“I’m not staying here to watch you die. I have a little girl to take care of. Go meet the Butcher tonight if you have to, Gareth, but I’ll tell you right now that you’ll be coming home to an empty house—that is, if you come home at all.”
“Juliet!”
“Make your choice, Gareth. Your pride or your family.” And with that, she turned on her heel and left him standing there in the middle of the floor.
All alone.
“What do you mean, you won’t fight the Butcher tonight?” Panicking, Snelling waved Lord Gareth into Swanthorpe’s lavishly appointed parlor, impatiently gesturing for a servant to bring a decanter of wine and two glasses. “Everyone in town’s talking about this fight! People are coming from three counties to see it! You can’t back out on me now, it’ll be a damned mob scene!”
The young fighter was adamant. “Forget it, Snelling. I am not doing it.”
Snelling’s heart was pounding, then racing, as he tried frantically to think of a way to salvage this emergency situation. Calm down! he told himself, wiping suddenly sweaty palms on his breeches. Find out what the problem is and then do what you have to do to get him back on course. “Now, you sit right there and tell me what’s wrong,” he soothed, using the parental tone that had often worked with other nervy young fighters. But he knew he’d taken the wrong approach the moment he saw the sudden coolness in Lord Gareth’s pale eyes; the lad might be confused, possibly even scared, but he was certainly not a boy.
Bloody hell, does he know? He can’t know, only Woodford and I know, he’s just got a case of nerves, that’s all it is!
He began sweating as he thought of how much money he’d wagered on the Scot and nearly keened with terror. I’ll lose everything I own if he doesn’t meet the Butcher tonight!
“I’ve had a bellyful, that’s what’s wrong,” Lord Gareth said simply. “What more explanation do you need?”
That cool blue gaze bored into his.
Snelling began to fidget. The perspiration was already beading on his brow, and he was thankful when the servant arrived with the wine. His hand shaking, he poured two glasses, setting one in front of Lord Gareth—who, he noted, looked at it the way he might a poisonous adder and declined to touch it. Did he know? Did he?
“Ah, so that’s it, you’ve lost your courage, then!” Snelling said. He wiped his brow and managed to find his politician’s smile somewhere down in the abyss into which it had fallen. “Happens to the best of them, you know. And you are the best, Gareth, probably the best in all England. Knew it the first time I saw you fight.” He gulped his wine. “Now, I know you might be a little nervous but that’s understandable, after all, the Butcher’s got a reputation to strike fear into the heart of anyone; but damn, that shouldn’t scare you, there’s not a man in England who can hit like you. Why, look at the two worthies you’ve already defeated! Three, if you count Joe Lumford back in London! You’re a natural, lad. A damned natural. You’ll take the Butcher down by the third round. I’ll lay money on it!”
Lord Gareth only stared at him for a moment, then looked away, his eyes bleak.
“I know, I know, it’s because of what happened to Nails, isn’t it? Now, Gareth, that was an accident. You can’t be blaming yourself for what happened—”
“I don’t.” The pale blue eyes looked at him directly, almost accusingly. “I just don’t want to fight the Butcher tonight. In fact, I don’t want to fight anyone. I am through, Snelling. I’ve lost my stomach for it.”
“But”—
Lord Gareth stood up. “I am taking my family and going home.”
A torrent of raw, uncontrollable rage blew through Snelling, nearly blinding him. His hands trembled with the effort it took to remain calm, and he knew, wildly, that if he’d had a gun, he would’ve pulled it out and shot this arrogant young rake dead in his tracks. But he had no gun. He had only the terrifying knowledge of how much money he’d put on the Butcher tonight—and how much he would lose if Lord Gareth did not fight.
“You can’t leave me like this!” he all but shouted. “Damn you, de Montforte, we had an agreement!”
“And I have a wife and daughter. I don’t want them ending up like Nails’s family if something should happen to me. I don’t want my wife mourning me, nor my little girl growing up without a papa.” He picked up his hat and moved toward the door. “Goodbye, Snelling.”
