The Heiress Gets a Duke Read online

  Once he helped Camille out of the carriage, he managed to pull himself away long enough to offer his hand to August. The pungent odors of fish, damp earth, and decay indicated they were near the river. This was a terrible idea, but they were here, and Camille wouldn’t be dissuaded. Sighing, she took his offered hand and disembarked. “Have you been here before?”

  Camille shook her head and stood on the tips of her toes as if to get a better look into the large brick building across the crumbling road. “No, but doesn’t it look exciting?”

  It didn’t look exciting at all. In her work with her family’s company, she was often charged with evaluating the possible rewards of taking on a particular new investment. She was very good at identifying risk, and this had danger written all over it. If this were a business proposal that had crossed her desk, she would have written R-E-J-E-C-T in block lettering across the top and underlined it twice.

  The footman turned and pulled out a small drawstring purse from inside his coat to pay the driver. August took the opportunity to lean in to Camille. “Are you and he . . . involved?” The idea seemed far-fetched, but that look had been full of things August shouldn’t have witnessed.

  Camille laughed, but it lacked humor. Her hungry gaze roved over his athletic form in admiration as she spoke, “Henry? Not like you mean. Hereford made it quite clear that I must give him a child before he’ll tolerate anything like that.”

  August gaped. “You spoke with the duke about this?”

  “On the contrary. He spoke to me about it on our first day home when he informed me that he planned to carry on with his mistress regardless of my feelings on the matter. He said that I was free to do the same discreetly, but only after he had his child.” At the blank look August gave her, she shrugged. “It is how things are done here.”

  August drew back in shock, not so much at the words but at the bitterness in Camille’s eyes. It had been clear from the beginning that theirs would not be a love match, but to have her feelings so callously disregarded by her husband had to smart. August understood then what this outing was all about. It was Camille’s way of rebelling against the unfairness of her fate. It was irresponsible and dangerous, but it was all she had. At least she’d had the foresight to bring her footman for protection.

  In many ways, this reinforced August’s own views toward marriage. It wasn’t worth the loss of independence. She worked with her brother and father running Crenshaw Iron Works, and she wasn’t yet willing to give that up for what Camille described. No husband on earth would be willing to allow her to keep working like she wanted.

  “I am so sorry, Camille. How horrid that sounds.”

  “It’s not that terrible.” Her friend waved away her concern and glanced back toward the warehouse. “So far he’s only been able to complete the act a handful of times. It was over quickly.”

  No matter how she tried, August could not stop her mouth from dropping open. No one had ever so openly discussed sexual activity with her before. Was that too little? It seemed to be—the couple had been married for over five months—but she honestly didn’t know. Her brother, Max, had dinner with his mistress every Thursday, though what happened during those dinners, she did not want to know. “I . . . Only a handful?”

  Camille grinned and leaned closer to whisper, “He’s tried more than that, but he has issues . . . staying upright.” She giggled. “I am told that happens with age, but I think it’s due to the amount of scotch he drinks.”

  August had no reply to that. To have a marriage forced on you was bad enough, but to have it come in the form of an aged groom, she could not countenance. She struggled to put voice to another meaningless, benign word of comfort when Camille nodded toward the warehouse. “Say you’ll come inside with me. Please?”

  Knowing how badly her friend needed this small rebellion, August found it impossible to deny the request. They should be able to hide their identities easily enough—she couldn’t imagine any of the aristocrats she had met frequenting a place such as this—so no one would be the wiser. Her parents and Violet weren’t due to be home from their party for hours yet. The irony of the fact that she had begged off to enjoy a quiet evening alone was not lost on her.

  “Fine. We will stay for a quarter hour.”

  “But that’s no time at all,” Camille complained. “The brawl won’t have started yet. I daresay it’ll last longer than that.”

  “Brawl? Where on earth have you taken us?” But Camille didn’t answer, because Henry came over and offered her his arm. The two of them walked toward the crowded building as if they were a couple, leaving August to follow as she would. The driver called out to his horse, and the vehicle pulled off. Left wondering how she, a woman who was capable enough to assist her father and brother in the daily operations of Crenshaw Iron Works, had come to this unlikely pass, August had no choice but to follow them across the damp cobblestone road and through the entrance.

  The place was a mass of sweating bodies as the crowd of men and women pushed closer to some unseen space farther into the open ground floor of the building. The sharp scents of gin, sweat, and cheap cigarette smoke tinged the air. People yelled to be heard over the cacophony of a hundred different conversations. Brick pillars trisected the space, while wooden crates stacked to the high ceiling lined the massive room, indicating that it was a working warehouse—at least during the daytime hours.

  “Ho there, Henry, didn’t think you were going to make it.” A burly man who spoke in a distinct East End accent stopped them inside the door. He wore a wool coat that had seen better days and scuffed boots. The rough skin on his face was lined in a permanent scowl, only emphasized by the countless scars thickening his brows.

  “Evening, Jim, had to make another stop.” Henry’s words were spoken in an accent tinged with a hardscrabble inflection that wasn’t present when he wore the Hereford livery.

