“Your Grace, shall I get your bath and nightclothes ready?” his manservant, Grimes, asked, obviously surprised to see him home so early.
Henry shook his head. His mother’s words still stung.
Bastard. Ungrateful.
He seethed with irritation, restless and unsettled, and knew there would be no early sleep tonight.
“Lay out my sporting attire, if you would, Grimes. And I will require a carriage to take me back into town. Anunmarkedcarriage.”
The set of Grimes’s features didn’t alter. “Very good, sir.”
Henry pulled on the aforementioned clothes: a simple tunic, breeches, and boots that, while of good quality, did not immediately mark him as a member of theton. He untied the ribbon from his dark hair and shook the light dusting of powder from it. He glanced in the mirror at his reflection. In the candlelight, and with a grim expression on his face, he looked almost dangerous, the coiled energy just waiting to burst out.
He needed a session at the club. Snatching up his hooded black cloak, he left his rooms and took the back stairs down to the gardens where the unmarked carriage waited for him as requested. Henry rode in silence. He had no need to tell the driver his destination.
The carriage pulled up next to a side alley. Henry alighted and strode through the streets of London with purposeful steps, the crisp night air doing little to cool the irritation simmering within him. The clatter of horses and distant murmur of revelry filtered through the fog, but he paid no mind.
His destination was a modest building on a quiet street, unassuming to the casual observer but well-known among a certain echelon of society. The Plume and Feather, as it was called, catered to gentlemen seeking an escape from the polished world of balls and propriety.
By day, it was a respectable establishment, offering cigars and fine brandy to its patrons. By night, however, its back room came alive with the thud of fists on flesh and the primal roarof men relishing the physicality denied to them in their genteel lives.
Henry nodded curtly to the doorman, who stepped aside without question. He slipped inside, the warmth of the room and the pungent mix of sweat and leather enveloping him like an old coat. He passed the bar without pause and made his way straight for the back room. This was where the real action took place.
The makeshift ring was already occupied by two men circling each other with predatory intensity. Henry recognized one of them as Bramwell, an earl’s wayward second son who had earned himself a reputation as both a scrapper and a rake. The other was his quarry: Malcolm Everard, the illegitimate son of the Duke of Suffolk.
Malcolm, tall and broad-shouldered, moved with a grace that belied his rough-hewn upbringing. Malcolm was a bastard, yes, but in this space, he commanded the same measure of respect that would be afforded a prince.
The bout ended with Bramwell conceding, clutching his ribs and grinning ruefully as he climbed out of the ring.
Malcolm leaned on the ropes, toweling off his sweat. His sharp eyes caught Henry’s approach, and his mouth quirked into a sardonic smile. “Well, if it isn’t the Duke of Arundel. Slumming it tonight?”
Henry bristled but kept his tone light. “Even a duke needs a good thrashing from time to time.”
Malcolm chuckled and tossed the towel aside. “Is that so? Let’s see if you’ve got the stomach for it.”
Moments later, Henry was stripped down to his linen shirt and breeches. He stepped into the ring. The crowd murmured, intrigued by the rare sight of a duke in their midst. Malcolm approached with a pugilist’s stance, his hands raised and his feet nimble.
The first few blows were exchanged with caution, both men sizing each other up. Malcolm fought like a street brawler, his movements fluid and unpredictable, while Henry relied on the technique he had honed at Oxford, where bare-knuckle bouts had been a favored pastime. The clash of styles made for an exhilarating match.
Henry landed a solid punch to Malcolm’s jaw, earning a grunt of surprise and a renewed ferocity. Malcolm retaliated with a quick jab to Henry’s ribs, forcing the duke to step back and reassess. Sweat dripped from their brows as they danced around each other, and the world beyond the ring fell away.
The match ended when Malcolm feinted left and landed a devastating right hook that sent Henry sprawling onto the mat. He lay there for a moment, chest heaving, the dull ache in his jaw a welcome distraction from the torment of his thoughts. Malcolm extended a hand and pulled him to his feet.
“Not bad,” Malcolm said, his tone devoid of mockery. “For a nobleman.”
Henry chuckled, rubbing his sore chin. “And you’re not bad for a bastard.”
The words hung in the air, unintended but undeniable. Malcolm’s face hardened briefly before a wry smile tugged at his lips. “We all have our crosses to bear, don’t we?”
Henry said nothing, but the truth of Malcolm’s words hit too close to home for comfort. Watching Malcolm collect his winnings and exchange banter with the crowd, Henry couldn’t help but reflect on the contrast between their lives. For all Malcolm’s swagger, his illegitimacy marked him out and relegated him to the edges of polite society. But Henry’s secret, if revealed, would destroy him utterly. He wouldn’t be merely ostracized; he would be condemned.
The noose or Newgate.
CHAPTER 3
Lady Charlotte sether jaw and adjusted her shawl, already dreading the discussion she was about to have. Her mother, Lady Eleanor Fitzgerald, sat at her vanity table, arranging the placement of a sapphire pin in her perfectly coiffed silver-streaked hair. Charlotte approached with caution, smoothing her dress and preparing her plea.
“Mother, I must speak with you about the recital this evening.”
