Avery’s strings would be jerked again on the morrow.
He was to face Emerson in the Jackford. Their match was sure to be the biggest draw in years. The underdog, Russell the bruiser, against the as-yet- undefeated Emerson? With Prachett’s careful planning, the odds were stacked against Avery. If he were to win, Prachett and his cronies stood to make thousands of pounds.
“Bloody fool,” he hissed under his breath. He was an idiot for forgetting reality for that night in the stables— and for nearly every minute since then.
The door opened behind him.
“Your Grace.” He turned and bowed without looking up. “You have returned early. Is everything well?”
Instead of his employer’s gray-haired form, Prachett stood in front of him. A self-satisfied smile crossed his face, an expression so unpleasant that it tensed Avery’s spine.
“What are you doing here?” Avery nearly spat the words, clenching his fists at his sides. “How did you get in?”
i
Ranelagh Garden wasn’t at all what Leah had expected.
She and Lady Chesterfield arrived and were shown to His Grace’s private table in the Rotunda. An orchestra played somewhere nearby, their soft refrains a sharp counterpoint to the boisterous crowd around them.
Lords and ladies of the ton filled the Rotunda, but more normal people were scattered along the various paths through the garden.
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bothering to talk to Lady Chesterfield. The woman
hadn’t bothered to listen to a word Leah said for the last two days. She’d tried to reason with her. She’d yelled; she’d even mustered up a tear or two. But nothing she said could convince her patroness that she wasn’t, and never would be, in love with the Duke of Granville.
“Oh pish-posh,” Lady Chesterfield said. “You look ravishing.”
Yup. She didn’t hear a word.
Leah lowered into her chair carefully. She didn’t want to crush the silver gown that Muriel had taken such care stuffing her into like a Thanksgiving turkey. Lady Chesterfield started babbling about the fireworks that would happen later, but Leah didn’t really pay attention.
She kept scanning the crowd for a familiar handsome face, one that didn’t belong to a duke.
Of course, why should she expect Avery to show up tonight? This place was huge. It wasn’t like he could hang out by a window and keep an eye on her. She tried to get mad about the high-handed way he’d been watching her, but she couldn’t. He made her feel safe and loved.
And honestly, what more could she want out of life?
“Miss Ram, here he is. Good evening, dear Granville.”
Lady Chesterfield’s excited curtsy nearly pitched her forward into the duke’s thighs. Fortunately, she righted herself without toppling, the green feathers of her bodice trembled as she fluttered her fan coyly.
“Thank you for coming. Our Miss Ram has been beside herself with joy since you agreed to meet us here.”
Though Leah’s Bullshit!! went unsaid, she hoped it was clear in the intense height of her eyebrows. If anybody was thrilled, it was clearly Lady Chesterfield.
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“It was my pleasure, indeed.” The duke smiled and offered his arm to Lady Chesterfield. “Should you care to take a turn about the gardens?”
“Oh, I cannot,” Lady Chesterfield said with all the sincerity of a zombie pledging to give up eating brains.
“But do take dear Miss Ram for a turn.”
i
Prachett ignored the question, pulling off his gloves one finger at a time. “Do you know why I picked you, Russell? Out of all the boxers, do you know why I selected you as the man to beat Emerson?”
Avery stood rigid, mind ticking quickly. There was no such thing as a simple query from a man like Prachett.
Every word he spoke was calculated, designed to give him the upper hand. But why would he risk so much as to enter a duke’s household? His Grace would not return until late this evening. Avery had been about to leave himself, in order to watch out for Leah.
“I do not.” Avery ground out the words. “But I have done as you’ve asked. The last two fights were lost on your demand, so you can have no quarrel with me.”
“I chose you, dear Russell, because you’ve forgotten.”
Prachett ran a finger along the duke’s bedside table, lifting a heavy brass candlestick lovingly before replacing it. “To think that you, a vicar’s brat, fight barefisted in the mills like the very hounds of hell are nipping at your heels. Though you left us, you still belong to us. And to see you like this?” Prachett gestured at Avery’s solemn clothing, perfectly respectable for a servant of his rank.
“You forget who you are.”
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