across Nathaniel’s arm and pointed at him. “Don’t take off with my clothes, now. I know which hotel you’re staying at— Limmer’s —and I know who you associate with, including your one-eyed, pistol-toting friend, Matthew Joseph Milton.”
Nathaniel tightened his hold on the top hat and clothes. “Sniffing isn’t a quality I want in an investor.”
Weston leaned in, those green eyes sharpening. “Sniffing is the only quality you want in an investor. It proves that I can protect not only my investment but yours, by thoroughly investigating everything before I put a boot into it. I’ve been bilked out of thousands before, so I damn well ensure I always sniff out every last rotting detail. The only thing that worries me about you, Coleman, is that you already have a reputation for taking meals from investors but never following through. Know one thing separates me from other investors—unlike them, I’m not here to own you. But I am here to make a profit. We’re talking about a quarter of a million pounds if you take the title. And all I’m asking in return for my investment is half.”
Nathaniel stared at the man. It was the first time anyone had ever thought him capable of taking the championship. Winning fights for bets was one thing. Fighting the championship was quite another. Even at half, taking the championship and the money that came with it could do more than change his life. That sort of money could make everyone lick his boots. And after a lifetime of kneeling, it was time to stand. “I’m genuinely intrigued.” Nathaniel thumbed toward the direction of the boxing floor. “Finish impressing me and we’ll talk more about your offer.”
Weston adjusted his trousers on his hips, his features tightening. “It’s my first go at bare-knuckle boxing, but in my opinion, you’re worth the sacrifice.” Staring him down one last time, Weston pushed through the crowd, lining up for the next match.
Nathaniel winced, knowing it was the man’s first go at bare-knuckle boxing. A part of him wanted to stop the poor bastard, but the morbid cynic in him, who had been dirked by too many people, had to see if this man was even worth blinking at.
CHAPTER FIVE
And now, Mr. Editor, I crave your attention
to a few words more, which I trust,
will quench the thirst of…(?)
—P. Egan, Boxiana (1823)
5:07 a.m.
The Weston House
I MOGENE LINGERED BY the rain-slathered window of her bedchamber and stared unblinkingly at the carriage gates that were blurred by the weather and darkness. She glanced toward the French clock. According to her lady’s maid, who had woken her barely minutes ago, the valet was beyond worried. Henry had not yet returned from the milling cove. Although the valet had also roused her sister-in-law, Imogene doubted the woman had even rolled over in concern.
Mother of heaven. Setting a shaky hand to her mouth, she wondered if she should call for Scotland Yard.
The gates unexpectedly clanged open, making her whoosh out a startled breath. A black lacquered carriage rolled through and rounded the graveled path. Henry!
Gathering her robe and nightdress from around slippered feet, she dashed across the room. Flinging open the bedchamber door, she sprinted down the darkened corridor, rounding corner after corner, and pounded down the main stairwell, heading for the entrance door.
Breathing hard against the pounding of her heart, she unbolted the entrance door, flung it open and waited.
The carriage stopped. When the door opened and the steps were unfolded, but no one stepped out, she panicked. Sensing her brother needed her, she dashed out into the rain. Ice-cold, whipping sheets of water stung her face and soaked her robe and nightdress as she hurried toward the stopped carriage that was dimly illuminated by lanterns swinging beside the driver’s seat.
Shoving her way past the footman toward the open door, she skidded against the wet gravel and angled herself closer to see inside the
Nathaniel tightened his hold on the top hat and clothes. “Sniffing isn’t a quality I want in an investor.”
Weston leaned in, those green eyes sharpening. “Sniffing is the only quality you want in an investor. It proves that I can protect not only my investment but yours, by thoroughly investigating everything before I put a boot into it. I’ve been bilked out of thousands before, so I damn well ensure I always sniff out every last rotting detail. The only thing that worries me about you, Coleman, is that you already have a reputation for taking meals from investors but never following through. Know one thing separates me from other investors—unlike them, I’m not here to own you. But I am here to make a profit. We’re talking about a quarter of a million pounds if you take the title. And all I’m asking in return for my investment is half.”
Nathaniel stared at the man. It was the first time anyone had ever thought him capable of taking the championship. Winning fights for bets was one thing. Fighting the championship was quite another. Even at half, taking the championship and the money that came with it could do more than change his life. That sort of money could make everyone lick his boots. And after a lifetime of kneeling, it was time to stand. “I’m genuinely intrigued.” Nathaniel thumbed toward the direction of the boxing floor. “Finish impressing me and we’ll talk more about your offer.”
Weston adjusted his trousers on his hips, his features tightening. “It’s my first go at bare-knuckle boxing, but in my opinion, you’re worth the sacrifice.” Staring him down one last time, Weston pushed through the crowd, lining up for the next match.
Nathaniel winced, knowing it was the man’s first go at bare-knuckle boxing. A part of him wanted to stop the poor bastard, but the morbid cynic in him, who had been dirked by too many people, had to see if this man was even worth blinking at.
CHAPTER FIVE
And now, Mr. Editor, I crave your attention
to a few words more, which I trust,
will quench the thirst of…(?)
—P. Egan, Boxiana (1823)
5:07 a.m.
The Weston House
I MOGENE LINGERED BY the rain-slathered window of her bedchamber and stared unblinkingly at the carriage gates that were blurred by the weather and darkness. She glanced toward the French clock. According to her lady’s maid, who had woken her barely minutes ago, the valet was beyond worried. Henry had not yet returned from the milling cove. Although the valet had also roused her sister-in-law, Imogene doubted the woman had even rolled over in concern.
Mother of heaven. Setting a shaky hand to her mouth, she wondered if she should call for Scotland Yard.
The gates unexpectedly clanged open, making her whoosh out a startled breath. A black lacquered carriage rolled through and rounded the graveled path. Henry!
Gathering her robe and nightdress from around slippered feet, she dashed across the room. Flinging open the bedchamber door, she sprinted down the darkened corridor, rounding corner after corner, and pounded down the main stairwell, heading for the entrance door.
Breathing hard against the pounding of her heart, she unbolted the entrance door, flung it open and waited.
The carriage stopped. When the door opened and the steps were unfolded, but no one stepped out, she panicked. Sensing her brother needed her, she dashed out into the rain. Ice-cold, whipping sheets of water stung her face and soaked her robe and nightdress as she hurried toward the stopped carriage that was dimly illuminated by lanterns swinging beside the driver’s seat.
Shoving her way past the footman toward the open door, she skidded against the wet gravel and angled herself closer to see inside the
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