. And I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it…or her…ever since.”

Sebastian frowns. “Your clarity for conversation always astonishes me.”

“It’s about as clear as my thoughts, I’m afraid.” I toss my gloves on the ground and take the offered glass of water from him.

“If you’re not more specific, I’m throwing you into the ring with my latest protégé.” He points to a boy, probably no more than sixteen, who is so spry and nimble, so impeccably proportioned and so skilled with his fists, that I watch him in stupefied awe.

Sebastian puts his hands on his hips and stands beside me, studying him train. “Viscount Drummond is his patron. If he keeps this up,” he says with a nod, “there’ll be no one to beat him for miles around.”

“Drummond, eh?” I say, rubbing at my eyes.

“He’s fine funding someone else getting in the ring but too scared to do it himself.”

I chuckle at this.

“So,” says Sebastian, clapping a hand on my shoulder. “Who’s the girl?”

I stiffen. “What girl?”

“You know, the one you did something with, and it surprised you, and now you can’t stop thinking about her. That girl.” He waggles his eyebrows suggestively.

Sighing, I take a seat, pulling my soaked shirt off my body and taking the clean one Sebastian offers me. “I’m afraid she might not have been as pleasantly surprised as I was.”

“And now she’s no longer fond of you?”

I shrug. “If I’m being honest, I ruined whatever small part of her might have been fond of me years ago.”

“But you’d like her to be fond of you now.”

“I didn’t say that,” I reply, yanking my dry shirt over my head.

“Then why did you almost kill me over there?” He thumbs toward the ring.

“Because she is the most frustrating human in the whole of England, and I have never had to work so hard for someone’s approval.”

“And you seek her approval because you’re fond of her.”

“Are you my mother?” I ask.

Sebastian tilts his head to the side, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Does your mother like her?”

“I don’t think she knows her well enough to form an opinion.”

“She must be beautiful.” He stares up at the ceiling dreamily.

“Bash,” I say, lowering my chin and voice. “What makes you such an expert on romance, anyway?”

Sebastian shrugs, pouring himself a glass of water. “I’ve been in love before,” he says.

“How many times?” I ask with a grin.

But for whatever reason, my friend isn’t laughing at my insinuation. “Just once,” he replies. He looks upward at the ceiling again with a sigh so soft I almost miss it. “She was…she was everything to me. But fate intervened, and our love was not to be.”

I place my glass of water back on the table before me, studying Sebastian’s face. He rarely mentions anyone he’s interested in, even when I pry obnoxiously. Whoever this girl was, I can see the pain the loss of her has caused him. “I’m sorry, Bash. I didn’t realize.”

“Ah.” He waves me away, smiling down at his feet. “Besides, it’s much more interesting talking about your insurmountable problems. And you always have so many.”

“I’m begging you.” I go back to changing, putting on fresh stockings, then my boots.

“If your girl were a tree, what kind of tree would she be?”

I snort as I pull my boot up my calf, and the faint hint of Blythe’s scent as she passes me by wafts into my memory. “Apple, obviously.” Then I lift my head.

Sebastian is grinning down at me. Laughing at me. “Once you decide what kind of tree she would be, there’s no turning back, Goswick.”

I rip my boot off my foot and toss it in Sebastian’s direction, but he smacks it away with a hearty guffaw.

I stand quickly, pacing over to where Drummond’s young protégé practices near a wall of windows. He’s young and considerably smaller than I am, though more compact, and Sebastian has made me realize that I’m not finished boxing out my frustrations for the day.

“You there,” I say to the boy. “I’m Briggs Goswick, and you are?”

He glances at his trainer, who shrugs. “I’m Will Jones.”

“Well met, Will Jones. Would you mind if we went a round? I’ve been practicing, you see, and I want to test my skills. I’ve been informed that you’re quite the competitor.”

“Goswick,” says Sebastian behind me. “Come out of there. You’re not ready for Will.”

“Like hell I’m not,” I toss over my shoulder. “You’ve just humiliated me, and I’m in the process of trying to understand far too many complicated feelings for so early on a Wednesday morning. Therefore, I wish to test my skill with Mr. Will Jones.”

“Goswick, please,” Sebastian tries again.

Before me, Will shrugs. “Whatever you like.”

“Wonderful!”

“At least wear the gloves, Goswick,” says Sebastian, holding them up before me.

“Oh, pish,” I reply, waving him away. “I’ll go bare-fisted with him. That’s how the professionals do it.”

“For the love of all things holy, Goswick, you’re not a professional!”

Fists up, Will Jones and I lean back and circle one another, sizing up the competition, testing the water, searching for weakness, the other’s Achilles heel, and then—

Well, truthfully, that’s all I remember before blacking out.

