Leah sank back into the chair as Lady Chesterfield continued.

“Is it not possible that your feelings were magnified by your difficult position? Should you not pursue what you had desired in order to discover its worth?” The woman grasped Leah’s hands. “I only wish to assist you, dear. And I would be very remiss indeed if I allowed you to set your cap for a valet when you could have snared a duke.”

Doubt began to creep into the edges of Leah’s consciousness. She’d really enjoyed Avery’s kiss, she knew that. But was it because she was so desperate for this to work? Was it because she was scared and lonely, and she’d mistaken his kindness to her for something else? Or was it because she was afraid to put herself out there and be rejected again?

Her grandfather would never let her relax if she settled for less than the absolute best. Only one way to know.

Her mind made up, Leah gave a tight nod.

“Let’s do this.”

Sixteen

The carriage rolled into the outskirts of Holborn, bearing Avery nearer to the mill. Avery rode up top with the driver, with His Grace comfortable on the inside of the conveyance. Breathing deeply, Avery looked down as the ground rolled along beneath the horses’ feet. He must clear his mind, make himself ready to face his opponent. He must win this match. There was no choice for him.

A playful breeze tossed his hair, at odds with the churning in his guts. Prachett would be at the tourney today. He’d be expecting Avery to spin the match to his specifications. Though Prachett had never paid Avery for his participation in the underhanded dealings, he had forgiven a portion of Avery’s debt.

But now that Avery owed Prachett nothing? He’d fight honestly. And, if all went well, he’d win.

The apothecary had sent a messenger around just before they’d left for Holborn. The medicine for his aunt’s ailment would cost more the next time around, as the ingredients were becoming scarce. It was more critical than ever that he win today’s purse.

They arrived by the ring much before Avery was ready. He disembarked from the carriage with thinly disguised trepidation. Prachett would be here soon. Avery’s needs didn’t matter to Prachett. He wasn’t after the purse; he was after the hundreds, if not thousands, of pounds to be gained from betting on the right man.

“Hoy, Russell,” Jenks, Avery’s bottle man, called from the corner of the roped-off square that would serve as their stage.

“Jenks.” Avery nodded a greeting as he stripped to the waist. The crowds were drawing closer to the ring, each man attempting to get the best vantage for the upcoming brawl. The shouts and raucous laughter did nothing to calm his nerves or fray them. He’d stopped thinking of them as humans. They were cattle, mindless animals that brayed and milled about while he did his duty.

He moved lightly back and forth on his feet, relishing the feel of blood pumping harder through his veins. As he moved, Jenks spoke.

“You’re to face Martin Peters, a young scrapper just come up from Brighton. He lasted near two hours in his last fight, and would have won had Lockston not tripped him so underhanded-like. He’ll be spoiling for a tough ’un, s’truth.”

Avery nodded. “Then we shall give him what he asks for.”

Jenks laughed, tossing a rag over his shoulder. “That’s it, m’lad. His Grace will be glad of that, and the rest of the Fancy too, I’ll wager. Becoming quite their darling, you are.”

Jenks walked away from him then, leaving Avery to his exercises.

The earth was damp beneath his feet. Fortunately the rains had stopped early the day prior, or his bout would have been a much colder, more inhospitable affair. As it was, his breath fogged from his mouth and nose as he stretched his limbs.

Closing his eyes, he bent forward to stretch his spine. As it always did, the image of his mother leaped unbidden to his mind. He did not try to stop the horrendous memory from playing out, as he used to. Experience had taught him that was a useless endeavor.

They’d been delivering a meal to an elderly woman in the parish. On their return, his mother had looked at him and smiled.

“Do you know why I love you so, Avery?”

He’d grinned, looking up into his mother’s face. “No, why?”

She’d laid a comforting hand on his back, rubbing softly. “Because you are kind and good. You help me to remember to smile.”

She’d hugged him close to her side, and he breathed her in deeply. He’d been so young then.

The brigand had come upon them only moments later. The wild-eyed man had grabbed his mother’s basket, spilling the food over the roadway. His mother screamed, grabbing for her young son. But Avery had ripped free of his mother’s grasp to leap upon the man and defend her.

She’d fallen so quickly. The sharp crack of her skull on the rock haunted him even now.

And here he was again, ready to fight another man. It seemed that he killed her anew every time he stepped into the square to fight.

But this time, his violence ensured his aunt’s survival. It was his atonement for his mother’s death. He could never bring her back, but he could keep his aunt, her only sister, alive for her.

A prickle of warning spread across his shoulders, and he turned. Of course. Prachett approached, flanked by two of his men. The menacing smile on Prachett’s face boded ill. Avery stood silent, filling his broad chest with air. Calm. He must remain calm.

“Russell.” Prachett’s voice slid over Avery like grease. “’Tis good to see you here.”

Avery said nothing.

“It has been much too long since you’ve been among us. Peters is a newcomer and lost his first. You know where the bets will fall today, don’t you, lad?”

Avery shook out his fists, wishing he could use them to pummel Prachett into the dirt instead of young Peters.

“The right people are betting against you. And you must make sure that they win.”

Avery stilled, spearing Prachett with a look. “I cannot throw the match. The purse is too—”

Prachett’s laugh cut him off. “Oy, Russell, you lost your purse when you refused to fight today. I had to pay my men to convince you. You’ll fight, and you’ll lose, and your life is the only prize you’ll claim.” Prachett stepped close, his men shadowing him. “If you wish to live, you’ll make sure to allow Peters the victory. If you do not…” The glint of a knife flashed, and a sharp prick lanced his side. Avery froze, impotent anger crushing over him. “Peters will win. And make it look good, lad. I have use for you later, so I should hate to leave your body for the dogs tonight.”

