Excerpt of A Most Unlikely Duke by Sophie Barnes

London, 1818

Thick clouds darkened to shades of grey as they rolled across the London sky. Beneath them, standing in the middle of the Black Swan courtyard, Raphe Matthews drew back his fist, his muscles bunching tightly together—just long enough for him to assess the angle and speed with which to release all that power. Instinct made it a brief calculation. Less than a second, and then he sent his fist flying.

The punch snapped his opponent’s face sideways, producing a spray of spit and blood that painted the air with specks of crimson. A cheer erupted from those who’d come to witness the fight—a motley selection of hardened individuals. This place was not for the weak or the wealthy. It reeked of filth and the daily struggle to survive. This was St. Giles, but it might as well have been the bowels of hell for all the difference it made.

“Come on!” someone shouted.

Raphe’s other fist met a hard chest with a crunch. His knuckles ached, the force of the punch vibrating through him.

“Matthews, Matthews, Matthews…” The chant shook the air while Raphe shifted his footing, regaining his balance just in time to accept the blows that followed. He didn’t mind, for it only revealed his opponent’s sudden desperation.

Raising his fists to block the attack, Raphe bobbed to the side, turning away, just out of reach. And yet, he was close—so close he could smell the sweat on the other man’s skin, see the fear that shone in his eyes, the beads of moisture clinging to his hair that dripped onto his brow.

More shouts flooded the air, drowning him in a cacophony of unintelligible noise. The wave of encouragement shifted, alerting him that support had changed—no longer in his favor.

Forcing it into the background, Raphe focused on the man he was meant to beat. Today his name was Calvin Butler. Raphe launched himself forward, surrendering to the rage and let the punches fly, beating back pain and anger until Calvin Butler lay stretched out on the ground, hands covering his face in surrender. A fleeting second of silence passed, just long enough to be sure of the outcome, and then the spectators sent up a roar in response to Raphe’s victory.

Exhausted, he stumbled back, a light drizzle dampening his skin. A coat was draped over his shoulders while Butler was helped to his feet—a sorry sight, with his blackened eye and swollen lip distorting an otherwise handsome face.

Turning away, Raphe pushed his way in the direction of the taproom. All he wanted right now was a drink.

Fast.

“Butler ain’t lookin’ too good,” Raphe’s friend, Benjamin Thompson, said as he came up beside him. A couple of inches shorter than Raphe, his green eyes were a handsome compliment to his ginger hair and freckles. He was without a doubt the kindest and most dependable person Raphe knew, besides his own sisters. Together, they made their way to the bar, where Ben promptly called for a server. “Give us a couple o’ pints.”

Resting his elbows on the counter, Raphe grunted his response to Ben’s question. “He knew what ‘e was in fer.”

Ben nodded. The beer arrived, and both men took a healthy swig. “Ye could ‘ave been gentler, though. The man was done. No need to keep beatin’ at him like that.”

Stilling, Raphe slid his gaze toward his friend. “I couldn’t ‘elp it.” The rage had burned its way through him, driving him forward and filling his mind with one singular purpose: The need to win. “I don’t know ‘ow to fight any other way.”

“I know,” Ben said softly.

No, you don’t. You have no bloody idea. In this, he’d never been completely honest, not even with Ben. “In any case, the blunt’s pretty good—lets me keep a roof over me sisters’ heads.” “Aye, an’ a decent one at that.” Raphe couldn’t argue. He’d visited Ben’s home once—an overcrowded single room that he shared with his parents and five siblings. By comparison, Raphe and his sisters lived like royalty. “Have ye ever thought of gettin’ out of this place? Out of St. Giles?” Ben shrugged his shoulders. “An’ go where?”

“Somewhere better. Christ, Ben, anywhere’s better than this. Ye’re a likeable man. Ye could probably snatch up a job at one of ‘em fancy ‘ouses in Mayfair.”

His friend snorted. “An’ ‘ave some nob lookin’ down on me, demandin’ I polish ‘is boots—or worse, empty ‘is chamber pot? I’d rather stay by the docks, thank ye very much. At least there I can take some pride in me work.”

“Understood. But the pay there’s never goin’ to afford ye with yer own home. Don’t ye wish to marry one day?”

“Sure. But there’s a limit to what I’m willing to do for a bit of blunt, Raphe.” He took another sip of his beer. “I’ll not lose me dignity by workin’ for a class o’ people I can’t abide, ‘nor by lowerin’ meself to doin’ demeanin’ work.”

The words speared Raphe to his soul, filling him with shame. “I know,” he muttered with admiration. If only he could be more like him, not wanting anything beyond what life had tossed his way. Perhaps, if he didn’t have his sisters to consider, he wouldn’t care so much.

