The Prizefighter’s Hart by Emily Royal

Chapter Thirty-Seven

The carriage drew to a halt at the edge of Dencombe, and Griffin lowered the window. The Royal Oak was at the opposite end of the street, its sign swaying in the breeze—a tree topped by a crown.

He pushed open the door and climbed out.

“Wait here,” he said to the driver. “We don’t want Ogilvie spotting the carriage.”

Ned followed, helping Thea out, and Griffin spotted a familiar object sticking out of the pocket of his breeches—the polished wooden handle of a pistol.

The village was already coming to life. A farmer whistled a merry tune as he strode along the street, a Smithfield collie trotting beside him. Further along the street, a boy emerged from a building, carrying a basket, and almost collided with Ned.

“Steady on, lad!” Ned cried.

The boy touched his cap. “Begging your pardon, sir. I’m in such a hurry, I wasn’t looking where I’m going.”

Griffin’s stomach growled at the aroma of freshly baked bread—a sharp reminder that breakfast was long overdue.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“Morning deliveries, sir.”

“At the inn?”

“The Oak?” The boy shook his head. “No—I was there earlier. This lot’s for the big house.”

“But you’ve been to the Royal Oak this morning,” Griffin said, towering over the boy.

“I don’t want no trouble, sir.”

Dorothea hissed in Griffin’s ear. “You’re frightening him. The poor child’s half your height, if that.”

She nudged him aside and smiled at the boy.

“You’re not in any trouble,” she said. “Do you know if there are any rooms vacant at the inn?”

Why the devil was she asking that?

“I don’t know—they had two new arrivals just after dawn.”

“An unusual time for guests to arrive,” she said.

The boy nodded. “That’s what I said. A man and a woman on horseback—I reckon they’d eloped, though Mr. Miller said they couldn’t have.”

“Why not?”

“The man’s old enough to be her father!”

Griffin drew in a sharp breath, then a slim hand touched his wrist. He glanced at his wife, and she frowned and shook her head.

“Thank you, young man,” she said, reaching inside her reticule and pulling out a coin. “Here’s a shilling for your trouble.”

“Thank you, ma’am!” The boy bowed, then resumed his path along the road.

Griffin let out the breath he’d been holding.

He’d found Ogilvie. All he needed now was to get Rowe back.

*

In the yearssince Griffin had last visited the Royal Oak, it had changed ownership several times, and, by the look of it, fallen from grace. Paint peeled off the doors, and several windowpanes were cracked. What had once been a thriving inn and a magnificent Tudor building now looked desolate and unloved.

He pushed through the main door and called out.

“Hello there!”

A sandy-haired man in his forties emerged, brandishing a cloth. He stepped back when he saw Griffin, then he glanced at Ned, and his frown turned into a smile.

“Ned!” he cried. “What brings you round these parts—and at this hour?”

“I’m here with my employer, Sam,” Ned said. “Mr. Oake and his wife.”

“The Mighty Oak—I thought I recognized you.” He glanced at Thea and bowed his head. “Begging your pardon, ma’am—Sam Miller, at your service.”

Griffin fisted his hands, ready to knock the man aside. Then a soft hand touched his, and delicate fingers curled round his fist—as if she sensed his rage.

“Mr. Miller,” she said in her soft voice. “I understand you welcomed two new guests this morning. We have reason to believe one of them is our daughter.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Ogilvie?”

Dorothea gasped. “I beg your pardon?”

“Aye—newlyweds. Or so the gentleman said.”

Griffin’s body shook as fury boiled deep inside his gut.

“He’s no gentleman,” he said. “Where are they?”

“Room six, on the top floor. But he asked that they not be…”

“I don’t care what he asked!” Griffin sprang forward and shoved the man aside, then climbed the staircase, taking the steps two at a time until he reached a low-ceilinged passageway.

“Ogilvie!” he roared. “Where are you—you whoreson!” He came to a door with the number six scratched into the wood and rammed it with the full force of his body.

The door flew open, and he fell forward into the chamber. A familiar high-pitched scream rang out.

“Papa!”

Rowe stood at the far end of the room, her face streaked with tears, face flushed, hair tangled. Beside her stood Ogilvie, a smile of triumph on his face.

“So you found us,” he said. “More quickly than I expected.” He took Rowe’s hand and lifted it to his lips. She frowned and snatched it away.

“Get your fucking hands off my daughter!” Griffin roared. “Rowe. Come here.”

Rowe shook her head.

“I remember what happened,” she said. “The night my mother died. I saw you.”

“You don’t know what you saw,” Griffin said.

