The night Bess finally heard the soft tread of surprisingly graceful, booted feet on the thick-piled rug that ran the length of the hallway, she bolted from her bed and flew to her armoire as though someone had lit a fire under the mattress.
It turned out, she knew exactly what to do, after all.
By the time she’d yanked on her underthings and laced up her old dark blue muslin dress, Nathaniel was long gone. Her heart was in her throat for the entire, interminable amount of time it took her to sneak out of the house herself and find a hansom cab willing to take her to the Haymarket.
She tied on her mask with trembling fingers and pushed open the unassuming door of The Nemesis.
What am I doing here? Bess thought, her pulse pounding so fast she was honestly afraid she might faint.
Bess had never fainted in her life. She didn’t intend to start now.
He would be here, or he wouldn’t. If he was here tonight, he would fight and he’d win, of that Bess had no doubt. And afterward?
Well. He’d choose Bess again…or he wouldn’t.
Either way, she’d live. Even if it felt as though she wouldn’t survive the disappointment and humiliation and sheer, awful loss if he didn’t choose her.
Even if it felt as though she would never be truly alive again until she was in his arms.
She wanted to shake her head at her own folly, but it had been days, and the memories of that night were still sharp enough to cut. Something had happened to her in that room upstairs—to all of Bess, not merely to her body.
And though it was almost certainly a terrible idea, she was desperate to find out if there was a chance to have more than just one night.
So here she was, back at The Nemesis, secure behind her mask…and wondering why everyone kept turning to stare at her as she made her way past the bar toward the ring at the back of the room.
To her left, two women glanced at her then put their heads together to giggle; a man on her right gave an appreciative whistle and a “Hello, luv!” before his companion shushed him with an alarmed gesture.
The man who’d whistled seemed to grow pale beneath his mask at whatever his friend whispered in his ear, and Bess began to feel distinctly uncomfortable.
She wanted to slink into a corner and hide, but that would negate the entire purpose of this clandestine expedition.
Nathaniel had to see her to choose her, after all.
So Bess straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin as though people gawked at her all the time and she thought nothing of it.
After the first few minutes of interest, most of the crowd went back to the business of drinking, flirting, and placing bets on the upcoming fights. Bess’s breath had just started to come easier when she noticed there was still one man who appeared fixated on her.
Lanky and expensively dressed, wearing an ornate mask embroidered in gold thread, he carried himself a bit like a young boy swaggering in imitation of his elder brothers. He threw his head back too far to laugh too loudly, slammed his empty tankard down on the bar with too much vehemence.
Watched Bess too intently.
There was something almost familiar about him. Bess narrowed her eyes and took in his disheveled sandy-colored hair and the almost palpable air of entitlement.
As though he’d been waiting for her to notice him, the young man grinned and pushed away from the bar to saunter in Bess’s direction.
She turned away at once, swearing under her breath, and started to walk away only to nearly blunder into a wiry older man with a crooked nose that made his mask sit slightly askew on his face.
“All right there, miss?” the wiry man asked, as polite as if they’d bumped into each other in St. James’s Square.
“Fine, thank you,” Bess managed, though she couldn’t quite stop herself from casting a glance over her shoulder at the young man who’d been pursuing her. He’d paused, a scowl making him look even more like a petulant child as he glared at her.
Where did she know him from?
“Ah, I see, a gentleman with a death wish!” The wiry man had a surprisingly deep, booming voice. “Don’t even think of it, lad. This lady is spoken for.”
Bess stiffened, withdrawing half a step. The wiry man looked down at her in surprise, which faded to amusement. “Not by me! I’ve me hands full, don’t I?”
Those nearby who seemed to know him laughed. One fellow deep in his cups raised his glass, sloshing beer over the side, and said, “To Madame Leda and Rufus!”
