He hesitated. “All I ask in turn is that you debut and take on the Season. Not necessarily a husband, but the Season. You never know how things will turn out or who you will meet. Can you agree to that much? For me? Knowing what I’m about to agree to myself?”
Imogene half nodded. “Yes. Of course. I can. I…” She blinked rapidly against the dizziness overtaking her ability to focus or speak. The edges of her vision frayed. Oh, no. It was happening again.
“Gene?” her brother echoed.
She fainted.
On the other side of the ocean
NATHANIEL—AS HE’D become accustomed to calling himself again—could see the boys still waving in the distance as they blurred against the horizon of buildings. It was surreal to be leaving the Forty Thieves and New York behind. It was like abandoning the only family he’d ever known.
But at least Matthew was still at his side.
It would make the transition easier.
It was also the best way to keep the man alive.
The chugging vessel trailed constant veils of sooty smoke from its stacks, strong winds sweeping them out toward cloud-ridden skies and massive waves that relentlessly swayed the packing ship.
Knotting his hair back against the whipping wind, Nathaniel drew in a deep breath of cold, sea air. His sister’s words, which he had tucked against the inside of his great coat, weighed in reminder. Although he had undone the journal’s sash many a time throughout the months, he only ever tied it back up, unable to read a single word. He still didn’t have it in him to swallow the reality that all he had left of his sister was pages.
Matthew leaned in against the iron railing of the boat beside him, still staring out at the coast of New York City that had shrunk to the size of a hand, fading against the sea’s vast horizon. “So you’re telling me you’re an aristo and that your father was an aristo who pissed on another aristo who then pissed on you?”
Nathaniel paused. God bless the son of a bitch for oversimplifying everything. “More or less.”
Matthew glanced toward him, his patch shifting against his cheekbone. “So what do you want me to call you? By what name?”
Nathaniel gripped the iron railing hard. “It doesn’t matter. I can still be Coleman, if you want. The boxing circles, even in London, won’t know me as anything else. So I have no choice but to abide by that name. I just wanted you to know the truth. I’ve kept it from you long enough.”
“I’d say. None of this seems real. How the feck could your own father—”
“I don’t want to talk about this anymore.” Nathaniel tapped an agitated fist against the railing. “Your mess is what we need to focus on. I suggest you sleep with your pistols in hand until we get to London. God only knows who is on this ship and it only takes one man to slit your throat.”
Matthew groaned. “I appreciate your concern, and going through all this trouble of dragging me along to ensure I don’t end up dead, but sleeping with pistols in hand is a bit much.”
Nathaniel pointed rigidly at Matthew’s head. “In my opinion, it isn’t enough. Sleep with the goddamn pistols before I up and knock your domino box out of your mouth. I’m not about to let you get lynched by some street boyo who has no understanding of how invaluable you are, not only to me but the ward. The boys need you back alive. Without you there is no them and you know it.”
Matthew observed him for a long moment. “You seem to forget that I’m used to all the attention. If you had left me behind, I would have been more than fine. I would have managed. I always do.”
“Managed?” Nathaniel echoed. “Seventeen men were planning to take you down. It wasn’t something you could have managed on your own.”
Matthew grunted. “I suppose.” He sighed. “So how long am I sentenced to a life abroad anyway?”
“I can’t readily say. Marshal Royce said once the city rounds these bastards up and eliminates the threat against your life, he’ll notify us. I’ll be forwarding him an address when we get into London.”
Matthew smiled. “You’re a good friend. You know that?”
Nathaniel rolled his eyes. “Don’t play the harp. You’ve saved my ass many a time, you know.”
“And I would do it again.”
“Which I also appreciate.”
Matthew hung over the railing, watching the waves beneath. “So what made you decide to go back to London now? Why didn’t you go home with your family when they first came to you all those months ago?”
Nathaniel glanced toward Matthew. “I never run out on people who need me. Not after everything I’ve endured. And you and the boys needed me.”
Matthew reached out and pinched his jaw. “Now, now, don’t get prissy on me. That isn’t like you.”
Nathaniel smirked and shoved his hand away. “Keep those hands to yourself. I’m not interested.”
Matthew let out a laugh. “Don’t flatter yourself, Mister fecking Viscount.” Matthew nudged him. “But ey. At least we’ll be living all posh once we get to London what with you being an aristo, right?”
Nathaniel snorted. “If you mean posh as in us moving in with my father, I don’t think so. I’d sooner slit his throat. I plan on looking into some milling coves and try to make some money that way before I figure out what happens next.” Nathaniel stared at the misty horizon that swayed with the ship, knowing that once in London, bigger things on the horizon awaited him. Like facing a father he wanted dead for reasons he would never be able to share with anyone but Matthew. What if he really killed the bastard? What if he—
Matthew nudged him again. “So where are we going to stay?”
It was like answering a thousand and one questions. Nathaniel shrugged. “I don’t know. We’ll find a hotel.”
“It better be cheap. I’ve only got six dollars.”
“Whilst I only have four.”
“Nice, that. It’s the dead leading the dead.” He paused. “Ey. I’ve got an idea. My ‘stepmother’ is in London. Maybe we can hunt her down. She’d put us up.”
“What? Georgia?”
“Yes. Georgia. How many stepmothers do I have?”
“Don’t be dragging that poor girl into our mess.”
“She ain’t poor anymore. She found herself a rich one.” Matthew smirked and readjusted his eye patch. “So what about this family of yours? Your sister’s husband and son. Can’t we stay with them?”
“No. We’re not exactly their type of people, Milton. Nor do I plan on announcing myself to anyone until I figure out how to wade through this mess. A man just doesn’t show up thirty years later to yell out to the world, ‘Here I am, oh, and by the by I’m thinking of killing my own father.’”
Matthew
