by Lauren Smith
“Are you all right?” Graham asked.
“No,” Kent sighed and leaned back against the billiard table. “But there isn’t much to be done about it.”
“Your parents?” Graham asked.
Phillip nodded. Graham, to his credit, said nothing. He joined Phillip at the billiard table and leaned back against it next to Phillip. A good friend knew when to say nothing and simply offer his company. He was damned lucky to have Graham as a friend. And it was all the more reason why he shouldn’t be caught alone with Ella in the future. He doubted Graham would forgive him if he did more than kiss the girl when she was older.
Ella, you will break many a man’s heart, but I fear I won’t be among them.
Phillip was done with broken hearts, especially his own.
1
London, December 1821
Phillip had always had the devil’s own luck, but not tonight. At the moment, he sat at a green baize tabletop playing faro and losing badly.
Faro was a game partly of skill and partly of chance, and tonight both were failing him. His opponent, a dark-haired man who’d introduced himself as Daniel Sheffield, was racking up debts against him with an ease that worried Phillip.
“Another hand?” Sheffield challenged. “One good hand would set me right.”
Phillip jerked slightly as Graham gripped his arm in warning, but he took no heed.
“Another,” Phillip said. He watched the dealer lay out thirteen cards and placed his bet as to which card the dealer would turn up next. Sheffield doubled Phillip’s bet, and Graham stiffened beside him.
Phillip tried to keep calm, but the fact was his debts were too high to turn back. But if he won this hand, everything would be fine.
Sheffield’s lips twitched a moment before the dealer turned the card over. Phillip’s stomach dropped.
“I…” He struggled to breathe. “I may need a few days to collect the finances for you, Mr. Sheffield.” His family fortune wasn’t enough to cover the sum he’d just wagered and lost.
“I’m afraid I leave in a day’s time,” Sheffield said. “But perhaps we can come to an arrangement.” He leaned in close to whisper to Phillip. “You can pay your debt by fighting in the Lewis Street tunnels in the boxing rings. Mention my name there, and a man with a ledger book will mark your debt as paid. Or I can call it in and take everything, including the clothes off your back.”
Phillip found himself nodding numbly as Sheffield left the card room.
“Phillip, what did he say?” Graham asked in an urgent whisper.
Phillip stood, almost swaying on his feet. He felt sick. He reached for his coat and met Graham’s frantic gaze. “Not here.”
They left the Cockrell pub and stepped out into the icy chill of night. Graham grabbed his arm and jerked him to a halt.
“Phillip, what the devil did he say?”
Phillip’s heart felt sluggish. He couldn’t meet Graham’s face. “I’ve no means to pay his debt in a timely fashion. But he offered…”
“What?”
“He has other interests and finds himself in need of someone.”
“What do you mean? What interests?”
“Boxing. He feels that I can repay the debt if I agree to fight in the rings on Lewis Street. He has some sort of financial arrangement with those who organize the fights.”
Graham’s eyes were wide. “Lewis Street?”
“I’m bound there now. Win or lose, he says my debt will be considered paid in full.”
“No, Kent, you cannot—”
Phillip spun to face him. “What would you have me do? Better to face a brute in the ring than have every note called in by every financier in London. If word gets out that I have allowed such a debt to be owed, my name will be ruined.” He looked away, focusing on the dark streets they stood on, and he tensed at the distant laughter of the men from the pub. “Thank you for trying to stop me from that last hand. I should’ve listened to you. I’m sorry.” Phillip headed toward the nearest intersection and waved for a hackney driver. Graham followed him.
“Well, I won’t let you go there alone,” Graham said. “Someone’s going to have to drag you to a doctor afterward.”
Phillip laughed at his friend’s attempt to lighten the mood. “Thank you, but I’d rather prefer to think I stand a chance of winning.”
But the truth was, they both knew that the monsters who called themselves men in those Lewis Street rings would try to kill him simply for sport.
The driver stopped at the entrance to Lewis Street, and the two friends climbed out. The darkened alley that led to the tunnels was guarded by a tall, thick-necked brute of a man who grunted when Phillip mentioned Daniel Sheffield’s name. He stepped aside and let them pass through a metal door to enter the tunnels. Dozens of lamps lit their way as they descended, following the sounds of raucous cheering.
Suddenly the narrow tunnel opened into a massive cave where three rings had been erected. A row of cells filled the farthest wall, and men huddled around the center ring where two men were boxing bare-knuckled.
“Good God,” Graham muttered as one man knocked the other man’s face so hard teeth went flying. “Phillip, let’s go. It’s not worth it. My brother Charles could help pay off your debts. I’m sure he won’t mind—”
“No,” Phillip said. “I incurred the debts, and I will pay them off.” He would not dishonor his parents’ memories by letting someone else save him.
“You and your bloody pride,” Graham growled.
“If you don’t approve, then leave,” Phillip snapped, half hoping his friend would go so he wouldn’t see what a damned mess this was going to be.
“I’m not leaving you,” Graham promised.
Phillip moved toward a tall man in a top hat who seemed to be in charge of the fights. He carried a leather ledger under one arm.
“What do you want?” the man demanded as Phillip stood before him.
