Eight
That night Aidan tossed a paper on the table in front of Rowden and sat in the chair on the other side. Rowden was at the Draven Club where the men who had served in the war with Colonel Draven often gathered. There had been thirty in the troop at the start, and a dozen had returned. Only a few were in attendance at the club that afternoon.
Rowden drank coffee, rather than his preferred brandy and soda, in preparation for the fight the next night. His muscles were sore from the practice session today, but a good session in the morning—lighter and not too strenuous—would warm him up and leave him in good shape.
“Looks like we’re traveling to Hungerford,” Aidan said.
Rowden lifted the paper and smiled. A mill had been arranged at a racecourse in Hungerford for the week following. Details were scant and would not be made known to the public until a day or so before the actual match. This way the magistrates were not alerted to the bout too early, although many of them would probably attend as spectators anyway. The pamphlet did say the German would be there as well as Tom Cribb, serving as an umpire.
“I’ll have to tell Chibale.”
“I’m sure he already knows. You beat Abraham Strong tomorrow and the German will have to fight you. Do it at this venue and the winnings will be...” He whistled.
“I could make enough to retire.”
“You could retire anyway. You have enough from selling your commission. But fighting has never been about the blunt for you.”
Rowden drank his coffee and wished it were brandy. Aidan wasn’t wrong. At first, he’d fought for the money. He needed it after his father cut him off. But when he’d heard how angry his success made the duke, Rowden had wanted to fight all the more. He wanted to stick a thumb in his father’s eye and dig it around.
“Not everything is about blunt to me, no,” Rowden agreed. “Difficult as that is for you to imagine.”
Aidan smiled. He was rumored to be the bastard son of the Marquess of Cranbourne by a chambermaid. The marquess had provided for Aidan and his mother, but he hadn’t codified the arrangement. Aidan had been twelve when his father had suddenly died, and he and his mother had become destitute. He’d had to resort to stealing to survive. Colonel Draven liked to say the army had reformed Aidan, but Aidan had just learned more socially acceptable ways to steal. He’d used the money from the sale of his commission to buy shares in various companies and schemes and made a hundred times what he’d invested.
Aidan was now one of the richest men in England, and certainly the wealthiest of the Survivors. Even the Duke of Mayne’s wealth couldn’t hold a candle to Aidan’s.
“Don’t you have a house in Hungerford?” Rowden asked. The inns would be full, and even this far in advance, all the rooms would be taken. He didn’t relish sleeping in a stable or out in the cold.
“No. How many houses do you think I have?”
Rowden considered. “Eight.”
“Only six.”
“My mistake.”
“Nicholas’s breeding farm is near Hungerford,” Aidan offered after a moment.
“Do you think he’ll have us?”
“He won’t shoot at us like Nash, though he’s probably equally as surly. I’ll write to him.” Aidan rose and left the reading room just as Ewan stalked in. Rowden shrank back involuntarily. The look in Ewan’s eyes was deadly.
“What’s wrong?” Rowden asked as Ewan towered over him.
“Miss Brown,” Ewan said.
Miss Brown? How could she be any trouble? In fact, since Rowden had handed her over to Lady Lorraine this noon, he’d hardly given her another thought. Hardly, of course, being the operative word because every once in a while, when he wasn’t making an effort to control his thoughts, they wandered back to the sight of her auburn hair falling over her shoulders as she lay in his bed.
Ridiculous. Rowden would have about as much chance to bed a nun as Miss Brown. And that was fine. Women were a distraction. He’d been in love once, and it had all but destroyed him. Sleeping alone was a choice and a lonely one at that. But that was his choice, and he preferred it that way.
Ewan sat and gestured to one of the footmen to bring him a drink. “What’s that?” he gestured to the pamphlet Rowden held.
“There’s an exhibition in Hungerford sometime next week. The German is fighting.”
“Then so are you.”
“Yes.”
The footman delivered the brandy—straight, no soda—and after Ewan had consumed about half of it, Rowden broached the subject of Miss Brown again. “What is the matter with Miss Brown? Can’t find her aunt?”
Ewan lifted a shoulder and finished the brandy. Rowden raised his brows and waited. Ewan lowered his glass. “Don’t know anything about an aunt, but she has my wife running around with ribbons.”
This made absolutely no sense. Miss Brown had only been with Lady Lorraine for a half day. Rowden gave Ewan a moment to say more, but the man was taciturn as usual. “Well,” he finally said, “I am sure Miss Brown will be on her way to her aunt’s soon enough.”
Ewan signaled for another drink. This was serious then. “She wants to come tomorrow.”
“To the mill?”
Ewan inclined his head. “I said no.”
“That’s reasonable. It’s not safe for a lady in her condition.”
