Page 6 of The Boxer’s Belle

“Tomorrow’ll hurt something fierce,” he mused aloud as Ben handed him a shirt. He dragged it over his damp shoulders before holding his hand aloft. Ben rolled his eyes before handing over the canvas bag of coins.

“Should charge a finder’s fee. What was it you said? Ten percent?” Ben muttered.

“Five. And you know I’ve never taken it from your purse. Also, I am by far the superior cornerman.”

“I’ve no argument against that. When is your next fight?” Ben held the door for him as they stepped out into the September night. The London air washed over him. Far from refreshing, the pungent scent of manure and refuse made him long for Trevor’s position—unable to smell anything at all.

“Don’t rightly know.” Together, they turned toward West’s rented rooms.

“So you have some time?”

“There’s always training.”

“Have you considered a break?” Ben asked.

Flames danced from the rusting gas lamps in patchy bursts along the pavement as the men continued their stroll.

“What?”

“You’ve been fighting for nearly a decade. Rest. Come home. The repairs are coming along and the house is finally in a fit state for visitors—you can stay with us. Eliza is planning some sort of autumn festival—I cannot recall all the details, but it should be diverting. And you know your parents always miss you.”

Sincerity was a foreign expression on Benedict, but West detected no false note in his voice. “I shouldn’t—training.”

“I can provide assistance there. Eliza has declared an end to my days in the ring. You’d be doing me a favor—keep me from getting soft.”

“Softer,” West corrected. He had to admit that Ben’s offer presented a temptation. A few months away from the indifferent masses, foul stench, and caustic air was an appealing notion.

“Softer,” Ben agreed. “So?”

“What about—” He didn’t want to say her name.

At the thought of her, his heart gave a little jolt. It always did. With dark, molten eyes and hair like burnished bronze, Lady Arabella Sinclair haunted his dreams. Each night he studied the golden freckles dotting the bridge of her nose, private constellations just for him, though he never found the same number twice. His memory was too imperfect.

“My sister still lives there, yes,” Ben quipped. It wasn’t surprising that he undertook West’s meaning, but it was irritating.

West shot his friend an unimpressed look. “This offer— Does she know you’re making it?”

“I thought you two had reached a truce.”

West sighed. He had relived the events of last summer, of that horrific night, in his worst nightmares for weeks afterward. And once a fortnight thereafter. The sickening sensation of Bella’s limp hand in his refused to abate—neither time, nor drink, nor violence had washed it away.

“When mortal peril was involved, yes.”

“And now?”

“Now… Ask your sister.”

“Bella will be fine. She survived a fortnight in your presence with nary a complaint.”

“Oh, there was a great deal of complaining.”

Ben’s lip quirked upward. “Think about it. You’re always welcome. Eliza would love to host you. And you know your mother worries about you.”

At last, they reached West’s apartments. The narrow brick building, tucked against the commotion and filth of the docks, wore decades of soot like paint.

Ben stared at the formerly red door before turning back to West. “Are you certain you do not wish to stay with us at Dalton Place?”

“This is my home.”