Snelling shot to his feet and raced around the table. “My, oh, my,” he said, flinging all caution to the wind, “I never thought that you, of all people, would turn out to be such a lily-livered coward. You, a de Montforte!”
Lord Gareth paused, and Snelling was reminded of how very tall and formidable this young man actually was. How powerfully muscled he was beneath that loose shirt—and how very foolish he himself was for provoking him so. He caught his breath, fearing he was going to be the next person to feel Lord Gareth’s fist—but no, the Wild One had himself tightly under control, no longer the impulsive hotspur he’d been that night at Mrs. Bottomley’s. “I would call you out for such a remark,” the younger man said evenly, with a cool smile that only made the coming insult worse, “but I make it a practice to duel exclusively with gentlemen—not those who aspire to be. Good evening, Snelling.”
“Wait!” Snelling tossed back his wine and leaped over the sofa, desperate to reach the door before Lord Gareth did. Gasping, he flattened his back against it and gazed up at his fighter with panicked eyes. Lord Gareth merely stared right through him and kept coming, and for a moment Snelling thought he was simply going to pick him up and throw him out of the way. “Listen,” he said, grinning broadly and spreading his hands in supplication. He knew he was begging, but he was desperate, unable to help himself. “I’ve put a lot of money and time into promoting this match between you two. I’ve given you a home, a livelihood, and a name for yourself. And this is how you think to repay me?”
“I don’t owe you a damned thing, Snelling. Now, stand aside.”
“But—”
Lord Gareth simply reached around him, found the latch, and pushed the door open. Snelling stumbled, nearly fell. And now Lord Gareth was striding past him and down the hall, his footfalls echoing off the walls and high ceiling.
“Wait!” Snelling cried, knowing he would give ten years of his life to possess that elegant, bred-in-the-bone grace; another ten for that cool, aristocratic arrogance—
And everything he owned if only he could get the young rakehell to fight tonight.
“Lord Gareth!”
The tall figure was almost into the foyer now.
“Lord Gareth! What will it take for me to get you to do this fight? A thousand pounds? Two thousand? Name your price, Gareth, and if you win, you shall have it!”
His words reverberated through the hall.
The young man paused at the threshold of the open door, looking out onto a hundred acres of wheat, rye and barley, and some of the most fertile ground in Berkshire. Above his head was Swanthorpe’s gorgeous leaded fanlight; beneath that, the de Montforte coat of arms, forever enshrined in the stone.
Lord Gareth’s fair head tipped back as he, too, looked up and saw his family’s arms above the door. He stood there for a moment, just gazing at that carving in the stone. And then, very slowly, he turned. His face was perfectly calm, his gaze almost triumphant.
“Very well then, Snelling,” he said. “I want Swanthorpe Manor.”
Snelling was in need of a stiff drink after Lord Gareth left. His heart was still pounding, though shaky relief was already beginning to spread through his veins. He poured himself a shot of brandy and sank back into the sofa. Thank God he’d found a way to get the lad to do the fight, after all. For a harrowing moment there he’d thought all was lost.
Very well then, Snelling I want Swanthorpe Manor.
Snelling cursed out loud as he recalled Lord Gareth’s words. That wasn’t all the arrogant young nob had wanted. He wanted his friend Lord Brookhampton to be his second for the fight instead of Wo
odford. He wanted Snelling to give Nails’s widow enough money to allow her to live comfortably for the remainder of her life. And, not content to trust Snelling’s word, he wanted Brookhampton to witness the impromptu agreement the two of them made regarding the terms of the match.
“Otherwise, I’m not fighting.”
Bloody hell. Snelling had just poured himself another shot when Sanderson, his butler, announced that he had a visitor.
“Woodford!” He smiled in relief. “Where the hell have you been?”
“It’s de Montforte.”
Snelling’s smile vanished. “Shut the door.”
Wordlessly, Woodford went back and pushed it closed. He glanced nervously around, then pulled up a chair opposite Snelling. “He’s on to us.”
“What are you talking about?”
