A Governess Should Never... Tempt a Prizefighter Read online

  “I believe Mr Hawkins would prefer I wasn’t here.”

  Mr Finlay chuckled. “We’ve been friends since we were whippersnappers, Miss Griffin. He has an easy-going nature on the surface but beneath there’s a will of iron.” With a wink, he leaned close, inducing no pleasurable prickling whatsoever. “Seth wanted to be a prizefighter, and so he was the best. He wanted a club, now he has dukes squabbling in a queue. If he dinnae truly wish yer here, Miss Griffin, yer’d be safely tucked up in bed dreaming of ribboning yer bonnet. I’d say he’s merely on edge cos he’s worried for yer welfare.”

  Matilda surreptitiously surveyed that callipygian figure of Mr Hawkins once more as he roamed at the bar. Even in rougher garments he manifested power and magnificence, and personally, she felt as safe as a nugget of gold in the Bank of England.

  He returned and sat with a stern air, causing an awfully wicked rumpus within. White sleeves billowed from his finely tailored emerald-green waistcoat with oval frontage, his neckcloth loose enough to expose his throat, stubble stippling his jaw.

  “So, Miss Griffin, what do you think of your first ale-house?” Mr Hawkins settled back.

  “Well…” She glanced to the left, then to the right.

  The patrons at the bar were gesticulating merrily, tankards airborne; a table of slouched gentlemen played cards while two young women prowled at their periphery wearing bright dresses and worn smiles; and a grey-haired couple sat munching pie by a smouldering fire – hardly a scene of Hogarthian debauchery. Indeed, from the outside it had not even resembled an abode of beer, but a normal terraced house tucked in a tight alley, yellow bricked and slate roofed with three storeys.

  “It’s most cosy,” she admitted. “Like Betty’s kitchen.”

  “As it should be,” Mr Finlay concurred. “’Tis an old ale-house and the best in the area.”

  “It’s rumoured,” her employer added, “that with St James’s Palace opposite, King Charles and Nell Gwynne used to meet here in the basement for trysts.”

  “How…romantic,” she fibbed. To the best of Matilda’s knowledge, basements were inclement, with rats and mould.

  “’Ere yer go, Seth lad.” And Matilda goggled as yet more brimming tankards landed on the table enclosed by a set of vast swollen hands. “So ’ow’s it with the flash set? Milled any dukes o’ late?”

  Peeking at the newcomer, she noted a clean apron surrounding a broad girth.

  Moving upwards, she observed an open white shirt which struggled to contain a mountainous chest. Further was a neck the size of her waist and lastly came a physog belonging to the veriest villain that had ever breathed – unshaven, an eye patch and a grin that appeared to be formed of merely three teeth.

  Which, before her interview, was more or less how she’d imagined her employer would look.

  “Tonks!” Mr Hawkins rose to the villain and Matilda shrank to the wall.

  “And who’s this cub with yer, Seth?” growled the villain. “A new fighter? Bit of a bantling if he ain’t even finished his Porter.”

  Matilda glared, her half-full tankard clutched close.

  “Bloody ’ell.” He whistled, that one eye drifting over her face…then lower. “Got yerself a flash piece of trol–”

  “Tonks.” Mr Hawkins stepped between them, his firm fingers gripping the villain’s shoulder before he bent to his ear and whispered something.

  “Oh. Gottcha. Bloody ’ell.” And the villain whistled again.

  Matilda glanced to Mr Finlay, who winked. Was that supposed to be reassuring?

  But her employer moved aside and swept an arm as though a Master of Ceremonies. “Miss Griffin, meet Mr Tomkins. The owner of this ale-house and an old friend. A champion in his day, he won the 1810 Moulsey Hurst.”

  Gosh.

  Unsure of the etiquette in this establishment, but quite sure a curtsey would prove problematic, Matilda rose from the bench to thrust out a hand. “Pleased to meet you, Mr Tomkins.”

  A Goliath’s palm swallowed hers – snug and benign. “Likewise.” He jerked his head towards her tankard. “Me missus can make yer a tea, if yer like?”

  “No, no. I quite like this Porter juice.”

  “Right yer are. So yer teaching little Chloe stuff.”

  “I am. She’s delightful,” Matilda said seating herself again.

