Page 2 of The Boxing Baroness

Tuesdays were the only nights Marianne fought. Her uncle would have liked her to work two nights a week, but even he knew that was too much for any boxer. One night was already difficult enough.

“He doesn’t come to see Nora or Lucy,” Cecile added.

Nora and Lucy were the other female boxers her uncle employed.

Farnham’s Fantastical Female Fayre was open six nights a week. In addition to boxing, there was Cecile’s shooting, Josephine Brown’s knife throwing, Cordelia Black’s Players, Francine Gordon’s magic act, tumblers, and jugglers—all female.

Cecile’s slender fingers worked on the knotted string of Marianne’s second muffler. “The duke is much more handsome than the cartoon I saw in Mr. Humphrey’s window a few weeks ago.”

She meant Humphrey’s Print Shop, where crowds gathered outside the small shop to gawk at the cartoons and satires the savvy printer posted in his window every day.

“Has Staunton tried to talk to you?” Cecile asked.

“No,” Marianne lied. Actually, her answer wasn’t really a lie because she had no idea what the Duke of Staunton’s message had said. She’d thrown it away without reading it.

Cecile finished her task and sat back in her chair. “Has he sent flowers? Anything that sparkles?”

“No, thankfully.” Marianne stripped off the gloves.

Cecile muttered something that sounded like English oaf before turning back to the mirror to touch up one of her eyebrows with charcoal.

“The duke is said to be great friends with the Marquess of Carlisle,” she said, not looking away from her reflection, her cheeks tinting a delicate shade of pink. “Has the marquess been to any of your fights?”

“Not that I’ve noticed,” Marianne admitted.

“I think you would notice if that one came to watch you.” Cecile gave a vaguely disgruntled snort that made Marianne smile.

Cecile was an avid consumer of gossip columns and made sure to pass by Humphrey’s Print Shop to look at the satirical cartoons in his window at least twice a week. She left copies of various gazettes lying all over the house she shared with Marianne and her uncle Barnabas and even collected some of the newspapers. Marianne had often wondered if Cecile hadn’t developed a bit of a fixation on some of the men who filled the gossip columns, like the Marquess of Carlisle, who was one of the most sought-after marital prospects in England and a staple of the society pages.

If she weren’t so exhausted just then, she might have teased Cecile a little.

Instead, she dropped onto the stool in front of the other dressing table and used a cloth to clean the paint from her face, hissing when she accidentally touched the underside of her jaw.

“Did Lizzy hurt you badly?” Cecile asked.

“Nothing too serious,” Marianne lied, her head still ringing. In truth, the uppercut had been close to a leveler—boxing cant for a powerful hit that was enough to put a fighter down.

“You need to find some other manner of work. You have been remarkably lucky to keep your looks—and all your teeth—this long.” Cecile’s gaze lingered on the bridge of Marianne’s narrow nose, which had been broken twice. Thankfully, Jack—Marianne’s trainer—had quickly reset her nose both times, so the bump was barely visible.

The bouts that Marianne, Nora, and Lucy fought were not fixed, nor were they choreographed for the punters’ entertainment. They were real fights, which meant real injuries. Marianne was usually just beginning to feel pain-free when it was time for her next fight.

“If you keep going, you are likely to look like Jack one day,” Cecile added.

Jack had been a career fighter in his twenties. Now, at five-and-forty, his face showed his history as clearly as a road map. She loved Jack, but she certainly didn’t want to look like him.

Marianne knew Cecile was right: She risked serious injury the longer she did this work. The only reason she looked as well as she did after almost two years fighting was because anyone who boxed at Farnham’s had to wear padded mufflers. The rich punters who flocked to the Fayre paid well to watch any female in the ring, but they paid even more if the woman was attractive. It wasn’t that Marianne was a beauty, but she was prettier than many of the rather desperate women who found themselves reduced to pugilism to earn a living.

Once she’d cleaned off the heavy face paint, she unbuttoned the gown she wore for her fights. Barnabas would have liked to dress her up like Cecile—in a tight, low-cut satin gown that displayed her wares—but Jack had refused to train her if she fought in a garment that hindered her movement. The costume Jack eventually approved was loose enough that she could move, not constricting to her breathing, and not made of heavy fabric that would bind her legs. As for stays, the ones she wore were the barest nod to propriety and didn’t interfere with her ability to breathe.

Barnabas being Barnabas—which was to say a consummate showman—he had the costumer use the thinnest muslin available and Marianne’s gowns were spritzed with water before each fight, ensuring she looked all but naked when she went out on stage.

Marianne quickly stripped down to a chemise and men’s drawers—which she’d started wearing after having most of her dress and petticoat torn off in a fight—and poured some tepid water into the basin, sponging off her arms and legs. She would have a proper bath when she got home tonight.

She was just slipping into the worn brocade robe she kept in the dressing room when the door opened and Jack popped his head in. “’Ello there, ducks!”

Marianne caught him in a fierce embrace. “Happy to see your ugly mug.”

Jack gave her a rib-crushing squeeze before releasing her and turning to Cecile. “And ’ow are you, princess?” he asked, bowing low over the Frenchwoman’s hand.