Never Kneel to a Knight

by Regina Scott

  The opponents edged around each other. Again Harding swung, and Matthew blocked, to accompanying shouts from the crowd.

  “It’s like a dance,” Ivy marveled.

  “A deadly dance,” Lord Kendall said. “Harding is testing your brother, Miss Bateman, looking for any weakness.”

  Charlotte raised her head. “He won’t find one.”

  Lord Kendall glanced back with a smile. “Your faith is commendable, Miss Worthington.”

  All at once, Harding rushed at Matthew, fists pounding at ribs, stomach. Charlotte pressed forward, willing Matthew to push him back. Matthew gave way, blocking, blocking, protecting. Then one fist shot out, catching Harding on the jaw. Down went the proud lord. She was certain the carriage shook with the impact. No more so than she was shaking.

  “Halt!” shouted one of the umpires, shoving between the two fighters.

  Matthew stalked to his corner, but he didn’t sit on Lord Carrolton’s knee. His face was hard, set. The ferocity of it pushed her back from the window, even as the crowd took up the chant.

  Beast! Beast! Beast!

  Who was this man?

  Chapter Nineteen

  Meredith shuddered as Lord Harding rained blows on Sir Matthew, but she couldn’t help her nod of satisfaction as the knight’s fist connected with the fellow’s jaw.

  “Bloodthirsty, aren’t you?” Julian drawled.

  She smiled at him over her shoulder. Julian was seated behind her on the bench of his coach, watching around her, a steadying presence. It had been gratifyingly easy to convince him to take her to the fight. She only wished she’d felt comfortable bringing Fortune, but she couldn’t risk losing her pet in the crowd should the door open.

  “I’m not in the least bloodthirsty,” she assured him. “I prefer to think of it as championing justice. Lord Harding is a bully.”

  “He likes getting his own way,” Julian acknowledged. “But I doubt this was what he had in mind when he challenged Sir Matthew.”

  Indeed not. Harding had risen and was sitting on the offered knee of his kneeman, while his bottleman attempted to check what had to be a painful jaw. Harding pushed him away, eyes narrowing on Sir Matthew, who hadn’t deigned to sit.

  “Time,” called the umpire.

  Lord Harding rose and joined Sir Matthew in the center of the square. The call to begin hadn’t even echoed before the lord threw himself at the former pugilist.

  Meredith had to look away from the flying fists, but she couldn’t close her ears to the grunts of pain or the cries of the crowd at every interchange.

  “Stupid,” Julian said. “Harding’s leaving himself open. It’s well known Sir Matthew can grapple with the best. His lordship would be wiser to stay back.”

  There was a thud, and the crowd cheered. She could scarcely hear the cry of “Halt!” over the noise.

  Julian touched her cheek. “Would you like to leave?” he asked, concern in his voice.

  Meredith made herself look at the square. Lord Harding was climbing to his feet, shaking his head as if to stop it from ringing. Sir Matthew stood beside Lord Carrolton, sipping from a silver cup Lord Worthington had provided. Doubtless it held water, for she could see the clear glass decanter off to one side, sparkling in the sunlight.

  “No,” she told her beau. “If I’m to see to Charlotte’s best interests, I have to know how Sir Matthew takes this fight.”

  “Whether he wins or loses will be in all the papers,” Julian pointed out.

  “It doesn’t matter whether he wins or loses,” Meredith replied. “It matters how he fights.”

  “Time!”

  The two men returned to the center of the square. Now Lord Harding sported a swelling eye. At least it matched his swelled head. He seemed to have learned his lesson about engaging, however, for he stayed out of Sir Matthew’s reach. Meredith could see his lips moving.

  “He ought to save his breath,” she said.

  “He’s likely hurling insults at Sir Matthew,” Julian said. “It’s an old trick. The angrier you are, the less likely you are to think clearly.”

  “Cheater,” Meredith said.

  But though Sir Matthew’s face turned florid, his composure did not crack. Indeed, the only time his gaze left his opponent was an occasional swift glance toward the foot of the field.

  Meredith shifted, trying to see what drew his attention. The crowd was no thicker, no more enthusiastic. Indeed, she wasn’t sure it was possible to be more enthusiastic. Lords and paupers were cheering him now. Those who had supported Lord Harding were slumping, faces dark. Surely, he wasn’t looking at them. The coaches just beyond, then? She recognized the various carriages of the wealthy houses, including that of the Marquess of Kendall.

