Page 3 of The Heiress Gets a Duke
“On the contrary. He spoke tomeabout 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 thosedinners,she did not want to know. “I... Only a handful?”
Camille grinned and leaned closer to whisper, “He’stried 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 trisectedthe 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.
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 werelooking 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.
