He met her gaze with desolation in his own. “I don’t know how.”
Neither do I, and that’s the trouble.
The baron cleared his throat. “If you become expelled, I’ll turn you out. See if I don’t,” he said, pointing a threatening finger at Jonas. “I won’t stand for such blatant disregard for authority.”
“Althrop, he’s but a child.” Her mother’s wheedling tone set Louisa’s teeth on edge. Had she ever had a backbone in her life? Probably not, for she was quite adept at doing things up too brown if it made her appear vulnerable so that others would think her a victim and offer help.
The man grunted. “He needs to learn how to have a stiff upper lip and take care of his own problems. Society won’t hand him those skills, and neither will they be kind to one such as him.” His dark gaze landed on her brother. “The sooner he accepts this, the better it’ll go for him.”
“So, then throw him to the wolves?” Louisa dismissed both people on the opposite bench, she touched her brother’s shoulder. “It will get better.”
“Will it?” His eyes held deep doubt. “It’s miserable now.”
“You must never lose hope.” Except, here she was, embroiled in her own problems with no conceivable way out. Perhaps I should take my own advice. A bitter pill to swallow, that.
Silence reigned once more in the carriage.
Louisa pushed out her window glass to encourage fresh air into the compartment. Otherwise, she felt as if she were slowly being strangled. She had a novel tucked into her reticule, but risking pulling it out meant catching the ire of the baron, who considered reading a waste of time. So, she sat there, her hands clenched in her lap, hidden by the folds of her skirts, and her focus out the window at the slowly passing world. Such freedom there was to be had there but grasping it for herself was beyond her ken at the moment. Without funds or support, what would happen to her? The knots in her belly tightened. Something must change, but how?
Before too long, the carriage lurched to a halt due to a crush of traffic-both vehicular and pedestrian-that clogged the road as well as the grassy meadows. In the distance, a crowd of spectators roared.
“What the devil is happening?” her mother asked while both Louisa and Jonas craned their necks to see.
The baron leaned across her mother and peered outside. His lip curled. “It’s a bloody boxing match. Illegal to perform in London, so they bring it to the countryside.”
“What jolly fun,” Jonas breathed. “I’ve heard about those chaps. Fisticuffs is popular at Eton but frowned upon.” The wistful tone in his voice tugged at Louisa’s heart.
“So vulgar,” her mother said with a sniff.
Then that meant it probably was jolly fun. Louisa’s pulse ticked into a faster rhythm. She couldn’t see much through the thick wall of people and carriages, but everyone seemed happy and excited. Whomever was in that field had inflamed the spectators.
“No respectable gentleman would think of doing such a thing,” the baron added. “Lower class trash for certain, and rabble rousers no doubt. Always thinking they can win a quick purse with their fists instead of working for the coin.”
As if you’ve worked for anything in your life.
Louisa smiled to herself. If the baron didn’t care for boxing, that meant there was even more reason to witness it. But straining to see past the masses didn’t bring the expected result.
The crowd cheered again. Even from the distance on the road, words drifted to her location. “The winner is Cecil Carrington!” Another cheer followed and the clog began to shift as people surged toward the makeshift ring. The energy in the area was almost palpable.
“Too bad we’ve missed it.” Louisa sat back with a frown as their carriage jostled into motion.
“You’ll be wise to forget about this,” the baron instructed, and once more he raked his gaze up and down her person. “I won’t have you getting it into your brain that pugilistics are something to be praised.”
She ignored him and turned her head to the window while she committed that name to memory, for Mr. Carrington sounded like a man who could help both her and Jonas, but how to arrange an introduction, and where the deuce was she to find him in all of London?
A tremor of unease moved down her spine. She pressed her lips together. Someone had to help. I can’t continue to live in this nightmare.
As soon as they reached the townhouse, she would make plans.
Chapter Two
The Honorable Cecil Carrington handed his greatcoat to his friend and business partner, as well as his best friend and knee-man—Samuel Johansen. Every time he went out on a match, Samuel accompanied him. There was never a question of if he wouldn’t.