  Lord Kendall. With Ivy perhaps? And Charlotte.

  Her client hadn’t mentioned she would be attending, but of course, she would do what needed to be done. Meredith’s satisfied smile was interrupted by a groan from the crowd, followed by hisses and boos as the umpire cried “Halt!”

  “What happened?” she demanded, trying to see through the milling men.

  “Harding was lucky,” Julian said, voice grim. “He landed a punch to Sir Matthew’s ribs. I wouldn’t be surprised if one broke.”

  Meredith winced.

  Sir Matthew gave no indication he was hurt, again refusing the knee but accepting the cup Lord Worthington offered. As soon as the umpire called to begin, he strode to the middle, face set and terrifying to behold.

  The crowd quieted enough that she could hear Lord Harding’s taunt.

  “Water doesn’t satisfy, does it? You need a drink. Just like your father.”

  The crowd’s disapproval was palpable. So was Julian’s.

  “Knock. Him. Down,” he urged.

  Instead, Sir Matthew lowered his guard.

  The crowd gasped, shouted for him not to give up. Clearly confused, Lord Harding hesitated.

  Sir Matthew smiled at him. Took a step closer.

  Lord Harding took a step back.

  Now the crowd laughed, jeering at the haughty lord.

  Harding lowered his head and charged.

  Sir Matthew twisted to one side and slammed his fist into Harding’s jaw. Lord Harding plowed the field.

  Meredith closed her eyes. She wasn’t sure she took a breath before the umpire sent Sir Matthew to his corner.

  “This is horrid,” she declared, turning to face Julian. Her beau’s face was flushed, his eyes bright, as if he was enjoying every minute.

  “This is bare knuckles brawling,” he countered. “And rather tamer than some matches. Hair pulling and eye gouging are allowed, you know.”

  Meredith felt ill. “I had no idea. Why would anyone willingly watch, much less take part?”

  “The best matches pit skill against skill,” Julian explained. “Two warriors battling to the end.”

  “Lord Harding has no interest in battling,” Meredith said. “He wants to humble Sir Matthew, drive him into the ground.”

  “No doubt Harding thought this a good way to put Sir Matthew in his place,” Julian allowed. “It’s not easy keeping His Highness’ attention.”

  Meredith could not bring herself to watch as the two men regrouped, focusing on her beau instead. “Still, I begin to wonder about Sir Matthew. Charlotte was certain he was a gentleman, that that scurrilous story in the broadsheets was false. Can a man be so violent in the boxing square but a gentleman at home?”

  “Can a man be cunning in business or law, and yet, unaffected at home?” Julian asked. “I pray the answer is yes, for that is my life.”

  His face had bunched, his tone turned rueful. He worked hard for his many prestigious clients, but she was sure there were times they asked him to do things that challenged his honor.

  Meredith touched his cheek. “In any endeavor, there is a line that cannot be crossed, or we risk our character. I have never known you to cross it. You are by all accounts respected by your friends.”

  His tension eased.
“As is Sir Matthew. Why else would Worth and Carrolton align themselves with him?”

  There was that. She knew both lords to be good men. Fortune had approved of them. Fortune had approved of Sir Matthew long before his elevation. She had never known her pet to be misled.

  “Then, no matter the outcome, you believe our newest knight to be a gentleman of honor?” she asked.

  Julian took her hand and held it close. “I do. And I hope you believe the same of me, Meredith.”

  The look, so tender, so hopeful, was her undoing.

