by Regina Scott
Jenny shook herself. “After the match, Martha? Surely we will be at the match.”
She still looked ashen to Kevin, and he didn’t like upsetting her any more, but he had to depress any notions she had regarding the fight.
“Surely you will not,” he replied firmly. “We’ve had this conversation before, Miss Welch. A boxing match is no place for a lady. Even Gentleman Jackson here will agree with me on that score.”
To his surprise, the Gentleman eyed Jenny, whose jaw was set with determination. “We’ve also talked of this before, Miss Welch. You know the threat to your reputation. Why do you want to watch this fight?”
–
Jenny opened her mouth to declare that nothing would prevent her from watching a villain like George Safton be put down by the man she loved, then snapped her mouth shut. She’d seen the emotions cross Kevin’s handsome face when the boxer had explained about the size of the purse. It had been difficult not to cry aloud. Despite all Kevin’s protests to the contrary, he was obviously willing to take any route to clear his debts. Now that he had another choice besides marrying, he would have no use for her. She had fooled herself into thinking he might care for her. At times, she believed he might even have fooled himself. Now they both knew it for the lie it was. She could hardly bear to look at him.
Yet, that didn’t stop her from loving him. It shook her to realize it. Even though she felt he would never love her, her feelings hadn’t changed.
Kevin was watching her closely, and so was Jackson for that matter. She squared her shoulders. “I believe I told you, Mr. Jackson, that boxing is currently my field of study. How else am I to progress if I never actually witness the sport?”
He quirked a smile. “How else indeed. I tell my lads to watch fights as they’re learning.”
“You cannot encourage her,” Kevin protested. “Much as you love the sport, Gentleman, I have never seen you bring a lady to a match. You cannot sit by and expect me to allow Miss Welch to attend.”
Jackson grinned up at him. “I don’t see that you have all that much to do with it, my lad. It is entirely up to Miss Welch.”
Jenny put her head up and glared at Kevin, daring him to say otherwise. Kevin glared back.
“But you should know, Miss Welch,” Jackson continued, “that Whattling is correct about one thing: the crowd will be no place for a lady.”
“But surely there will be other women there,” Jenny said. “You told me there were even other women who boxed.”
“Women,” Kevin said, “but hardly ladies. You’ll be accosted by half of the riffraff of London. A real lady would have nothing to do with the boxing.”
She felt herself tremble in mortification. “And am I to assume that you no longer consider me a lady because of my study of the sport?”
“Of course not,” he snapped. He ran a hand back through his hair, spiking the gold. “How can I make you understand? You’ve heard yourself that the crowd is expected to be large. You’d be surrounded by pickpockets, drunks, and ladies of ill repute. I can hardly protect you while I’m fighting, and I don’t like the thought of you alone in such a crowd. How could I even concentrate on the fight if I thought you were in danger?”
She should have been touched, but his concern sounded more like self-preservation than anything else. Still, she supposed he did need to concentrate. She would not have wanted to do anything that might give George Safton the upper hand.
“I’m sure Mr. Whattling can be counted on to give us a good accounting of the match,” Martha offered.
“Of course,” he agreed. “I promise to come straight here after the match and tell you everything.”
She could not win the argument, not with Martha looking at her pleadingly, Gentleman Jackson frowning at her, and Kevin so earnest. She offered him the most insipid smile she could manage. “I can only say, Mr. Whattling, that I will look forward to your account.”
Martha relaxed, but Kevin’s look eased into a frown. “It may not satisfy your intellectual curiosity, my dear,” he offered in condolence, “but you will be far safer.”
Jackson nodded, rising. “That’s settled then. Miss Welch, I must be off. Thank you again for the hospitality. Miss Tindale, your servant. Mr. Whattling, I’ll look forward to seeing you at practice later.”
Jenny and Martha smiled politely, and Kevin nodded in return as Fiching showed him out, the butler taking the flowers from Kevin with him. Jenny felt Kevin’s gaze on her, but she refused to meet it. She wasn’t sure what she’d do if she started to sink into the blue again.
He sat down on the chair and leaned back, as if making himself comfortable for a long chat.
“Miss Tindale, I wonder how your notes have been coming regarding Jenny’s study of boxing.”
“Miss Welch’s study is going well,” she replied, long nose in the air. The correction of Jenny’s name could not have been lost on him. If he had risen in Martha’s regard over the last few weeks, he had obviously lost any ground he had gained. “And I am not going to leave this room to get my notes, a book on the subject, or The London Times, so you might as well not ask.”
He raised a brow in innocent surprise at her response.
Jenny shook herself. She couldn’t be alone with Kevin, not now, perhaps not ever again.
“Of course not, Martha,” she murmured. “No one would ask that of you.”
Kevin shifted on the chair. As she had asked that of her companion any number of times, he had to know he was in trouble. “Very well, then, I suppose I’ll simply have to state my case before both of you. Miss Welch, I ask you to withdraw your support of this fight.”