  The older man’s gaze drifted past Camille to August. Apparently, she was the extra and potentially unexpected stop in the scenario. “Good evening,” she said, giving him a smile.

  His colorless eyes lit with amusement as he tipped a hand to the brim of his flat cap. “An American.” His assessing gaze roamed over her, as if trying to figure out who she was. August felt a moment of panic that perhaps it wouldn’t be as easy to hide her identity as she’d thought, so she gripped the cloak’s hood closed under her chin. Finally, he said, “Come on, then. Room for you lot on the riser.”

  August followed the group around the edge of the room. Without even looking at him, the crowd seemed to be aware of the mysterious Jim and made way for their small group. The few times they were too slow to move, he didn’t mind shoving the men out of his path. Soon they stopped at a wooden platform raised knee-high off the ground. There was already a score of people milling about on top of it. Unlike the crowd on the packed-dirt floor, these people wore dress coats, and a few colorful evening gowns could be seen among the black. This set had much finer attire than the rest of the crowd, which was obviously made up of laborers and factory workers. Henry stepped up and helped first Camille and then August up.

  “A word of warning, miss.” She turned back and found herself eye to eye with Jim.

  “’Tis tempting to stand close to get a better view, but best to keep your distance.” He seemed to be putting effort into enunciating so that she wouldn’t mistake him. “That is if you’re concerned about blood spattering on your pretty silk dress.”

  August gasped as she saw that the cloak had parted and the rich navy of her skirt had shown through. Jim chuckled and left her there to arrange her clothing while wondering if that had been a genuine warning or if he was toying with her. A brawl couldn’t be as gruesome as that. Could it? She hurried to catch up to Camille and Henry, who had moved farther onto the platform. Where the hell had Camille brought her? Surely, she realized that she was risking her own reputation by coming to such a place.

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nbsp; Between the shoulders of the mostly male group crowding the riser, August could make out an open area of dirt floor before the platform. Eight stakes were firmly planted in the ground with a double line of rope stretched tight between them to form a square of roughly fifteen feet on each side. This was a real-life prizefighting ring. She had heard that these fights happened back home in New York, but she’d never even thought about attending such an event. They must certainly be illegal.

  Henry had muscled his way through to the front so that they had an unobscured view down to the fighting area. August wasn’t entirely certain that she wanted one. Jim’s gory warning was in the forefront of her thoughts and had her imagining all sorts of grisly scenes. “Is this prizefighting?” she asked Camille to be sure.

  Camille was all excitement again as she took in the energy of the crowd. The whole space seemed to be alive with the anticipation of the coming brawl. Voices called out bets, while others derided their choices. A boy with pale skin who couldn’t be more than ten stood on a barrel on the other side of the roped-off area pointing at whomever called out the loudest. Then he’d repeat the bet along with the caller’s name, yelling it out to a young man with brown skin who stood on the ground next to him scribbling away in a notebook.

  Camille nodded. “Henry’s told me all about it. He knows because he participates sometimes. It sounded like great fun, and I knew that you’d come with me. Violet is a dear, but she doesn’t know the way of the world yet.”

  There had been a time when August would have put Camille in the same category as her sister. Perhaps Camille had been once, but that had been before her world had been uprooted. Before August could respond, the roar of the crowd intensified until hearing anything that was said became impossible. A side door near the ring had swung open, and a very striking man appeared. Shirtless and wearing nothing but breeches and boots, he could only be one of the fighters. He was surrounded by three formidable men who, though very well-dressed, she assumed were there to keep people away from him. His appearance drove the crowd into an almost frenzied state. If it was possible, they became louder and pushed closer to the clearing. As the fighter walked through, bouncing on the balls of his feet, his guards were forced to push back the men who tried to reach for him. The man himself seemed unfazed.

  He sauntered with his shoulders back and his chin held high. There was an arrogance painted across his face that she both admired and detested, as if he knew before the fight even began that he’d walk away the victor. She recognized it for what it was, a necessary ruse needed to intimidate his opponent. Her father had taught them all about swagger, and she’d participated in enough business meetings to see it in practice. The fighter wore the expression well. Even though he couldn’t have yet reached the age of thirty, the confidence made him seem decades wiser. His looks were unabashedly handsome: dark hair slicked back artfully with pomade, cheekbones and a jaw that could have been carved from granite covered in a close-cropped beard, and clear blue eyes with just enough brooding to be remarkable. His chest and arms were roped with muscle, but rather than making him appear common, the effect was startling to her. She found that she couldn’t quite bring herself to look away from him.

  His gaze inspected the crowd on the riser as if he were looking for someone in particular. It passed over her but then came back immediately. She caught her breath as a flicker of awareness tightened in her belly. It almost seemed as if he had recognized her, but she knew that couldn’t be true. She’d only met a seemingly endless series of aristocrats in her fortnight in London. August would remember meeting this man. A slender woman stepped out from behind his strong, wide shoulders, her hand on his arm in a proprietary manner as she drew his attention. She wore a fine gown in a lustrous black that showed off her lithe frame.

  “He’s the favorite.” Camille leaned close to be heard. “And that’s Gabrielle Laurent, the ballet dancer.”