  “I do, Julian,” she murmured. “Like Sir Matthew, we may struggle to find a place in Society, but we will remain true to ourselves and our love.” And she sealed the statement with a kiss.

  ~~~

  His rib was on fire, his arms ached, and one eye was beginning to swell, but Matthew didn’t care. Harding had done all he could to anger him, striking ruthlessly, jibing about his family, his father. Matthew remained clear-headed. He had left the Beast of Birmingham behind.

  If only he could be sure Charlotte wasn’t watching.

  He’d spotted the Marquess of Kendall’s coach as it pulled up, but the flash of a pale face in a bonnet in the window had shaken him more than Harding’s blows. Kendall had brought a lady with him. Ivy? Charlotte? Or both?

  The idea kept intruding as he blocked Harding’s progressively weaker onslaughts. This had been by far one of his less brutal fights, but neither Ivy nor Charlotte would realize that. Knowing Ivy, she would find a way to match the fighter with her beloved brother. But Charlotte? Seeing him like this would only raise her doubts about him. If he wanted a life with her, he had to end this.

  He waited, watching, until Harding’s arm wound up and careened toward him. Matthew dodged, the wind of the punch fanning his sweating face. As his lordship’s arm swung back, Matthew came up under it and connected with his chin. The blow reverberated up Matthew’s arm.

  But Harding went down, and he didn’t rise.

  The umpire bent beside him, checked his neck.

  For a moment, panic threatened. But he couldn’t have permanently injured the fellow. Not this time. This time, he’d fought like a gentleman.

  The umpire stood. “He’s out. I declare Sir Matthew the winner!”

  The crowd cheered. Lord Harding’s bottleman and kneeman rushed forward to see to him.

  “He’ll demand a rematch,” one warned.

  Time to end that as well. He knew what Charlotte would want him to do. He held up his hands, turned from side to side. Slowly, the crowd quieted.

  Matthew faced the dais. His Royal Highness was all smiles, face as flushed as if he’d been in the square himself. He put his thick hands together and applauded Matthew, and the men around him joined in.

  Matthew swept him a bow, though his rib protested. “Your Royal Highness, thank you for your gracious attendance. I have been proud and honored to be your champion.”

  As Matthew straightened, the prince inclined his head. “My most excellent champion.”

  “And, in your honor,” Matthew continued, voice echoing, “I retire from the field forever. Undefeated, undaunted, like our prince.”

  The crowd roared its approval. Among the hubbub rose calls of “God save the prince!” “God save England!”

  The prince beamed his pleasure.

  Matthew would have decamped right then, but the men surged forward, vaulting the ropes to wring his hand, pat his back, declare him a jolly good fellow. He lost sight of Lord Worthington, though Lord Carrolton’s grin was evident over the heads of most there. Matthew had been through all the accolades before, but this was sweeter, cleaner.

  This was the end, and the beginning.

  Beyond the crowd, Lord Kendall’s carriage rolled around the square to leave the area. As it passed, Matthew once more caught a glimpse of a face at the window.

  Charlotte’s face.

  She had seen the last of the Beast of Birmingham. Would she see the gentleman he had become?

  Chapter Twenty

  What a horrid, horrid sport. As Lord Kendall’s carriage headed back into London, Charlotte could not erase the image of Lord Harding falling under Matthew’s fist. It was as if she’d felt the blow herself, and all of her hurt.

  “Your brother is to be congratulated on his victory,” Lord Kendall was telling Ivy. “Seldom have I seen a more magnificent display of the manly arts.”

  Charlotte’s stomach roiled, but she was not so far gone as to miss the pallor on Ivy’s face.

  “I found it difficult to watch,” Matthew’s sister said, fingers wrapped around each other in her lap.

  “It is difficult to reconcile the Beast of Birmingham with Sir Matthew Bateman,” Charlotte agreed.

  Ivy glanced up to frown at her. “Why? It’s just a name. It isn’t Matthew.”

  She wanted to believe that. Every reminder of his past added another brick to the wall between them. His life was so different from hers. He came from a home marred by excessive drink and violence. The father who should have protected him had curled in on himself. The stepmother who should have comforted him had offered only criticism and burden. How did light shine in such darkness?

  Lord Kendall had no trouble seeing the fight as something valiant.

  “Your brother behaved in every way the gentleman,” he was assuring Ivy. “Indeed, it was Lord Harding who appeared the beast.”