Ewan grunted. Rowden hated to ask. He could see Ewan was in a state and might haul off and punch him if the mood struck, but Rowden was curious now. He so rarely witnessed Ewan this riled up.
Rowden pushed his chair back an inch. “Who wants to come to the mill, exactly? Lady Lorraine?”
“Both.”
Rowden shook his head. “That doesn’t make any sense. Miss Brown is against prizefighting.”
Ewan muttered something else about ribbons.
“Are you certain Miss Brown wants to come to the mill?”
Ewan growled, and Rowden shut up. A half hour later he was on his way back to his flat in St. James’s. Ewan’s foul mood had emptied most of the club, and Rowden thought it prudent to remove himself as he was responsible for Ewan’s trouble, at least in part. He still couldn’t figure out how Miss Brown could be any trouble at all. He’d imagined she would read the letters and then seek out her aunt. If the letters didn’t hold a clue to her aunt’s whereabouts, Lady Lorraine would find out. She knew everyone in Town and had a way of making people talk to her.
She’d found a way to make Mostyn talk to her, and he never talked to anyone more than was necessary.
Rowden reached his door, opened it, and was greeted immediately by Trogdon. Rowden was impressed as his manservant usually had to be summoned to take Rowden’s coat and hat. He was about to praise the man when Trogdon stepped close. “You have a guest, sir,” he said quietly.
“How can I have a guest?” He turned so Trogdon could remove his coat. “I just arrived.”
“He is waiting for you in the drawing room, sir.”
Rowden was tired and wanted to eat and rest his tired muscles. He did not want to make inane small talk with someone who hoped to profit off his prizefighting and had a grand moneymaking scheme. “Why is he waiting for me? Why didn’t you tell him I was not at home?”
Trogdon’s brow creased. “But you are at home, sir.”
The door to the drawing room opened, and Chibale poked his head out. “It’s just me.”
Rowden was not reassured. “If you want me to go back to Mostyn’s tonight, you can forget it.”
“I didn’t come about that,” Chibale said, moving backward as Rowden entered the drawing room and closed the door. “I came about her.”
“Miss Brown?” Had she done something to anger Chibale too?
Chibale cocked his head. “Who? That little Methodist?” He waved a hand. “No. Madame Renauld.”
Rowden sat. “Really? What about her?”
“She sent for me.”
“Then why aren’t you in her drawing room?” He settled in a chair, putting one leg over the arm. He signaled for Trogdon to bring him a drink.
“Just water, Trogdon,” Chibale said. He reached in his coat and produced two oranges. “For before the fight,” he said. “They’ll give you energy.”
Trogdon took the oranges and left. Rowden hoped it was to fetch him something stronger than water.
“She said to come when her shop closes and her seamstresses have gone,” Chibale said. “I thought I’d wait another hour.” He sat then stood then sat again. Rowden watched him, feeling a mixture of amusement and bewilderment. Chibale was always so confident, so sure of himself. When he’d first approached Rowden about becoming his manager, Rowden had brushed him off. He’d brushed off every other man who approached him, offering to take fifty percent of his winnings for acting as a glorified bottle man. But Chibale had been so self-assured. He’d had a plan to make Rowden’s name famous throughout the country. Rowden had been using Rowdy Rowden, but Chibale said The Royal Payne had more class and would highlight his lineage. People would pay to see the son of a duke fight or be knocked out. And Chibale offered to only take thirty percent of his winnings. He said Rowden would make so much, thirty percent would end up more than the fifty percent any of the other men who’d offered to manage him would make.
Rowden couldn’t refuse. Even though he’d still been skeptical, he wanted to give Chibale a chance. Chibale had not disappointed. He was a tireless promoter, an ardent supporter, and a relentless trainer. He had negotiated fights and prizemoney with some of the most notorious criminals in London in some of the seediest venues in Town. He moved equally well among the upper classes at puffed-up exhibitions held at garden parties. Never had Rowden seen Chibale ill-at-ease—not when speaking with a countess, not when arguing with an arch rogue and his fellow coves, not when things went wrong and they were running for their lives.
But clearly this modiste was different.
“She probably has a question about the ball.”
Chibale paced. “I sent her the information. The time I would collect her, a copy of the invitation with the date, and so on. She must want to cry off.”
“It’s not a wedding.”
“And it never will be at this rate.”
Rowden sat. “Are you thinking of marrying her?”
“Who wouldn’t want to marry her? She’s a brilliant businesswoman and beautiful besides. And that accent. Can you imagine her whispering in French in bed?” He looked at Rowden. “Don’t imagine that.”
Rowden scowled. “I have no desire to imagine you in bed with Madame Renauld or any other woman. But if that’s what you want, why not be bold?”
