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.
“Dearest Leah, this is Miss Alexandra Stapleton, my eldest sister.” Lady Chesterfield gestured to a woman dressed all in drab brown, who rose with a sour expression.
Leah bobbed a curtsy. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, ma’am.”
Miss Stapleton shot Leah a dirty look. “Amelia, whatever can you be thinking to bring such a creature into your home? Graves has informed me of her previous employment. You cannot present her into society. It would mean your ruination.”
“Oh, rubbish.” Lady Chesterfield plopped down on the cushions. Leah followed, grimacing inwardly while maintaining her polite smile.
“She is a quick study and infinitely clever. She shall take the ton by storm, you mark my words. And none shall doubt her origin once we’ve spread the tale of her relation to my dear Chesterfield.” Lady Chesterfield fluffed her feathered collar.
Leah toed a discarded fluff beneath the tea table, wishing she were a thousand miles—or a hundred and fifty years—away. What if she failed? What if everyone found out that only last week she was nothing more than a dishwashing, dust-clad domestic? She stiffened her spine and laced her fingers together in her lap primly.
Miss Stapleton sniffed. “How can a mere servant, with no position or breeding, possibly masquerade as one of her betters?”
Whoa, nobody discredited Leah’s acting skill. If they wanted to disparage the way she dressed? Fine. The extra weight she’d picked up after the shit with Kevin? Fair game. But her passion for acting was sacrosanct, and she’d be damned if she let a comment like that go without a fight.
“Alexandra, you must give Miss Ramsey a chance to prove herself. She is, well…” Lady Chesterfield took a sip of tea. “She is from a land much more advanced than ours. Also, she is an experienced actress.”
“An actress!”
Lady Chesterfield could have said Leah had shoveled shit for a living and gotten a less horrified response than that.
Miss Stapleton splayed a hand across her nonexistent breasts. “Amelia, how could you sully your home with a woman of her stamp?”
Stamp? Leah scanned her memory, trying to make sense of the overblown reaction. Wait, did this woman think she was a hooker?