The knife disappeared, and Prachett and his lackeys walked away.

With a roar, Avery plunged his fist into the earth. The crowd cheered at such an expression of violence and rage. He ignored it, focused only on his impossible predicament.

He must win, for his aunt to survive. He must lose to keep his own life. Avery slammed his eyes shut and shoved himself upright. What a damnable mess. There was no answer, no way out of this conundrum.

“Russell?” The duke’s voice pierced his confusion. “Is all well?”

Avery dragged a heavy breath through his lungs. “Yes, Your Grace. My apologies.”

The elderly duke nodded. “Many of the Fancy are counting on you today, my lad. Give us a good showing.” He gave a smile, then strolled toward his private viewing box. The rest of the Fancy, tonnish ladies and gentlemen who supported and enjoyed the fights, were spread around him, all too eager to enjoy the bout with the Duke of Granville.

His employer wanted him to win. He needed to win. But Prachett would kill him for it. A dark grin spread across Avery’s face. He knew what he had to do.

All too soon, it was time for his match. Jenks and Tarley, Avery’s knee-man, huddled in the corner for a quick word.

“He’s favoring ’is right side as he moves. Mayhap an old injury. Pound him there and you’ll be home for an early supper.”

Thanking Jenks for his advice, Avery turned to his adversary.

The boy was young, a half-score years his junior. Tall and muscled, he was fairer than a day in June. Must have been of Scandinavian descent.

His young opponent spat in the dirt before offering Avery a respectful nod.

Avery returned the gesture, and both raised their bare knuckles into the traditional fighter’s stance.

The fight master called them to order, and then they were off.

Avery circled his opponent calmly, looking for an opening in the young man’s defenses. It was easy to discern from Peters’s movements that he’d been trained by Jackson, who was highly regarded as the master of fighting. A dark smile crossed Avery’s lips.

This boy may have been trained by Jackson, but Avery had been nursing hellfire in his soul. Letting his baser nature take control, he grunted at the impact of the boy’s fist. First blow was done.

Avery’s own knuckles connected.

Peters staggered backward as the throng roared. Regaining his feet, Peters rushed toward Avery again. The valet was ready for him and used his opponent’s forward momentum to deliver a blow to his midsection.

Peters coughed but returned a punch of his own to the side of Avery’s head, leaving his ears ringing like cathedral bells.

Avery shook his head as Peters staggered off him, gathering his senses. This would not be a simple fight, so he must collect his thoughts and plan.

The fight wound on, the combatants trading blow for blow, the crowd jeering and celebrating by turns, and Avery growing more and more weary.

He dodged a blow that Peters aimed at his face and laid one across the chin. Peters grunted in pain, spitting blood. His right arm sagged as he coughed.

Sensing his opening, Avery pounced. Right, left, one after the other, blows rained down on Peters’s right side. Across the ribs, the hip, the belly, the shoulder, Avery peppered his opponent with vicious jabs. Jenks had been right. Peters went down only seconds later.

Sides heaving with exertion, Avery stood over the man. The cheers surrounded him, yells and whistles of approval coming from all angles.

Except for one.

In one corner of the ring, Prachett stood silent, murder in his gaze.

* * *

Leah smiled so hard she thought her face would break. She had never felt so pretty in her whole damned life.

“Oh, miss,” Muriel breathed, face glowing with approval, “you look lovely!”

The creamy-white gown flowed down Leah’s hips, cascading in soft falls of muslin to the floor. Leah looked down, past the demure square neckline with just a hint of cleavage, past the empire waist to the lace-trimmed hem. Taking a deep breath, which was hard because of the whalebone and lace corset that Lady Chesterfield had insisted she wear instead of the modern Lycra and plastic one she’d brought with her, she smiled at the maid.

“Thank you so much, Muriel. Jamie told me so much about you, and it’s so good to finally meet you.” Leah hugged the girl, who stiffened in shock, but then relaxed into an awkward pat on Leah’s back.

It was just so great to be out of the hell of servants’ quarters that Leah kept hugging Muriel anyway.

“It’s my duty, miss.” Muriel pulled away with a self-conscious smoothing of her apron. “Now, Lady Chesterfield wishes for you to present yourself downstairs. Her sister, Miss Stapleton, will be joining you for tea.”

“Great,” Leah said. It’d be nice to meet Lady Chesterfield’s family if they were as great as she was. From the moment Leah had stepped into the house, she’d felt like an honored guest. It was a wonderful change from scrubbing fireplaces and emptying chamber pots.

Muriel led Leah down the hallway toward the stairs. As she passed family portraits, smaller than those in the duke’s home but no less impressive, she wondered about Avery. She’d overheard Mrs. Harper talking about the duke’s journey. Had Avery gone with him? It would be so much easier if she could just send him a quick text to check on him. Sighing to herself, she descended the stairs and entered the drawing room. She’d spent the last few days convincing herself Avery’s kiss was a fluke. She had a different destiny to chase…and Avery’s broad shoulders and warm hands weren’t part of it.

“Ah, here she is.” Lady Chesterfield rose in a flurry of rose-colored lace and feathers. Leah was beginning to wonder about all the poor little birds that were running around in the buff because of her patroness.