Page 36 of The Boxing Baroness

Hmm. Yes, he certainly looked like a St. John. “Isn’t the name Sin something that a bunch of other toffs will associate with you?”

“No,” Elliot said, while the duke seethed. “Only two others have ever called him that.”

“Hmph.” Marianne pondered for a minute, trying to come up with something that didn’t scream nob but at the same time was familiar enough for Staunton to answer to. “How about we just say Sin is short for a more normal surname—like Sinclair. John Sinclair?”

“Fine,” the duke said shortly.

She smirked. “Good—we already have a Squeaky, a Bazzer, and a Chook, so you’ll fit right in.”

“Why would a former butler join a traveling circus?” the duke asked, ignoring her dig.

“I’m sure you’ve sacked more than a few servants. Think of a reason.”

He bristled visibly at her accusation but didn’t refute it.

“Why do servants lose their jobs?” Marianne asked. “Fighting, wenching . . . stealing.” She stopped. “Stealing. Hmm—”

“No,” he said firmly. “I refuse to bear the stigma of thief for the next nine weeks.”

His pinched expression amused her. “Fine, so, not a thief.” She pursed her mouth and twitched her nose from side to side as she considered possible reasons for his downward social trajectory. “Let’s say you were discovered quenching your thirst in your employer’s cellar—not for the first time—and he discharged you without a character reference.”

“So, I am a dipsomaniac.”

Marianne smiled.

The duke sighed. “Very well. And how is it that I heard about this job?”

“We’ll say you heard about it from Charlie Whittaker, who used to be a footman before he was a fighter: Handsome Charlie, he’s often called.”

“And won’t this Charlie person deny knowing me?”

“Fortunately, he returned home to Glasgow not long ago. We can say you both worked for the same master years ago.”

The duke nodded.

Marianne turned to the shorter man. “And you—what name do you want to go by?”

“Elliot will be fine.”

“Elliot? Elliot?” She laughed. “No, I don’t think so. That’s almost as bad as Sinjin. And Wingate won’t work.”

“How about Smith, is that normal enough?” Elliot suggested with a wry look.

“A boxer would never go by Smith. Can you answer to Smithy?”

“I believe I could do that.”

“Are you from London?”

“No, Bristol.”

Marianne grinned. “Ah, the home of champions! Hen Pearce, Tom Cribb, and Jem Belcher.” She surveyed his whipcord-lean body from head to toe. “So, we’ll say you’ve just moved here from Bristol. I met Pearce once and you’ve the look of him. Why don’t we tell people that you used to work for a butcher but got the sack when you cast your gaze too high—upon your employer’s daughter. You’ve boxed since you were a lad, but you took a proper fibbing a few years back and you’ve not had a money bout since. Can you remember all that?”

He gave her another of his faint smiles. “I think I’ll manage, Miss Simpson.”

“You’d better get accustomed to calling me Marianne.” She looked at the duke. “Both of you.”

“And your trainer will not mind your hiring such reprobates—and without any character recommendations?” the duke asked.