Rowe pointed to Thea, who stood in the doorway next to Ned. “Does she know you killed her?”

Thea drew in a sharp breath, and her hand flew to her mouth.

“She doesn’t, does she?” Rowe cried. “You’ve lied to her as well.”

“Then it’s time for the truth,” he said, “and Ogilvie hasn’t told you the truth.”

“Don’t listen to him,” Ogilvie said. “He’ll say anything to discredit me.”

“Ned!” Griffin growled. “I think it’s time we silenced this bastard.”

Ned drew the pistol out of his pocket.

“So, you’d have your lackey shoot me?” Ogilvie sneered. “What would your precious daughter think? She already hates you.”

“You’ve made damned sure of that,” Griffin said. “But Rowe’s welfare is more important than her opinion of me—which is why I never told her the truth. And you took advantage of that, didn’t you? Just like with her mother—you poisoned Louisa against me, spinning your lies to lure her into your bed. And then what? After she spread her legs, you cast her aside. Is that what you intended to do with Rowe?”

“No,” Ogilvie said. “Little Rowe-ling is a much better prospect.”

Rowe moved away from Ogilvie, her face growing pale. “What do you mean—prospect?” she asked.

“He wants your fortune, Rowena,” Thea said. “Isn’t that right, Mr. Ogilvie? Did you intend to marry Rowena? Or merely to ruin her reputation, then persuade my husband to buy your silence?”

Rowe’s eyes widened, and she glanced at Ogilvie.

“What did he promise you, Rowena, dear?” Thea asked. Rowe seemed to grow calmer at Thea’s soft voice. Thea moved toward her and held out her hand. Rowe’s lip wobbled, and a tear splashed onto her cheek.

“I’m sorry, Mama Thea,” she said. “I don’t know who to believe.”

“Neither do I,” Thea said. “Sometimes, we must take a leap of faith and follow our heart—and not be influenced by those who promise us the world. The more they promise, the less they can be trusted.”

“Don’t listen to her!” Ogilvie cried. “She’s your father’s plaything—and she’ll do anything he tells her to.”

Griffin almost laughed at Ogilvie’s words. Thea might be his wife, but she was no more likely to obey him than the clouds in the sky.

And Rowena knew it. She stared at Ogilvie, the confusion in her expression turning into suspicion. At length, her gaze landed on Griffin.

“Tell me the truth, Papa,” she said, gesturing toward Thea. “Tell us both.”

The moment had come. After today, Rowe might lose her peace of mind. But his daughter—and his wife—deserved the truth.

“Very well,” Griffin said. Ogilvie opened his mouth to protest, but Ned cocked the pistol and aimed it at his chest, and he closed it again.

Griffin swallowed his fear at the hurt Rowe would inevitably suffer and began.

“Your mother was already pregnant when I married her…”

“You took advantage of her?” she interrupted.

He shook his head. “She’d lain with a number of men before we married—Ogilvie included. I loved her so much, it didn’t matter. When she told me she was pregnant, I couldn’t believe how happy I was. But then…”

He hesitated, the raw pain of the memory overcoming him, and blinked back the sting of tears.

“Griffin?” Thea’s face swam into view, the concern in her expression touching his heart.

“She fell down the stairs…” He drew in a deep breath. “…I thought it was an accident. I—I called the doctor, and you cannot imagine my relief when he said the child hadn’t been harmed. But when Louisa regained consciousness, and I told her the good news, she started to hit me—she screamed at me, saying…”

He closed his eyes, but the image of Louisa’s face, distorted with hatred, swam before him, and he opened them again. Rowe’s face had grown ashen.

“What did she say, Papa?”

“She’d wanted to rid herself of the child—the man she loved had spurned her because he didn’t want to be saddled with a brat. So, she tried to lose the baby—for him—even though there was every chance he was the father.”

Rowe glanced at Ogilvie, and the pain in her expression tore at Griffin’s heart. But now he’d started, there was no going back.

“After that,” he continued, “I did everything I could to keep her safe. I made her promise not to harm herself or the child. She agreed on condition that I care for the child and let her do what she liked—and with whom—once it was born.”

Thea shook her head. “You wanted her to be unfaithful?”

“I was prepared to do anything to protect the child,” he said. “By then, I realized Louisa had never loved me. When the child came…” His voice caught. “Oh, Rowe! You were the most beautiful thing in the world! You gave me something to live for—someone to love and take care of.”

“And my mother?” Rowe asked.