For an answer, Woodford reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a sheet of folded vellum. “Creedon the gardener caught Tom Houghton trying to take this to the Duke of Blackheath late last night.” He tossed the note onto the table before his employer. “The idiot just brought it to me now. I thought you’d better see it immediately.”
Snelling hurriedly read, his face going purple with rage. “Damn that de Montforte for a clever, sneaking rogue!” he snarled, crumpling up the vellum that, had it actually reached the powerful Duke of Blackheath, would’ve had Snelling swinging from the nearest tree, so damning were the words. He shook the thing in Woodford’s face. “He knows everything, damn his eyes!”
“Yes, I figured he was on to us when Osgood, the chemist, mentioned he’d been snooping around and asking rather strange questions, so I paid Creedon to keep an eye on him. When Creedon saw him ask Tom Houghton to carry this note for him, he knew something was up. He followed the lad, bashed him over the head, and took the saddlebags—which contained the letter.”
“Why the hell did it take him so long to get the letter back to us?”
“There was also a flask of gin in the saddlebags.”
“Bloody hell.”
Woodford put both hands on the table, shot a nervous glance over his shoulder, and leaned close. “What are we going to do, Jon?”
Snelling held the damning letter over a candle, watching as it dissolved into a black, writhing curl. “Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it?” He flicked the ash from his fingers. “Lord Gareth knows too much. He must be dealt with—before he can tell Blackheath everything he knows. Christ, if that happens, I’m a dead man.”
Woodford drew himself up. “Fine. I’ll go take care of him now. Did you say he’s gone into town to find Brookhampton? I’ll just waylay him as he’s coming back through the Meadow, stick a knife in his back, and toss him into the Thames—”
“No, no, that won’t do at all. I’ve sunk enough money into de Montforte; I’m not going to waste it all by throwing him into the damned river.” He rose and poured himself another drink, his jaw working furiously as he sloshed the liquid around his mouth and swallowed. He turned to Woodford, his eyes blazing. “No, Woodford, we’ve made a staggering amount of money off of him but that will be nothing compared to what you and I are going to make off of him tonight.”
“And how are we going to do that? He’s on to us. He’ll be expecting us to drug the Scot so that he’ll win yet again, and then all he’ll have to do is denounce us right there in front of everyone—”
“Don’t be a pillock, Woodford. I am not going to drug the Scot. I didn’t wager all my money on the Butcher just to see him lose.”
Woodford raised a heavy brow.
“Lord Gareth is English,” Snelling continued, “and I can tell you right now, every Englishman at that fight tonight is going to back him—no matter how big the Scot is, no matter how likely it is he’ll make pulp of our young Wild One by the end of the first round. We’re talking about national loyalty here.”
Woodford, all ears, rubbed his jaw and listened.
“Everyone will be betting on Lord Gareth,” Snelling said, his eyes gleaming. “But my money—every penny I own—is on the Scot. And do you know why? Because Lord Gareth is going to lose tonight.”
Woodford shook his head. “Really, Jon, if you think he’s stupid enough to drink anything you offer him before the fight, you’ve got another thing com—”
“I don’t need him to drink anything, Woodford. Have you actually seen the Scot fight?” He gave a little laugh. “There’s no way in a million years Lord Gareth will ever beat him. He’s good, but not that good.” Snelling stood up, hatred and fury radiating from him like gas from a flame. “Oh no, Woodford, this time, his opponent will not be drugged. This time, our Wild One is going to get the stuffing knocked out of him.”
Woodford raised a brow.
“You see, Woodford, it’s not just my fortune that’s at stake here, but also Swanthorpe. I had to offer it up just to get Lord Gareth to fight tonight. If he wins, it’s his; so he has to lose, do you understand me?” Snelling’s fist came down hard on the table. “He has to lose! And just to make sure that he never, ever opens his mouth and tells what he knows, I think we’d better offer the Butcher a hefty financial incentive for doing something a little special tonight.”
“And that is?”
