Page 1 of Coming for the Champion
Chapter 1
November 1830
Rory was at his wit’s end, disillusioned by the lack of progress on his plan. His feet were sore from the hard cobbled surfaces, and the London air clogged his lungs with its heavy coal smoke, a reminder of why he was here. Everyone needed coal and he had plenty of it.
Why was it proving so hard to coordinate the simple sale of his coal? He hugged his great coat tighter around his chest. Wasn’t it supposed to be warmer down south here in London? It wouldn’t likely snow at home until after Christmas and he was hoping he’d have his business sorted by then. But he’d spent over a week traipsing around London and now The King’s Book Club was his last option. Every other gentleman’s club in London had decided that a mere Laird from Scotland wasn’t worthy of their esteemed establishments, and it was becoming increasingly obvious he wasn’t going to find an investor who had the means and inclination to get his coal mines operational again until he gained an introduction from someone who had access to the peerage. The idea that he could naively walk into a club because he was a landowner seemed misplaced now, after so many rejections.
Stepping into the King’s Book Club had been different, almost immediately. The butler had given him the usual cursory glance, but then something in his desperate demeanour must have changed the butler’s mind, and he’d been invited to follow the butler upstairs to meet the manager.
As the butler knocked on the door, neatly labelled Manager, Rory heard a curse and the butler chuckled lightly under his breath, so softly Rory wondered if he’d imagined it.
“Best give them a moment.”
Rory swallowed, then tried to slow his breathing just like he would before a bout. He’d never made it this far before and now he was to meet the manager of the club. If he could become a member of this club, he would have a chance to meet potential investors. His plan to save his estate might not fail. Would they hear his Scottish burr and toss him out again? He’d deliberately not worn his kilt after the first club had been so disdainful. Would they sense the desperation slicking his palms? Never had he been in a fight where he was so outmatched, but his superior reach wasn’t going to help him now.
Then suddenly, the door opened, and Rory tried not to flinch. In the ring, he’d learned never to show fear, to contain his emotions and never give his opponent any hint of weakness, but all that training fled him now. This mattered too much. One fight was only one fight. This battle for his land affected the entire community in his region, going beyond his own land to the villages and people who needed the work his mines could create.
“Yes, Heider?” A broadly built man, who was tall but not as tall as Rory, with dark brown hair and piercing amber brown eyes half-opened the door with a frustrated expression and certainly didn’t sound pleased at the interruption.
“My lord.” The butler’s use of a title created a fleeting rush of hope in Rory’s chest. Maybe he’d stumbled onto the one person who could get him the introductions he needed.
“There is a man here to see you.”
“I’m busy.” The lord’s response crushed that glimmer of hope into dust. Everyone was too busy for him.
“Not too busy for this. It’s the Long Laird.”
Rory had barely a second to register that the butler had recognised him—despite it being years since his last bout—before the door was flung open and the lord, dressed in only his shirtsleeves and trousers with tussled hair, welcomed him in.
“Oscar. We have a guest and he’s perfect.”
“Perfect for what?” Rory had been wrong-footed before, but never like this. What was he perfect for? The room wasn’t an office. It was too sumptuous for that with a dark green velvet chaise lounge in the corner covered in pillows, several of which were on the floor, located in exactly the way Rory would put them if he were to kneel for someone on the chaise lounge. He swallowed. Rory had heard clubs like this existed—for men like him—but it seemed too fanciful, even for his vivid imagination, to have stumbled into one.
A dark-haired man of short statue stood beside a large office desk with his hip cocked jauntily, in a similar state of undress to the man who the butler had called ‘my lord’. It was obvious to Rory what he’d interrupted and the very audacity of the two men to be so open about it, and that their butler knew too, shocked him like an upper cut to the jaw. And now, he’d been admitted to this room by someone who recognised him. What did they want with a boxer who would never fight again?
“Perhaps it is time for some introductions, my lord?” Heider, the butler, broke the tension in the room.
“I am Lord Bennington—”
A proper English Lord, just like Rory had been chasing all week. Had he lucked onto exactly what he needed? In the ring, he wouldn’t trust this sense of hope. He’d watch carefully for clues to the next sequence of punches so that he’d know what to anticipate, so he could defend and find the gaps to attack. Why was that name so familiar? Bennington...
“—and this is Mr Mardin, owner of the King’s Book Club. And you are?”
“Laird Rory Cockburn.” He emphasised the Scottish pronunciation of his surname; Koh-Buhrn. It referred to birds beside a river, but the English liked to make jest with euphemisms.
“The Long Laird.” Lord Bennington didn’t ask, so much as announce it, which seemed fitting for someone with such societal power, and so Rory merely nodded. It was true, but how did they know?
The shorter man, Mr Mardin, pushed himself away from the desk. “This is him?”
“I’m sorry, but I appear to be missing something.”
The two men smiled in unison, causing Rory to gulp. He wasn’t going to like this, was he? And when was he going to mention why he was here?
“We are planning to hold a charity boxing match on the day prior to Christmas Eve to raise funds for the Duke Street Orphanage and a few other causes close to our hearts. And we need a headline act.”
Rory had no intention of coming out of retirement but perhaps he could negotiate given this was his last chance to mingle with society’s wealth. “I have some conditions.”
“Everyone has conditions.” Bennington’s smile broadened. “Perhaps you’d like some introductions in society. A young Laird like yourself must be in town to find a bride.”