“I hoped she might grow to love you—but she didn’t. She was as good as her word and hardly touched you. Night after night, she’d come home late—drunk—stinking of the men she’d been with.”

Rowe’s eyes glistened with moisture and tears rolled down her cheeks. “What about the picnics she took me on? The bedtime stories?”

“I’m sorry, Rowe,” he said. “I wanted you to believe you had a mother who loved you. So, after she died, I pictured the pretty girl I’d fallen in love with and told you about my dreams—a happy marriage with a loving wife and a child we adored. You were too young to be burdened with the truth.”

She closed her eyes and bent her head, her body shaking.

“Rowe…” Griffin reached out to her, and she shrank back, hostility in her eyes.

“Did you kill her?”

“No,” he said. “The night she died, I caught her in the White Hart, in bed with him.” He gestured toward Ogilvie.

“It was quite by chance, Rowe—you and I were caught in a thunderstorm during a walk, and we sheltered at the inn. Ned told me your mother was there, and he took care of you while I went in search of her to bring her home. Then, I found them—in bed, both stinking of ale. I—I couldn’t take any more, so I said he was welcome to her. But he was leaving for London and didn’t want her. She was pregnant again, and though she crawled at his feet, he refused to take her with him.”

Griffin shook his head to dispel the memory, but it was burned into his mind—the image of Louisa’s broken body, illuminated in the flash of lightning as she fell to her death.

“Perhaps it was the ale or her obsession with him…” He glanced at Rowe’s face. “She—she must have thought she could persuade him a second time.”

“What did she do?” Thea asked.

“She threw herself down the stairs—to rid herself of the child she carried. I—I tried to stop her, but she was too quick. When I reached the bottom of the stairs, she was already dead—her neck broken.”

“Dear Lord!” Thea cried. Beside her, Rowe remained silent, her eyes wide with shock.

“She was unclothed. I couldn’t bear the thought of her body being manhandled. So I took my shirt off and put it on her to give her more dignity in death than she’d ever had in life. Then, I looked up and saw you, Rowe—your little face, lit up by the lightning. Forgive me—my poor child! I never meant for you to see it. Ned led you away, while I took care of your mother, and neither of us spoke about that night since. I hoped you’d forget or think it just a bad dream. But it was there, always, in the back of your mind. Every thunderstorm since that night, I’ve lived in fear of you remembering.”

“Oh, Griffin!” Thea cried.

Rowe wiped her face. “It can’t be true,” she said. “My mother loved me—you said so!”

The raw pain in her voice sliced through his heart. No child wanted to be told that their mother hated them so much, she wanted to rid herself of them.

“Your papa speaks the truth,” Ned said. “I was there. And so was he.” He waved the pistol at Ogilvie, who stood, arms folded, watching, a smile on his lips.

“Why do you smile, you bastard!” Griffin demanded. “You take pleasure out of my daughter’s distress?”

“That’s just it, Oake,” came the reply. “She’s not your daughter.”

“She is, in every sense that matters,” Griffin said. “Her mother didn’t want her—and neither did you! Don’t tell me you want to play the doting father now.”

“You really are a simpleton, aren’t you?” Ogilvie sneered. “You think telling her the truth changes anything? What will the gossips say about her running off, unchaperoned, with a man twice her age? What will that do to her prospects?”

“I’ll not consent to you marrying her,” Griffin said. “I’d rather shoot you dead and swing from a gibbet.”

Ogilvie laughed. “Submit myself to the leg-shackles and a life of being hen-pecked, just like you have with your prim little schoolmistress? Of course not! But little Rowe-ling has a tidy fortune—twenty thousand, I’m told. I’m not a greedy man. What say you to a nice round ten?”

Rowe burst into tears, and Thea pulled her into an embrace, glaring at Ogilvie. “How dare you!” she cried. “Was this your plan? To turn Rowena against us and seduce her into running off with you so you could blackmail my husband? Don’t you care for her at all?”

“Dear me, you can’t control that woman of yours, can you, Oake?” Ogilvie said. “I always thought you were less than a man. Perhaps that’s why Louisa turned to others—your cock wasn’t up to the task.”

Griffin fought the urge to smash his fist into Ogilvie’s face.

“Why don’t we settle this matter, once and for all,” he said. “Right now. Outside. Last man standing wins.”

“What’s in it for me?” Ogilvie asked.

“If you beat me, you can have your ten thousand.”

“And if you win?”

“Then you leave—and if you return, I’ll have you arrested for abduction and blackmail.”

“Very well,” Ogilvie said. “One last fight. I’ve waited ten years to best you—and this time, I’ll be the victor.”