it probably will. But in your case, it’s better than being dead.”
“I’ll say.” Matthew eyed him and pushed away from the railing. “I’m going to settle into our cabin. You coming?”
Nathaniel swallowed, feeling his throat closing up at the thought of those low timbered ceilings and that musty windowless room lit by a lone lantern. He was not sleeping below deck. “No. I plan on sleeping out here.”
“On deck?” Matthew echoed, dark brows rising. “And what if you roll the wrong way and plunk into the ocean?”
Nathaniel glared. “I know how to swim, Milton. But as you damn well know, I’m not one for small spaces. So take the fucking cabin and leave me to have my deck.”
“All right, all right. Do you want me to sleep on deck with you?”
Nathaniel rolled his eyes. “If I ever need a man to help me sleep, I give you permission to throw me overboard. Now go get some rest. I’ll see you in the morning. And sleep with your pistols. Just until we get to London.”
“Fine. I’ll humor you.” Matthew nodded, shoving his hands into his great coat pocket, and strode down the length of the deck toward the cabins below deck.
Blowing out a slow breath, Nathaniel leaned against the railing, letting the cold wind whip at his face. The ocean seemed overwhelmingly endless. It was amazing. There were no walls or ceilings, only vast, endless sky and water.
When night eventually cloaked the ship, Nathaniel settled himself with a lantern below an eve, using his coat for a blanket and bundled ropes for a pillow, which he set under his head.
Fingering the ropes, he stared up at the swaying night sky that had smoothed into clarity and revealed glimmering stars. Though he rarely got lonely, for his head kept him too busy for that, in that moment, with the roaring of the waves that meshed into silence, he would have liked a woman to keep him warm on deck beneath all those stars.
He paused. No. What he really wanted and needed was to get fucked. It had been well over a month, which was the longest he’d ever gone without it. Aside from boxing, sex was the only thing he genuinely enjoyed.
It was a good thing most women found him attractive enough to accept his proclivities, because he sure as hell had nothing to give a woman these days. Certainly not money. But then again, maybe London would change that.
CHAPTER FOUR
The cup, filled with wine, having gone round, the Champion thus briefly addressed his patrons, “Gentlemen, for the honour you have done me in presenting this cup, I most respectfully beg of you to accept my warmest thanks.”
—P. Egan, Boxiana (1823)
Many, many weeks later—evening
Cardinal’s Milling Cove
London, England
THERE HAD TO be a better way to make money.
Nathaniel tugged his frayed linen shirt down and over his sweat-sleeked arms and chest, more than done with teaching others how to better swing. He had only made thirteen shillings that whole night offering a fifteen-year-old boxing lessons. He really needed to stop feeling sorry for people before he himself starved.
He paused.
Sensing he was still being watched by that fop against the timbered wall beyond the spectators, he blew out a ragged breath. Some no-name aristo with a fancy horsehair top hat and a Havana cigar had been coming around and watching him almost every night since he’d been in London.
Given Nathaniel’s experience with strange men in top hats and cigars, he didn’t appreciate it. Tonight, realizing his money-making plans were progressing slower than he’d hoped, he really wasn’t in the mood for it. Shoving past several locals who had gathered around him, also asking him for a boxing lesson at thirteen shillings a piece, Nathaniel stalked over to the man.
More than ready to take the bastard on, Nathaniel yelled out, “I don’t appreciate being followed or watched by some nameless prick. Are you going to stop? Or do you need me to make you stop?”
Blond brows went up as the cigar was instantly lowered. Pushing away from the wall, and out of the shadows the lanterns didn’t illuminate, a rugged-looking blond-haired gent of about thirty with sharp green eyes met Nathaniel’s gaze from below the satin-trimmed rim of his top hat.
The dandy angled toward him and wagged the cigar. “You, sir, are without any doubt the best pugilist I have ever had the honor of observing. I was hoping you and I could talk about a potential venture.”
Nathaniel rolled his eyes. He should have known. Wealthy boyos like this one didn’t hang around milling coves unless they were sniffing for potential investments. “Unless you have five thousand to give, don’t fucking bother. I need real money. Not talk.”
The man leaned toward him. “I can offer you five thousand on signing and give you a swing at the title. Are you interested?”
Nathaniel perused the man’s evening coat, embroidered waistcoat and polished boots. He looked like he could afford everything he was offering. The sort of money he and Matthew desperately needed. They had both been living shilling by shilling. Nathaniel had even been playing cards with what little money they had in an effort to bring them quick money.
Cards weren’t his thing. He’d lost every hand. He was incredibly good at betting on fights, though. The problem was one had to have at least ten pounds to get into any of the good bets. Which he didn’t have.
Interestingly enough, however, this aristo was offering Nathaniel far more than money. This aristo was offering something other investors never had. A chance at the title. “You’re actually offering me a chance for the Champion of England?” he drawled. “A real chance?”
“Yes. I think you have it in you to win based on what I’ve seen thus far. And unlike other men, I not only have a name, but the means to line up the right trainer and the right fights to make it happen. It’s simply a matter of if you want to make it happen.” Sticking his cigar between his teeth, the gent stuck out a white gloved hand. “The name is Lord Weston. But I prefer you just call me Weston. You go by the name of Coleman, yes?”
Nathaniel eyed that hand but didn’t take it. He wasn’t stupid. “What do you want from me, Weston?”
“I want your boxing skills in a ring. Because I’m beyond impressed.” Weston blew out a cloud of smoke in Nathaniel’s direction and pointed with the cigar toward the narrow, lantern-lit entrance. “How about you and I go to a local pub and talk?”
Nathaniel’s nostrils flared from the acrid stench of smoke penetrating his throat. He hated cigars. They reminded him of his days in the cellar. “Put out the cigar first. It agitates me.”
The man paused and pointed at him. “Don’t overstep your bounds, boy. I’ll smoke if I want to. I’m the one making the offer here, not you.”
“Is that so?” Nathaniel snatched the cigar from that gloved hand and dashed it out on his well-calloused knuckles, the burning sting brief but welcome. “There goes your offer.” He tossed the cigar at the man, letting it bounce off his waistcoat. “I don’t do business with assholes.”
