Page 29 of The Viscount's Silent Pugilist

Robinsontsked his disapproval. “Do you want to get Gen killed? She appears to have potential, but she will have to gain at least a stone. That isn’t possible in a week. And you can’t ignore the fact that Roseanna has more experience.”

Griffendale inclined his chin toward the ladies. “Watch. Gen is catching on quickly.”

Franny demonstrated a quick succession of jabs. Gen and Roseanna imitated her, jabbing their imaginary opponents with precision. Gen might look as ethereal as a ghost, but she moved like a powerful fighter.

“I stand by our wager,” Jonathan said.

“Josie and Franny will have your heads.” Nicolas sliced a finger across his neck. “Dead, the both of you. It’s been nice knowing you.”

“Now that is a wager I’d take,” Robinson said. “The rake and the rogue against the she-devils. My blunt is on Franny and Josie.”

“Says the man who had his nose broken by his wife the first time he met her,” Griffendale said with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.

“Learned my lesson the hard way. Never bet against or anger my wife.” Robinson turned to the side, sweeping a hand along his profile. “Admit it. My crooked nose gives me character.”

“Be still, my beating heart,” Jonathan jested. He grabbed Robinson and kissed his scruffy cheek.

The large man swatted him.

Feeling more like his jovial self, Jonathan chuckled, then tuned out the men so that he could concentrate on Gen, who was twisting her hip in slow motion. After a few trials, she threw a cross, snapping her hip as if putting power behind her punch came as naturally to her as walking.

“Bravo, Gen,” Jonathan called.

She must have heard him, because she cast a smile in his direction.

As the three ladies crossed the gymnasium to choose skipping ropes, Nicolas and Robinson returned to the ring.

Griffendale stayed put, blabbering while they watched Roseanna, Franny, and Gen skip rope. His voice was a monotonous drone of nonsense. That is, until he said, “Blahblahblah…Gen?”

Jonathan’s ears actually twitched at the sound of her name, mixed in with whatever blether Griffendale was uttering.

He turned to him. “Excuse me?”

Griffendale smirked, probably aware that Jonathan had been ignoring him until he spoke her name.

“I said, ‘seriously, who is Gen?’”

“My mother’s friend’s daughter,” Jonathan lied.

“Which friend?”

“You don’t know her.”

“Fine, don’t tell me. But why doesn’t she talk? I saw her tongue when she smiled, so it’s not that. Is she… What is the word?… Is her brain injured?”

Jonathan’s heart plummeted. That thought had crossed his mind, and for some reason, he’d refused to acknowledge it. Of course, it would explain why he felt so protective of her, and why he was struggling to come to terms with his attraction to her.

“I don’t know,” he said. Except she could read and write, which Jonathan couldn’t do. So even if she was dim-witted, she was more intelligent than he.

“Do you think someone hurt her?” Griffendale asked. “I mean, really hurt her, so much so, that now she is afraid to talk?”

Obviously, she was terrified of Kilsby.

“Can that happen?” Jonathan asked.

Griffendale shrugged his massive shoulders. “I don’t honestly know, but men can be right, abusive arses. I’ve heard that some soldiers returned from Waterloo so badly affected by the horrors they witnessed that they were unable to speak, so maybe she saw something that terrified her.”

When had Griffendale become such a philosopher?