Page 24 of The Boxing Baroness

“It is not Strickland’s letter.” He held a thick wad of mismatched papers bound with a piece of twine.

“What are those?” she asked as he untied the bundle.

He pulled one piece from the pile and held it up so that she could read it.

Marianne immediately recognized the familiar signature. Her eyes widened at the figure on the chit. “That is my uncle’s name.” She looked at the numerous pieces of paper still in his hand. “How much—”

“A great deal, I’m afraid. In fact, I would hazard that everything Farnham owns will not be enough to clear these debts.”

“I don’t believe you.” Marianne snatched the papers from his hand.

Some fluttered to the floor, but her gaze was riveted on the dozen or so that she held.

She raised her free hand to her mouth. “My God, there are thousands of pounds owed here.” When he didn’t respond, she looked up.

Something flickered in his inhumanly cool gaze—pity?

Marianne sorted through the chits, which had obviously been issued on different days and likely to different people. “You bought these, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

Marianne wanted to cry—it had been years since she’d done so, not even during the wretched debacle with Dominic.

“So, what you’re telling me is—”

“If you do not do as I ask, I will call in these debts and your uncle will go to prison. For a very, very long time. I will take everything he owns, and I will close down the circus.”

Her fist tightened around the papers and blood thundered in her ears. “You vile, odious, execrable—”

“If you do as I ask, I will hand everything over to you once you’ve spoken to Strickland. These vowels are worth tens of thousands of pounds. You may call them in—or not.” Impossibly, his beautiful face hardened even more. “You should realize that whether I bought these debts or not, they would come due sooner rather than later and your uncle would not be able to pay them. The opportunity I am offering you is beyond generous.”

Marianne stared at him through a red haze of fury. She hated him more for being right; his offer was generous. Insanely so. That didn’t make her feel any less like a trapped animal. “Why did you pretend that I had a choice? Why this—this—farce of asking for my help? Why didn’t you just tell me I was at your mercy from the beginning?”

“That hardly matters, does it?” The words—not taunting, but toneless—only made her want to hit him more. And keep hitting.

“You’re right; it doesn’t matter.” She lifted the vowels she still held. “That doesn’t mean I’m just going to take your word for all this. I want to talk to my uncle.”

He remained as motionless as a predator observing the futile struggles of its wounded, dying prey. “You are scheduled to leave England on March first, are you not?”

“Yes.”

“So that means there are five weeks remaining before your departure. I will give you until the night of your next bout to speak to your uncle and confirm what I have told you.”

Marianne chewed her lower lip; she felt as if she’d been struck hard on the head.

“Did you hear me, Miss Simpson?”

When she didn’t answer, Staunton stepped closer. Rather than retreat, she squared her shoulders and took a step toward him, until their chests touched; Marianne would be damned before she cringed from this man.

“What if I tell my uncle about you and he scarpers off to the Continent, leaving you with a handful of useless paper?”

“That would be inadvisable.”

“That sounds like a threat.”

“You and I know that your uncle has been involved in illicit activity for years.”

Marianne’s throat shrank to the diameter of a pin, and it was difficult to breathe. What did he know?