“What do you estimate?” He valued the other man’s opinion more than most of his acquaintance.
Ever since Cecil had met the mulatto on a trip more than ten years ago to the island of Jamaica during a stint in the Navy, they’d become fast friends. The son of an English governor and a high-born Jamaican society lady, Samuel was a real gentleman about town, but he’d chosen to partner in the glassblowing shop for reasons he kept to himself.
Now, he sent his dark gaze across the eight-foot by eight-foot roped off area to size up the other boxer. His shrug was as eloquent a gesture as if he’d been born French. “You’ll take him in three rounds, unless you can put him out in two.”
“Ah, good.” Cecil proceeded to shed his jacket and waistcoat, handing each garment to Samuel as he did so. “I’d rather like to keep my name out there in respectability.”
“You already have that,” Samuel said with a crooked grin. His melodious accent made the state sound even more cheerful. “Are you not enjoying some celebrity within the ton?”
“Celebrity.” He snorted while he removed his cuffs and collar, handing them over to his friend. “As if I care for any words of praise from those vapid, shallow vipers.”
“You might not, but it’s there nonetheless.”
“Perhaps.” Cecil couldn’t hide his answering grin. Fighting in professional pugilistic competitions set his blood pumping and made him feel more alive than anything he’d yet encountered in his life. Even above and beyond fighting the French, which seemed a lifetime ago. When he won a match, the thrill of victory helped to wash all the ills of life from his mind.
Too bad the scars on his heart weren’t so easily cleaned.
“I’m with Mr. Johansen, Mr. Carrington.” His water boy—a fifteen-year-old urchin he’d plucked from one of the worst London slums a year ago—nodded. His red hair and freckled, pale face proclaimed his Irish ancestry before his accent ever did. “You’ll beat ‘im right quick.” The boy was also his apprentice in his glassblowing shop. Being a pickpocket had given him a deftness of fingers that suited the work.
Sometimes fate put the people he needed the most—or who needed him—into his path. In that respect, he never worried. It was folks with their own hidden agendas that terrified him.
“Thank you, William. I appreciate the confidence.” He stripped off his linen shirt and then gave it to Samuel, who folded it and laid it on the stack of clothes at his feet. The chill of the autumn afternoon wafted over his bare skin, but he ignored the slight discomfort. Once the match got underway, he’d be warm enough.
For the last several years, Cecil had trained with Gentleman Jackson in his boxing academy at Number 13 Bond Street, learning the great’s techniques until he was turned out on his own. Occasionally, he’d go back for new training, or he’d pop into The Daffy Club or Limmer’s Hotel to spar with others of his skill set in the gentlemen’s league. Until the opportunity to fight for monetary gain came his way.
Gladly, he’d done it for the last six months, and he was good at it. Out of the ten matches he’d competed in, he’d lost four. Winning the coin meant sharing that windfall with both Samuel and William, and whatever was left over after his living expenses, he saved or put back into his business. If he were lucky, another handful of fights would see him with
enough blunt to expand his shop or perhaps take a lease on a cheap Mayfair townhouse.
Beyond that, he enjoyed fisticuffs, liked the camaraderie of the sport and learning new things. A man should never rest on his own laurels. Plus, that bump of fame was quite nice, though he’d rather die than admit it. Being the fourth son—and fourth of five offspring—of Viscount Brookmorton came with no accolades, no title, no position, and no wealth. It was expected he’d find his own way in the world, and so he had, in extraordinary ways. Despite his mother’s worry, his father gave him praise. That alone was an achievement.
It was enough. He was eight and thirty, and he did not require a spouse or even a mistress to give his life meaning. Did that way of thinking keep the pangs of loneliness away? Yes and no, but he hadn’t been with a woman since his heart had been shredded years before. He couldn’t. Didn’t trust any of the opposite sex, no matter how beguiling they were or how pretty their faces. Boxing helped with the excesses of energy there too.
And it was a hell of a lot safer. Boxing would never betray him or disappoint him.