“I was bold. I invited her to the ball.”
“She’s a modiste, not a debutante. I doubt she cares how well you waltz. Tell her what you want. Seduce her with kisses and sweet words or tell her you intend to make her your wife. If she says no, then you needn’t waste more of your time.”
“If she says no, I’ll never recover.”
Rowden stared at him. “Who the devil are you? I’ve never seen you act like this. She’s a woman, Chibale.” Rowden stood. “There are a hundred more just like her.”
“You would say that,” Chibale shot back. “You kick a woman out of your bed almost as fast as you get her in it. What would you know of love?”
Rowden clenched his fists. “Get out.”
Chibale held his hands up. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. I forgot.”
“Go to your modiste.”
“Rowden—”
“Here is the orange juice you requested, sir,” Trogdon said, carrying a tray with a glass of orange liquid.
Rowden gritted his teeth, his gaze still on Chibale. “I asked for a drink, Trogdon. The oranges are for the morning.”
“But, sir, you always have toast in the morning,” Trogdon said. This was true, and Rowden was too tired to argue. He took the glass of juice from the tray. “Thank you, Trogdon. I’ll dine in a few minutes. Mr. Okoro was just leaving.”
“Very well, sir. Mr. Okoro, I will show you out.”
“I can see myself out, Trogdon.” He made a shooing gesture with his hand, and with a huff, Trogdon departed. Rowden hoped he would put the dinner Cook had made on the table, but there was no guarantee.
“I spoke without thinking,” Chibale said. “I’m overwrought.”
“It’s fine,” Rowden said, sinking back into his chair. The anger had left him. He’d been angry for years, and he’d burned with it for so long that he had very little left. Chibale often said this was what made him a good fighter. Other men became angry at their opponents. Rowden was cool and focused.
Chibale sat as well, dangling his arms between his legs. “You really think I should tell her how I feel?”
“Life is short,” Rowden said. “Too short for games. Too short to be without the person you care for. If you care for her, tell her.”
“I will. Rowden, I—”
Rowden raised a hand. “I’m fine. I’ll see you at Mostyn’s in the morning, yes?”
“Yes.” He eyed the orange juice. “I’ll bring more oranges.”
Rowden nodded and when Chibale had gone, drank the juice. He didn’t even like oranges.
* * *
HALF AN HOUR LATER, Chibale knocked on the back entrance of Madame Renaud’s. In her note, she had asked that he not use the front door, lest he be seen. The back door opened almost immediately, and Madame Renauld stood in the doorway, holding a lamp. She peered out, looking into the alley behind the shop. Apparently satisfied with what she saw, she moved aside to allow him entrance.
“Thank you for coming.”
Chibale looked around the room he’d entered. It was a workroom, with tables placed against the walls and chairs set at each. Shelves of thread and fabric rose to the ceiling and several dress forms were swathed in women’s fine fashions.
“I need your help,” Madame Renauld said. “Come, Mr. Okoro. We can speak in here.” She led him to a small room with a view of the workroom and indicated a couch. He sat and wondered if she would sit beside him or behind the desk. This room was not so neat as the workroom. Several papers were scattered over the desk, and some drawings as well as pieces of charcoal had fallen on the floor around the rubbish bin. The parrot he had seen in the showroom when he’d come with Bethanie also perched on the desk, her head under her feathers, tugging and fluffing them.
“Call me Chibale,” he said, focusing on her again. She wore a dark purple dress with black trim and looked effortlessly elegant.
“Chibale?” she said, head cocked. He liked the way her French accent sounded on his name.
“My given name,” he said. “If you need help, and we’re to meet in private like this, it seems we might as well use given names.”
She considered for a moment. “Very well. I am Thérèse.” She indicated a marquetry cabinet behind her desk and opened it. “Would you like tea or something stronger?”
“Nothing for me.”
“Do you mind if I partake? It has been a long day.”
“Not at all.” He rose. “Sit and I will pour for you.”
She waved a hand. “Thees ees not necessary.”
“I insist,” he said. She inclined her head and sat on the couch, placing herself on the far edge from where he had been sitting.
“Sherry, si’l vous plait,” she said.
“Pour the sherry,” the parrot said, startling Chibale, who had almost forgotten her.
“Oh, hush,” Thérèse told the bird, and she went back to her fluffing.
Chibale lifted a clean, heavy crystal glass, found the sherry, and poured her a generous portion. He brought it to her and sat on the couch again. His heart was still pounding and his insides shaking with nerves, but he’d managed to calm them enough to act more himself. Rowden was right. He should be bold and confident. Meek and hesitant were unlikely traits to attract a woman like Thérèse Renauld.
“I assume this is not about the ball,” he said.
“The—no.”
