Page 12 of The Boxing Baroness

“Of course, sir.”

Buffle held up her overcoat. “Here you are, sir.”

“Thank you.” Marianne slipped into the coat and was buttoning it up when the knocker sounded on the front door.

“Pardon me a moment, sir.” The butler strode past her to open the door. “Good morning, Lord Carlisle,” he said, stepping aside to usher in a man who was as handsome and tall as the duke, but dark where the duke was fair.

The peer smiled down at the butler, the genuine expression causing attractive crinkles at the corners of his warm whiskey eyes. “Good morning, Buffle.” His friendly gaze shifted to Marianne. “Am I interrupting something?”

“No, my lord,” Buffle said, handing Marianne her hat. “His Grace is in the library.”

Marianne pulled her gaze from the dark-haired god with some effort. She had never seen the man in person before, but she had read about Gaius Darlington often enough. He was a staple of society writers—who had, rather unimaginatively, dubbed him The Darling of the Ton. He was also first in line to inherit his grandfather’s dukedom. She knew far too much about him thanks to Cecile, who had an insatiable appetite for all things ton.

Too bad she couldn’t tell Cecile that she’d actually seen The Darling in person and that he was even more beautiful than the rhapsodizing descriptions of him.

Marianne scowled at the unfairness; why were some people born with so much? Wasn’t it enough that these men were wealthy and controlled the destiny of everyone else? Did they have to be stunning as well?

She settled the high-crowned beaver hat on her head, smiled tightly at the butler, ignored Lord Carlisle entirely, and left before any more handsome, powerful peers poured into the duke’s foyer.

Once she was outside, she paused to pull on her gloves, glancing up at the door she’d just exited. Lord Carlisle stood at the sidelight, watching her through a diamond of beveled glass. He was no longer smiling.

Chapter 4

Gaius Darlington, Marquess of Carlisle and heir to the Fairhurst Dukedom, didn’t wait until the library door closed behind him before saying, “Good Lord, Sin, if I’d not received your message warning me that she was here, I would have thought that was a man I met in the foyer.”

Only Guy—St. John’s oldest friend—still called him by his childhood nickname now that his brother Ben was gone.

“That was her—the Boxing Baroness—wasn’t it?” Guy prodded.

Some newspaper wag had given Simpson the cruel nickname after she had claimed to be Strickland’s legal wife. Now that he had met the serious, proud young woman, Sin had a difficult time imagining her even speaking to Strickland, much less becoming his lover.

“Yes, that was Miss Marianne Simpson.”

“She looks a bit different without all that face paint, doesn’t she? More delicate, somehow. Why in the name of all that is holy does she dress like a man?”

“The subject didn’t come up.”

Guy chuckled and dropped into the chair Marianne Simpson had just vacated, reminding Sin of the provocative manner in which she had lounged, her long, shapely legs spread wide, her leather breeches pulled tight over—

“So, did she get choked up and weep all over you when she heard about the resurrection of her old swain?”

Sin jolted at the question, grateful for his friend’s interruption. The last thing he wished to do was entertain sexual thoughts about Marianne Simpson.

“She refused to read his letter.”

Guy gave a raucous hoot and slapped his thigh. “She didn’t even want to read it? What a cold-hearted bitch. And incurious, too. Are you sure she’s even female?”

St. John thought back to the oddly potent woman he’d just spoken to. Yes, she was certainly female. Too female for his comfort.

“I don’t think I’ve ever met a woman who didn’t want to know everything about everything,” Guy said when Sin didn’t answer. “Lord, I couldn’t resist reading Dom’s letter myself, even though I loathe the bastard.”

Guy’s loathing had not always been the case. Once, years ago, Sin, Guy, Dominic Strickland, and two other friends—Elliot Wingate and David Norris—had been as close as brothers, the five of them teasingly referred to as The Brotherhood when they were at Eton.

Until today, Sin had believed there were only three of them still alive: himself, Guy, and Elliot.

David was incontrovertibly dead—a victim of the same enemy ambush believed to have killed his brother Ben—and Dominic had been reported dead in a fire almost a year ago.

“Do you think Simpson might be working with Dom on this scheme?” Guy asked. “Maybe her refusal to cooperate is just a way to drive up the price for information on Ben’s whereabouts.”