head, his breath almost jagged. “I didn’t want what I knew of my father touching my sister or my mother. It would have destroyed their lives if I had resurfaced.”
The duke held his gaze. “How many were involved in your disappearance? Who were they? And when were you smuggled out of New York?”
“There was only one man involved in my disappearance. A Venetian. And I never left New York.”
“You never…? All this time, you’ve been…?” The duke closed his eyes and grabbed his head with both hands. “Jesus Christ.” He rocked against his hands for a long moment.
Coleman set aside the brandy on the small table beside him and rose in a half daze. “I appreciate that you shouldered my sister’s plight, even after her death. I know if she had been the one missing, I would have fought for her to the end, as well. My only regret is that I didn’t get to see her one last time. I would have liked that. She and I didn’t part on the best of terms and I—” He swallowed hard, trying not to give in to emotion. With his sister gone, what more was there to return to? Nothing. Their mother had always lived for their father. Who was he to break her delusions of a man she loved? “I should go.”
Yardley rose. “Go? No. You can’t. We are here to take you home with us. To London. Where you belong.”
Coleman walked backward toward the door and swept a more than obvious hand to his beaten face. “Do I look like I belong in a ballroom, gentlemen? Too many years have passed for that.”
The duke rose. “Atwood. You can’t leave when we’ve just now found you. We have yet to know you and genuinely wish to assist you in making the transition back into our circle. It will take time, mind you, but—”
“No.” Coleman shook his head. “I abide by my boxing name, not my titled name, and want no other life than the one I have now. People depend on me. I have a purpose other than living with regret.”
The duke swung away, placing a hand to the back of his neck. “Yardley, speak to him. Because I am not thinking clearly. And neither is he.”
Yardley quickly strode toward Coleman and leaned in, his rugged features tightening. “To take on any other name than the one you were born unto, knowing everything you and my mother have suffered, would be an insult to her and you. By God. You have allowed a lifetime to pass. If you cannot face this now, when will you ever?”
The boy didn’t understand. This wasn’t about being unable to face the past. He’d faced it. He’d lived it. This was about facing the anger he had yet to unleash on the only person he’d ever wanted dead: his father. Not his captor. His father.
Coleman widened his stance. “If I return to London, I’ll do more than face my father. I’ll kill him.”
Yardley pointed. “No you won’t.”
“You don’t know me,” Coleman said between clamped teeth. “I’ve beaten people into bloodied pools of unconsciousness for far less.”
“Killing him isn’t going to change what happened.”
“Neither will letting him live.”
His nephew touched his arm. “Setting aside all that has come to pass, surely you understand that you owe your mother a breath of peace. A peace my own mother never got in her lifetime.”
Coleman released a breath. Yes, he did owe his mother peace. But if the poor woman were to ever know the truth—Christ. What a mess. It was obvious he couldn’t walk away and pretend he didn’t want to go back. “I need time.”
Yardley lowered his shaven chin. “You’ve been gone for almost thirty years. How much more time do you need?”
Coleman pointed a finger at that mouth that dared mock him. “What you don’t understand, nephew, is that I have a life separate from the past. I’ve got people depending on me. Thirty-nine, to be exact. They were there for me when no one else was and I’m not about to pull their teeth out of their skulls by up and leaving. I can’t. I need time to make the transition.”
Yardley hesitated. “How much time do you need?” he asked more gently.
Coleman shrugged. “I don’t know. A few months. I share in a lot of responsibilities. Until I can shuffle off those responsibilities to people I can trust, I suggest you both return to London and let it rest.”
Yardley’s eyes widened. “We’re not about to leave without you.”
“You have no choice,” Coleman bit out. “Because when I walk out of here, you cease to exist until I find my way back to London. Why? Because I can’t have anyone in New York, or the United States for that matter, knowing I’m a fucking viscount. I’ll lose my credibility on the street and with the ward in half a blink and won’t be of use to anyone. It’s bad enough walking around this city with a British accent. It doesn’t earn you spit. Americans despise us Brits, and I can’t readily blame them the way our militia swept into their city and burned down Washington barely sixteen years ago. I was here when it happened and all of New York thought they were next. They were lynching Brits on the streets like they were rabbits.”
The duke swiveled toward them. “I respect that you need to protect your current way of life and that you also need time, but you cannot leave us to worry. At the very least, let my valet tend to your face, whilst we also trim off that hair so we can take you to a good tailor and invest in some new clothes and boots for you.”
Murder and hellfire. Did he look that pathetic? “Don’t talk to me about my face, clothes and shite that doesn’t really matter. I have clothes. I have boots. And I like my hair, thank you. I know how to take care of myself, gentlemen. I’ve been doing it my whole life.”
The duke gestured toward Coleman’s bruised face. “You call this taking care of yourself?”
Coleman sighed. He forgot what it was like having a family. “I’m a pugilist. It’s how I earn a living. And it may not look like it, but I’m good at what I do. Hell, politicians and pub keepers alike have been trying to buy me out for bigger mills since I was twenty. And unlike most of these bare-knuckle hoydens, I get better with age because I know how to train. I’m now known in the sixth ward for knocking men out in ten rounds or less.”
Yardley’s dark brows rose. “Ten rounds or less?” He let out a low whistle. “I would hate to get into a fight with you.” He shifted closer. “If boxing is truly your snuff, Uncle, London is the place to be. ’Tis incredibly popular with the masses. Especially the aristocracy. Many of the men I went to Oxford with were always betting on the fights. I never cared for the sport myself, per se, but you, as a pugilist, would feel like a horse at the derby.”
“Yardley.” The duke glared. “You are digressing.”
“I am not.” Yardley glared back. “I am trying to get this man to London. What are you doing in your attempt? Grouching? Hardly helpful.”
It was like listening to two butchers arguing over who had the better cut.
“If he does come to London,” the duke continued with a huff, “it will be to take on his duty as lord. Not become the next champion of England by smashing in the faces of others. Whoever heard of such a thing? The aristocracy would faint.” The duke muttered something else, strode over to a sideboard and grabbed up a leather pocketbook. “How much money do you need, Atwood,
