Forever a Lord. Delilah Marvelle
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less.”
Yardley’s dark brows rose. “Ten rounds or less?” He let out a low whistle. “I would hate to get into a fight with you.” He shifted closer. “If boxing is truly your snuff, Uncle, London is the place to be. ’Tis incredibly popular with the masses. Especially the aristocracy. Many of the men I went to Oxford with were always betting on the fights. I never cared for the sport myself, per se, but you, as a pugilist, would feel like a horse at the derby.”
“Yardley.” The duke glared. “You are digressing.”
“I am not.” Yardley glared back. “I am trying to get this man to London. What are you doing in your attempt? Grouching? Hardly helpful.”
It was like listening to two butchers arguing over who had the better cut.
“If he does come to London,” the duke continued with a huff, “it will be to take on his duty as lord. Not become the next champion of England by smashing in the faces of others. Whoever heard of such a thing? The aristocracy would faint.” The duke muttered something else, strode over to a sideboard and grabbed up a leather pocketbook. “How much money do you need, Atwood, until we see you again? Did you still want that thousand?”
Coleman would have gladly taken a thousand but it felt wrong exploiting his sister’s family—his family—that way. “Twenty dollars will do.” That would at least buy enough informants to help Matthew hunt down those girls.
“Twenty? Don’t be absurd. The cheapest ticket to cross the ocean to get to us will cost you almost ten.”
“You asked me how much I wanted and I’m telling you. Twenty. There is no need to insult what I consider to be a lot of money.”
The duke paused, pulled out a banknote and tossed the pocketbook onto the sideboard, his silvery hair glinting in the candlelight. Striding over, the duke also retrieved a small silver case from his coat pocket. Pulling out a calling card, he held it out, along with the crisp banknote. “You will find us at this address in London.”
“Thank you.” Coleman tugged both loose. Shoving the banknote and card into his pocket, he held out a hand, knowing he ought to be civil. “I appreciate knowing I have someone other than my boys to depend on. I haven’t been able to say that in years.”
His brother-in-law shook his hand and eyed him. “I have something else for you. Before you go.” The duke strode toward the four-poster bed on the other side of the room.
Slipping a hand beneath the pillow and linen, the duke withdrew a leather-bound book which had been fastened closed by a red velvet sash. Fingering it for a long moment, the duke drew in a breath, turned and strode back. “It was Augustine’s diary. Half of it pertains to you. She ceased writing in it when we married. She tried to move on. Despite her trying, she never could. She never did.” The duke blinked back his emotion and held out the diary.
Coleman felt those damn tears assaulting him again. He stared unblinkingly at the leather-bound book.
Although a part of him wanted to refuse it, to keep the past at a distance, he knew that by refusing it, he would be denying himself an opportunity to say goodbye to his sister. He doubted if he’d ever be able to bring himself to read it, but at least he’d be able to hold it until he was ready to go back to London.
Coleman grasped the book, his fingers grazing the soft velvet sash. He stilled, remembering her writing in it. He remembered seeing her dark head intently bent over its pages, writing under a lone candle’s light whilst sitting at her desk in New York. He’d once trudged into her room and had asked her why she kept a stupid diary, to which she had looked up and said, We all have secrets, Nathaniel. I simply happen to write mine down.
He never had to write his down.
He was his own secret.
And damn it all, he couldn’t pretend anymore. He couldn’t pretend he was anything but Viscount Nathaniel James Atwood, the boy who had disappeared at ten. He had spent his whole life waiting for a sign as to what he should do with the secret he had carried for almost thirty years. And here, this, was his sign.
It wasn’t meant to be a secret anymore.
CHAPTER THREE
Why should a man, whose blood is warm within,
Sit like his grandsire cut in alabaster?
—P. Egan, Boxiana (1823)
London, England, February 1831
The Weston House
LADY IMOGENE ANNE NORWOOD traced a lone finger across the window, staring out into the cold, still night. Despite the darkness and shadows, a full moon illuminated the cobblestone street beyond the carriage gates and eerily outlined the oaks that swayed in the wind.
She glanced toward the French clock beside her bed, dimly lit by a single candle. A quarter after two and still no Henry. She doubted if her brother realized how much she worried about him. He smoked like a stove filled to the grates with ashes and spent most of his time watching men box as if seeing blood spray gave him genuine satisfaction.
He used to be so much more. But poor Henry had invested too much into a venture that had left them with nothing. In a desperate effort to erase what had been done, he had then sold his good name of Marquis to the highest female bidder in the aristocracy to save what remained of their lives. It wasn’t as if they had much to begin with.
Imogene couldn’t help but feel responsible for his endless quest for more money. Though she was now nineteen, countless doctors and quacks had paraded in and out of the Weston household since she was seven because of her. And they were anything but free. Neither was the sludgy, healing tonic she was forced to drink with a pinched nose every afternoon at four.
She was tired of being a burden to him.
She was tired of being defined by an illness.
Imogene turned back to the window. Her brother was probably avoiding his wife again. Not that she blamed him. Lady Mary Elizabeth Weston was a floating frock whose constant flaunting of her own wealth sent Henry into a fury. And that didn’t include the rest of the marriage or the whispers about Mary secretly meeting with Lord Banbury.
It was a good thing Mama and Papa had both long since passed and weren’t around to see how miserable Henry was. Each of his poor children had died within the first few months of their lives, and Mary hadn’t been with child since. That was about the time Mary had drifted off into the arms of another.
Life had been anything but kind to her poor brother.
The gates clanged open, making Imogene straighten beside the window. A black lacquered carriage with the Weston crest emblazoned on its doors, rolled through and rounded the graveled path toward the entrance.
Shoving her blond braid over her shoulder, she gathered her robe and nightdress and dashed across the room. Flinging open the bedchamber door, she sprinted down the moonlit corridor, rounding corner after corner and bustled down, down, the main stairwell.
She slid to a halt as the entrance door opened.
A cold wind swept through, setting the candles flickering within the sconces as Henry strode in and stripped his top hat, scattering blond hair across his forehead. Closing the door, he jerked to a halt, startled green eyes settling on her. “Gene. Why are you still up? Are you not feeling well? Do you need me to call for Dr. Filbert?”
“No. I’m fine.” Imogene hurried into his arms and tugged him close, squeezing out the cold clinging to his evening coat. The heavy scent of cigars clung to his clothing. “I couldn’t sleep. Where were you? You reek of cigars.”
“I know. I had one too many.” He patted her head with gloved hands and pulled away. “There was a boxing exhibition over at Bloomsbury. I stayed to the end.”
“Another boxing exhibition?” She sighed. “I keep telling you, ’tis a waste of respectability and time.”
“It