Page 4 of The Boxing Baroness

“She’s right, you know—about quittin’,” Jack said.

“I know she’s right, Jack. Don’t you think I’m aware that every fight is just another injury waiting to happen?”

“I never should ’ave taught you.”

“Barnabas would have found somebody else—somebody not as good as you.”

“’E should ’ave chosen somebody other than ’is own bloody niece!”

“He did; Nora and Lucy aren’t his nieces, Jack.”

“They’re different—they needed to be tough growin’ up in St. Giles.”

“Are you saying I’m not tough, Jack?”

He ignored her teasing. “You’re different, and you know it.”

“I’m no better than they—you’re just biased.” In fact, Marianne’s reputation—if you could call it that—was a great deal worse than Nora’s or Lucy’s.

“And whose fault is that? Farnham’s!” he answered. “You’re ’is bleedin’ niece. ’E shoulda done better by you.”

“He took me in when he had damned little himself, Jack. I owe him. Besides,” she added when he looked unconvinced, “I get paid extremely well. I earn more than any governess or companion. Not that I could get either of those positions. With my reputation, I’d be fortunate to get a job as a charwoman.”

Jack growled. “That bastard did you wrong, Annie. What ’appened wasn’t your fault.”

By bastard he meant Baron Dominic Strickland, Marianne’s former lover, and the reason she was known all over Britain as the Boxing Baroness.

“Unfortunately, the rest of England believes otherwise, Jack.”

“Everyone’ll forget all about what Strickland done to you if you get away for a few years,” he said. “You could stay on the Continent after this tour is over—you speak French as good as any Frenchy.”

“What in the world would I do? I have no skill other than fighting.”

Jack opened his mouth, doubtless to argue.

“Please, Jack—not now?”

He sighed heavily. “Fine, then. So, ’ow long ’as that uppity arsehole been comin’ to yer fights?”

Marianne laughed at the description of the Duke of Staunton. “Just the last two fights—while you were out of town.”

The door to the dressing room opened a crack and young Neddy poked his head in. “Er, this is for you, Miss Marianne.” He held out a piece of parchment that had been folded and sealed with a blob of red wax.

Marianne recognized the seal and looked hard at her uncle’s youngest employee. “You know what will happen if Barnabas hears that you delivered this.”

Neddy’s face crumpled. “Please don’t tell him, Miss Marianne. The toff offered so much meg I couldn’t say no and—”

“Bloody ’ell! You runnin’ messages for punters now, bantling?” Jack demanded.

Neddy trembled under the big boxer’s glare.

“Run along, Neddy,” Marianne told him. “But no more messages—from anyone. Understood? ”

“Yes, miss.” He sniffed piteously and closed the door without making a sound.

Marianne turned the expensive rectangle around in her hands.

“Is that from Staunton?” Jack asked.