19
Richard sat on the edge of a narrow wooden bench, the air in the boxing club thick with sweat, sawdust. He methodically wrapped strips of linen around his hands, each pull of the cloth a futile attempt to rein in the storm churning inside him. His chest burned with anger. His mind, with betrayal. And his fists itched to make contact with something—anything—that might lessen the ache that words had left behind.
Sleep had eluded him the night before. Every time he shut his eyes, he heard her voice. Saw the look on her face. Theodosia with her careful lies and inscrutable expressions. He had suspected her from the start. Warned himself not to be taken in. And yet... some foolish, idealistic part of him had hoped he was wrong. That she wasn’t what he feared.
“Why do you look like you could commit murder and enjoy it?” a familiar voice cut through the haze.
Richard didn’t bother lifting his head. “Go away, Alcott.”
Lord Alcott crossed his arms and grinned down at him. “Such a warm greeting. You’ve missed me, haven’t you?”
“I didn’t sleep.”
“That much is obvious. Let me guess—your unrest has something to do with a certain companion with lovely green eyes and a talent for deception?”
Richard’s jaw clenched. He finished the last twist of linen around his knuckles and yanked it tight. “I said,go away.”
Unperturbed, Alcott dropped onto the bench beside him. “You forget that I’ve known you since we were boys. I can tell when something is bothering you.”
“And I said I didn’t want to talk about it.”
“Well, then, let’s not talk. Let’s box. You look like you’re moments away from putting your fist through a wall.”
Richard stood and rolled his shoulders. “Fine. I would love an excuse to hit you.”
Alcott chuckled as he followed him towards the chalked ring. “You forget, I survived a French bayonet to the leg. I think I can manage your so-called rage.”
They stepped inside the makeshift ring, squaring off in familiar rhythm. Richard raised his fists, waiting.
Alcott gave him a wry smile. “I propose a game.”
“I loathe games.”
“For every strike that lands, you tell me one thing that’s bothering you.”
“No.”
Alcott’s fist shot out and landed a sharp blow on Richard’s shoulder. “Consider that the opening round.”
Richard swung in retaliation, but Alcott ducked with ease.
“Come now,” Alcott said, circling, “what did she do to deserve this delightful mood of yours?”
“She lied,” Richard growled, landing a solid punch to Alcott’s jaw.
Alcott winced and rubbed the spot, though the amusement never left his eyes. “Didn’t you already suspect that from the beginning? Wasn’t that why you hired her under false pretenses?”
“Yes,” Richard admitted. “But I was hoping I was wrong.”
“And Mr. Smith? He came for her?”
Richard’s next hit landed squarely on Alcott’s chest. “Yes. And she helped him escape.”
“But she didn’t go with him?” Alcott asked, stepping back.
“No,” Richard said, breathing heavier now. “She stayed.”
“Why?”
