Page 91 of Snapdragons
Niles reached up and ran his fingers through what remained of it: about two inches of hair all around. It wasn’t fashionable, but it was the safest way to go into a fight. “Thank you, Wilson,” he said.
“Don’t get yourself killed in this fight, and I will consider myself well thanked.”
Niles rose from his chair, brushing the straggling bits of cut hair off his head. “Have you grown so attached to me, Wilson?”
“No, sir.” Wilson’s very direct manner of addressing them all was an endless source of hilarity. “But you’re important to Lord Jonquil, and it’s now my life’s mission to look after the people hecares about.”
“Look what we have for you.” Kes set a twine-wrapped parcel on the dressing table.
Niles looked at them all, nervous and curious all at once.
“It’s nothing bad,” Aldric said. “Open it.”
That was good enough for Niles. He untied the twine and peeled back the paper. Inside was a pair of yellow pantaloons and a black sash, precisely like those he’d always worn when fighting as the Cornish Duke.
“You didn’t come to Yorkshire intending to fight,” Henri explained, “so we felt certain you don’t have your yellows with you.”
“I don’t.” Niles had assumed he’d be fighting in the worn-out riding breeches he’d selected for the purpose. “How did you know where to find them?” He’d not given any instructions. Perhaps his valet had assisted.
“We had them made,” Aldric explained. “Marston provided your measurements.”
Niles held the yellow pantaloons out in front of himself.
“The Cornish Duke rises again,” Lucas said with a grin.
“Let us hope His Grace isn’t rising simply to fall on his face.” Niles took the black sash from the bundle, hardly believing he was doing this again. “So much more is riding on it now than in the past.”
“That’s why you’re going to go out there and give the Bath Butcher the hardest fight of his career.” Aldric held his gaze, firm and unwavering. “Just stepping into the ring earns you £100. That gives you options, Puppy.”
He’d been telling himself that all morning. That £100 wouldn’t eliminate all the obstacles between himself and Penelope. And it wouldn’t fix things immediately. But he could purchase the estate he’d been saving for and start his time in Parliament. He would save his income from that estate. Penelope would save asmuch of Fairfield’s profits as she could. In a few years, they’d have enough for him to sell his estate and purchase something closer to Fairfield. They would finally be together, building the life they dreamed of.
Butwinningthe fight would change the calculations. Property near her would be almost within his means. Months, perhaps a year, and they would have enough.
He’d decided to believe in miracles, and believing meant doing his utmost to bring about another one.
As the time for the fight drew near, Niles changed into the yellow pantaloons his friends had procured for him. Wilson and Digby helped him tie the black sash around his waist, carefully tucking the ends under so there would be nothing for his opponent to grab hold of.
The Cornish Duke always fought with yellow dots painted on his face—ten on each cheek, forming inverted triangles. It was a nod to the banner of the actual Duke of Cornwall but without copying it exactly. Stanley had been the first to suggest the affectation, not merely because it was appropriate for Niles’s moniker, but also because it made him more difficult to recognize outside the ring. It had worked brilliantly.
Stanley had painted the yellow dots on Niles’s face for his very first foray as the Cornish Duke. It had become tradition in the years since, whenever the Gents had helped Niles prepare for a fight, for them to take turns painting the yellow dots. It was a reminder that though Niles had lost Stanley, had lost his most ardent and unwavering source of support and encouragement, he wasn’t alone. He had the best friends a fellow could ask for. It gave him confidence and reassurance.
Marston had created the yellow paint Niles needed for that day’s fight, something he’d been doing for a decade. The Gents, in turn, painted the dots on Niles’s face.
“How are you feeling?” Henri asked as they undertook theritual.
“Determined,” Niles said. “I know the odds are not in my favor, but the odds were decidedly against a pure white stallion being at the Hamblestead fair.”
“Your Penny got her miracle,” Lucas acknowledged as he finished painting the last of the yellow dots.
Niles stood. He rolled his neck, shook the tension from his arms, and squared his shoulders. “Now I’m going to go fight for mine.”
The Gents offered final words of encouragement before slipping out of the inn. Niles would remain behind for a time in order to arrive separate from them so his identity would be harder to ascertain. Even in the silence left behind, their support remained with him, buoying him as he faced what was likely both the most important fight of his career and the last.
“I believe in miracles,” he said. “I believe in Penny. I believe inus.” He bounced a little with pent-up tension and energy, the way he always did before a fight. This time, though, he felt more focused. And he felt more confident, despite being inarguably outmatched.
Pugilists were meant to arrive at the ring with a second, not entirely unlike duelists on the field of honor. The Cornish Duke was known not to do so. The oddity had been attributed to a quirk of the already unusual boxer. Truth was, Niles couldn’t risk his identity being known to any more people, and none of the Gents could fill that role.
He made the long walk entirely on his own from a side door at the inn, across a wide field, toward the din of the crowd. It was a lonely journey he knew well. He had kept his courage up during previous walks to the ring by reminding himself he was getting that much closer to claiming his dreams of owning an estate and serving in Parliament. During this solo trek, Penelope filled his mind. Winning this purse would mean they could be togethersooner, with less waiting or struggling ahead of them. It was an opportunity fate wouldn’t offer again.
