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  “It will. And when it does, it will be amazing. I promise, but please don’t judge all men by the horror that is your stepfather.”

  Louisa snapped her gaze to her friend’s face. Shock tightened her chest. “You know?”

  “I suspected, and I’ve heard rumors through the servants.” Compassion lined her face. “I can tell Skeffington. He’ll put the fear of God into the baron.”

  “No!” The outburst echoed in the room. “Please don’t. It will make things worse for me or my brother. It is my fight alone.” She pressed her lips together and knitted her fingers in her lap. With a sigh, Louisa looked at her friend. “Perhaps a romance will come... later. Right now, my mind is on other things.”

  Like surviving.

  Olivia slowly nodded. “Are you in trouble?”

  “That’s subjective on any given day.” She tried to laugh, but the sound died an early death.

  “You are.” Olivia stood. “That settles it. You’re staying here as my guest for as long as you need to.”

  Tears filled Louisa’s eyes. “You can’t manage my life. Only I can do that, but I need help conquering my fear first.” She gave her friend a watery smile. “Thank you for the offer though. I can’t keep running... or waiting for the ultimate distress.”

  “The managing part is a lesson I’m learning. The duke is quite insistent I break the habit.” Her answering smile was sad. “What will you do? I fear for you if you remain there.”

  So do I. “I don’t know, but if things grow too untenable at home, I’ll come here straightaway. I promise.”

  “Good.”

  “Please don’t tell your husband. I’d rather not have you or him involved in my mess.”

  Olivia snorted. “It’s not your mess nor your fault that your stepfather is perverted.” With a sigh, she sat again. “I promise, but I’m not pleased about it.”

  “It’s my fight, and I will win it my way on my own terms because I want that satisfaction.” Once more Louisa took up her teacup. An image of the crowds they’d passed through yesterday filled her mind, and that one name echoed over and over in her ears. “Do you know Mr. Cecil Carrington?”

  “The name sounds familiar.” Olivia tilted her head. “I think Skeffington has mentioned him in passing, but I can’t remember why.”

  “Oh.” Drat. If anyone knew, it would have been her.

  “Why?”

  Louisa shrugged. “On the way to London, our carriage passed an illegal boxing match. His name was bandied about in the crowd and I was curious.”

  “Oh!” Olivia’s expression brightened. “That’s why it’s familiar. Lewis sometimes goes to those boxing salons when Braxton demands he leave the house. He said that man was a skilled fighter and was impressed with how he holds himself.”

  A boxer! Her pulse quickened. How interesting. “I see.” But her mind spun.

  “Why did you wish to know about him?”

  “No reason. Do you know anything about boxing?” She didn’t but aimed to find out.

  “Nothing. Isn’t it two men punching each other until they’re spent? It’s what gentlemen do in their leisure for sport, or so I thought.”

  “Perhaps.” Those men knew how to defend themselves and that meant they’d had to learn somewhere. Could she be taught the same skills? The urge to land the baron a facer took hold. “Do you think Mr. Carrington lives in Mayfair?”

  Olivia shrugged. She leaned forward to refresh her teacup. “I would have no idea. I could ask my aunt. She’s more knowledgeable about the ton than I am.”

  “Don’t bother. I’ll locate him myself.” God, I hope he’s not a rake or a rogue... or worse.

  “What?” Her friend gasped. “Do you fancy him?”

  Louisa snorted in genuine mirth. “I don’t know him from Adam, but he might be able to help me—not for a romance.”

  For long moments Olivia stared at her over the rim of her teacup. “Are you quite certain you don’t want the duke involved? He can be quite intimidating when he wants.”

  “I’m certain.” Her smile was solid this time as her spirits rose. “Enjoy your husband and don’t worry about me. If all goes well, I’m going to take back my life.”

  It couldn’t come soon enough, for how long could she last against the baron’s foul machinations?