  Charlotte couldn’t argue that. Too often, Harding’s face had been contorted by anger and hatred. Had he no better way to settle differences than to cause someone else pain?

  Lord Kendall continued to enthuse, Ivy to nod and smile. Charlotte sat, feeling alone and wanting only to talk to Matthew, to assure herself he was still the man in whom she had believed.

  It was forever and a moment before the coach drew up before the Bateman home. Lord Kendall climbed down onto the pavement to hand Charlotte and Ivy out.

  “Thank you so much for your escort, my lord,” Ivy said.

  The marquess smiled. “It was my pleasure, Miss Bateman. Perhaps I may call tomorrow to offer my congratulations to your brother?”

  Ivy nodded, but her smile said she knew his congratulations were only an excuse to call. “I’m sure Matthew would appreciate that.”

  The door of the house banged open, and Daisy flew down the steps, yellow-sprigged skirts flapping. “Don’t send him away! We need the carriage!”

  Charlotte stiffened, but Ivy stepped between her and Daisy. “What’s happened?”

  Daisy’s brown eyes were wild, her hair falling from its bun on the top of her head. “It’s Petunia. She left hours ago to take Rufus for a walk, and she never came back.”

  Ivy sucked in a breath, then turned to Lord Harding. “Please, my lord, will you help us?”

  “Whatever you need,” he promised, face once more in its usual solemn cast. “I am at your disposal.”

  Charlotte caught Ivy’s arm. “We mustn’t panic. She’s a clever girl.”

  She was surprised to see the set to Ivy’s face. Where she had expected to find fear, she saw only determination.

  “I know,” Ivy said. “And Rufus is with her.”

  Daisy snorted. “Fat lot of good he is.”

  “More than you might think,” Charlotte told her. “Have you checked with Mr. Winthrop, the neighbor who gave Rufus to her?”

  “No,” Daisy admitted, shifting her feet beneath her muslin skirts. “I’ll send Betsy.”

  “We’ll drive around the area,” Charlotte said. “Daisy, stay at the house in case she returns while we’re out.”

  Daisy nodded and went back inside. Lord Kendall handed them into the coach and asked his driver to amble through the various lanes around Covent Garden.

  But though they crisscrossed the quarter several times, they caught no sign of a ten-year-old with sunny blond hair and an aged hound at her side.

  “Does she have a friend to whom she might go?” Lord Kendall asked. “A relative nearby?”

  Ivy’s gaze met
Charlotte’s, and Charlotte knew what she was thinking.

  “There may be one person,” Charlotte allowed, “but I doubt Petunia would go to her willingly. Do you know where Mrs. Bateman is staying while she’s in London, Ivy?”

  “Yes.” Ivy’s voice was small and tight. “But I would rather not introduce her to Lord Kendall.”

  “Mrs. Bateman?” he asked, glancing from one to the other.

  “Sir Matthew’s stepmother,” Charlotte explained. “A thoroughly unpleasant person who in no way reflects on the kindness, generosity, and amicability of her stepdaughters. And I agree, Ivy. We should not approach her without your brother at our sides.”

  Ivy sagged. “Thank you, Miss Worthington.”

  Charlotte turned to Lord Kendall, who was watching with a slight frown on his handsome face. “Which begs the question, my lord. Do you know where the prince expected Sir Matthew to celebrate his victory?”

  His frown only deepened. “Most likely Carlton House, the prince’s residence in London. But I was not privy to the plans. As a member of the opposition party, I am not generally welcome at Carlton House.”

  “I doubt I will be either,” Charlotte said.

  He stiffened. “Most assuredly not.” When Ivy’s brows rose, he hurried on. “That is to say, Miss Worthington, no ladies will be present at the victory celebration. Of that I am certain. I cannot in good conscience recommend you attend.”

  “And I cannot in good conscience do otherwise,” Charlotte told him. “Sir Matthew must be informed.”

  Lord Kendall tugged at his cravat. “Perhaps a servant, then.”

  “Who will be ignored,” Charlotte insisted. “You know these gentlemen, my lord. We are the only ones they cannot dismiss.”

  He made a face. “His Highness will not be pleased.”

  “I couldn’t care less what His Highness feels right now,” Charlotte said. “Have your coachman take us to Carlton House straight away. We must see Sir Matthew, even if that means bearding the lion of England in his den.”

  ~~~

  Matthew smiled and nodded at yet another toast to his victory. The prince had insisted on feting him and thirty or forty of His Highness’s closest friends at the opulent palace that was Carlton House. Lord Harding had not been invited. In the past, a few of the other pugilists had entered the ornate halls when serving as bodyguards for various dignitaries. They’d told tales of marble and gilt, Chinese and Egyptian décor, but those tales could not do the place justice.