Delilah Marvelle - Forever a Lord

He never had to write his down.

He was his own secret.

And damn it all, he couldn’t pretend anymore. He couldn’t pretend he was anything but Viscount Nathaniel James Atwood, the boy who had disappeared at ten. He had spent his whole life waiting for a sign as to what he should do with the secret he had carried for almost thirty years. And here, this, was his sign.

It wasn’t meant to be a secret anymore.

CHAPTER THREE

Why should a man, whose blood is warm within,

Sit like his grandsire cut in alabaster?

—P. Egan, Boxiana (1823)

London, England, February 1831

The Weston House

LADY IMOGENE ANNE NORWOOD traced a lone finger across the window, staring out into the cold, still night. Despite the darkness and shadows, a full moon illuminated the cobblestone street beyond the carriage gates and eerily outlined the oaks that swayed in the wind.

She glanced toward the French clock beside her bed, dimly lit by a single candle. A quarter after two and still no Henry. She doubted if her brother realized how much she worried about him. He smoked like a stove filled to the grates with ashes and spent most of his time watching men box as if seeing blood spray gave him genuine satisfaction.

He used to be so much more. But poor Henry had invested too much into a venture that had left them with nothing. In a desperate effort to erase what had been done, he had then sold his good name of Marquis to the highest female bidder in the aristocracy to save what remained of their lives. It wasn’t as if they had much to begin with.

Imogene couldn’t help but feel responsible for his endless quest for more money. Though she was now nineteen, countless doctors and quacks had paraded in and out of the Weston household since she was seven because of her. And they were anything but free. Neither was the sludgy, healing tonic she was forced to drink with a pinched nose every afternoon at four.

She was tired of being a burden to him.

She was tired of being defined by an illness.

Imogene turned back to the window. Her brother was probably avoiding his wife again. Not that she blamed him. Lady Mary Elizabeth Weston was a floating frock whose constant flaunting of her own wealth sent Henry into a fury. And that didn’t include the rest of the marriage or the whispers about Mary secretly meeting with Lord Banbury.

It was a good thing Mama and Papa had both long since passed and weren’t around to see how miserable Henry was. Each of his poor children had died within the first few months of their lives, and Mary hadn’t been with child since. That was about the time Mary had drifted off into the arms of another.

Life had been anything but kind to her poor brother.

The gates clanged open, making Imogene straighten beside the window. A black lacquered carriage with the Weston crest emblazoned on its doors, rolled through and rounded the graveled path toward the entrance.

Shoving her blond braid over her shoulder, she gathered her robe and nightdress and dashed across the room. Flinging open the bedchamber door, she sprinted down the moonlit corridor, rounding corner after corner and bustled down, down, the main stairwell.

She slid to a halt as the entrance door opened.

A cold wind swept through, setting the candles flickering within the sconces as Henry strode in and stripped his top hat, scattering blond hair across his forehead. Closing the door, he jerked to a halt, startled green eyes settling on her. “Gene. Why are you still up? Are you not feeling well? Do you need me to call for Dr. Filbert?”

“No. I’m fine.” Imogene hurried into his arms and tugged him close, squeezing out the cold clinging to his evening coat. The heavy scent of cigars clung to his clothing. “I couldn’t sleep. Where were you? You reek of cigars.”

“I know. I had one too many.” He patted her head with gloved hands and pulled away. “There was a boxing exhibition over at Bloomsbury. I stayed to the end.”

“Another boxing exhibition?” She sighed. “I keep telling you, ’tis a waste of respectability and time.”

“It depends on how you view waste.” He leaned in and said in a low, riled tone, “Did you know that the last boxing champion of England made almost a quarter of a million pounds for himself and his patron, Lord Ransford? A quarter of a million! If I could get my hands on several thousand of my own money, money I wish to God I had, I’d find myself a boxer capable of taking that title, fist the money from the win and divorce Mary on grounds of adultery. With money like that, no scandal could ever touch us. The problem is I’m worth nothing more than my name and she knows it. In my opinion, she and Banbury deserve each other. I only wish she had the decency to keep it quiet. Everyone knows. Even all of the men at the boxing coves. It’s humiliating.”

That wretched, wretched woman. It was the first time Henry had ever dared speak of divorce. Which meant he was well beyond miserable. To even whisper of divorce in London society was to speak of ruin, not only for him but her. Knowing that made Imogene want to invest in said quarter of a million just so he could live the way he deserved. In peace.

Imogene paused. A quarter of a million pounds? For a mere boxing title? Bumblebees on high. That would be like meeting God. No, no. That would be like being God. It was an obscene amount of money.

She blinked. “How much would it cost to invest in a boxer?”

He eyed her. “About four to five thousand, not including any and all training costs. Why?”

Her heart pounded. Her inheritance from her grandmama, which was set to be released from the estate in the next week now that she was finally of age, was ten thousand. “I have ten thousand that will soon be mine. I want you to invest it for me.”

“Invest? In what?”

“In finding us a boxer so we can turn our ten thousand into two hundred and fifty thousand. Will you do it?”

A startled laugh escaped him. “Gene, I wasn’t by any means insinuating we—”

“Why not?” She grabbed his arm and whispered, “We could split the profit and neither of us would be dependent on anyone ever again. As you yourself just said, with money like that, your divorce would be but a puff of passing smoke we could avoid by leaving town. After everything you have endured, Henry, and most of it on my behalf, let me do this one thing for you. Please.”

His amusement faded. “You aren’t serious, are you?”

She set her lips and face to show him just how serious she really was. She was tired of them struggling for their dignity. It was time to invest in said dignity. “Find us the best boxer there is and I will cover the investment up to a full ten thousand.”

Glancing toward the stairwell to ensure they were alone, Henry hoarsely whispered, “For God’s sake. Aside from the throat slitting my divorce would create, your first Season is set to commence this upcoming April. I cannot and will not gamble with your future by placing myself before your good name. That money is also meant for you and whatever husband you take. You know that.”

She swallowed and shook her head. “I have already professed how I feel about taking a husband. I would only be a burden to him. And I don’t want to burden anyone anymore. Look at what my illness has done to your life. I have stripped you down to nothing. I have turned you into nothing.”

“Gene.” He leaned in close and seized her hands, squeezing them hard. “You need to cease blaming yourself. You are not a burden. By God, you are the only joy I have left.”

She said nothing.

Henry searched her face. “Surely you don’t want to live the life of a spinster. You have so much to give in both mind and soul. You will deny yourself children, happiness and a home of your own because of my stupidity? You can’t. I won’t let you. What is more, everyone in our circle is expecting you to debut.”