Chibale tried not to let his face show his disappointment. She had forgotten about the ball. That was a good sign, was it not? That meant she still planned to accompany him. Didn’t it? “You received my note with the details?” he asked.
“Oui. I am quite looking forward to it, but I need your help with a different matter, monsieur. It ees the matter of my assistant, Phaedra.”
“Ah.” Chibale understood immediately. “The one who is...shall we say involved with the Black Plague.”
“Oui. She came to work thees morning bruised and battered. I do not know the full extent of her injuries, but any man who hits a woman ees a monster.”
“I quite agree. She should stay away from him.”
“It ees not that simple.”
No, of course it wasn’t. “He needs a bit of incentive to leave her alone.”
“Oui. Thees word I like. Incentive ees what he needs.” She sipped her sherry and eyed him from under her lashes. “And do you know anyone who can provide thees incentive?”
“I believe I do.” Chibale stroked his chin. “He’s fighting at the Cock and Bull tomorrow night.”
“Fine lace,” the parrot interjected.
Chibale smiled. “Not much lace at the Cock and Bull. We’ll have a word with the Plague after his mill.”
“Just a word?” Thérèse asked, raising her brows.
“In a manner of speaking,” Chibale said. “Words don’t always have to be given verbally. Actions sometimes speak louder. Isn’t that what they say?”
“I have heard that saying.” She reached forward and set her glass on the desk. “I appreciate your help, monsieur—Chibale.”
“I only wish you had asked sooner, Thérèse.” She rose, and he rose too. “Before I go, I was hoping to say something more to you.”
“Fine lace!”
Chibale ignored the bird.
“About the ball?” Thérèse asked.
“No. About why I asked you to the ball, Thérèse.”
Her dark eyes met his. “And why ees that, monsieur?”
“I asked you,” he said, moving closer to her, “because I admire you. Because I find you quite the most remarkable woman I have ever known.”
“You hardly know me.”
“I hope to rectify that,” Chibale said. “But I believe the better I know you, the more my regard will grow.”
“We will see,” she said. “Shall I show you out?”
“If you’ll permit me,” Chibale said. “I thought I would illustrate my feelings with an action. I think it might be clearer than my words.” His words had seemed to stick in his throat, and it was a good thing else he might have gushed about how beautiful she was and how much he adored her.
“Go ahead,” she said. “You have made me curious, monsieur.”
“Chibale,” he murmured. He lifted a hand and gingerly placed it on her shoulder, drawing her closer to him. The scent of her enveloped him, musky and sophisticated, like the finest perfume. She looked at him, the height difference between them only four or five inches, and he brought his hand to her cheek. Her skin was soft and burnished to a deep golden brown in the lamp light. Giving her plenty of time to change her mind, he lowered his head. Rather than move back, she stood where she was and even leaned forward and into the kiss. His lips slid over hers, his heart beating so hard that he feared she would hear it.
Her lips were full and so lush as he explored them, kissing her gently but with undisguised passion. Her mouth parted slightly, and he tasted the sherry she’d been drinking. He wanted more of her, wanted to slide between those lips and cup the back of her head, kissing her deeply.
She wanted more as well. She grasped his coat and her fist tightened on the material, bringing him closer. His body told him to lower her to the couch. His mind told him to leave her wanting more.
Slowly, he withdrew and looked down at her. Her eyes opened, her dark gaze unfocused and her lashes lowered seductively.
“I hope that makes my feelings for you clear,” he said, voice low.
“I am beginning to understand,” she said. “But perhaps another demonstration would illustrate your point even better.” She pressed into him, and Chibale was sorely tempted. He was more tempted than he’d ever been. But he wanted more from this woman than a tumble on the couch. He wanted her heart and her hand.
“Fine lace! Pour the sherry!” the bird said, and Chibale was glad the bird had broken the mood.
“Tomorrow,” he said. “After the fight. I’ll come to you,” he said and stepped back.
She gave him a long look then nodded. “The Cock and Bull, you say?”
Alarm bells rang in his head. “You shouldn’t come. Bad area of town. Questionable crowd.”
“You will be there?”
“I have to be. My client is fighting. If he wins, we go to Hungerford for a mill with the German.”
“The German who beat him before? Why would he fight him again?”
Chibale spread his arms. “For honor, of course.”
“I am sure the winning purse ees also quite large.”
Chibale grinned. “That too.” He gave Thérèse a bow. “I’ll come to you tomorrow and let you know how our discussions proceed.”
“I look forward to it, monsieur.” She led him out of her chamber and to the back door, unlocking it and opening it for him. “Bonsoir.”
“Au revoir.”
“Au revoir, monsieur.” And she closed the door. Chibale leaned against the building and put his hand to his heart.