Page 22 of The Boxing Baroness

“Oi, we’re not done ’ere, Barny,” Jack said. “Can’t it wa—”

“No, it can’t wait,” Barnabas said, already striding impatiently toward the door. “I need to talk to you right now. Also, since you aren’t condescending to join us on our tour, have you found replacements for you and Andy?”

“I’ve been talkin’ to some blokes, but I need to bring ’em in to meet Annie and make—”

“I don’t care. Just get it done.” Farnham snapped his fingers. “Now, come along, I’ve not got all day.”

The huge boxer looked fit to explode at being called to heel like a dog. He opened his mouth, no doubt to deal the other man a proper blistering, but Marianne interrupted him.

“It’s fine, Jack,” she said, sounding mildly amused. “I’m tired.”

The two exchanged a speaking look and Jack nodded before turning back to Farnham. “I need to gather me things.”

“I’ll give you one minute,” the Frenchman snapped. “And then I want you in my office.”

“Bloody ’ell.” Jack shook his head after the other man had stormed off.

“I’m sorry about this.”

“It ain’t your fault, lass,” the huge man rumbled as he untied her mufflers.

“Part of it is. I’ve put you off twice about interviewing your replacement. I can’t seem to make myself do it because I’ll miss you so much. But I know why you’re staying. I promise I’ll meet all your lads and hire somebody before next Friday.” She yanked down his head and gave his cheek a smacking kiss.

Jack was red-faced, but Sin could see he enjoyed her casual affection. “’Ere, ducks.” He held out her petticoat.

“Thank you,” she said, quickly stepping into it. “I’ll put everything away here. You’d better go and talk to Uncle.”

Sin waited until the door closed behind Jack before he stepped out of the gloom. “Good morning, Miss Simpson.”

Chapter 6

Marianne shrieked as she spun around.

The Duke of Staunton stood across from her, dressed in linen as white and fluffy as a cloud, tight fawn pantaloons, a coffee-brown claw-hammer, and Hessians the color of melting caramel. He looked as if he should be in a lady’s sitting room rather than on a circus stage.

Her eyes swiveled from his person to the curtain he must have been hiding behind.

“How did you—” Marianne stopped and then frowned as she considered his vantage point, and what he would have seen: her without her chemise.

He stopped in front of her. “I’m sorry if I startled—”

Her fist flew before her brain even knew what it was doing, striking the duke in the side of the mouth and whipping his head back hard enough that she heard his neck bones pop. He stumbled back a step, steadied himself, and then lifted his hand to the side of his face. They both looked at the smear of blood on the tip of his finger before their eyes locked.

Marianne was vaguely aware that she was breathing heavily, more winded than she’d been after going one round with young Tommy.

And her hand bloody hurt.

The duke’s mouth pulled up at the corners. The movement was infinitesimal—you’d have to be watching closely to catch it—but it was, nonetheless, a smile.

“You think this is amusing?” she demanded. “To trespass and spy on a person?”

“Actually, I was thinking that I deserved what you did.” His words were as effective as a jolting uppercut. “I’m sorry,” he said, finishing his one-two punch with an apology.

A duke apologizing? To her?

He dabbed at his bleeding, rapidly swelling lip with a handkerchief he’d produced from his coat while Marianne absently shook out her aching hand; it had been a long time since she’d thrown such a powerful leveler without a muffler.

The duke’s handkerchief was edged in intricate navy stitching, a coat of arms painstakingly embroidered in one corner. He folded the square to hide the blood before tucking it back into his coat. “I thought this would be a good opportunity to speak to you. I didn’t expect, er—” He made a vague gesture to her person.