Page 25 of The Boxing Baroness

He nodded at her flushed cheeks, as if she’d made some sort of admission, a harsh smile taking possession of his angelic features.

“I have no idea what you are talking about, Your Grace.”

“Then perhaps I should send a message to the Customs Office? I daresay they’d be fascinated by the contents of your uncle’s cellars, Miss Simpson. I could have agents here within the hour.”

Marianne held his harsh gaze; she would not quail. “If buying smuggled brandy was a jailable offense, the prisons would be stuffed to bursting, Your Grace—mostly with men from your class.”

“I’m not talking about buying smuggled goods, and we both know it.”

Her stomach lurched sickly at his words and accusing look. “You—”

“Yes, yes, I know—I am vile, odious, et cetera. You needn’t repeat yourself. Instead, think on this: If keeping your uncle out of debtors’ prison isn’t enough to persuade you to cooperate, perhaps keeping him from being transported or hanged might be sufficient reason?”

Marianne could only stare. What did he know? More importantly—what exactly had her uncle done with Dominic? Oh, she knew the two of them had been up to their necks in smuggling in Deal, but she’d never wanted to know just how far they’d gone. But now—

The duke’s next words shook her from her miserable introspection. “After your next fight my carriage will collect you and take you somewhere we can discuss your plans for the next few months.” He paused, the planes of his face hardening. “If you are not waiting for me, I will ensure that the requisite authorities collect your uncle. Am I understood?”

She chewed the inside of her cheek until it was ragged.

When she did not answer, his frown deepened. “Do not test my patience on this matter, Miss Simpson; you will find I have none. Tell me you understand,” he repeated.

“I understand, Your Grace.” The words were like broken glass in her mouth. “Is that all?”

“No. There is one more thing. Tell your uncle I want to see the letter and the locket.”

“Letter and locket? Should I know what you are talking about?”

“Your uncle will know.”

He turned and left the way he’d come—through the door that led to the prop room, and then to the back alley.

Marianne watched him go before she spun and hit the leather man. “Bastard!” she hissed, pummeling the boiled-leather punching bag with her bare fists until her knuckles stung and burned.

Only when she saw a fresh smear of blood on the coffee-colored leather did she grab the bag and collapse against it, blinking her eyes rapidly, as if that could stop the tears that were already falling and blurring her vision.

Yet again a man was controlling the direction of her life. Unlike Dominic, who’d only destroyed her reputation, the duke would destroy the lives of everyone who depended on her uncle and the work he provided. Dozens of workers and their families would suffer if Marianne told the duke to go to the devil. Thanks to her uncle’s rash involvement in smuggling over the years, he might get transported or even die if she denied Staunton what he wanted.

Yet again a man was giving her a choice that was no choice at all.

* * *

“I don’t understand, Uncle. How could this happen? Is it really all gone?”

Barnabas Farnham’s pale, papery skin had turned brick red. Never had she seen her uncle look so ashamed.

Fear arrowed to her chest at the desolation in his eyes. “Oh God. You used my money, too, didn’t you?”

He bit his lower lip.

Marianne squeezed her eyes shut. “All my money is gone, isn’t it? All my pay—which you were supposed to invest for me. Instead, you gambled it all away.”

When he didn’t answer she opened her eyes.

Her uncle’s expression was one of profound shame. “I’m sorry, Marianne. I’d planned to replace it all—to have it back, with interest—before you even noticed.”

Marianne had no words.

“How did you find out?” he asked.