“I owe a debt to a Mr. Daniel Sheffield. I was told I could pay it off by fighting in one match.”
The man’s eyes widened ever so slightly, and a shrewd look replaced his surprise.
“Well now, that can be arranged. We have an opening now.” The man pointed to the center ring, where the two men had ceased fighting. The smaller, weaker opponent lay on the ground, unmoving. The winner raised his fists and howled in triumph. Two men entered the ring and carried the fallen man’s limp body away, dragging him behind them without respect or ceremony.
Phillip swallowed hard as he studied the man he was about to fight, the same man who’d just won the previous fight. He wore loose trousers and a white shirt made of cheap material. It was stained with blood. The man’s knuckles were bloody as he curled them into meaty fists.
“Very well.” Phillip removed his coat and gave it to Graham. “Graham, if…” He wasn’t sure what he wanted to say, but he was glad his friend hadn’t abandoned him.
“I have your back,” Graham promised.
“Thank you.” Phillip faced the ring and climbed inside. The other man laughed and waved his hands at Phillip in open invitation.
“We got us a fancy one, eh?” he laughed.
Phillip was patient, having trained with the best boxers in Jackson’s boxing club. He was prepared for an elegant match, but this? He knew the man before him would fight unfairly and quite possibly try to kill him.
I just need to survive, that’s all.
Phillip was barely in the ring before the man charged him like a bull. Dodging back and to the side, he let the man stumble. But before Phillip could capitalize on that, the man was back up and charging at him again. The first blow to his jaw hurt like the devil, and he shook his head to clear the dizziness before he retaliated.
For several minutes it was a good series of blows between him and his opponent before Phillip realized he could guess the man’s next moves. He started to block more effectively and respond with more power. His opponent was finally starting to tire out.
“C’mon! Ki
ll the fancy tosser, Draper!” someone shouted from the crowd. The comment distracted Phillip, and he took a blow to his stomach.
“Take him down, Kent!” Graham’s shout was the only one in his favor.
“Bloody hell!” Phillip launched himself at the man, tackling him to the ground. He swung his fist hard and broke the man’s jaw. For a long second he thought the man would get up, but he slumped unconscious on the floor. Sweating hard, Phillip stepped off the man and started to exit the ring. Every muscle in him was quivering in the aftermath.
Two large men stepped up to block his path.
“I fought my battle and won. Mark it down for Daniel Sheffield. I paid his debt.”
“Get back in there,” one man growled. “The debt that he demands is your life.”
“What?” Phillip searched the crowds for the man who kept the leather-bound ledger, but he was nowhere to be found.
“Kent!” Graham’s warning cry came too late. He was knocked to the ground by someone and lost within the crowd.
He demands your life.
The words echoed in Phillip’s mind as he fought for his life once more. But it still wasn’t enough. After his next victory, they pitted him against three men at one time. He felt his left leg shatter beneath a kick and his ribs break as he fell to the ground.
Pain like he’d never known drowned out all other thoughts. Blood dripped into his eyes, coloring his world dark red. He saw Graham fighting to get to him. But the men in the room turned on Graham, beating him down again. Then everything went black.
Death didn’t seem to wish to claim him, however. Phillip lay in that twilight world between life and death, his soul not firmly on either side. The shouts of the men faded into a heavy silence, and his body seized in pain until he was too weak to even shudder as his body tried to perish. He was going to die here in the shadows, where no one would find him and return him to the light.
Hours passed. Or was it days? He couldn’t tell anymore. Then he heard a voice.
“There.”
Hands were touching him, but his tongue was swollen and he couldn’t make a sound as he was rolled onto his back.
“His leg has been broken,” someone said. “What animals would do this and call it sport?” The voice was familiar, but he couldn’t think past the pain.
“Graham said they beat him until he stopped moving.”
Have to move, have to speak. Phillip summoned the last bit of his strength to move. He sucked in a lungful of air, stretching his broken ribs.
“Bloody Christ!” another voice gasped.
“He’s not dead!”
Phillip moaned as he was lifted up.
“Phillip? Can you hear me?” the second voice demanded. He recognized that voice as well, but he was in too much pain to make sense of it.
“G—Graham…” Pain tore through him as he spoke.
“Graham sent me,” the man said. “Good God, Ash. We’ve got to get him out.”
Ash? Ashton Lennox? Good man, he thought before he slipped into darkness again.
He woke again sometime later and realized he wasn’t moving. He was flat, on a cushioned bed.
“My lord, my name is Dr. Shreve. I’m here to inspect your injuries. If you are able, speak to me of any pain that you feel.”
Phillip tried to speak, but his lips felt heavy, and he was still tongue-tied. The doctor must have noticed his sluggish struggles because he spoke up.
“It’s all right if you can’t talk. I’ll give you something for the pain, which will help you rest. Once the swelling goes down on your face, we’ll speak again.”
Wishing he could move, could speak, Phillip struggled to make some noise, but something cool touched his lips. A rounded glass, a bottle? The sickly bittersweet taste of laudanum hit his tongue, and he flinched.
“Easy, my lord, this will help with the pain.”
