Page 4 of The Lyon's Pretty Pugilist

“Is this even legal?” Nicolas asked.

The man reached into his greatcoat to withdraw a paper that he handed to Nicolas. “The widow has the best solicitor in all of London.”

“’Tis legal,” his father said. “And I gave her my word.”

As if his father’s word was worth a ha’penny these days.

Nicolas skimmed the document. Sure enough, his father had signed the bloody thing. When he looked up from his perusal, the pathetic, no-good rat was shuffling down the hallway, leaving Nicolas to clean up his mess.

“Nicolas, do something,” his mother said.

There had to be a way to fix this because every problem had a solution. “How do I make an appointment with this Black Widow of Whitehall?” Nicolas asked.

A bolt of lightning hit a tree in front of the house. Sparks flew, and thunder boomed. A woman wearing a black veil seemed to appear out of nowhere. The Wolf Pack parted and allowed her to glide forward. If Nicolas was a superstitious man, he might think he was witnessing an otherworldly presence. But more than likely, this unsettling woman and her crew had been peeking through the windows, terrifying his staff for weeks.

“Are you Nicolas Wentworth, the future Earl of Shiredale?” the woman asked.

Anger obliterated Nicolas’s trepidation. “Yes? Who wants to know?”

“I am Bessie Dove-Lyon, The Black Widow of Whitehall. I am the one who now owns your home.”

His mother wailed like a banshee.

How in the devil was Nicolas to keep his fragile mother from falling into a state of complete despair? And what would happen to poorBridget? When word of this got out, she would never make a suitable match. Not that her aggressive personality had helped her in the marriage mart.

Nicolas exhaled, long and low. “Will you give me a chance to pay my father’s debts?”

Lightning zinged behind the widow, bathing the woman in an eerie glow. Nicolas could not be certain, but she may have flashed her teeth beneath that lacy veil.

“Meet me at The Lyon’s Den in one week, and we will discuss the matter.” The mysterious woman’s voice lilted upward, as if she was pleased with herself. “Until then, your family may stay.” She proffered a hand gloved in black.

Left with no other choice, and certain that he was making a deal with the devil, Nicolas clasped her hand and firmly shook.

Chapter One

Josephine Martin duckedto evade the fist headed toward her nose, earning a round of jeers from the blood-thirsty audience. Well, they could bugger off. She’d been giving this fight her all, and she’d win the dashed thing, but first, she needed a moment to scan the crowd.

Her gaze drifted to the titled members of the Fancy, lounging in the corner on an elevated platform that was the same height as the eight-foot ring.

The Duke of Griffendale was easy to spot since his bright ginger hair practically glowed, and because he was one of the largest men in the room. To Josie’s horror, Ruth the Jewel, resplendent in sapphire, ruby, and emerald face paint, sat beside the duke pressing her bosom against him. Most likely, she was whispering indecent suggestions in his ear.

True to her reputation, Josie’s nemesis had displayed a tit to the crowd when she’d peeled down to her chemise during the opening fight. This hungry lot had gone wild as a grinning Ruth had taken her time tucking said tit beneath the flimsy fabric. And now, the cheating strumpet was homing in on Josie’s duke.

The past few years, the Duke of Griffendale and the Duke ofPaulsgrove had hosted the match of the season. They’d each chosen a female pugilist to be their champion in the highly anticipated Duke’s and Dame’s Mill. The prior year, the secret location had been announced at the last moment. Thousands of people had left the city to converge on an old mill in Bromley to wager and cheer for their favorite female. Paulsgrove’s wife, “Lady P.” to her fans, had won the title and the substantial purse once again, not that she required the prize money. Therefore, she’d generously presented it to a foundling home.

Paulsgrove had again chosen his wife for the upcoming fight, but Griffendale had yet to choose his champion, and since Josie desperately required the blunt, she needed Griffendale to choose her. But first, she had to get his attention.

“Focus, Josie,” Coach Calder Valentine yelled.

But shewasfocused. Perhaps more on the man whose patronage she desperately required than the woman she needed to knock out. But, if the duke made an offer to Ruth while Josie was catering to the crowd, her dreams would die hard and fast.

With the twist of her hip, Josie clobbered Sweet Clementine O’Reilly’s button nose. Not that it would be cute and perfect, or even in the center of Clem’s face by the end of the night.

It wasn’t personal. Clem was likable enough and trained hard, but Josie needed to end this quickly, even if it made Coach and Bessie Dove-Lyon unhappy.

“Draw it out to keep the wagers coming in,” Coach reminded her every time she fought. Tonight, his directive also included, “The Black Widow of Whitehall wants this to be a night her patrons never forget. So donotknock your opponent out too soon, Jojo.”

Too bad, because Clem was going down early. The money Josie earned tonight would be nothing compared to the purse she’d earn as the duke’s prizefighter.