Page 90 of Counting on a Countess
All of Tamsyn’s nostalgia and hurt faded. She needed all her focus for this. “When’s the delivery?”
“In a week and a half,” Ben answered. His brow wrinkled. “Since you were in London, I was going to let the captain know we’d have to give this shipment a miss. But if you’re here now...”
Though she’d sold the goods in London, the village always needed more. The school needed a new roof, and some of the fishermen’s cottages required repair. “Tell him that we’ll have a landing party ready,” she said decisively.
“Aye, I will.” Ben peered at her. “Begging your pardon, but when we all heard you’d wed a London nobleman, many of us thought we’d never see you again.”
“The villagers were the reason I married. And you should know,” she said firmly, “I’ll always take care of Newcombe.”
He smiled, his face creasing into numerous furrows. “‘Miss Tamsyn won’t let us starve. She’s the backbone of the village.’ So I said at the Tipsy Flea.” He glanced up at the sun. “Day’s moving apace. I’ll make certain that the captain knows to go ahead with the next delivery. See you anon.”
He urged his mule on, and Tamsyn did the same with Jupiter. The horse soon outpaced the cart, and she was alone again on the road to the village.
Weariness dragged along her body, but she couldn’t give in to it. Her responsibilities never ended, and she had to dip back into her reserves to ensure that everything and everyone was taken care of.
Not for the first time, she wished she didn’t have to shoulder all her burdens alone. Yet now she found herself longing for someone specific.
Kit could always tease a smile from her. He’d showed her the joy there was to be had in life. But all that he’d given her was just part of a scheme, a means by which he could get what he wanted. She’d surrendered her heart to him and in turn he’d thought of her as someone to be manipulated.
Yet she couldn’t stop the ache in her chest when she thought of him. She missed him—even if what they had shared had been based on falsehoods.
Chapter 22
Blood sprayed as the heavyweight’s fist connected with his opponent’s jaw. The crowd shouted its approval, clapping and hooting as the challenger staggered from the force of the blow. The air was thick with the smell of gin and sweat and fetid river water as nearly a hundred men packed themselves around the makeshift boxing ring that had been set up in an old Wapping warehouse.
Kit dispassionately watched the fight, wondering what time it was, and how soon he could reasonably excuse himself from Langdon’s company so he might go home.
Yet home was just a large house in Mayfair that contained himself and a cadre of servants. No life existed there. No brightness or joy or energy. It had become simply a place to sleep and eat in between his forays to London’s amusements.
He observed the men in the boxing ring, and barely suppressed a yawn as the opponent sank to his knees before sprawling face-first onto the ground. The heavyweight raised his fists in triumph while the crowd’s yells of approval poured over him. Two men dragged away the challenger, leaving a smear of blood on the ground.
“The next match should be a rollicking good one,” Langdon shouted to Kit above the din. “‘Murderer’ John Grundie versus ‘Bulldog’ Smythe. Last time they fought, it went thirty-one rounds and ended in a brawl that erupted among the audience.” He rubbed his hands together in anticipation.
“Wonderful.” Kit couldn’t keep the dismay from his voice. Thirty-one rounds would stretch on interminably.
“I can’t wait to see your excitement when I suggest a visit to a barber surgeon.”
“If he gets me drunk before cutting off a limb, I’ll be grateful.” Kit checked his pocket watch. It was shortly before one o’clock in the morning, which was smack in the middle of a rakehell’s day, yet he felt ineffably tired.
Langdon frowned. “How long has she been gone?”
Kit didn’t bother asking whoshewas. “A week. Imagine she’s in Cornwall by now. At home and happy.” Which he wasn’t.
“And you’ve no idea when she’s returning.”
“I didn’t press her on the subject.” The day she had left, he’d gone into her room, drawn by a need he didn’t want to examine. Ice had covered his chest when he found the necklace he’d bought her sitting atop her dressing table. His wife had left it behind. “She said she’d return to give me the heir I need.”
Langdon shook his head. “Bad business all around.”
“I know it,” Kit said wearily.
The throng yelled eagerly as two new pugilists entered the ring. Kit didn’t know who was Grundie and who was Smythe, but as he had no money on the fight, it didn’t matter to him. The preliminaries before the match went quickly, and in a trice, the pugilists were beating the stuffing out of each other. Whoever these men were, they seemed to be made of iron as they took punch after punch without going down.
Kit had once enjoyed attending these boxing matches with Langdon. The gin flowed freely and he’d bet with abandon. Now, it all seemed brutal and pointless.
“There’s no possibility she’ll give you the nine thousand pounds,” Langdon pressed.
“None,” Kit replied flatly. “She said it was a terrible idea and a waste of money.”