The liquid began to work quickly, but not before he heard the doctor speak to someone, though the conversation was muffled as though he stood outside the door.
“How is he?”
“He has several broken ribs, and his left leg is fractured in two places, but I’m most concerned about the injuries inflicted to his skull. I reset the leg and bound it, but the rest?” The doctor paused. “If he survives the next week, he may well yet recover, but it is in God’s hands now.”
Whatever else the doctor said was lost as Phillip faded into oblivion.
2
Ella was tired of being treated as though she were a fragile flower. Yes, she had been a weak child, always catching ill, but she hadn’t been ill in years.
“Mother, I really wish to go to Lady Amelia’s ball. She said that many handsome young men have been invited.” She didn’t add that she wasn’t interested in any of them, but her mother might believe that and be more inclined to let her go.
Her mother paused in her reading of the Morning Post and sighed thoughtfully. “Dancing too much tires you out, my dear. I don’t wish to put you at risk.”
“I’m not made of spun glass. One dance will not shatter me.”
“I distinctly remember that you had a coughing fit at the last one, only a month ago.”
Ella rolled her eyes. “That wasn’t my fault. Lady Casterly smothered her entire body in some overripe eau de cologne. More than one person succumbed to a coughing fit when they found themselves within breathing distance of her. Lord Evanston even knocked over a tray of ratafia when he started coughing.”
That particular moment had made her laugh and cough all the harder. Evanston was a handsome viscount and quite amusing. He’d been teasing her about Lady Casterly’s overpowering scent before they both succumbed to it.
Her mother made a little sound of skepticism, and Ella closed her book. If she was to win this argument, she would need to be fully focused. Violet Humphrey was not an easy opponent.
“Mother, please, just listen to—”
The drawing room door burst open, and her eldest brother, Charles, strode inside. Her mother set her paper down so she could embrace her favorite child.
“Oh, Charles, my dear. What are you doing here?”
“I had to come see my mother and sister.” He shot Ella a wink, and she found her irritation at being interrupted with their mother already fading. It was nearly impossible to stay mad at Charles. As the Earl of Lonsdale, he was a powerful peer, but as her brother, he was a frequent confidant, a surrogate father, and a dear friend. She knew that all of London was abuzz with his romantic entanglements, including his most recent scandal at Lord Sanderson’s ball.
“Tell me the truth now,” their mother demanded. She fixed Charles with a sharp gaze honed by years of raising rogues for children.
“Truth? I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Charles answered.
Ella could see quite plainly he was lying. She had gotten very good at reading her two older brothers, especially when they were hiding the truth.
“There’s a woman,” their mother insisted.
Ella opened her book again but didn’t turn any pages as she waited to hear how Charles would deflect her mother’s inquiry. He was a notorious rogue, and no woman yet had captured his attention the way rumors around town now suggested. Their mother produced one of her fans and waved it in front of her face.
“There are plenty of women. You…Ella…the cook…,” Charles teased their mother. Ella had to bite her lip to keep from laughing. She knew she ought not to encourage Charles’s bad behavior.
“Plenty of women? Oh!” Violet snapped her fan shut and pointed the end at Charles the way a fencer would point a fencing foil.
“I believe London is full of women, or haven’t you noticed?”
“Ella, fetch my smelling salts. Your brother is trying to kill me.”
With a sigh, Ella set her book down and retrieved a tiny bottle from her reticule and held it out to her mother. Violet swatted her hand away.
“Not now. Wait until I actually faint,” her mother hissed dramatically.
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Charles grinned deviously at Ella and their mother. Violet narrowed her eyes.
“The girl at the Sandersons’ ball. Who is she?” Violet demanded.
Ella perked up at the mention. She too wanted to know who the woman was. Charles had purposely caused all of the men on the young lady’s dance card to have unfortunate accidents, preventing her from dancing with anyone but him the entire evening. He had never done that for any woman before.
“A girl now? Not a woman? I thought we were speaking of women? What interest would I possibly have in girls?”
Charles’s words brought back a memory from a long-ago Christmas where she had foolishly thrown herself at Lord Kent. She had been a girl then, and he’d wanted nothing to do with her. The memory made her mind flood with disquieting thoughts of the past and the regrets she carried about that night. If only she hadn’t asked for a kiss, they might have continued to play billiards, and she wouldn’t have made such a fool of herself.
Their mother growled and chucked her fan at Charles, who deftly caught it.
“You know exactly what I mean, Charles Michael Edward Humphrey. Now talk.”
“Oh,” he sighed dramatically. “The girl from the Sandersons’ ball. You must mean Lily Wycliff.”
“Yes. That Wycliff girl. Who is she?”
Ella leaned closer. Whatever woman held his interest was certainly worth hearing about.
“Well, she’s a widow.” Charles’s teasing tone turned more serious.
Violet’s brows drew together. “A widow?”
“Her husband, Aaron Wycliff, was a favorite cousin of the Duchess of Essex.”
“A country gentleman, then?” Her mother tapped her fingers against her chin in thought.
“I believe so,” Charles answered, and Ella watched in fascination as her brother and mother seemed to have a silent conversation as well, spoken only in looks, as to how serious the situation was.