She blinked, then shook her head. Why did part of her persist in expecting him to make some kind of declaration now that he knew his debts would be paid without her? Of course he had nothing personal to say to her that would require Martha to leave. The time of stolen kisses and waltzes in shadow and sunlight was over. She had to make herself realize it.
He obviously took her silence as refusal. “Please, Jenny,” he said, reaching across the space to take her hands. She pulled them back out of reach, and Martha scowled at him so deeply Jenny thought she might stab him with her ever-present embroidery needle. He gave up and rose.
“Very well, have it your way. I refuse to take your money. If I should win this fight, I will learn from Gentleman Jackson how much of the purse is yours and see that you receive every penny back. I have a chance to clear my debts honorably, and I’m not going to lose it.”
And of course, the dishonorable thing would have been to marry her for her money. She couldn’t face him another second. “Very well, Mr. Whattling. Thank you for dropping by. Good luck on your fight with Mr. Safton. I somehow doubt you will need it.”
He bowed. “Thank you. And I reiterate, I will stop by after the fight and let you know how it went.” He hesitated, then softened his voice. “And I believe we have something to discuss then as well, something you requested me to ask you after the match.”
Jenny stared at him, afraid to hope. But there had been only one thing she had told him to ask her after the match. “As you wish, Mr. Whattling,” she managed.
He bowed again and allowed Fiching to show him out.
“You cannot say that man isn’t interesting,” Martha noted, finishing a knot and snipping off the threat with silver scissors.
“No, you can’t,” Jenny allowed, mind and emotions in turmoil. It appeared she might have a chance after all. As soon as her butler came back to the sitting room, she turned to him thoughtfully.
“So, Fiching, how would one go about viewing Mr. Whattling’s boxing match?”
Martha gasped. “Eugennia, no! Mr. Whattling told you it was no place for a lady. Will you not listen for once?”
“Rubbish,” Jenny said with a toss of her head. “I don’t believe all that folderol about pickpockets and cutpurses. Lord Byron boxes, for pity’s sake!”
“A great number of lords box, Miss Jenny,” Fiching put in with a t
houghtful frown. “That doesn’t make them behave like gentlemen under the circumstances. We’d have to be very careful.”
“Fiching!” Martha cried. “How can you encourage her?”
“Simply because nothing either of you can say will discourage me,” Jenny informed them. “This whole fight started because of an insult to me. I have also put up considerable money for the event.” Not to mention her heart. “If you think I will miss it, you don’t have the sense I credited you with.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
With continued protests from Martha and grudging assistance from Fiching, Jenny managed to find a way to see the boxing match after all. A good two hours before the match was slated to begin the next day, she was dressed in Steven’s footman’s uniform and perched beside Fiching in the driver’s box of her closed carriage, overlooking what had been an empty field just north of London.
“Well, he certainly was right about the crowd,” she murmured to Fiching as she scanned the milling people between her and the tramped square of dirt where the fight would take place. It was roughly an eight-foot square, about which someone had hung rough rope suspended on stakes pounded into the turf. The makeshift barricade did not stop the people from crowding close.
From her perch above them, she could see elegant gentlemen in top hats and great coats, shabbily dressed fellows in tweeds and breeches, and several climbing boys in their dirt and grime. Bottles passed among the knots of men, and already she could see red noses and hear laughter that was overly loud. Someone on her right was selling brandy balls, the singsong call rising and falling over the conversations. To her left came the aroma of hot roasted chestnuts.
“He was right about the ladies as well,” Fiching murmured beside her, waving toward the field. “Not a proper miss in sight.”
“Nonsense,” Jenny started to protest. She could see any number of women threading their way through the crowd. Their presence made her wonder why she had bothered to masquerade as a man. Stevens’ top hat barely fit over her tucked-up hair, but his uniform was loose enough to hide her curves. Unfortunately, it was heavy and hot in the March sunshine. She would almost have preferred to dress as lightly as the ladies below. Then she looked again.
The ladies were not ladies after all. This one’s bodice had an alarmingly low décolletage, that one’s dress was obviously several sizes too small, and at least two of them had damped their petticoats so that their thin muslin dresses clung to their curves. Jenny averted her gaze in a blush.
“Perhaps you’re right,” Fiching allowed. “There may be a lady or two in one of the other carriages.”
Thankful for somewhere else to train her gaze, Jenny glanced around again. Hers was one of several vehicles circling the area, from high-perch phaetons to closed landaus. She thought she saw a crest on one of them.
“Marquis of Hastings,” Fiching said with a nod when she pointed it out. “Wouldn’t be surprised to find more than one gentleman from the War Office inside.”
“Even with this tale of Napoleon’s escape?” Jenny marveled. “One would think they had better things to do.”
Fiching shrugged. “They know what they’re doing, miss. Besides, Lord Hastings’s son Lord Petersborough and his crowd are big fight supporters. I don’t suppose they’d miss this even if old Boney was marching on London.”
Jenny felt much the same way. The two hours passed more quickly that she had thought possible. Just as she was starting to grow restless, the crowd stirred, and a rider and the familiar white curricle tooled down on the London road. She recognized the matched whites immediately.
