Page 4 of Would I Lie to the Duke
“I keep my promises, Cyn.”
Jess’s planhadto work. Her family counted on her, and she couldn’t let them down.
Chapter 2
London
Over the years, Noel had learned a very important lesson: there was no better test of a friend’s loyalty than a bout inside a boxing ring. Only members of his closest circle would ever attempt to punch him. The hangers-on, the lackeys, and the sycophants would never be so bold.
Noel ducked to avoid McCameron’s right cross, but just barely. He countered with a hook to the body—which his friend blocked before quickly firing a counter jab to Noel’s jaw. This time, the punch connected, and stars erupted.
“Go gentle on the bloke,” Curtis called from beside the ring. “Dukes have porridge for muscles.”
“Not...this... sodding duke,” Noel managed to gasp as he struggled to keep his feet.
Blast him, McCameron was barely winded, but then he’d always had a ridiculous amount of athletic prowess, and while Noel sparred with his friend thrice weekly, McCameron would always be the better sportsman. It hardly seemed fair—except Noel wasa duke with no fewer than eight homes, was a trusted confidant to Lord Liverpool, and possessed more wealth than three archbishops combined, while McCameron drew a second son’s modest allowance along with a pension from years of service in His Majesty’s army. So, there was a measure of balance.
Still, when Noel attempted to throw a left cross, the punch went wide.
McCameron took a step back and held up his wrapped hands. “You’re fit to be knocked on your arse,” he said in his burr. “Time for a rest. At the very least,” he added when Noel began to argue, “it will give me a moment’s pause so I can collect myself before you give me the drubbing I deserve.”
“Don’t... flatter me.”
Yet Noel had to bend down and rest his hands on his thighs to make his head stop spinning.
“I’m not,” McCameron replied easily. “You receive plenty of flattery from the droves that follow you hither and yon across London.”
True enough. “Just ten minutes,” Noel said. “Then we’re back at it.”
“Whatever you wish, Your Grace,” McCameron said with a smirk.
“If I could move,” Noel replied, “I’d make a very rude hand gesture right now.”
“Like this?” Curtis demonstrated, throwing up two fingers, proving that when he wasn’t in court, defending his clients, he was still as rowdy as he’d been back at Eton.
“The very one,” Noel said.
He and McCameron climbed out of the ring to join Curtis, who offered them each a wet towel. Noel tugged the wrappings off his wrists, letting them fall to the ground, before taking the towel and running it across his forehead. He then draped it over his neck. Water seeped down Noel’s back, but he barely noticed, with his loose shirt sticking to his sweat-slicked flesh.
“A glutton for punishment today.” McCameron pulled off his wrappings to push his damp hair from his forehead. “You’re usually in and out of the ring in three quarters of an hour, not two.”
“Have to. It’ll be at least a week before I can return here.” Noel glanced around the pugilism academy, which at this hour of the day was full of gentlemen sparring with each other or else using weighted clubs to condition themselves. The air was sour with sweat, proving that even aristocrats stank. “I need to get my exercise in advance of what will be an almost motionless five days at the Bazaar.”
Curtis tilted his head to one side. “What’s this Bazaar?”
“I tell you every year,” Noel said with exasperation.
“And every year I forget.”
“This from the man who represents two dozen clients at a time.” Noel shook his head. “The Bazaar is five days where select people of gentle birth and deep coffers gather at the Marquess of Trask’s home to discuss investment opportunities. Trask brings in a highly curated group of ambitious men—and a few women—of business, who seek capital to fund the growth of their enterprises.”
“Why go?” Curtis asked. “You can’t need the blunt. You’re rich as the sodding Pope.”
“Only a portion of my wealth comes from my land,” Noel answered. “The rest is tied up in investments, stocks, and futures. I like to keep an eye on the fiscal health of my title, and the nation. Don’t snigger, Curtis,” he added when his friend did just that.
“Can’t help it. I doubt there’s a bigger rake in all of London.”
“Of course there isn’t,” Noel answered testily.
