“That can be arranged.” Rafe drew his own money from his pocket. He shook a few coins loose and kept them, then dropped the remaining weight on the counter. It landed with a resounding thunk. “Hold it for us,” he told the barkeep.
A new fire kindled behind O’Malley’s eyes. It was a look that told him this wouldn’t be easy.
Good. Rafe didn’t want it to be easy.
“In the courtyard.” O’Malley placed both hands on the counter and levered his weight off the stool. “Give us a minute. After I take m’self out for a piss.”
Rafe nodded.
As he stood gathering his thoughts, a tankard of porter appeared on the bar before him.
“From the lady.” The barkeep tilted his head toward a hazy corner of the tavern.
Lady? Hah. Only one kind of “lady” frequented this establishment.
Rafe had a glance.
Slender. Dark-haired. Fetching.
Available.
He could see exactly how it would go. First he’d win this fight, then he’d go to her upstairs. He’d start to wash the sweat and blood from his face, but she’d tell him not to bother. When he touched her, she’d shiver—on purpose, because she liked the idea of being scared. His brutishness would excite her.
And from there, it would be just like all his other encounters. Quick and rough and, in the end, unsatisfying.
He lifted his porter, attempting to drown the twinge of guilt. Perhaps that kind of encounter was what he needed. It was time he stopped slavering over a woman—an innocent, betrothed, gently bred virgin—he couldn’t have.
What did he want with yards of ivory lace and a four-post bed with two dozen pillows? There could be no wedding nights or honeymoons or happily-ever-afters in a bloody storybook castle.
Not for a man like him.
“Rafe Brandon, you dodgy bastard.” Salem Jones emerged from the inn’s back room. In his arms, he carried a small trunk, which he set down on a nearby table.
Rafe offered his hand in thanks, and Jones used it to draw him into a hug.
“You stayed away too long,” he said, patting Rafe on the back.
Jones was a West Indian freedman, born in Jamaica and come to England with a group of abolitionists some twenty years ago. As an eyewitness to slavery with stirring testimony, he’d made his Quaker sponsors pleased indeed.
As a pacifist, however, he’d been a profound disappointment.
Like most prizefighters, Jones had a few good years. Unlike most, he’d parlayed that success into something more lasting—the Crooked Rook.
At those odd hours of the night when he contemplated his life beyond prizefighting, Rafe had thought about offering to buy a stake in the place. Despite what he’d told Clio, he did know his years in fighting were numbered, and he wanted to make something of his future. But it had to be on his own terms. He didn’t belong in any sort of office. And he wanted to be more than a tavern curiosity, fighting for pints or slamming tankards into plaster walls.
“I reckon you’re here for this.” Jones patted the trunk. “The rest are in back. Let the barkeep know where you want them.”
Rafe had almost forgotten about the things, to be honest. He’d asked Jones to hold these trunks for him when he moved out of his rooms at the Harrington. He didn’t want clutter in the warehouse while he was training.
He opened the trunk, sifting through a stack of linen shirts and wool trousers. He hoped he’d find something more comfortable for a sparring match—but the garments in this trunk were too fine. When he reached the bottom, his hand closed on a small, plain wooden box.
He knew what it contained before he even lifted it into view.
It was the box with Clio’s letters.
He laughed to himself. Just when he’d made up his mind to forget her. She’d followed him, even here.
She’d followed him everywhere, hadn’t she? No matter how many times he changed his address. Over the years she’d kept sending him these missives—one or two a month, at least. Rafe had stashed them away in this box. He didn’t pore over them, but he couldn’t bring himself to discard them, either. They just sort of stuck to him, the way sweet things tended to do.
“Well?” O’Malley came back in from his piss. “Are we on?”
“In a bit.”
Rafe dropped himself in a chair, ordered another pint of porter, sent a bottle of wine to the “lady” who’d be spending the night alone . . . and then did something he hadn’t done willingly in years.
He settled in to read.
Most of the notes were breezy, dashed-off invitations, mixed in with the occasional bit of family news. All of it out of date, and none of it especially momentous.
We’re having a dinner party Thursday next. If you have no other plans that night, you’d be most welcome.
Warmest birthday greetings from all of us here at Whitmore House.
I’ve had a new letter from Piers, and I’ve taken the liberty of copying the parts that might interest you. We’ll be spending August at my uncle’s estate in Hertfordshire. If you find yourself passing through, do pay a call.
Nevertheless, Rafe went through letter after letter, note after note, reading every last word she’d penned from salutation to close. By the time he lifted his head and rubbed his bleary eyes, the sky was growing dark.
The notes were so brief on their own, so inconsequential. But when taken together, their weight was crushing.
When he’d walked away from Brandon House, his father had closed the door. The rest of his family and high-class acquaintances had shut their doors, too.