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It was time to take matters into his own fists.
The subtle means of retribution suggested by his friend Rafe hadn’t paid any dividends yet. They’d found some questionable investments, and several unpaid debts, but no scandal big enough to use as leverage to shame him, make him flee London with his tail between his legs.
Rafe had said the investigation would take time.
West wasn’t feeling patient.
He bound his fists round with white cloth. He pretended the punching bag was Laxton. He could see the gold and diamond stickpin in the shape of a rose that he always wore on his lapel. The gleaming boots and flamboyant waistcoats. Smell the sickly sweet scent of his hair pomade. See his long nose with flat nostrils pinched in aristocratic disdain.
Laxton was tall and broad-shouldered but he’dbe lily-livered under all that finery, West had no doubt.
He’d wipe that mocking smile from his face.
Thwack.He slammed his fists again and again into the punching bag.
The Season started soon. West wanted Laxton brought to heel before he spread more malicious rumors about his sisters.
He might not be able to challenge him publicly, but he could damn well put the thumbscrews to him in private.
West had explained the situation to the attendant and boxing instructor. Neither one of them had any love for Laxton. They’d agreed to take a break for a quarter hour.
Laxton entered the private boxing studio already stripped to the waist and wearing white trousers. He glanced around, puzzled. “What are you doing here, Westbury?”
“Thought you’d enjoy a challenge today.”
“Er, I don’t think so. I’ll just go and find—”
“The attendant? Your instructor? They’ve gone for a pint at the tavern. Go a few rounds with me. I’ll give you the first punch. Or are you afraid?”
“Course not,” Laxton scoffed, approaching with a swagger in his step. “Only you’re not a member of this establishment as far as I’m aware and this isn’t a scheduled practice session.”
“You sound like a patroness at Almack’s. Let’s forget about memberships and schedules and talk man-to-man.”
“I wasn’t aware you and I had any business to discuss.”
Laxton was no lightweight. They were almost evenly matched. West opened his arms wide. “Hit me anywhere but the bollocks. Hit me like you mean it.”
“I don’t see why you must insist on me hitting you, but I should warn you that I’ve been training in pugilism for years and I’m perfectly sober whereas you appear to be three sheets to the wind.”
“Don’t worry about that. Just hit me.”
Laxton shrugged. “Very well.” The bored expression was gone. He lowered his head, assumed a fighter’s stance.
The uppercut caught West in the kidneys. He grunted but didn’t stagger.
“Again,” he said.
Laxton went for his jaw this time. It cracked West’s head sideways. He laughed, spitting blood. “Is that all you’ve got?”
Laxton frowned. “What’s this about, then?”
“Hit me.”
Laxton laughed. “You’re sick, Westbury. You know that? There’s something wrong with you.” He pounded his fist into West’s right ear.
West shook his head, his ears ringing. Rage scorched the backs of his eyes, turning his sight red, raising his fists. The humiliation. His father raising his cane.
You’re bad. Wicked. I’ll beat the taint out of you.