…

From across the drawing room of his townhouse in Mayfair, Uncle Richard appraises my current state, his cheek resting upon the propped-up knuckle of his hand. He’s my father’s younger brother, nearing fifty, with a largish nose and beady eyes. He sighs. “Briggs, dear boy, you will never learn.”

Beside me, Westley holds a raw slab of beef, and he hovers it over my face, trying to discern the best angle for which to apply it. “Any day now, Parker,” I grouse.

“My apologies, but the bruise is so all-encompassing that I’m not sure if this cut of beef is large enough.”

“Lord, just give it to me,” I say, wrenching the slab from his hand and slapping it over my left eye. It’s cold and somewhat a relief against the tight, pinched skin of my face. I turn my good eye to Uncle Richard. “And what do you mean, I’ll never learn? What’s to learn? I lost a boxing match.”

“You are young, of course. And you feel yourself invincible.” He stands and crosses the room, pouring three glasses of whisky from a crystal decanter. “But take it from an old man. You’re not.” He hands me my drink, then Westley. “Mr. Parker here informed me that your tenants are making demands of you that you are uncertain how to fulfill.”

I glare at Westley, but it hurts too much to stay mad. Instead, I take a sharp breath through my nose and drum my fingers on the arm of my chair, turning away from him. “Some friend you are. Spreading malicious gossip behind my back.”

“It’s not gossip if it’s true,” says Westley, taking a sip of his drink, then standing. “In any case, I’m heading out for the evening.” And with that, he makes his way to the door of the drawing room.

I glance up at him, surprised. I’m always included in his plans, ever since we were boys. I push myself to the edge of my chair. “Wait for me, and I’ll come, too.”

“No,” says Westley quickly. “No, you should stay. Rest up. Besides, who would wish to flirt with you when half your face is covered in beef?” He smiles to alleviate the sting of his rejection.

“Well, I’d get rid of the beef.” I slouch in my seat. “But I see your point.”

Once he’s gone, I turn to my uncle. “He could have at least invited me.” I feel rather dejected. Where would Westley possibly go where he wouldn’t want me to follow? Once my uncle is asleep, I plan to toss this meat and find my friend.

“I don’t entirely agree that you need a night out on the town, Briggs. I think you could use some rest and quiet contemplation,” he replies. Then he shifts in his seat and takes another sip of his drink. “Mr. Parker informs me that you’re rather taken with his stepsister.”

I slouch even further into my chair, one hand securing the meat to my face and the other providing me with a large swig of whisky.

“And that she has a dowry of ￡50,000.”

“Hefty sum,” I say, my eyes closed.

“One that should secure your partiality to her,” says Uncle Richard. “Fifty thousand pounds is more than enough to erase your father’s debt, and—”

“You’ve never met Sabrina Dixon,” I grumble.

“Is she pretty?” he asks.

I consider this. Sabrina is a pretty thing with hair a shade between blond and brown, and striking blue eyes. But as soon as her image appears in my thoughts, it’s ushered away by Blythe Rowley’s dark, wild hair, her eyes the color of amber. She glances over her shoulder at me as an errant breeze billows her layers of white skirts, and takes a bite of apple—

“Well?” Uncle Richard prompts.

“Yes,” I say. “I suppose Sabrina is pretty.”

“Then what’s the matter?”

“Nothing,” I say. “I am actively pursuing Sabrina Dixon, despite how difficult it is to strike up conversation with her. Don’t worry. But if you think that money and good looks are the only two things that make a happy marriage, then you’re sadly mistaken.” I sink more deeply into my chair, the memory of my parents arguing, doors slamming, and August and I playing chess to distract ourselves suddenly infiltrating my thoughts. My forehead pinches even further, the throb of my injury unavoidable.

“Who said anything about being happy?” Uncle Richard scoffs. “You’ll be rich and produce mildly attractive children. What more do you want out of life? You selfish, grasping boy.”

The drawing room is suddenly too close. “If you’ll excuse me, Uncle, I’ll have to retire for the evening. I’m suddenly quite exhausted.” I ease past his armchair, but before I’m free of this conversation, Uncle Richard reaches out, touching my forearm, causing me to pause.

“I didn’t quite know how to broach this subject,” he says quietly, unable to even meet my eyes. “And believe me when I say that I do not relish having to say this at all.”

My uncle is a man rarely at a loss for words, and the gravity of his tone makes me feel like I lack a frame to support me. “What is it?”

He clears his throat. “I have heard from your father’s mistress recently, and she was hoping that you might agree to meet with her.”

My face burns red, the heat spreading throughout my body, my fists clenching of their own volition. I can’t believe what he’s said. I can’t believe that woman, that harpy, would ever think I would entertain her company. “What could she possibly want from me? If she thinks she’s strangling any more money out of my family—”

“Briggs, she is in no need of anyone’s money, and I know for a fact that she is not the cause of your father’s debt. She was the one who first expressed her concern over your father’s gambling habits to your aunt.”

