The Prizefighter’s Hart by Emily Royal

Chapter Six

The dinner concluded, the ladies retired to the drawing room, while the men remained in the dining room.

As Lady Hart led the procession of silk gowns and coiffured figures out of the room, Griffin’s gaze fell on the woman who’d been sitting next to Major Hart. She wasn’t present when he’d arrived that evening but appeared after dinner was announced.

She’d seemed uninteresting at first—hair scraped into a style which looked as if it had been designed to be as unflattering as possible, her gown free of any adornment. But the more he observed her during the meal, he caught glimpses of character—a flash of intelligence in her eyes. At first, he’d have said they were a dull gray, but on closer observation, they were, in fact, a pale shade of blue. The dark rims around the irises gave them a somewhat unsettling expression.

More than once, he’d caught her watching him, though her gaze shifted as soon as he looked at her.

She must be the other sister—the elusive Dorothea.

The air thickened with cigar smoke.

Griffin couldn’t stand the stuff, and he refused Sir Dexter’s offer of one. When a footman approached with the brandy decanter, he shook his head.

“Try it,” a voice said. Mr. Peyton slipped into the seat next to Griffin and gestured toward the decanter. “That’s Hart’s finest. You’ll not taste the like again.”

“I prefer to keep a clear head.”

“Not an easy feat when the air’s blue.” Peyton waved his hand, dissipating the smoke emanating from Mr. Lewis’s cigar. “I can’t abide the insistence on gentlemen separating themselves from the ladies.”

“I’d have thought a room full of women an unappealing prospect,” Griffin said.

“Not when you’ve spent the whole day in a boardroom full of men. There’s a particular delight to be had in listening to female inanities about the latest fashions or hearing a song at the pianoforte.”

“Who was the woman sitting beside Major Hart?” Griffin asked. “She seemed discomposed during dessert.”

“Miss Hart? Yes, most unlike her. She’s Sir Dexter’s sister. She keeps house for him and Lady Hart and tends to their children.

“She sounds more like a servant than a family member.”

“She had a house of her own for a time,” Peyton said, “but she moved back after Lady Hart had her youngest child.”

“Why?”

“I suppose she was lonely. The children adore her, and, with the exception of William, she’s helped bring every one of her nieces and nephews into the world. She appears to have no ambition outside keeping house and looking after other people’s children.”

“Not much of a life for a woman of her station.”

“But perfect for a spinster aunt,” Peyton said. “She’s nearing thirty.”

The man might as well have said she was six feet under.

“It must be hard for her,” Peyton continued. “She was the lady of the house until Sir Dexter married. And now, she’s confined to a restricted circle and will remain so until the day she dies.”

Yes—she might as well be in her grave.

Unless…

A spinster aunt, nearing thirty, with no ambition outside looking after the children of another.

She sounded like the answer to his problems. A respectable, dependable woman who was clearly underappreciated by her own family.

And perhaps he was the answer to her problems. The poor creature might appreciate a little adventure.

If chaperoning Rowena could be considered an adventure.

Sir Dexter rose, and the men followed suit and headed toward the drawing room. Good—it would give Griffin a chance to observe her more closely.

*

A fire crackledin the drawing room, which was alive with activity and conversation. As the men distributed themselves among the women, the noise abated, and Lady Hart cleared her throat.

“Time for a little music,” she said. “Lady Cholmondeley, would you be so kind?”

A tall, elegantly dressed woman with iron-gray hair approached the pianoforte.

“Dorothea? Might you oblige us with a song?” Lady Hart asked.

The lone figure sitting beside the fireplace stirred and glanced around the room. Her cheeks flushed pink—perhaps due to the heat from the fire. As her gaze settled on Griffin, the bloom on her cheeks deepened.

“Perhaps another time,” she said. “My throat’s a little sore.”

Lady Hart approached her and whispered encouragement, but she shook her head.

“Leave her be, Meggie, if she’s unwilling,” Major Hart interjected.

At that moment, the door burst open, and two children ran into the room—a young boy, followed by a toddler.

“Mama! Lily’s taken my nightshirt again!”

“William!” Sir Dexter roared. “How many times have I told you…”

“Leave him alone, Dexter. I’ll deal with it,” Miss Hart interrupted, speaking with an authority that belied her painfully shy air of before. She strode toward the children.

“Billy, dear,” she said, “remember what we discussed?”

