between his teeth, the gent stuck out a white gloved hand. “The name is Lord Weston. But I prefer you just call me Weston. You go by the name of Coleman, yes?”
Nathaniel eyed that hand but didn’t take it. He wasn’t stupid. “What do you want from me, Weston? ”
“I want your boxing skills in a ring. Because I’m beyond impressed.” Weston blew out a cloud of smoke in Nathaniel’s direction and pointed with the cigar toward the narrow, lantern-lit entrance. “How about you and I go to a local pub and talk?”
Nathaniel’s nostrils flared from the acrid stench of smoke penetrating his throat. He hated cigars. They reminded him of his days in the cellar. “Put out the cigar first. It agitates me.”
The man paused and pointed at him. “Don’t overstep your bounds, boy. I’ll smoke if I want to. I’m the one making the offer here, not you.”
“Is that so?” Nathaniel snatched the cigar from that gloved hand and dashed it out on his well-calloused knuckles, the burning sting brief but welcome. “There goes your offer.” He tossed the cigar at the man, letting it bounce off his waistcoat. “I don’t do business with assholes.”
Swinging away, Nathaniel muttered to himself about the rudeness of people and strode toward the crate where he kept his great coat whenever he came to train and box.
Weston veered in again and snapped up both gloved hands. “I’ll never smoke in your presence again. Just give me a chance to make an offer. I’ve been meaning to do so for a few days now.”
Nathaniel set his shoulders. There was only one way to know if the man was remotely serious. Nathaniel pointed to the floor on the other side of the lantern-lit timbered room, where men were lining up to spar. “Go in and box for me. I’ll watch and we’ll take it from there.”
Weston’s brows rose. “What?”
“Do you even know what you’re looking to invest in? I want you to show me you know how to box. Go on.”
A rumble of a laugh escaped the man. “I know what I’m looking to invest in. I’ve been part of the local boxing crowd since I was twenty. Ask around. People know who I am. There is no need for you to—”
“I don’t care if they know who you are. All I care about is whether you’re willing to box in the name of impressing me.”
Weston eyed him. “I’m more of what you call a spectator and have only ever boxed over at Jackson’s with a few peers of mine. Not—” He waved rigidly toward the unshaven, unbathed, half-dressed local men crowding for a chance at another fight.
Nathaniel widened his stance, determined to make his point. “I’m not asking you to win, Weston boy. I’m asking you to prove that you’re willing to take the same hits I am. A man who isn’t even willing to put himself into the ring isn’t someone I care to trust or go into business with or hand over my boxing career to. You decide what matters most. Your nose or the offer.”
This was about when most investors skidded out, which had only ever pleased Nathaniel. Rich investors had no qualms about taking advantage of boxers and Nathaniel knew better than to jump at every offer.
Weston glanced back over at the gruff, well-muscled men lining up. “Apparently, the devil has a sense of humor.” Casually removing his top hat, he handed it to Nathaniel. “Here. Hold this for me.”
Nathaniel hesitated and took the top hat. This was new. Wealthy men usually weren’t keen about getting their own blood on their shirts. At least not the wealthy Americans he was used to dealing with back in New York. He couldn’t help but feel a renewed sense of respect for the aristocracy. He didn’t realize they took their investments so seriously.
Weston removed his gloves from his hands and undid his cravat, stuffing everything into the top hat Nathaniel still held. Removing his coat, waistcoat and linen shirt, the man revealed a fit frame that bespoke many hours doing some sort of sport.
Weston draped the clothes
Nathaniel eyed that hand but didn’t take it. He wasn’t stupid. “What do you want from me, Weston? ”
“I want your boxing skills in a ring. Because I’m beyond impressed.” Weston blew out a cloud of smoke in Nathaniel’s direction and pointed with the cigar toward the narrow, lantern-lit entrance. “How about you and I go to a local pub and talk?”
Nathaniel’s nostrils flared from the acrid stench of smoke penetrating his throat. He hated cigars. They reminded him of his days in the cellar. “Put out the cigar first. It agitates me.”
The man paused and pointed at him. “Don’t overstep your bounds, boy. I’ll smoke if I want to. I’m the one making the offer here, not you.”
“Is that so?” Nathaniel snatched the cigar from that gloved hand and dashed it out on his well-calloused knuckles, the burning sting brief but welcome. “There goes your offer.” He tossed the cigar at the man, letting it bounce off his waistcoat. “I don’t do business with assholes.”
Swinging away, Nathaniel muttered to himself about the rudeness of people and strode toward the crate where he kept his great coat whenever he came to train and box.
Weston veered in again and snapped up both gloved hands. “I’ll never smoke in your presence again. Just give me a chance to make an offer. I’ve been meaning to do so for a few days now.”
Nathaniel set his shoulders. There was only one way to know if the man was remotely serious. Nathaniel pointed to the floor on the other side of the lantern-lit timbered room, where men were lining up to spar. “Go in and box for me. I’ll watch and we’ll take it from there.”
Weston’s brows rose. “What?”
“Do you even know what you’re looking to invest in? I want you to show me you know how to box. Go on.”
A rumble of a laugh escaped the man. “I know what I’m looking to invest in. I’ve been part of the local boxing crowd since I was twenty. Ask around. People know who I am. There is no need for you to—”
“I don’t care if they know who you are. All I care about is whether you’re willing to box in the name of impressing me.”
Weston eyed him. “I’m more of what you call a spectator and have only ever boxed over at Jackson’s with a few peers of mine. Not—” He waved rigidly toward the unshaven, unbathed, half-dressed local men crowding for a chance at another fight.
Nathaniel widened his stance, determined to make his point. “I’m not asking you to win, Weston boy. I’m asking you to prove that you’re willing to take the same hits I am. A man who isn’t even willing to put himself into the ring isn’t someone I care to trust or go into business with or hand over my boxing career to. You decide what matters most. Your nose or the offer.”
This was about when most investors skidded out, which had only ever pleased Nathaniel. Rich investors had no qualms about taking advantage of boxers and Nathaniel knew better than to jump at every offer.
Weston glanced back over at the gruff, well-muscled men lining up. “Apparently, the devil has a sense of humor.” Casually removing his top hat, he handed it to Nathaniel. “Here. Hold this for me.”
Nathaniel hesitated and took the top hat. This was new. Wealthy men usually weren’t keen about getting their own blood on their shirts. At least not the wealthy Americans he was used to dealing with back in New York. He couldn’t help but feel a renewed sense of respect for the aristocracy. He didn’t realize they took their investments so seriously.
Weston removed his gloves from his hands and undid his cravat, stuffing everything into the top hat Nathaniel still held. Removing his coat, waistcoat and linen shirt, the man revealed a fit frame that bespoke many hours doing some sort of sport.
Weston draped the clothes
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