The late Duchess of Winchester…
Whose husband’s estate sat twelve miles from York.
The idea was absurd.
Isadora turned it over, waiting for it to collapse, yet instead it grew sturdier by the second. She could return the gown. She would explain—reasonably—that the garment was faulty, which heaven knew it was, since it fit her like a sack and had brought her nothing but grief besides. She could request a refund. Not a fortune. Coach fare. Enough to reach London, and her sister, and a life in which nobody knew her as the overlooked spinster living with her relatives.
“Thank you for the wine,” she said to the rector, handing him back the goblet. “I… think I have a plan.”
“God bless you,” the rector said, peering at her doubtfully. “Do you need anyone to—”
But Isadora was already making for the double doors and the street beyond. The Duke’s estate was barely a dozen miles from York; she could pawn her pearl earrings for the stagecoach fare. She would knock upon his front door if she had to.
Whatever happened after, there was onlyonething of which she was certain—she was not going home.
Outskirts of York
Nicholas Skeffington drew the mask down over his face, wound the last strip of cotton around his knuckles, and felt himself begin, at last, to breathe.
The cellar beneath the tavern,the Shambles,reeked of damp stone, cheap gin, and men eager to see blood. Fading lanterns smoked along the thick stone walls. There were no windows, no daylight, no polished mirrors; nothing to remind a man of whom he was obliged to be above ground.
Flexing his hands once, he stepped into the ring.
Jeers and roars bellowed from behind. In crowds like this, no one asked questions.
All anyone knew of him here was the alias he gave:Will—a scrap from his late father, William Skeffington—and all they cared for was whether he would fall first, or the fellow standing opposite him would.
Right on cue, his hulking opponent spat into the sawdust and muttered, “Heard youse used ta’ run withMarkie Blackhand’slot up York.”
Nicholas said nothing.
“Markie made me a bastard. You’ll be payin’ in his stead, laddie.”
That, at least, was new. Nicholas knew no Markie Blackhand, had run with no gang, and had no wish to inherit some dead brute’s sins. But men came to rooms like this to put their grief somewhere—and who was he to deny another man’s vengeance?
“Then make him proud,” he shot back.
Many in high society consideredpugilisma disreputable sport. Gentlemen boxed at Jackson’s saloon, in good light, with rules and handkerchiefs and someone standing by to cry halt. But few actually understood the meaning of the art. Of destroying themselves in the pursuit of cleansing their soul.
Nicholas knew better.
The bell tolled.
He slipped sideways and struck—a clean blow to the head, a second beneath the ribs, quick and sure as a viper. His feet danced in circles, breaking the other man’s rhythm before it could form.
Another poking jab, and the other man’s restraint snapped before his. “You bastard—”
His eyes turned wild, the feral edge that lingered inside him—insideeveryhot-blooded man—taking over. He launched himself at Nicholas with the roar of a raging bull, and Nicholas stepped smartly aside, absorbing a snagging punch to his shoulder, and using the momentum to thrust a brazen hook to an unguarded temple.
Over in a blink.
“Pater…”The word slurred out of the man as his eyes rolled white, and he folded into the sawdust. A chorus of groans and jeers followed.
Nicholas stood over him, chest heaving, arms alight with a burn that loosened the knot he carried beneath his sternum. Grief made a poor lodger. It never paid rent and it never left. This was the only thing he had found that quieted it.
“An excellent fight!”
Nicholas turned, unwinding the cotton from his wrists. The speaker—seemingly the only man who’d wagered on him today—was tall and sandy-haired, dressed well enough for Almack’s. In a den of varlets and boors he stood out like a peacock in a coal yard, and from his easy smile, he cared nothing for the glares already pricing his coat buttons.
