Page 18 of The Boxing Baroness

Sin lurked in the shadows of the chilly theater and waited, feeling like a hole-and-corner pervert.

It had cost him a sizeable sum of money to bribe his way into Farnham’s Fantastical Female Fayre while Miss Marianne Simpson practiced with her trainer. It was fortunate that the same servant Elliot was using to go through Farnham’s mail was now firmly in their pocket and could not refuse Sin’s demand.

He felt like a bloody idiot hiding behind stage curtains and miscellaneous props, but he had tried every other way—both reputable and non—to speak to Miss Marianne Simpson. It was easier for Sin to gain an audience with the King of England than a female pugilist. But short of having her arrested and dragged from her home or place of work, he’d run out of other ideas.

So, here he was, lurking.

The practice area was the same stage that was used for the actual matches. The only differences between this morning and a regular business night were the lack of a roaring all-male crowd, fewer candles to light the huge space, and the addition of two boiled-leather punching bags of the sort he often used himself at Gentleman Jackson’s.

The scenery and props that usually concealed the backstage area were absent, exposing various ropes, pulleys, cupboards, and a stove that occupied a small brick niche, which was losing the battle to warm the cavernous area.

Sin had been waiting since five o’clock and had fallen into an uncomfortable doze while standing.

The sound of the stage door opening snapped him awake. He was about to step out from behind the curtain when he saw that it wasn’t Miss Simpson, but her trainer, Jack Nelson.

Damn it! The servant had said nothing about the trainer being there, although Sin should have guessed. Jack Nelson operated his own boxing parlor and Sin had, wrongfully, assumed Marianne would go there to train with him.

Sin doubted the man would be pleased to find him trespassing, or amenable to giving Sin a few minutes with Miss Simpson. It was far more likely that Sin would find himself engaged in an impromptu mill with the huge man.

Nelson had a leather bag over one massive shoulder and an armload of linen, which he dropped onto one of four chairs lined up against the back wall. The man was a bloody giant—easily six feet three or four—and must weigh upward of eighteen stone. His blunt features had suffered significant rearrangement over time and hands the size of Christmas hams hung at his sides as he strode to the largest cupboard.

Jack opened the cupboard, exposing stacks of dumbbells, and bent low. When he stood up, he had a fat roll of mattress-ticking tucked beneath one arm. He carried it to the front of the stage and kicked it open, unrolling a thin pallet.

From his satchel he extracted two wine bottles and some other items Sin couldn’t identify from where he stood. Jack was still rooting about in the bag when Marianne Simpson entered.

Rather than buckskins and a coat, she wore a simple straw bonnet and a gown and cloak, both a serviceable gray wool.

Jack looked up from the bag he’d been rifling through. “’Mornin’, ducks.”

A huge yawn distorted her face. “Good morning, Jack.” She plucked at the ribbon under her chin and pulled her hat from her short brown curls.

Once again her pleasant, cultured voice—that of a gently bred woman—startled him, even though he now knew where she’d acquired it.

She strode toward Jack with loose-limbed, animal grace. Her movements were economical and fluid as she stripped off her gloves and then untied her cloak, shrugging it from shoulders that were well-formed, even without a claw-hammer coat accentuating them.

She yawned again and began to unbutton the row of wooden buttons that ran down the front of her dress.

Sin blinked. Good Lord, did the woman intend to disrobe right there?

After unfastening the last button, she pulled her gown over her head, exposing short stays over a chemise and a single petticoat.

Her skin was so pale that the bruises scattered on her torso stood out in stark relief. An odd tightness seized Sin’s stomach at the mute evidence of the beatings her body endured week in and week out. The marks ranged from faded yellow stains to brown splotches to the still angry purple and black bruises on her breastbone and jaw.

So, her bouts were more authentic than he’d believed.

When Jack turned back to her, she held out a sleekly muscled arm and closed her eyes, as if she were finding it difficult to stay awake.

“Tired?” Jack asked, efficiently wrapping her left hand with strips of fabric.

“A bit.” She didn’t open her eyes.

Jack lowered her left and lifted her right hand, then began wrapping it. “I said you should ’ave slept in this mornin’, Annie.”

“Uncle wanted me with you three times this week.” Her tone said this wasn’t the first time they’d had this discussion.

“Aye, aye, I know what Barney wants.” The big man snorted rudely, causing her bowed lips to curve into a charming smile that exposed the dimples Sin had suspected. “Does yer ’ead ’urt?”

“A little,” she admitted, opening her eyes now that he’d finished wrapping her hands.