The ringing of a hand bell pulled Cecil from his musings. That sound signaled five minutes to the start of the match.
His pulse accelerated. Anticipation crawled over his skin. It was almost time.
“All right, fellows. I guess this is it.” Cecil looked out at the hundreds of people that filled the meadow around the boxing square. A call for last minute wagers went up. “What are the odds?”
Samuel snorted. “Three to one, favoring you.”
“Good.” Though this fight had odds of being relatively easy for him, he looked forward to it. Cecil raised his arms over his head and went through a series of stretches that would warm up his muscles. “That means the winner’s purse will be a fat one.” And he’d pay his team handsomely.
“Do your best, Mr. Carrington,” William implored with his blue eyes wide. The boy acted as if everything he saw in this new life was amazing. Perhaps it was to him. “Me mum used to say if you did that, then you have no cause to fret if things go awry.”
“Sound advice.” Cecil tweaked the brim of the lad’s cap. “Got the orange?” Often the water boys carried the fruit for the boxers in the event they needed energy during prolonged rounds.
“Aye, and the brandy.” William patted a leather bag slung over his shoulder.
“No need for that today, I’m thinking.” Cecil’s confidence soared. Hopefully, he’d put his opponent out in short order.
“Good luck.” Samuel shoved at Cecil’s shoulder. “It’s about to begin. Go show them who’s the real ragamuffin.”
Cecil chuckled, for Samuel often slipped into Jamaican slang when excited. “You think me streetwise and tough, eh?”
“Obviously.” The knee-man waved him off. “Go on, now. Win, so we can grab a pint at the club later.” The smooth, lyrical cadence of the man’s voice always dosed him with calm.
“That sounds like a fine idea.”
“You’re paying.”
“Of course.”
Then the banker, who was acting as a judge during the fight, beckoned Cecil and his opponent to the middle of the roped off area. “Today’s match is between newcomer Jameson Alcott—”
A rousing cheer went through the onlookers.
“—and London favorite Cecil Carrington.”
A larger cheer and hoots circulated amongst the crowd.
Cecil didn’t let the acknowledgement affect his mind, but it was nice to have that backing. It would seem folks from every class enjoyed watching him box, if the crowd was any indication. Who knew fisticuffs was the great equalizer? But for now, his focus was on his opponent. He’d heard the man’s name bandied about the boxing club but had never seen him fight, nor had he sparred with him.
The guy weighed perhaps a bit more than Cecil’s own one hundred ninety pounds, and some of the man’s bulk was flesh that was going to fat instead of the lean muscle Cecil possessed. Ah, that meant the fighter would try to intimidate with brute strength over smart attacks or footwork.
No doubt he’d spent more time bullying his way through life than in caring about the proper form or technique of the sport. Illegal boxing clubs abounded, of course, and refinement didn’t trickle down through the ranks. That didn’t mean it wasn’t useful.
“Are you ready?” the judge asked. His eyes beneath the brim of his beaver felt top hat gleamed with anticipation.
That same emotion coursed through Cecil’s insides. “Let’s get to it.”
His opponent grinned, revealing a gap where a tooth was missing in his lower jaw. “I’ll put you down easily, Carrington.”
“Time will tell.” Cecil wasn’t intimidated by the threat, for he knew his own abilities and trusted the process.
The official nodded. “May the best man win.” Then he stepped backward, retreating to the ropes.
Cecil immediately balanced on the balls of his feet, the soles of his shoes solidly on the grass. He slightly bent his body with his head and shoulders forward while raising his fists. That was how Jackson taught, and the style Cecil was most comfortable with. His theory was that a well-trained fist had greater power than using one’s full body to scrap or overwhelm.
Alcott threw the first punch.
Cecil ducked and returned the favor. His bare fist connected with the man’s beefy face. The sound of flesh hitting flesh echoed in his ears, and the crowd cheered.
His opponent merely grunted and trained glittering eyes upon him. “You’re nothing more than an annoying fly, Carrington,” he growled, and this time when he swung, the hit connected with Cecil’s shoulder.