I tamp down the surprise of this information, determined to maintain my control. It shouldn’t matter that my uncle and aunt knew my father’s mistress well enough that she would confide in them, and yet this fact nags at me. “Regardless. I have no desire to see her.” My voice chokes in the back of my throat. “Not now. Not ever. Tell her that her acquaintance with the Goswick family is at a close, and I never wish to look upon her for the rest of my life.”

Uncle Richard stares at the flames in the hearth that leap, nodding slowly. “As you wish.”

I head out into the hall and then climb the stairs that lead to my bedroom. Once inside with the door securely shut, I open the window and toss the slab of beef out onto the street. I wash my face thoroughly, pick out a new waistcoat, and then stare at my reflection in the mirror.

It’s all too much for my pride to take. I think I can actually feel blood vessels popping in my cheek, and the hint of a headache taps at my temple. Any thought I might have about my father’s mistress, whoever she is, must be banished, and right now, the only way I can think to do that is to sleep. Let my mind go black.

Perhaps Westley was better off without my company this evening after all.

…

The clock in the main hall chimes four. Outside, the streets are quiet, peaceful. I sit up in my bed and rub my eyes, which is a terrible, terrible mistake. I close them, fearing I may bellow in pain, but it’s so intense that no sound comes out at all.

When the tears stop streaming from my eyes, I pour myself a glass of water from the pitcher on my nightstand, and my attention is drawn away from my thirst and out the window, down to the street where two gentlemen are conversing.

Awfully late for a chat. Surely whatever needs to be said could be saved until daybreak. People are trying to sleep, damn it.

I pull on my previously discarded trousers, then light a candle and sneak out into the hall to check on the rest of the house, see if anyone else has noticed the men loitering at the steps to the entrance. Poking my head into Uncle Richard and Aunt Phyliss’s room, I find him snoring obliviously and my aunt asleep with a pillow over her ears. Sweet dreams to them. Apparently good looks and money can’t even construct a tolerable marriage.

I pad noiselessly down the steps to see if I can get a better view of our close-to-almost-trespassers, but all I can see out the front window are two shadowy figures, well dressed, speaking in hushed tones, their faces rather close.

The first turns away from the gentleman adjacent to the house, and I raise my candle, as though this will give me a better view. It isn’t until the second gentleman lifts his head, his features bathed in the light of the gas lamp just before the steps, that I realize it’s Westley, and my heart picks up speed. The other seems familiar, like I’ve met him before, but there’s too much fog and not enough light for me to be certain. Westley reaches out for his companion’s hand, threading his fingers with the stranger’s. Westley smiles bashfully, looking down at his feet, but his companion takes his forefinger, lifting his chin. His eyes are drawn away from Westley and up to my candle in the window.

Shit. All the shit. Did they see me? I take a step back from the window, but it’s too late. Westley follows his companion’s gaze, and when his attention lands on my presence behind the glass, his face drops, his complexion pallid.

The gentleman takes a step back, touches his fingers to his hat, and then departs. But Westley stays where he is, almost as though he’s refusing to come in the house and face me. To explain away what I’ve seen, but how can he? What’s to explain? I’ve taken part in enough romantic trysts to know what that was.

I edge away from the window and touch the knob of the door, hesitant and nervous, like I’m about to approach a stranger rather than my best friend since I was a boy. I stop myself. This is nonsense. This is Westley. No one knows me better than Westley. He’s the last person who would judge me, so I will be the last person to judge him.

Outside in the closeness of the night air, a thick fog rolling in just before dawn, Westley refuses to acknowledge my presence. I clear my throat.

“Say it, Briggs,” he mumbles to the ground, removing his hat and raking his hand through his messy blond hair.

“Say what?” I ask.

“Whatever it is you’re dying to say, because I know what you saw.”

I drop my head, shaking it. “Westley, I…”

He surges from his place on the sidewalk and meets me at the top of the stairs, his face close to mine, but it’s threatening and angry. His skin is flushed and red. “This is my life,” he says quietly. “Mine. And you were never supposed to see that.”

“But I did,” I start.

“And now what?” he taunts me.

“And now nothing,” I say, willing him to understand. “It is not my place to tell you how to live your life. I only wish you happiness.” My voice rises with my passion but equally with my concern. “It’s just that…you know what will happen if someone finds out.”

Westley looks at me with an emotion I cannot quite name. Is it disgust? “ Someone already did.” He shoves past me and heads toward the house. “This is not your business, Briggs,” he says once he straddles the threshold. “This has nothing to do with you. When we return to Mistlethrush next week, nothing will have changed. I’m still the same Westley.”

“Westley, I know that, of course I do—” I try to follow him, shutting the door behind me as quietly as I possibly can. “But—”

“Good night.”

He disappears up the steps for the night. I lower my head and sigh.

He’s right, I know. Nothing has changed. So why does it feel like everything just has?