Page 21 of The Boxing Baroness

Tommy held up both hands in a placating gesture, his expression tinged with healthy fear. “Awright, awright, gov.”

Marianne turned her back to Sin so Jack could tie on the padded gloves boxers called mufflers. The rounded swell of well-developed buttocks pushed against the thin muslin of her chemise when she moved.

The drawers and chemise hid her thighs, but her thick woolen stockings couldn’t disguise calves that were both shapely and muscular. Once again, features that would normally have appeared masculine and unappealing to him were tempered by the presence of dainty ankles.

Sin scowled at his body’s unwanted response and wrenched his gaze upward to rest on her shoulders as Jack tied on her glove.

Sin’s attitude toward boxing—like so many things—had altered as he’d grown older. Back in his youth, he’d reveled in bloody, bare-knuckled fights. Now he found such exhibitions repellent and barbaric—for either gender.

The athleticism of boxing was just as rewarding to watch without having the combatants bloody and permanently damage each other. Yet even with wrapped fists, the activity was brutal, the bruises on Marianne’s body telling their tale most vividly. How Farnham could do this to a member of his own family—or any woman, for that matter—was beyond Sin.

Curb your crusading spirit, old man, this woman’s occupation is none of your concern.

No, it wasn’t. But in Sin’s world, gentlemen protected women; they didn’t exploit them.

Oh, is that what goes on in all those brothels that supply little girls to wealthy “gentlemen”: protection?

He couldn’t deny the accusation. It shamed him that men he’d grown up with could prey on the weak and powerless.

As you are about to prey on Miss Simpson?

Sin silenced the voice. There would be plenty of time to wrestle with his conscience later—after he’d freed his brother.

Once Jack finished with Marianne, he moved to Tommy.

Marianne kept her muscles warm by stretching as she waited, her body limber and supple rather than muscle-bound, as was the case with many male boxers.

Sin’s own body tensed as he waited for the sparring to begin; he was not looking forward to this. It didn’t matter that Tommy had a youthful, slender build. He was a man and men were stronger than women.

Or at least that was what he’d always thought.

But once the sparring started, it took less than a minute to see that Tommy was sorely out-classed when it came to skill and speed.

The younger man’s aggressive insouciance changed so quickly it was comical. One minute he was smirking and swaggering, the next he was staggering back from a ferocious crosscut he’d never seen coming.

Sin was flabbergasted by the woman’s speed. Her fist was a blur, her loose and relaxed posture giving away nothing of her intentions before her arm shot out.

After the second hit, Tommy tightened his stance and raised his guard, no longer strutting, his expression intent—and perhaps even a little respectful—rather than jeering.

Once he took his opponent seriously, the fight was more closely matched, but even so, Tommy only got in one hit for every five or six of Marianne’s. She possessed a lethal combination of intelligence, skill, and endurance. Sin was impressed by how subtly Marianne drew out the young man’s weaknesses and used them against him, until Tommy was winded, his punches increasingly wide of his target.

By the time Jack stopped the sparring, both fighters were breathing hard and sweat-slicked, but Tommy was clearly the worse for wear. As they toweled off, drank, and prepared for a second bout, Jack spoke softly to Marianne for a moment before turning to Tommy, who was drinking far too much water for a man about to fight.

The older man wrenched away the bottle. “Much more and you’ll be shootin’ the cat.” He leaned close to Tommy’s face, studying his right eye, which had already begun swelling. “You good for anovver go, or do you need more time?”

Tommy’s already flushed face darkened. “’Course I’m awright!”

Before the two could resume sparring, the stage door opened, and Barnabas Farnham bustled into the room. “Ah, good—I caught you between bouts,” he said in his barely accented English. He turned his shrewd, dark stare on Tommy, frowned at the younger man’s swelling eye, and then glared at Jack. “This is the best you could find?”

Jack looked pained and Tommy flinched, as if he’d been punched in the face.

The trainer opened his mouth, but Barnabas waved an impatient hand. “Never mind, I don’t have time right now.” He turned to Tommy. “Does Jack know how to get hold of you if we need you?”

The lad nodded.

“Good. Now leave. Go,” he added when Tommy hesitated.

Tommy scowled and stalked toward the chair, snatched up his clothing, and then stormed out the stage door.