Page 5 of The Lyon's Pretty Pugilist

Josie threw three quick jabs followed by an uppercut that knockedClem backward. Clem ricocheted off the rope and tumbled to her knees.

The bell dinged as the crowd cheered, “Jabbing Josie! Jabbing Josie!”

Please let Clem stay down.Because then Josie could leap from the ring and dash to the duke. She wasn’t above begging just this once.

Unfortunately, Clem climbed onto her feet. Josie huffed in frustration as she marched to the corner and plopped her arse onto Coach’s knee.

“Hell’s bells. What is wrong with you?” he asked. “Block, don’t dodge. You want a white feather shower?”

Josie was no coward. She’d simply needed a second to scan the crowd.

Franny, her bottle woman, training partner, and best friend, shoved a small cup of protein beer under Josie’s nose. “Drink.”

“Jewel, me arse. Ruth threw her fight,” Josie said.

“How do you know that?” Franny asked. “Never mind. Drink now. Tell me later.”

Josie’s mouth was still full of beer when Coach waggled his finger in her face. “Worry about yourself.”

Josie swallowed. “But she’s with His Grace, and she’s a fraud, she is.”

“If he watches you make a hash of this fight, he won’t choose you,” Coach said.

True. And without his sponsorship, Josie would never earn her share of the blunt to open a respectable boxing gymnasium.

Usually, thirty seconds passed quickly, but tonight, it felt like an eternity.

As Josie approached the scratch line, she couldn’t help but peer out over the crowd again. The Duke of Griffendale sat with two other men. All three were dressed as toffish as they came. Ruth might as well climb onto the duke’s lap as close as she was to him. If Josie wasn’tmistaken, another of the toffs had his hand on Ruth’s lap.

Disgusting!

Not that Josie gave a shite about the indecent things that went on between men and women. But she absolutely cared about the purity of the sweet science and being taken seriously as a female pugilist, which would never happen if fighters allowed aristocratic men to grope them in public.

Josie’s skin prickled. She cut her gaze to the third man at the table. His intense stare sent tingles up the back of her neck.

What the blazes was wrong with her? Coach was correct. She needed to get her head out of her arse and concentrate.

She placed her toe on the line, lifted her fists, and waited for the bell.

Chapter Two

What in thehell was Nicolas doing? Watching women pommel each other while his family lost everything was bloody irresponsible. But he’d done precisely what the mysterious widow had asked of him, showing up at The Lyon’s Den a week after her nocturnal visit, only to be told she was too busy to meet with him.

“There is a secret mill going on in the basement,” the widow had said from behind her black veil. “I dare say, it will be exciting. Female pugilists. Head downstairs and watch. As my guest, of course. We will discuss Blue Cliff Manor and your family’s debts after the two bouts.”

“But two fights will last all night,” Nicolas said.

“If all goes well,” the widow said with a hopeful lilt.

His irritation needled, Nicolas had descended the stairs to the crowded basement that smelled of unwashed bodies and stale ale.

He was no stranger to boxing. He’d been a skilled pugilist in his Cambridge days. However, he preferred physical exercise to wagering. And unlike most of this crowd, he rarely drank because he refused to meet the same demise as his forefathers. So here he sat, stone-cold sober amongst the inebriated throng, watching women inflict violence upon each other. This was in no way his idea of a good time.

At least his old chums Viscount Jonathon Davenport and Tristan Keats, the Duke of Griffendale, were present.

In Nicolas’s humble opinion, the first fight of the night had been a hoax. Anyone with any sense had to realize the loser had been paid to throw the bout. Her fall was entirely too theatrical, and she’d taken care to protect her arse and head. Ruth, the winner of that fake fight now sat beside him, practically begging Griffendale to tup her as she rubbed her body up against his. Meanwhile, Davenport, the cad, had rested his palm on Ruth’s lap.

“Your Grace, I would be honored to be your fighter for The Duke’s and Dame’s Mill,” Ruth said, thrusting her bosom forward. “I know I can beat Lady P.”