  “Still boxing, is she?”

  “Yes, daily.”

  “Never rests,” added Mr Hawkins. “And still talks about your win against William of Whopping.”

  Matilda was astounded to view a blush of colour rise in Mr Tomkins’ cheeks. “I got lucky, ’tis all. But, aye, never had a day like it. Me. Tonks Tomkins. Champion.” He shook his head. “I were a street orphan, Miss Griffin, never thought I’d see me twentieth year, but though I never knew me letters, I could scrap me way outta anything.”

  “Congratulations, Mr Tomkins. And now you own this fine establishment.”

  “I do indeed, but me wins were nothing compared to our Seth ’ere. And yer should’ve seen him last year, parading before the Prince Regent and all them flash nobs that arrived after Waterloo; then there’s dukes bickering over his club membership like doxies after a sailor. He’s done right rum good, Miss Griffin.”

  Matilda tilted her glance to her employer, who fidgeted from foot to foot. “How impressive, Mr Tomkins, he’s never said. And which particular championships did our Mr Hawkins win?”

  “Well 1811 were his big ’un. Fred the Footman – on accounts he were a footman, see – versus Seth the–”

  “I don’t believe Miss Griffin wishes to know all this.” Mr Hawkins folded his arms in front of his waistcoat and appeared most stern.

  She gazed from one to the other. “I do. I really do.”

  “He dinnae like his moniker, lass,” Mr Finlay explained. “His first sponsor named him and it kind o’stuck.”

  Matilda waited with bated breath. What could it be?

  “Seth the Smasher?” she guessed all of a sudden.

  “No.”

  “Scuffler Seth?”

  “Nope.”

  “Seth the Stallion?”

  Mr Finlay chuckled for some reason. So obviously not.

  “Seth the…Stupendous?” She was quite enjoying this. “Or Seth the–”

  “Scholar,” Mr Hawkins interjected, obviously having had enough of her guesses. “My sponsor caught me reading before a bout.” He unfolded his arms and grabbed his ale with a grouch. “And that was that.”

  “Another theatre print?” Matilda questioned rather tartly.

  He tipped his tankard. “Exactly so, Miss Griffin. Exactly so.”

  “At one time,” slurred his swaying governess, “I thought pugilism quite savage, but I’d be most interested to attend a contest now…” She hiccupped. “Purely for studious endeavour, you understand.”

  Seth frowned. They never should have allowed her that third tankard, but she’d insisted that a spree of Madeira wine with a friend had caused no ill-effects of any kind, so what could be the harm in Porter Ale to a hardened drinker such as herself?

  Miss Griffin was as hardened as a waxen ballerina in hell.

  Kian tapped his fingers upon the table. “Well, me and Seth are off to a prizefight the day after next.”

  Hell and damnation. Kian had a loose trap tonight.

  “Really?” she said, swiping her pink tongue over that froth-coated top lip. “Do you suppose I could–”

  “No,” pre-empted Seth, shifting in his seat. “Women do not go to fights.”

  “Untrue,” countered Kian beneath his breath.

  “Ladies do not go to fights,” Seth amended.

  “We could hide her beneath a cloak and muffler, a wee lass like this.”

  “She’d look like a nefarious footpad on the prowl.”

  “Dress her up as a lad then? Like we used to do with Chloe.”

  A tankard slammed to the table. “I am not wearing breeches,” Miss Griffin stated haughtily, cloak flapping. “Honestly, men�
�� I’ve heard tell of some dissolute ideas whilst soused but…” Her lips maintained their movement but no more than mutters came forth.

  Kian smirked. “We’d best be stirring our stumps before midnight.” He rose and stretched his long limbs. “I’ll settle the bill with Tonks.”

  “Miss Griffin,” implored Seth, “if any harm came to you, I would never forgive myself. A prizefight is no place for a lady, even dressed as a nefarious footpad. It does not involve gentlemen strutting with gloves on but bare knuckles and brutality.”

  Removing her spectacles, she gazed at him – haughty eyes softening while she placed flushed cheeks to palms.

  “I would have liked to see you fight, Mr Hawkins.”

  That would be the Porter Ale talking, but nevertheless, as they stared at each other, the rope of lust tightened ever further betwixt them. He knew it for what it was, but he wondered if the innocent Miss Griffin did.