“Not to disturb Mama and Papa when they’re entertaining.”

“Quite so. And why must you not disturb them?”

“Because I wouldn’t like it if they interrupted me when I’m with my friends.”

“And what else?”

“That obedience is how I show Papa I’m capable of becoming a man.” The boy bowed toward Sir Dexter and his wife. “Forgive me, Papa, Mama,” he said.

“Aunty Thea!” the toddler wailed. Miss Hart scooped the child into her arms.

“There, now!” she soothed. “Shall I read you a story?” The little girl nodded, then relaxed her head on her aunt’s shoulders. “Before then,” Miss Hart continued, “I wonder if you might assist me in a search for your brother’s nightshirt.” She glanced at the boy. “Billy might be able to shed some light as to why you might have procured it. A lady shouldn’t steal her brother’s clothes, but neither should a gentleman provoke her into doing it.”

She approached the door, but the boy remained where he was and glanced about the room. His eyes widened as his gaze fell on Griffin.

“Come along, young man,” Miss Hart chided. Obediently, he trotted after her.

“Perhaps I should…” Lady Hart began, but Sir Dexter interrupted her.

“Thea has it under control,” he said. “You know how she likes to be useful.”

Lady Hart frowned but resumed her seat, and Lady Cholmondeley began to play a pleasant but dull air.

Or perhaps it was dull because Griffin was disappointed at missing out on the prospect of hearing Miss Hart sing. Given the passion simmering beneath her veneer of dullness, he suspected her voice might be the only way she could express her feelings.

“We’ll not see her again,” Mr. Peyton said.

Griffin tore his gaze from the door. “The children seem rather a handful.”

Peyton laughed. “They are. Miss Hart is more than capable of handling them. Some adults have the ability to communicate with children as if they have a sixth sense in knowing precisely what to say. I wonder how she does it.”

“Through strict discipline, I imagine.”

“I’ve never heard a cross word from her. Miss Hart possesses the perfect blend of authority and compassion—at least where children are concerned.

“She seems a remarkable woman,” Griffin said, “and somewhat undervalued—though I’d prefer you didn’t tell Sir Dexter that.”

“Don’t tell my brother what?”

Shit.

Major Hart stood before him.

“I hadn’t noticed you approach,” Griffin said.

“I’m known for being light on my feet. It’s useful when I want to effect an ambush.” Major Hart glanced across toward Sir Dexter. “You’re right, of course, Mr. Oake.”

“In what respect?”

“My sister is both remarkable and undervalued. Two qualities which, if found together in the same person, make for a particularly tragic combination.”

“You pity her?” Griffin asked.

“I want more for her. I wonder…” he hesitated, “…if you don’t think it too forward, would you oblige us by accepting an invitation to a party next week?”

“A party?”

“Just a small gathering for family and friends. You strike me as the kind of man who’d prefer a less formal setting.”

Mr. Peyton laughed. “Is Mr. Oake supposed to be honored that you see him as a friend, Hart, or insulted that you consider him unsuited to formal occasions?”

“I meant no offense,” Hart said. “It’s a party to celebrate my sister’s birthday.”

“Lady Hart?”

“No, Dorothea.”

Griffin shook his head. “I’m sure your sister would object to a stranger invading her party.”

“She’ll not object.”

“Why don’t you tell him the real reason you’re asking him?” Mr. Peyton laughed. “Mr. Oake, I believe Hart wishes to engage in a bout with you before you return to the country.”

“You’re not staying in London?” Hart asked.

Griffin shook his head. “I’m anxious to return to my daughter in Sussex.”

The major’s eyes widened. “You have a daughter? I’d no idea you were…” He broke off and glanced toward the door through which Miss Hart had left. “Is she alone in Sussex, or perhaps your wife…?”

Griffin shivered at the memory of Louisa. Two pairs of eyes watched him with curiosity.

He glanced at the clock. “Forgive me. I must be going.”

“I trust I’ve not offended you by asking about your wife,” Major Hart said.

“No, I’m just tired,” Griffin said. “I’m unused to the late hour of London parties, but I look forward to seeing you next week.”

The major hesitated, then nodded. “Tuesday, seven o’clock. I’ll ask my sister to issue an invitation.”

“And, if your sister does not object, I can show you how to throw a good punch.”

“He can do that already,” Mr. Peyton said. “Major Hart once had the most fearsome reputation for fighting on the streets.”