  Chapter Four

  October 26, 1818

  As Cecil looked about the workroom of his shop on Fleet Street—Exquisites in Glass—he nodded. This life he’d created for himself was indeed marvelous. The work never failed to hold his attention and interest. Finding new ways to perfect the art of blowing glass and make creations that were both fragile and beautiful was a challenge he looked forward to each day.

  “Coming along nicely, William,” he said as the youth manipulated a small glob of molten glass by blowing into a long pipe. The project was to be a bowl with fluted edges, but first, the boy needed to master the technique of shaping the glob correctly. Not to mention he had to learn how to give said bowl a flat bottom.

  All of that would come with practice and time. At the moment, the round bowl was more a sausage-like oval, smaller on one end.

  The boy didn’t spare him a glance, so intense was his concentration.

  Cecil smiled as he passed into the front room where his creations were sold. At the counter, Samuel chatted quietly with a woman with spindly limbs who had bought a vase with a twisted vine design. When she voiced a question, Samuel handed her off to him.

  “Mr. Carrington made this piece. He can tell you more about it.”

  At the last second, Cecil stopped himself from rolling his eyes. Samuel knew perfectly well the history and method behind every piece for sale in the shop. Most likely he didn’t wish to tarry with the customer any longer. “What can I do for you, Mrs. FitzHerbert?” he asked as he came flush with her at the counter.

  Her eyes lit as she glanced at him. Sadly, it did nothing to enhance the angular features of her face. More to the point, she sized him up as if measuring him as an entrée at her next dinner party, which was a regular event with her. Annoyance speared through his chest. Bloody gawker. “Could you make two lanterns to match the vase? I especially like the green vines on the surface of the blue. Reminds me of the sea where I spent my childhood.”

  “Of course, we can commission that.” The bells over the shop door rang, announcing the arrival of another potential customer. From all accounts, it would prove a busy day. Which meant more word of mouth advertising for the shop. “Mr. Johansen can write up the order.”

  Mrs. FitzHerbert frowned. No doubt she thought she gave him a come-hither pout, but in reality, the action merely scrunched her face into a series of creases. “Will you not stay and talk with me, Mr. Carrington? I thought perhaps you could tell me which pieces are your favorite.” The deuced woman put a hand on his arm and squeezed, while twin spots of color blazed on her cheeks. “Ooh, my friends were right. You are nicely turned out.”

  Damn and blast. “I am not a sideshow attraction in a menagerie, madam.” He despised the women who came into the shop to gawk at him. That was the downside to the notoriety boxing brought him, and being in the shop made him more readily accessible than if he was a man with a title and time to kill.

  “I meant no offense, of course. Merely curious.” Her eyes trailed over his chest. “My husband wagers against all your opponents each time you go out.”

  “Thank him for his support.” As if she were a particularly loathsome bug, Cecil disengaged her hand from his arm. “Now, if you have any other questions, my business partner can take care of them.”

  Samuel never missed a beat. “Yes, please come down here. I’ll write up your request and we’ll decide on payment.”

  He stepped away from Samuel and Mrs. FitzHerbert. As he leaned a hip against the wooden counter, he brushed glass powder from the front of his long, leather apron. After making certain the two were busy figuring out the new commission, he turned his attention to the new arrival and made no secret to ope
nly watching her.

  Though the day was sun-drenched and fair, she wore a black cloak with the hood shrouding her head and face. Why? It was chilly, of course, but not overly so, and the weather certainly didn’t justify such a garment. His interest piqued—or perhaps his wariness—he continued to study her as she stuck to the perimeter of the shop.

  Every so often, she would touch a tentative, gloved finger to one of his pieces, and from the loving way she stroked the crafted glass, it was obvious she appreciated his workmanship. At least she had good taste.

  The bells at the door tinkled again, and Mrs. FitzHerbert waved goodbye. Cecil lifted a hand, returning the gesture, but his gaze never left the woman in the black cloak. Each time she moved, he glimpsed plum-colored skirts with black embroidery work at the hem and a hint of a matching slipper. The quality of the fabric and shoe bespoke someone with coin, but she didn’t carry herself with the arrogance or confidence of one from the ton. In fact, she seemed more hesitant and even tentative than anything.