“Not just knocking Lord Gareth out—but killing him.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
Abingdon hadn’t seen such excitement since the previous autumn’s Michaelmas fair. Crowds thronged the roads leading into the town. Fancy carriages bumped hubs with farmer’s carts. People hung out the windows that overlooked the street, cheering Gareth as he and Perry, encircled by the Den of Debauchery members and flanked by Snelling and Woodford, made their way up Bridge Street. Patriotism was high. The red-and-white cross of St. George flew from windows, draped shop fronts, and was carried on great banners by crowds of shouting, reveling supporters who sent up a roaring huzzah! as they caught sight of their English champion. Gareth refused to think that he might not be worthy of their ardent loyalty. There was no room in his head right now for self-doubt—nor that heartbreaking scene not twenty minutes past, when, after getting ready for the match, he’d come downstairs to find Juliet silently packing her trunk, tears running down her set-in-stone face.
It seemed unreal. It could not be happening to him. She could not be leaving him, not when everything had been so good between them, not when she’d just told him she loved him, not when he was risking everything he had—his health, his reputation, his life—to win Swanthorpe back for his family and provide a home for the two people he loved most in this world. Damn it, I need you Juliet! Please—oh, God, please—come to your senses; please have faith in me; please, please, please be at the house when I get back. And as the butterflies began to beat against his stomach, he realized he was not afraid of facing or losing to the Butcher.
He was afraid of losing his wife.
His dear wife, whom he loved more than life itself.
“By God, Gareth, all the outrageous things you’ve done before are nothing compared to this!” Audlett shouted over the din, rousing Gareth from his thoughts. “Talk about daredevil stunts!”
“I’m not sure I can call it a stunt,” Gareth called back, ducking as a bundle of red roses came arcing down on them from above. Looking up, he saw several pretty maids leaning from the windows of a coaching inn, waving frantically and blowing kisses to him. He bent down, picked up the roses before they could be trampled, and drew one out; then, with a grin he didn’t feel, he tossed the bundle back up to the girls, eliciting a chorus of excited squealing.
Cokeham was yelling, trying to be heard over the crowd. “If Perry’s going to be your second, then who’s going to be your bottle-holder, Gareth?”
Gareth threw a surreptitious glance at Snelling, walking several paces away. “It doesn’t matter who holds my ale, as long as it’s fiercely guarded. Who’s got it, anyhow?”
Chilcot was there, close to Gareth’s side. “I do!”
“Right. Don’t you dare let that out of your sight, d’you understand?”
>
Chilcot gave his brainless grin and saluted. “Aye, cap’n!”
“’Sdeath,” Gareth muttered beneath his breath, wondering if perhaps he should have given that task to Cokeham instead.
They fought their way up Bridge Street. Rose petals of every color—pink, red, white, and cream—came drifting down from the windows above, and Snelling’s shouts of “Get back! Clear away there!” were lost in the din. Just ahead and already decorated with banners, the County Hall, where the fight would take place, rose high above a sea of what had to be a thousand people, all shouting, cheering, and milling about in anticipation; Stert, Bridge, and the High Streets were clogged from pavement to pavement with incoming spectators, horses, barking dogs, and vehicles of every description. Realization of just what he was about to do suddenly hit Gareth, bringing on the first involuntary prickling of nerves.
He thought of all the other times in his life he’d been on show—from the time he’d pretended to have drowned at Lady Brookhampton’s to the time he’d gathered just about everyone in Ravenscombe to watch him jump Crusader over a human pyramid. He thought of all the reckless, exhibitionist things he had ever done and told himself that this wasn’t going to be any different.
After all, since when had he—who would do anything for a laugh, for the sake of outrageousness, or simply to make a spectacle of himself—been one to experience stage fright?
Since realizing that even if he won against the Butcher tonight, he would still be going home to bitter defeat.
“Hey, Gareth, cheer up there, man!” It was Chilcot, leaning close and frowning. “You’re not nervous, now, are you?”
“Don’t be a pillock,” Gareth scoffed, waving him off.
“I know you’re worried that Snelling might try to do something to Juliet, but Hugh’s staying with her; he’ll keep her safe.”
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