  “You’re a lady. You shouldn’t even be here, an–”

  “I’ve had the loveliest of evenings.”

  So had he.

  Indeed, he could not remember the last time that a woman had held him so enthralled.

  An itch could be scratched but it was his empty soul that cried out for company when Chloe had gone to bed. His skin, likewise, yearned for touch, not for one night but for all nights – intimate and profound.

  Being a prizefighting champion had brought many women to his door, but he never opened it – too bruised, too particular or just too damn tired.

  Yet this scant snip of a female made him crave once more.

  “I could get a taste for this ale,” she admitted, draining her tankard.

  “’Tis strong and potent, you realise.”

  “Like you, Mr Porter.” She scrunched a brow, blinked. “Erm, I don’t think I meant…”

  “Time to depart, methinks.” He stood and raked the bar for Kian but caught Tonks’ eye instead, who held up a coin and nodded towards the door.

  Kian had left them.

  With a sigh, Miss Griffin straightened her skew-whiff cap, flapped her cloak, shuffled along the bench, rose with palms pressed to table and then lumbered around the edge, peering for the door.

  “Very well, Mr Hawkins.”

  Seth captured her wrist as she veered off course, her cap falling, breast brushing his arm, desire rendering him speechless.

  A jug-bitten patron made to rise, understandable as such beauty was rarely seen here but one glare from Seth and his arse hit the seat anew.

  “‘It provokes the desire…’” Seth murmured.

  “‘But takes away the performance’,” she finished, yanking her cloak straight. “Does that pertain to actors who over imbibe?”

  “Yes,” he said hoarsely.

  Because Shakespeare was wrong, honesty wasn’t always the best policy.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Retreat instantly; you have not a moment to lose. Virtue impels you.”

  Private Education: A Practical Plan for the Studies of Young Ladies.

  Elizabeth Appleton. 1815.

  “Jab. Jab, jab.” Matilda missed. “Jab, wallop,” she tried for variation, fists flying in front of her.

  Why had she never tried Porter Ale when worries had bitten at her heels? Any troubles wafted away upon a cloud of brown froth.

  “Because tomorrow,” a male rumble answered, “your head will feel like Thor’s hammer is beating a staccato rhythm upon it.”

  Had she said that aloud then? And how well-educated Mr Hawkins was. No wonder his moniker had been Seth the Scholar.

  “I do have an extensive library.”

  She paused as they exited the tight alley that led onto Pall Mall. Apparently, her thoughts were being voiced. Porter Ale truly was a wonder.

  “Jab,” she tried once more, punching out with her fist to the shadows.

  A firm hand settled at her waist, another on her wrist, and she lost her breath as Mr Hawkins’ colossal broadness loomed close.

  “You will fall if your stance is not correct. You need to spread your le…” He breathed deep. “Your feet should be a little more apart. Good. Now, palm flat and roll your fingers towards it. Keep it tight and…” He eased her thumb out. “This curls low on the outside or you will break it upon contact. Perfect.”

  “I wish I’d known all this previously as it gives one a certain confidence. Do you know, I received quite a scare wandering the empty streets at dawn on the first morning of my employment.”

  “Who scared you?” He glared with fierceness in the yellow glow of lamplight.

  “Leper ghosts.”

  She sensed his confusion and witnessed his shake of head. “You shouldn’t have been out there at dawn, and I was probably awake and in the basement, so you ought to have knocked. Now, wallop me instead of ghosts.”

  “What if I hurt you?” And what did he do in that basement?

  “That is rather the point. And you do not need to know. Pretend I’m an attacker and give me a peeper in mourning.”

  Matilda bit her lip. “A black eye?”

  “You’re catching on.”

  She jabbed out, but his head shifted to the side and she stumbled forward, flattening herself to her employer.

  What a wonderfully strong chest.

  “Thank you,” he mumbled dryly somewhere into her hair. “We’d best end the lesson there and resume when you are less…tired. Now, despite only being around the corner, we must hail a carriage or I’ll be carrying you home.”

  To be truthful, Matilda wasn’t quite so befuddled as all that.