  August had seen her dance the role of Juliet only last week. Madame Laurent was a gorgeous dancer. She didn’t know why she was so surprised to see the woman here. Perhaps it was because this seemed like a base pastime for a woman of such refined talents. However, the man was handsome and obviously popular. It stood to reason that they were a couple.

  “What’s his name?” Her gaze jumped back over to the man, who gently stroked the back of his knuckles across the side of Madame Laurent’s face as she backed away from him with a smile. Her own cheek tingled in a phantom touch.

  Henry must have caught part of their conversation, because he leaned over. “No one knows his name. They call him the Hellion. He started fighting about a year or so ago and hasn’t been beaten yet.”

  She nearly laughed aloud at the ridiculous name. There was no time for a follow-up question, because the cheers started again as his challenger made his way to the ring. The man was at least a decade older, and he seemed harder somehow. His frame was thicker, with bulging sinews of muscle roping his chest, and his eyes were tougher. His appearance didn’t seem to faze the Hellion, who beckoned the older man to step through the ropes and join him in the center of the fighting area.

  Everything that happened next was a blur in the excitement going on around them. The moment Madame Laurent joined them on the riser, the crowd exploded in another cheer of excitement. Apparently, this was the indication to those in the back that the fight would officially begin now. A man with an air of authority stood between the men, but his words were lost in the noise. The fighters listened intently, nodding when he finished speaking. He hadn’t even stepped out of the ropes yet when the older man lashed out, catching the Hellion unaware with a fist to his jaw. The younger man absorbed the blow, pulling himself together and swinging his right fist in an impressive blow that staggered his larger opponent. He followed it up with a series of punches that demonstrated his athleticism. The muscles in his back and arms bunched and flexed beneath his smooth skin as he advanced. August was mesmerized by the beauty of it. She had never seen a man move like that before, so in control of every movement. He swung around, stalking back to his side of the area and giving her a clear view of the blood smearing the older man’s face.

  “This is barbaric.” She thought she’d mumbled the words under her breath, but the gentleman standing next to her gave her a harsh glare as if he had heard and taken personal offense. A cigarette hung loosely from the side of his mouth, and his gaze was hard with censure. A mild panic seized her as she took in the impeccably groomed dark hair and cold gray eyes that belonged to none other than the Earl of Leigh. Violet had whispered about how striking he was when they had seen him at the opera last week. It was a beauty stained by wickedness, though enhanced might be the word many would choose. She imagined Lucifer himself would take his exact form if he decided to mingle with mortals.

  Since they hadn’t been introduced, she hoped he wouldn’t recognize her. Offering him a conciliatory nod of her head, she tightened her grip on her cloak and looked away. This had been a horrible mistake. She quickly did a skim of the other people on the riser but did not recognize anyone else.

  Meanwhile, the drama in the ring continued to unfold; the fighters circled each other, feinting right and left and exchanging blows. It was becoming clear that the Hellion had the advantage as the larger man huffed and puffed with exertion. Despite his lead, the younger wasn’t without injury. A drip of blood from his left brow ran down his face. It did nothing to hinder his look of cocky assurance. In fact, it somehow enhanced it. He’d taken his punches, and he still moved as if he hadn’t been touched. There was something surprisingly attractive about that. She found herself silently urging him to win the match.

  She faintly registered the sound of a whistle of some sort, but it was off in the distance. It had nothing to do with the fight before her. The Hellion swung and the large man grimaced, taking a solid punch right in his gut. The look of anger and grim determination he’d worn in the beginning had given way to resignation. Still he fought
back, but the Hellion blocked his swing and landed a blow to the other man’s jaw, sending him backward. The crowd roared.

  “He’s done it!” Camille squealed, caught up in the excitement. The thrill was contagious, because August smiled despite herself. The crowded riser quaked beneath her feet with the celebrations of the people all around her. They must have all wagered on him, because not one of them seemed to be upset with the way the fight was turning out.

  She couldn’t pull her eyes from him. He walked around the perimeter of the roped-off area with his hands in the air and a smile that lit his entire face. She didn’t precisely know if he’d won yet, but the larger man was lying still on the ground with someone bent over him. Behind her a man yelled to a friend on the other end of the riser. The friend yelled back happily, causing the man to push his way through the mass of bodies, and the crowd swelled and contracted around him. A beefy hand landed solidly in the middle of her back. Unfortunately, August had been too caught up watching the fighter to pay close attention to where she was, so when the crowd swelled outward, she was pushed dangerously close to the edge of the platform. Her shriek was swallowed up in the excitement. She turned to reach for Camille, or Henry, or even the earl, but her fingers closed on air as her heeled boots scrambled for purchase on the wood and she fell back. She was dimly aware of the harsh scrape of the rope against the cloak on her shoulder as she closed her eyes to brace for an impact that never came.

  Strong hands caught her under her arms as her back leaned into a solid chest. When she would have fallen to the straw-covered floor, a man had saved her just in time. He half supported her until she could get her legs under her and find solid footing on the ground. Then he turned her to face him with the ropes between them, his arms around her waist to hold her indecently close to him.