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Then again, when had Betty ever cleared her throat in a delicate ladylike manner to claim his attention? Which could only mean…
He twisted and sherry eyes widened to the rims of her spectacles.
Not surprising, as solely loose breeches clad his body – no shirt or cravat. And though as a prizefighter he’d fought in this same garb before a braying crowd of thousands, he felt as naked as a shorn sheep in February.
“Miss Griffin…” He stalked to the clothes peg in the corner, wrestled into a shirt and wiped his brow with a towel. “You should not be here.”
“Betty and Chloe said…”
Hmm. Did they now.“Well, if you prefer, I can dress first?”
But she’d rediscovered her governess mien, shoulders rigid and eyes cleaved to the ceiling.
“No, no. I just…” Her stare arrowed to his face. “Chloe would like to attend Bullock’s Museum and I concur that the idea is a splendid one, enabling a better understanding of French carriage workmanship.” She allowed a lone blink. “According to my educative guide, museums promote a shared experience without which…” His governess waffled on, her eyes watering from the strain of their fixed position. “And although books are essential for one’s learning, a museum places feathers on the drawings, so to speak.” She twisted her hands in a dress of saffron. “So, you see, we wondered if you might escort us.” Miss Griffin breathed at last.
Seth considered his week: meetings with investors, two new fighters to initiate, Liam Whelan to sort out, two dukes and an earl who wished for individual sparring sessions with himself, and Prinny now desired an exhibition of pugilism for some nob from Spain in under a week.
“It would be my pleasure. Any particular day?”
“Tomorrow at ten?”
“Fine.”
“Good.”
“Good.”
She peered with concern at the bars upon the walls, frowned at the empty ring and blinked at the broken wooden A-frame which supported two seats for weighing purposes.
“Do you wish to view the Academy whilst no one is here?”
“Oh, would you mind?”
Yes. No.He’d no idea. Only that she plucked his wits like a crow at the gibbet.
“Certainly not.”
They paraded the Academy as though strolling Hyde Park – admiring the ring in place of the Serpentine, the boxing gloves in place of the roses and the drawings of disrobed fighters in place of preening stallions on Rotten Row.
She grimaced at some, peeped at others and gawped at most.
“I am in awe, Sir. All this built from nothing. You have worked so awfully hard. I hear the love in your voice for this Academy, see the pride in your eyes. It is all quite splendid.”
A prickling warmth seeped within.
Blood, sweat, tears and his heart had gone into this club.
“When I first envisaged it, I did not want a dingy backroom with sawdust on the floor and peeling paint, but an open airy place that the flash swell– er, aristocrats would enjoy practising in. I wanted flawless carpentry and exclusive patronage.”
He gazed around – at the brown velvet curtains draping oblong windows, the immaculate washing tubs and the pristine dumb-bells positioned in their racks.
All those evenings he’d sat alone while Chloe had slept, he’d sketched, then resketched, the most practical layout and the luxuries with which he would furbish it, and with his prizefighting money, determination and a little investment, it had all come to fruition.
“And is your patronage exclusive?”Matilda asked. “I should imagine so with this level of exquisiteness.”
Mr Hawkins stretched his fingers wide, doubtless to ease the aches amassed from toiling all those years. “It began slow. Merchants and gentlemen who’d seen me fight, but then my name became synonymous with focus of one’s mind when sparring, and, as you say, the craftsmanship of the decor. That in turn encouraged the higher echelons of the Ton to give it a try. They never left.”
Synonymous.
