Chapter Two
James MacGregor didn’t flinch as he received a punch to his side. The hit was softened by mufflers, after all. He’d taken enough bare-knuckled ones in the past to barely feel the impact. He knew how to swallow pain, how to conceal weakness, how to continue the fight—his crooked monstrosity of a nose, which had been broken three separate times, was testament to his endurance.
It had taken him several months of practice and several ounces of bloodshed, but eventually he’d learned how to avoid the worst hits. He’d developed a quickness that hadn’t come naturally. He’d learned to read his opponents, to react before they’d even moved.
And all for one simple reason that had nothing to do with fear of pain.
Losers didn’t get paid.
He could have avoided Stephen Locke’s clumsy attempt at a hit, but that would have defeated the purpose of teaching him, and risked the income he was gaining by instructing Stephen and his group of friends.
“Your fists aren’t high enough.”
James’s accent was crisp and clean—he’d long ago lost the brogue of his mother’s Highland heritage, with the help of careful observation and practice.
He showed Stephen how to jab properly, tilting his wrist down slightly, making sure his thumb was in a safe position so he didn’t break it on impact.
“Quick, short jabs,” he said. “Nothing wide-armed or extravagant. This isn’t a public house brawl. And don’t forget to keep your other fist up to protect your face.”
This time, when Stephen hit him, it hurt. Just a little.
His drawing room, a bare space completely devoted to practice except for a few chairs in the corner, smelled ripe with sweat. It wasn’t a scent James liked or disliked, it was simply one that had grown as familiar as his own hands. Like the smell of fish to a dockside laborer, or hay and horse manure to a stable boy.
There were other men sparring in the room. The sounds—knuckles against flesh, grunts, pain, harsh breaths—had also grown familiar. A pugilism melody.
James MacGregor lived a life of contained violence.
It was what he excelled at the most—inflicting damage on others while protecting himself from harm. Sometimes he wondered what that said about him.
But philosophy was for idle men, and he didn’t have the wealth or the position for idleness.
Not yet. Not quite.
When their practice ended, James grabbed a linen towel and wiped the sweat off his face before throwing a fresh towel to Stephen.
“I hear the Earl of Lark is in residence,” Stephen said idly.
James’s stomach jumped, more than it ever did when a fist was flying toward his face, but he returned Stephen’s stare with an implacable gaze.
“With his daughter,” he continued.
It was no use being implacable with Stephen. He’d told him too much, under the influence of a tankard, or two, or three, of ale, and now the man seemed to think James’s life was somehow his business, as though he was a pet project for a bored mind.
“Fascinating,” James drawled.
“Did you know the Earl of Lark is a member of the Natural History Society?”
“Should I care?”
“Campbell cares,” Stephen said, nodding toward one of the other men who was talking to a friend. “He’s a member, too. There’s a talk next week. Something about beetles.” Stephen grimaced.
James tilted his head, unable to keep the interest out of his expression.
Now Stephen smirked. “I didn’t know you were so fascinated by insects.”
“Could Campbell get me in?”
“Most likely. It’s an elite society, but members sometimes bring guests to the lectures. He might even be able to get you an introduction.”
“Hmmm.”
“The earl is a veritable beetle enthusiast, I hear. Knowledge in the subject would probably go far in impressing him.”
James didn’t know a damn thing about beetles. He could probably go his whole life and not care if he ever heard a lecture about them. He didn’t care much for science, or natural history. No, the things he coveted the most were the things he’d been denied—beauty, wealth, position, and the handsome, fine-boned daughters of lords. “Indeed?” he said, working a little harder than normal to keep his brogue from his accent.
“Indeed.”
Stephen was still smirking. If he and his pugilism-enthusiast friends weren’t his customers, and loyal ones at that, James might be tempted to knock him on his arse.
After the men had left, James went to the lending library and found every resource he could about beetles. If he could learn enough about the damned things to suitably impress the Earl of Lark, he would be one step closer to the man’s daughter. And all those things he’d been denied would finally be within reach.