He ignored the pain. “I don’t know about a fly, but definitely you’ll feel the sting of a bee soon.” Darting about the other man, ducking another set of blows, he finally found his opening. A swift uppercut caught Alcott in the fleshy part of his gut.
With a cry of rage, Alcott went on the defensive, using his body like a battering ram. Cecil employed his best footwork, which aggravated the other man. One beefy fist slammed into Cecil’s gut.
Pain exploded through his body. Cecil stumbled back, winded and struggling to catch his breath. The pungent scent of body odor overwhelmed his nostrils. He temporarily lowered his stance, and that’s when Alcott pounced. One of his giant fists connected with Cecil’s jaw. The force from the punch sent him sprawling onto his back while he wheezed.
“First round goes to Jameson Alcott!” The judge’s damning words echoed through his ears, followed by victorious laughter from his opponent. The crowd roared, both for and against the announcement.
Groaning, Cecil picked himself up and returned to his starting corner. Samuel was there, kneeling with one knee acting as a footstool, so he sat upon it, grateful for his friend.
“Here, Mr. Carrington.” William waved an orange at him.
“No, thank you,” he answered, and took an experimental breath. Things were returning to normal, and his ribs weren’t broken. “I’ll take water.” He reached for the ladle William offered from the ever-present bucket of water.
God, the coolness of the liquid felt good as it hit his throat and dribbled down his chin and chest.
Samuel shoved a towel into his hand, and Cecil mopped at the blood oozing from a busted lip. The metallic taste of it lingered on his palate. “Round two is up.” He took the towel and propelled Cecil from his knee. “Give him no quarter this time. Fight like a man on a mission, not a gentleman verbally sparring in a drawing room.”
“I’ll give it my best.” Cecil returned to the middle of the boxing area to face Alcott once more.
“Round two begins now!” The judge grinned wide as he stepped back out of the impending fray.
Alcott lunged, no doubt fired by his first-round victory, but his bulk wasn’t an asset as Cecil easily sidestepped the charges. He led the bigger man on a merry chase, knowing his fast footwork would soon tire the brute out. A jab here, a quick uppercut there had Cecil feeling as if he truly was the bee he’d likene
d himself to earlier.
And it enraged his opponent to the point he pawed the earth like an irritated bull.
Alcott charged again. This time he caught Cecil’s chest with his shoulder and sent him flying. Quickly, Cecil scrambled to his feet. Under no circumstances would he let this bounder win another round. When he came close to the man, Alcott swung a meaty fist. Despite his best effort to bob or duck, the blow connected with the side of his head and set Cecil’s ears to ringing.
The crowd cheered and surged closer to the roped off area.
“Oh, hell no.” Cecil shook his head. He would not let this beast take away his win. As the other man came near, Cecil delivered an uppercut to his jaw and a solid hit to his gut that forced Alcott to go on the defensive. Hungry for the victory, he came at the bigger man over and over again. His fists connected solidly to flesh each time he swung, and as Alcott retreated, confusion in his expression, Cecil gave chase.
When Alcott swatted at him, Cecil’s rapid footwork once more took him out of danger. The bigger man stumbled as one of his blows whistled through the air to connect with nothing.
The roar of the crowd dissipated in Cecil’s consciousness. His heartbeat accelerated. Sweat trickled between his shoulder blades as he put Alcott firmly in his sight. “Let’s end this, shall we?”
Alcott spat out blood. “It’s no nevermind to me if you want to go down.”
“Interesting thought, but it’s you who’ll fall.” Adrenaline pumped through Cecil’s veins. He lunged and swung. The hard punch landed solidly into Alcott’s chin. The impact sent pain into his knuckles, but he ignored that.
His opponent’s head snapped back. He stumbled.
Victory surged into Cecil’s chest. He took advantage of the break in the other man’s defenses to deliver a vicious uppercut to the man’s jaw. With his other fist, he cold cocked Alcott’s nose. The certain crunch of cartilage meant a broken appendage. Blood poured down the man’s face.
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