  Who the devil was she, and why was she here?

  He frowned while she drifted to a small round table in the middle of the room that showcased a Grecian-style urn—one of his favorite pieces. Done in brown glass, it had a frosted-over outer layer that had been gained by dipping the vessel in white molten glass for a second before pulling it out. Fine gold filigree decorated the rim, bottom, and handle. Samuel had been responsible for the gold work. That was one of his skills. Other pieces around the shop had gold or silver as decorations, and it set Cecil’s business up a notch over competitors.

  “This is lovely.” The melodic sound of the woman’s voice yanked him from his thoughts. She traced the lines with a gloved fingertip. “So elegant and fragile, yet sturdy enough to hold water.”

  “Thank you.” Cecil threw a perplexed glance at Samuel, who shrugged from his position behind the counter.

  “It’s like an artist’s palette in here. I would love to do watercolor renditions of a few of these pieces.”

  One of his eyebrows rose. How deep did her talent go? For months he’d toyed with the idea of hiring an artist to do design work he might set in his front windows as advertising. But he said nothing.

  “Do you make every piece in this shop?” Those dulcet tones tugged at him, urging him to say something else that would continue or deepen the conversation. Which was odd. He’d never had such a reaction to a customer before.

  “I create most of them. My business partner does some of the designs and all the metal work. Other times, we have no idea what the muses will bring when we take up the blow pipe.” He could wax poetic all day about his craft, but he wouldn’t. Not to her until he’d discerned why, exactly, she was in the shop. She didn’t give off an attitude of a buyer.

  “I see.” The woman moved away from the table to contemplate a shelf full of bowls, vases, and trinket dishes. “How many hours does it take to make, say, a platter?”

  Again, he looked at Samuel, who gestured at the woman with his head, a raised eyebrow, and a mischievous grin.

  Cecil shook his head. He knew what his deuced friend meant, and he wasn’t interested. Long ago he’d lost faith in the fairer sex, didn’t need another of their fickle, lying kind in his life. Besides, he couldn’t see her form, figure, or face through the shrouding folds of the cloak. That alone sent a warning prickle up his spine. A woman who draped herself with secrets didn’t bode well.

  Yet... she was too blasted interesting, and he wanted to solve the mystery. And she required an answer.

  “That largely depends on the details of the commission, how the glass works on an individual day, the temperature of the ovens, the temperament of the crafter. Many things, really.” There was certainly more to the skill than the obvious. Her questions were much more than a normal customer wished to know.

  “How much are the trinket trays?”

  He narrowed his eyes. Ah, were they finally coming to the head of her visit? “Do you wish to purchase one?” Of average height, there was nothing about her that stood out to him or gave him a clue to where she’d come from.

  After a few seconds’ pause, the woman turned and looked squarely at him, but the hood covered the upper part of her face. A hint of a smile touched her rosy lips, never quite coming to fruition. “I do not, but they’re quite pretty. The flowers remind me of meadows in Surrey and times with my father when we used to walk through them.” Her voice trailed off and the budding smile died. “Perhaps I’ll return on a different day to purchase one.”

  Too many times had he heard that line before. This customer would never step foot in the shop again. He knew a passing sorrow at the fact, for her voice was pleasing, and he’d enjoyed her questions. In an effort to keep her talking, he said, “A meadow was the inspiration behind those tiny glass flowers that edge the trinket trays. The fancywork was done by both myself and my partner and took more hours than I care to admit.” Cecil crossed his arms at his chest and ignored the twinge of curiosity buzzing at the base of his spine. “If the trays don’t interest you, may I help you with something else?”

  She turned her head away to once more contemplate the shelf. “I haven’t decided.”

  “Fair enough.” His suspicion increased. At times, women came by the shop to gawk at him—like Mrs. FitzHerbert had earlier—for now that his name had become well known for his victories in the boxing ring, everyone wanted a peek. He hated the ogling eyes, the obvious lust as they perused his form, as if he were a damned horse at Tattersalls. But this woman didn’t appear to be one of those types. In fact, she’d hardly looked at him at all, except that one time, and her movements were almost skittish, as if she hated to call attention to herself.