“Then we have much to talk about,” Griffin said.

“I suppose we do.”

Griffin bowed, and the two men reciprocated, then he approached Sir Dexter to take his leave.

As he exited the building, he wondered what had come over Major Hart. At first, the man seemed eager to further their acquaintance, but as soon as he’d mentioned Rowena, his enthusiasm had waned. Perhaps he’d been offended by Griffin’s abrupt tone when he’d mentioned his wife—but Louisa was not a subject he wanted to discuss.

*

With the childrenat peace once more, Thea smoothed her hairstyle, then hurried back to the drawing room.

The strains of music reached her ears as Lady Cholmondeley made a gallant effort to play a Mozart sonata. Pleasant enough to an untrained ear, but Thea detected a number of mistakes, particularly in the passages where the left hand took on the melody.

Emboldened by having dealt with the children, she was now determined to sing—to show the company she was more than a glorified nursemaid.

With a little brandy to steady her nerves, she might even sing the Italian love song she’d practiced. The words would convey the feelings of her heart—the beauty being that hardly anyone in the room, save Devon and Meggie, understood the language.

She could sing it for him—to him—even if he was unaware.

She pushed open the door and surveyed the room.

He wasn’t there.

“Thea!” Devon approached her, hands outstretched. “I didn’t think you’d return. I know how demanding Lillian can be.”

“I didn’t want to shirk my responsibilities here.” She glanced around the room again.

“He’s gone,” Devon said, lowering his voice. “I invited him to your party.”

A spark of hope ignited within her. She’d see him again. Next time she’d summon the courage to speak to him.

“I’m sorry,” Devon continued.

“What for?” she asked. “You did well.”

“He’s married—with a daughter.”

The spark died. What a fool she’d been! Of course he’d be married—a man of his obvious virility.

“I know you were attracted to him,” Devon said, “but attraction isn’t enough when it comes to a union.” He gestured to his scarred face. “I’m glad of it, otherwise I’d never have found a woman willing to marry me!”

She turned away, blinking back the tears.

“Forgive me, Thea,” Devon said, “I didn’t mean to make light of your feelings. But if you’re too afraid to talk to a man, let alone sing before him, then that’s not love. It’s infatuation—obsession—and it’s not healthy.”

Devon was right. She hadn’t been in love—she was a childish fool.

Next week was her thirtieth birthday party. Time to grow up and accept life as it was.

*

By the timeGriffin had returned to the Queen’s Head, he’d decided that the prim Miss Hart was just the woman to turn Rowe into a lady. Undervalued by her family—that’s what Major Hart said, almost as if he was pleading on her behalf.

The main parlor was empty—the patrons having either gone home or retired to their rooms—save for the manager, who hailed Griffin as he entered.

“What can I get for you, Mr. Oake?”

“Information on the Harts,” Griffin said. “Do you know anything about them?”

“A little—my cousin’s under-gardener at Sir Dexter’s house. But I’m not one for gossip.”

“Quite,” Griffin said. “But I’d like to know if Sir Dexter’s an honest man.”

“There’s none fairer, so my cousin says. Sir Dexter made his fortune from nothing, much like you, Mr. Oake. And he’s weathered scandal with his sisters—but I don’t know if I should say.”

“I shan’t tell.”

“His younger sister got herself in the family way—though she married a duke, in the end. You don’t see her in London anymore. They live in Scotland.”

Thatpart was true. Sir Dexter had mentioned a brother-in-law who was a duke who owned a distillery in the Highlands. He’d suggested Griffin buy a few casks of the stuff—but who in the Queen’s Head, or even the White Hart, would drink whisky when gin was to be had at a quarter of the price?

“And his other sister?” Griffin asked.

“I’d heard in the Nag’s Head that his older sister had a child from an illicit union, but it was hushed up. It happened before they arrived in London. My Millicent knows more. Would you like me to ask her?

“No—best not spread gossip,” Griffin said. But the more he heard about Miss Hart, the more she intrigued him. Her dull exterior disguised a passionate woman. Did it also disguise a fallen woman?

In which case, she was likely to be grateful for any offer which removed her from being beholden to a family that viewed her as a disgrace. It wouldn’t take much to persuade her to leave.

And persuade her he would—next week, at her party. Few women her age would be given the chance of a new life. She’d be a simpleton not to take it.