Page 8 of The Lyon's Pretty Pugilist

She hated Nicolas Wentworth and his pretty blue eyes and clean citrus scent. She detested his fancy clothes and aristocratic voice. To the devil with his do-good mentality. And that humorless laugh? Well, he could stick it up his arse.

“Sod off,” she said.

He shifted in his seat. “Fair enough.”

The room was again quiet. Since there was nothing else to do, she counted the red flowers on the papered walls. Once she reached one hundred, she stared at the mahogany desk in front of her—an oil lamp, a stack of papers, a quill pen, and an inkpot.

Dear Lord, could one die of boredom?

Oddly, she preferred his voice to the suffocating silence. Which must have been the reason her words spewed. “What do ye think she is going to do to us?”

“If you mean the widow, I suspect she has locked us away to unnerve us and make us more pliable.”

What a suspicious toff he was. Although she wholeheartedly agreed.

“Do ye think she means to call the magistrate and accuse us of starting the brawl?” Josie asked. Not that she was in any way responsible. Unless one counted her jumping from the stage into the middle of a blood-thirsty crowd.Bloody hell.

“I highly doubt it,” Nicolas said. “’Tisn’t as if she wants the law toknow she is hosting mills—especially female fighters—in her basement.”

The dashed man was correct again.

The door opened unexpectedly, and the Black Widow entered. One of her big wolves followed her. He positioned himself beside the door and stared into the high corner of the room.

What a toad eater. He was lucky the tip of his nose wasn’t brown from shoving it up the proprietress’s arse.

“Are the two of you talking about me?” the widow asked.

Although Bessie Dove-Lyon proclaimed respect for female pugilists, she unnerved Josie. It was as if the woman could hear through walls and see into the future. And read minds, apparently, because the widow tossed a heavy velvet pouch onto Josie’s lap. “You forgot your winnings when you decided to instigate the crowd.” She sat behind the desk and folded her hands beneath her chin.

Damnation, Josie wanted to see the woman’s face. Look into her eyes. Know her thoughts, as she would for any opponent. Discover her strengths and weaknesses so she could plan her battle strategy.

Since her instincts told her to advance, she did just that. “I didn’t instigate nothin’.” Josie tossed the purse right back. “Keep it. I’m hiring ye.”

“Oh?” the widow asked, her tone emotionless.

This woman would not intimidate her. Josie pulled her shoulders back. “I’m interested in the Duke of Griffendale.”

If Nicolas bloody Wentworth didn’t close his gaping mouth, Josie would close it for him.

“I see,” the widow said. “And what, precisely, are you paying me for?”

“Well, ye are a matchmaker, aren’t ye? The greatest matchmaker in London, the rumors say.” Josie thumbed toward Nicolas. “’Cause I need ye to fix the mess Lord Meddlesome made of me life.”

Chapter Four

Nicolas stared atthis enigma of a woman, her shoulders thrown back in defiance, her chin held high. Had she seriously just asked the Black Widow of Whitehall to make a match between her and Tristan Keats? Didn’t she understand they were not of the same class? The duke might tup everything with breasts—from dowager countesses to milkmaids. But he would never—not in a million years—court a female pugilist who had a mouth like a drunken sailor. Not even if she was the most alluring, beautiful woman in the world. Which Josephine Martin just might be.

“I told ye to close your mouth, guv,” Josie said.

Upon realizing that his mouth was so wide that salvia might cascade forth at any second, Nicolas clamped his lips together. He suspected the widow grinned beneath that insufferable veil.

“Although I would like to help you,” the widow said, “I think that would be an impossible match.”

Impossible, improbable, and utterly ridiculous.

“If ye are as good a matchmaker as ye claim to be, ye ought to be able to do it,” Josie declared.

Jabbing Josie Martin might be beautiful and spunky, and she mightsmell like sweaty, passionate bed sport, but she was delusional. Nicolas scoffed.