“Ye fought well today, lad,” a man’s voice suddenly spoke from directly behind him. Bristling, Raphe set down his beer on the counter and turned to face his handler, whose attire—a purple velvet jacket and matching top hat—lent an air of flamboyance unmatched by anyone else. And yet, in spite of the fine attire, there was nothing cultured about this man, a scoundrel who’d gained his wealth through illicit deals and by taking advantage of others. His origins were questionable, but rumor had it he’d killed more than once in pursuit of power. Raphe didn’t know what to believe. All he knew was that in spite of his own prejudices, crime in St. Giles had decreased since Carlton Guthrie’s arrival eighteen years earlier. Or so he’d been told.

“Mr. Guthrie. Good to see ye.” A blatant lie, if ever there was one. Guthrie’s moustache twitched. “Likewise.” He sounded jovial, but only a fool would mistake that for kindness. Least of all when his henchman, a scarred boulder of a Scotsman by the name of McNeil, stood at his right shoulder. Guthrie nodded toward Ben, who returned the salutation.

“Come. Share a drink with me,” Guthrie said, addressing Raphe. “We’ve much to discuss, you ‘n I.”

“And Thompson?” Raphe asked, not wanting to abandon his friend.

“I’m sure he’ll be willin’ to wait for ye till ye get back.” Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a gold coin and dropped it in front of Ben. “For yer trouble. What I ‘ave to say to Matthews ‘ere doesn’t concern ye. Understand?”

Raphe glared at Guthrie for a moment before looking at Ben. “I’m sorry. I—”

“No worries,” Ben said, pocketing the coin that would keep his family fed for the next few days. “I’ll see ye tomorrow at work, aye?”

Nodding, Raphe watched him go.

“Well?” Guthrie’s voice drew Raphe’s attention back to him. “’Ow about that drink then?”

Eyeing first Guthrie and then McNeil, Raphe gave a curt nod. “By all means.” Guthrie’s eyes sparkled. “Excellent.” His lips stretched into a smile. “Follow me.” Turning away, he led Raphe through the taproom, where tobacco smoke mingled with the smell of roasting meat and beer. Dice rolled across one table in a game of Hazard. A hand touched his thigh, inappropriately stroking upward until he pushed it away.

“No’ in the mood, Luv?” the woman to whom it belonged asked. She was sitting down, her legs spread across the lap of a man who was busily burying his face between her half-exposed breasts.

Pitying the life she’d been dealt, he told her gently, “I’ve not the time.”

“La’er then?” she called as he strode away, not answering her question. Blessedly, his sisters had managed to avoid such a fate.

“’Ave a seat,” Guthrie said moments later as they stepped inside a private room at the end of a hallway. It was sparsely furnished, with just a plain wooden table and four chairs. On top of the table stood a pitcher and a couple of mugs. “Some ale for me champion?” Guthrie asked, indicating the pitcher.

Grabbing a chair, Raphe dropped down onto it and poured himself a drink, while Guthrie claimed the other chair with more finesse. “Will ye ‘ave some?” Raphe asked, indicating the same pitcher.

Guthrie beamed. “Don’t mind if I do.” He waited for Raphe to pour before reaching for the mug and raising it. “To yer victory today.”

“To me victory,” Raphe muttered, downing the bitter resentment he felt with a brew to match.

“I’ve ‘igh ‘opes for ye,” Guthrie said, tapping a finger against his nose. “Unbeaten for the fifteenth time. That’s unprecedented, tha’ is.”

Raphe saw the spark that lit his eyes, like the promise of treasure or some such thing. “Wha’ do ye want, Guthrie?”

“So cynical, Matthews.” Guthrie’s upper lip drew up, revealing an uneven row of yellow-stained teeth. “Must a man always want some’in? Can’t ‘e simply enjoy a drink wi’ an old friend?”

Old friend?

Hardly.

“Not when ‘e’s got ‘im by the bollocks.”

Guthrie’s mouth tightened, his eyes darkening just enough to offer a glimpse of his true nature. “Is tha’ ‘ow ye see our relationship, laddy?”

His demeaning tone made Raphe’s muscles flex. He glanced at McNeil, who stood by the door, running his thumb along the edge of a wicked blade, and was instantly reminded of the punishment he’d suffered the one time when he’d been foolish enough to try and thwart Guthrie’s wishes. Shoulders tensing, Raphe returned his gaze to the man who owned him. “’Ow else should I see it? I’m yer puppet, ain’t I?”

Guthrie nodded. “Aye, but ye’re me favorite one. Which is why I’d like to offer ye a deal.”

Raphe stiffened. “What sor’ of deal?”

“The sor’ that could set ye free, laddy.”

A tempting notion, but surely too good to be true. Still, he couldn’t help but ask. “What do ye have in mind?”