“How is your brother?”
She couldn’t resist asking. She hoped the question tripped off her tongue sounding breezy and polite, and not at all imbued with a heart’s worth of pent-up emotions.
“Fine,” Piers answered. Then he added, “I think.”
“You think?”
“I haven’t seen him for a few weeks. He’s been in training again.”
“Oh. He has a bout scheduled, then?”
“It would seem so.”
A prickle of anticipation ran up her spine. “Is it with Dubose? Is he fighting to regain his championship?”
“I don’t know. But I just had a notice the other day . . .” He riffled through a stack of papers on his desk until he found the one he sought. “Ah. Here it is.”
Then he held it out to her—a broadsheet, emblazoned with Rafe’s likeness.
Lord, just seeing his picture felt like having his big, boxer’s fist reach straight into her chest and wring her heart.
Her eyes skipped over the energetic prose of the broadsheet. “Rafe Brandon . . . the Devil’s Own . . . the match of his life . . . behind the Crooked Rook in Queensridge . . . the hour of—”
Oh, heavens.
She waved the paper at Piers. “This is happening today, ten miles outside London. It’s due to begin in just a few hours.”
“Is it?”
“Yes,” she said. “Why are you here? You’re not going to watch him?”
“I . . . hadn’t planned on it.”
“But you must.” Clio rose from her chair. “You have to be there.”
Ever the proper gentleman, Piers stood when she did. “I don’t see why . . .”
“You must go,” she repeated firmly. “Piers, he sent this broadsheet to you for a reason. You’re his only family. He wants you there.” She saw his hat hanging on a hook on the wall, and she jammed it on his head, then grabbed him by the arm and pulled him from the chair. “We’re going, the two of us.”
“The two of us? Absolutely not. A prizefight is no place for a gentlewoman.”
“Neither is a brewery or Parliament, I’m told—and yet I’ve visited both already this morning. Hurry. We’ll make it just in time, but only if we leave now.”
“Why are you so set on this?” he asked, frowning. “Why does my scoundrel brother’s prizefight matter to you?”
The question hung in the air for a moment.
“Because I love him,” she said, breaking the glassy silence with the only words that possessed sufficient blunt force. “And you should come with me because you love him, too.”
“How long have you been in love with my brother?”
Piers asked the question while they were rattling down the Old Kent Road, somewhere near Gravesend. As if they were just continuing the conversation they’d paused two hours prior, in his office.
“Since always, I think.” She folded her hands. “But I only realized it recently.”
His reaction was predictably stoic.
She couldn’t fathom how Piers could remain so calm in the face of her revelations. Much less in the face of this traffic. Good heavens, the snarl of carriages and carts waiting at the bridge would have given her brother-in-law an apoplexy.
Even Clio was drumming her fingers on the seat and tapping her toes in her slippers. The autumn day was heating to a simmer, and the warmth didn’t improve her patience.
The coach lurched to a sudden halt.
“Why are we stopping? Is there a turnpike?”
“The road is clogged with carriages, all the way to the bend,” Piers said, craning his neck. “We must be close.”
Clio checked her timepiece. Almost noon.
There wasn’t any time to waste.
She reached for the door latch. “Then I’ll cover the rest of the distance on foot.”
“Clio, wait.”
She laughed as she pushed the door open and escaped the confines of the carriage. Of all the futile words to call after her.
Clio, wait.
She wasn’t waiting one second longer.
Piers followed her as she raced along the side of the road, clambering over a stile to cut across a field. High, impertinent grasses tangled about her boots and grasped at the hem of her skirt.
When she reached the tavern, she could see the fight had drawn onlookers by the score. Perhaps by the hundreds. They were flocking like linnets toward the grassy meadow behind the inn.
She picked up her skirts and dashed the remaining distance, attempting to pick and weave her way through the crowd. “Excuse me, please. I beg your pardon. Please let me pass.”
A man trod on her boot.
She made a fist and cocked it. “Move.”
The last, inner ring of spectators gave way, and Clio emerged into the center clearing.