  Why? An idea came to him, an experiment, really. He uncrossed his arms and moved in her direction. Immediately, she shied away toward the collection of shelves that lined the rear wall. Interesting. Cecil paused, suddenly unsure. Was it all men she feared or just him? And if she did fear him, why? They’d never met before. Desperate for answers to more than if she wished to make a purchase, he cleared his throat in a bid for her attention. “Let me introduce myself. I’m the Honorable Cecil Carrington, owner and artisan of this shop.”

  “And a boxer,” she added in a whisper-soft voice he almost missed, for her focus remained on the shelf. “I heard about your match yesterday.”

  “Is that right?” The mystery surrounding her deepened. “Did you attend?” It wasn’t unheard of that women came to see pugilistic bouts, but the reputation of such women was questionable. Some females who were fans of the sport, often came in disguise, but that didn’t happen often. At least, if it did, he hadn’t seen it.

  “Not really.” She didn’t look his way. “I was in a carriage passing by when you were announced as the victor. Before that time, I had no idea boxing existed.”

  Was that curiosity in her voice? It was difficult to tell without seeing her expression or her eyes. When he glanced at Samuel, his friend pantomimed drawing out the conversation. Perhaps he was mystified as well.

  Cecil rolled his eyes and returned his regard to the woman. “Shall we cut through the inane niceties and get to the meat of it straightaway? Are you here to gawk at me like the rest?” A tide of swift, hot anger rose in his chest. Patience might serve him well in the ring, but he needed to practice it more in his other life. “Perhaps you’ve come to catch a glimpse of a real-life pugilist?” The anger was irrational, for he didn’t know this woman, but part of him had hoped she might be different.

  “Actually, yes.” She turned toward him, but sadly, with the hood of the cloak hiding her face, he could only see her mouth. Her pointed chin quivered for a few seconds before she pressed those rosy-hued lips together and presumably took herself in hand. “I wanted to have a look at you. This is correct.”

  “Of course.” The anger in his chest bloomed and twisted sharply beneath his ribs. “Why should I be shocked?” A muscle ticked in his cheek. “I’m a sideshow attraction to the ton when they’re no
t heaping accolades upon me. Perhaps for their own amusement. When they are done, they come traipsing through my shop hoping to fire their fantasies.”

  God, how long would it be before one of these enterprising females made him a scandalous offer to warm their beds? No wonder he’d washed his hands of them all.

  “Ha.” She delicately snorted, and when he took a step toward her, she shrank into the cloak. Was it his presence or his tone that frightened her? “I am not part of the ton. At least, not directly, and if you want to know how, I’ll decline, for I want no link to such a man.”

  His eyebrows soared at the emotion in her tone. “All right. Then you’re part of the gentry, let’s say.” Her voice was cultured enough to support the claim, but the rest of her statement left him with more questions than answers.

  “Yes. Let’s say that indeed, for my father was a squire.”

  Fair enough. It explained absolutely nothing though. “Why are you here?” It was maddening, this not knowing who she was or what she wanted. Each time she spoke, a new mystery sprouted from her, which interested him. And that was annoying because he didn’t want to be drawn into her orbit. Women couldn’t be trusted. Then another thought occurred to him that had him choking down cold disappointment. Surely, she hadn’t come to offer him a place in her bed. That was the one other option left from their small discourse. Hadn’t she said she’d sought him out? It would explain her wish to hide her features and identity.

  Buggar that.

  A sigh escaped her. “Are you good at it, this fighting, Mr. Carrington?”

  The question rendered him speechless for two full heartbeats. Eventually, he nodded. “I am, and it’s brought a bit of celebrity.” Then he frowned. Enough with this bizarre interaction. She could either tell him the truth of her visit or she could leave. “Again, I must ask: why are you here? I’ve grown short of patience.”