  What she felt now was a merry contentment – a freedom as she sauntered the shadowed London streets with a handsome ex-prizefighter, both protected and at liberty. Better than any frowning Ton ball or constrained soiree.

  She wished Mr Hawkins would indeed sweep her into his arms and carry her home. Theoretically, she could pretend to swoon in boskiness but coquettish wiles had never been her strong point.

  Or indeed a weak point.

  “You have made me happy, Mr Hawkins,” she revealed. “And I did mean to say that aloud. Thank you for tonight. I know you were ear bashed into it.”

  With the gaslight to his back, his expression was now hidden in silhouette. “It was all my pleasure, Miss Griffin.”

  A hackney carriage appeared at last, rattling down the Pall Mall cobbles, and Mr Hawkins thrust up an arm and let out a yell.

  It slowed to a halt and the driver peered down, his face demonic yellow in the muddy light. “Where to, Guv?”

  “Green Park. The back of Arlington. Only around the corner.”

  A sucking of teeth ensued as though they’d asked to be conveyed to the highlands of Scotland. “Been an accident on St James, yer realise,” he griped. “Four bleedin’ phaetons, three lost geese, two ale carts and a drunken lordling. Only missin’ the five gold rings. We’ll have to go via Haymarket.” He wiped his nose. “Cost yer double though. Especially this time o’ night.”

  Mr Hawkins rolled his eyes but nodded, so Matilda yanked the door open and flumped onto the seat, a strange odour of damp grass assailing her nostrils. “Have they had a horse in here?”

  “Straw on the floor,” he explained, climbing in and shutting the door. “To soak up…spillages.”

  “Oh, how interesting. Like what?”

  He folded his arms. An action, she’d learned, which meant he would avoid her question.

  “Haymarket shouldn’t take too much longer this late.”

  See.

  A yell and the carriage jolted into motion, darkness engulfing as they departed the pool of gaslight.

  And abruptly Matilda felt…peculiar.

  It wasn’t the ale which still pleasantly hummed in her veins but a prickling awareness of Mr Hawkins lounging opposite, of the masculine scent of his cologne – leather and herbs – the rustling of his coat and catch to his breath.

  He cleared his throat. “Are you warm enough, Miss Griffin?”

  “Warm enough to boil
an egg. Can I take the cloak off now?” And without waiting for an answer, she flung the apparel aside and fluffed her bodice.

  She heard him grunt. In disapproval of her attire, perhaps?

  This evening had been another marvellous experience, one she wished would never end. Good company, exciting places, chatter and…Mr Hawkins’ strong calloused knuckles to look upon.

  Besides the spectre of Astwood ever finding her, the sole grey miasma which lurked in her belfry was the memory of her betrothed’s kiss. At times, she awoke with the taste of him still on her lips: day-old fish with stale tobacco in addition to that same body odour which dogs attracted after three days in the rain.

  “I was wondering…” she murmured, but her attention meandered as they rattled past a mansion with lamps strewn across its façade, their glow highlighting blood-red window frames and a doorman the size of Wales, sparkling laughter floating from within. “Is that the Prince’s?”

  “Yes.”

  “Could we stop off and–”

  “On a list of ‘Undertakings That A Lady Should Never Contemplate’, ale-houses and attending a prizefight dressed as a nefarious footpad on the prowl are in the top ten, with that gambling hell at number two.”

  She sniffed and speculated on number one. “I was wondering then…” She bit her lip, knew he could disemploy her for this little request, but nevertheless tonight was her moment to venture into unchartered waters. “W-would you grant me one kiss?”

  Silence was not exactly what she’d expected.

  Even a startled No would have been more appreciated, but instead a shaming hush filled the carriage.

  A silence so silent it almost hummed.

  Kissing must be number one on that list then.

  She’d foolishly thought an attraction sparked between them, but it must all be within her fervid imagination. It had painted false pictures that this compelling man would find her yellow plumage attractive, and an odd despair filled her.

  Never had she imagined wanting another’s lips upon hers after her betrothed’s slobbers or another’s touch after his creeping fingers.

  Now she did – but apparently the feeling was not reciprocated.

  She twisted to stare out at the theatres of Haymarket – gaudy dresses and lit Doric entrances, gentlemen laughing and dogs barking, laughter and life.