“The Pugilistic Society?”
“Too much talking, not enough hitting.”
Casper splashed his tender skin. “Much like the House of Lords.” And winced as Hawkins aided him into his shirt.
Built like a bloody great bull, you’d expect the club owner to be an ungainly gollumpus but instead he’d a supple grace and rapid movement that astounded the eye.
A previous champion prize fighter, yet with only three decades to his name, Hawkins had put his winnings to good use like a few of his other cohorts, but this pugilist stood out for his lessons on balance and coordination, and when Casper had first arrived, he’d found the exercise calming within the turmoil of his world. The concentration of vision, regulated breath and his focus on alertness also aided Casper’s whirling mind.
Except today.
Perhaps being cooped up in the study – a sanctum no longer – had befuddled his thoughts and a short outing with Evelyn might give a clarity and freshness, release some…tension. Of course, he’d have to rearrange a few appointments – no mean feat, but it could be done.
“Where would you take a woman for an agreeable outing, Hawkins?” he asked abruptly, not wishing to seek Ernest’s advice as he’d likely chortle his pantaloons off. Uncle would be no better, and in any case, he’d been sporting a kilt this morning complete with sporran.
Hawkins…chortled, damn them all, a deep rumble that emerged from the depths. “You’re asking a fellow whose wife left him for a highwayman.”
Casper hadn’t known that. “Well, at least you might have learned what not to do.”
“I should clout your other eye for that, but since a woman’s giving you trouble anyhow… Take her somewhere thatshewould enjoy, not just you. That’s what I do with my daughter when she gives me earache. I take her to Astley’s circus, and she forgets her grievance…sometimes.”
“I’m not sure a girl of thirteen years and a grown woman are alike in that manner, but I see your meaning.” Not that he’d know as he couldn’t remember his last outing forenjoyment. And escorting Cousin Lydia to the apothecary did not count. “By the by, how is your daughter?”
Hawkins tilted his head to the slender girl in petticoats belting nine bells out of a straw effigy in another corner of the room. “Still wants to be the next Stokes.”
“Who?”
“Female boxer back ninety years or so. Championess of England. I’ve tried telling her that most punters only go to see women box for the titillation but…” The straw effigy burst from its moorings and flew across the room. “…damn, she’s good.”
“Perhaps, you should set up a small club for women.” Casper thought of the brutish landlord at Evelyn’s lodgings, of other ladies who’d been similarly cowed. “More in the style of manual defence.”
“Hmm, an unusual idea and not sure there’d be a call, but I’ll give it some thought,” said Hawkins, throwing on a waistcoat. “I’ve also tried to acquire a governess for her, to give her other options in life, but not many want to work above a Boxing Academy. I’ve had three applicants, so far. One cursed fouler than me, one flashed her dumplings, and the other said my daughter was unwomanly and should be starved until she put an end to such uncouth behaviour.”
Hell, and Casper thought he was having a difficult week. “Well, I wish you luck in your search. See you as usual next Wednesday?”
Hawkins grinned. “Only if you release that tension some other way. Otherwise, I’ll see you in two days. ‘The more thou damm’st it up, the more it burns.’”
Horatio had been senthome with Pegasus, much to the whelp’s delight, whilst Casper had decided to stride the streets back to Grosvenor on foot. Something he’d not done since…well, his dawn meander with Ernest after the gaming hell, but previous to that, he’d forgotten the pleasure to be had in an early morning London, before the horse leavings had clogged the streets or ladies of fashion bashed wide-brimmed hats.
The dawn sun had abandoned them, leaving an iron grey in its wake, but the early citizens of the city bustled with their business – hawkers setting up stalls and carts delivering the day’s wares on Piccadilly.
He attempted to cogitate upon the estate’s lower-lying fields and whether they could be converted to a hardier crop, but his thoughts kept veering to you know who.
A woman that mere weeks ago he’d termed a conniving harlot – but that description no longer suited.
Survival and fear, he surmised, had driven her to some desperate measure, and little wonder as the doctor had revealed that her sister must have been gravely ill before their arrival to retain such poor health – that vibrant existence could have been snuffed out before the young Artemisia had even begun to live.
What secrets did Evelyn hold close?
He still yearned to know if a second portrait existed, whether perhaps she’d seen it or if he’d been solely chasing a dream.
And yet the revealing of Evelyn’s secrets would no doubt herald her departure, and Casper wasn’t sure he wished for that quite yet…
Evelyn was at the root of it all.
Desire engulfed him whenever he lingered in her presence, but she also engendered a dangerous need within him – for her warm compassion, bold words and tacit understanding, their shared appreciation of art easing the loneliness he felt on occasion.
Always Evelyn. Beguiling his mind and compromising his restraint.
