“I’d prefer to be able to feel my hands,” Max teased.
The boy, who couldn’t have been more than twelve, scrunched his nose. “It’ll loosen as you work, guv’nor.”
Max nodded, and the boy continued until he tied off the end a moment later. Flexing his hands to test the wraps, Max took in the gymnasium. It was around three times the size of the modest gymnasium at his club in Manhattan, which was outfitted with steel bars mounted to the walls, dumbbells, and parallel bars. Montague Club operated at an entirely different level.
The club itself was a grand mansion, and the gymnasium was a converted ballroom. A large chandelier glittered above them with hundreds of crystals to reflect the light. The walls were plastered with gold brocade paper. A large fighting ring was roped off in one corner of the room with benches for spectators. The rest of the space was littered with machines and apparatuses to work every major muscle group. For the arms, there was a slatted climbing wall, an area for dumbbells fixed with various weights, and a standing machine with straps connected to sandbags for lifting. A couple of other machines were similar to that one but meant for working the legs. There was also a machine built on an incline fitted with a simple cable and pulley system that somehow worked the abdominal area. He had yet to figure out how that one worked.
“Ready?” Christian clapped him on the back, having been similarly outfitted with hand wraps. Unlike Max, who still wore his shirtsleeves, he had stripped down to his trousers and boots. Both Christian and Evan participated in brawling matches from time to time.
“I didn’t realize you employed children,” Max said, glancing over at the boy who was winding the leftover batting into a ball. Crenshaw Iron had once exploited child labor, but he had put a stop to it years ago.
“We don’t typically. He’s one of Lady Helena’s orphans. Kept getting himself into scraps and running away. She asked if we could employ him here to give him a purpose. So far the arrangement has worked out nicely. He still goes to the orphanage for his weekly lessons.”
Helena. Of course. It seemed he couldn’t escape her. Not that he wanted to, though she was partially responsible for his being here tonight. Over dinner with Christian and Jacob, Max had shared his frustrations about his father’s demands, only telling them what he had told August and Violet. No one except Helena needed to know the depths to which his father would stoop. Because of his frustrations, Christian had suggested they go to the gymnasium and hit something, and Max had agreed even though he hadn’t been entirely certain what that would involve.
He glanced down at the fabric binding his hands and flexed his fists to test the hold. They gave slightly but were still uncomfortably tight. “I’ve never done anything like this before.”
“Fighting?” Christian asked.
Max nodded. “My last fight was at Princeton.”
“You’ll like it. Promise.” He grinned, his limp only slightly noticeable as he led Max over to an area where bags of sand hung suspended from the ceiling. He demonstrated in a few moves how Max should hold himself as he hit the bag repeatedly. “Use your legs and swing with your hips.” He demonstrated again in a slower motion. “You try.”
Max took up position and landed a hook square in the middle of the sandbag, sending it jolting backward, vibrating as if it had been struck with electricity. It felt good, so he did it again with his left fist.
“That’s it. Keep it up until your arms feel like they’re filled with jelly.”
Putting his head down, Max leaned into a series of blows against the unfortunate sandbag. In the weeks he had been in London, he had come to realize a couple of very important things. The first was that his father irritated him. No real surprise there. The second was that it had been over a month since he’d last had sex, and riding every morning in Hyde Park wasn’t giving him the physical outlet he needed. Unfortunately, the only woman he wanted was Helena, and that wasn’t likely to happen anytime soon. So here he was, attempting to work out his frustrations in another way.
The room faded to the background as he stared at the X marked in chalk on the bag. It diminished a little more with each strike of his fists until finally it was gone and he was left with the satisfying thump of his fist hitting burlap and sand.
“Crenshaw.”
His head whipped up to see Jacob Thorne standing not very far away with Christian at his side. They seemed to have been watching him for some time. How long had he been punching? Now that he’d stopped, he realized he was covered in a layer of sweat and his shirt clung to his back.
Thorne smiled, a flash of white as he tilted his head toward the door. “You have a visitor.”
No one was at the door, which meant the visitor must be waiting somewhere. His first thought was Helena, but that would be too improper for her. The club had a reputation for having secret rooms that catered to very particular desires. God, the very idea of meeting her in one of those rooms had the hair on his arms standing on end in anticipation. Who even knew he was here? “Who is it?”
As if he was pausing for dramatic effect, Thorne waited a beat before saying, “The honorable Lord Farthington requests that you join him in the lounge.”
“Farthington?”
Christian grinned. “You can’t court his daughter and not expect him to find you.”
“No, I suppose not.” Only he hadn’t thought the man would seek him out so soon. “Damn. I didn’t come dressed to meet him.”
“Go have your shower bath. We’ll find something for you to wear,” Christian said.
A quarter of an hour later, Max was in the club’s sleek lounge area in borrowed shirtsleeves and his own coat to face Helena’s father. The lounge consisted of two rather expansive rooms with an open door between them. Dark wood paneling and gas lighting fixtures set at intervals along the wall gave the space an intimate feel meant to foster conversation. This was further enhanced by groupings of plush leather chairs arranged around low tables at each of the several fireplaces.
Lord Farthington wasn’t difficult to spot. He sat in a chair near the fire looking over a newspaper like any other man enjoying a moment of solitude in his club; the only difference was that Farthington seemed unable to relax. His back was as straight as a board, his chin perfectly parallel to the floor. A similar posture to his daughter. The thought almost made Max smile, but it wasn’t quite enough to overcome his anxiety at having to face the man.
The whole room appeared to be aware of what was happening. Though it was only half-filled with patrons, they all seemed to watch as Max passed, their eyes going automatically to Farthington and back again.
“Lord Farthington. Good to see you.” Max took the chair across from him.
The older man took his time folding the paper and removed the cigar from his mouth. “Crenshaw.” The few times Max had met him socially, he had been difficult to read, but he seemed to be attempting to keep a stoic face even more tonight. As a well-known member of Parliament, Farthington was renowned for being particularly sharp, and Papa had confirmed that to Max through his dealings with him as the railroad contracts were being negotiated.