“Sir Nigel Dillingham,” Fiching told her. “And the round-faced chap beside him is Giles Sloane.”
“We’ve met,” Jenny replied, recognizing the thatch of red hair as well. The rider on the bay was the one who held her interest. Kevin waved as he approached, and the crowd cheered. Jenny felt a surge of pride that made her straighten in her seat. The action unfortunately threatened to topple the hat off her head. She quickly ducked down behind Fiching in case Kevin should notice her.
He looked magnificent as always, dressed today in a navy coat and fawn trousers. He doffed his top hat at the cheer, and sunlight glinted off his golden hair. She couldn’t seem to take her eyes off him as he moved through the people to the square.
“Opera glasses, Miss Jenny?” Fiching offered, and she snatched them from his gloved hand, focusing them on Kevin.
He was smiling and joking with someone at the side of the square. He paused to doff his hat again, and she saw that a woman in a thin muslin dress had arranged her body for his review. Jenny dropped the glasses into her lap.
Another carriage arrived, an equally fine equipage with brown enameled sides. It was pulled by a pair of prancing blacks. George Safton, in black cloak and trousers, stood for the crowd’s approval. She did not think it was her imagination that made the cheer seem much less enthusiastic.
Fiching picked the glasses from her lap and applied them himself. “So, that’s The Snake. Looks like he’s ready for this.”
Even without the glasses, Jenny could see the confidence as Safton strode to the square, shrugging off hands that reached out to him in good will. He ducked under the ropes, coming up with a swirl of his black cloak. He took it off with a flourish. Jenny sucked in a breath.
Fiching looked at her askance. “Something wrong, Miss Jenny?”
“The books didn’t say they’d be bare chested,” she managed. She was almost afraid to look, but when she did, she saw that Kevin was peeling off his coat and shirt as well.
“Give me those,” she snapped, grabbing the glasses from a startled Fiching. Training them on the square, she saw the ripple of muscle as Kevin pulled off his white shirt, baring himself to the waist. His powerful shoulders and hardened arms seemed to glow in the sunlight. The flat plane of his stomach disappeared into the waistband of his trousers. One of the women in the crowd whistled. Kevin grinned at her. Jenny hastily returned the glasses to Fiching, face flaming.
Two men appeared from the crowd and joined Safton on his side of the square. Mr. Sloane and Sir Nigel joined Kevin on his.
“The seconds,” Fiching explained, although she had read about it in her studies. “They’ll serve as time keepers, and they’ll help their fellow during breaks. Those two,” he pointed to two burly gentlemen who had approached the square, the crowds giving way before them, “are the umpires. They’re ex-fighters brought in to make sure everything is fought fairly.”
Jenny nodded, relaxing a little. Surely Mr. Safton would have little opportunity to harm Kevin with two such gentlemen in attendance. As she watched, one of the umpires strode to the center of the square and drew a line in the dirt with his toe. He nodded to Mr. Safton and Kevin, who joined him in the center. He asked them a question. Mr. Safton shrugged. Kevin shook his head.
“He wants them to shake hands,” Fiching put in helpfully. “Mr. Whattling apparently refused.”
“Serves Mr. Safton right,” Jenny agreed.
Below, there was a few moment’s discussion, then the umpire stepped back.
“Gentlemen,” he called, deep voice echoing across the now-hushed field, “I give you a bare-knuckle bout between Mr. Kevin Whattling and Mr. George Safton.” Another cheer went up, nearly drowning his last words. “Fighters, toe the mark.”
Mr. Safton stood with arms raised in fists before him, and Kevin took up a similar stance across the line in the dirt. She thought his opponent said something and saw Kevin stiffen. Then he laughed, resuming his pose. The umpire nodded, and they started circling.
The crowd grew still again, but only for a moment. Then voices began calling, exhorting Kevin and his opponent to strike. The two continued circling, watching each other, and Jenny couldn’t so much as breathe. Then Mr. Safton swung, and she gasped, but Kevin blocked it.
They returned to circling, and the calls intensified. Mr. Safton jabbed, right, then left. Kevin blocked both easily. He dropped his guard and swung for th
e stomach. Kevin danced back out of reach.
The calls grew more numerous, and Jenny noticed that those rooting for The Snake had increased.
“Why doesn’t he swing?” Fiching muttered, glasses glued to the view.
“He’s sizing him up,” Jenny replied, remembering Kevin’s description of the sport. “He wants to exploit Mr. Safton’s weakness.”
“As if he has one,” Fiching scoffed, then he lowered the glasses to offer Jenny a contrite smile. “Sorry, Miss Jenny. No disrespect meant for Mr. Whattling.”
“Do not doubt him, Fiching. Everything I have read, everything Mr. Jackson explained to me, tells me that he is doing everything right. He will triumph. It is only a matter of time.”
Even as she finished her sentence, Kevin’s arms flashed through the man’s guard, first right then left, in quick succession. Mr. Safton staggered and went down on one knee. A cry went up, and the seconds hurried into the square. Two drew the fellow away to the left. Nigel and Giles hurried to pull Kevin away to the right.
She did not have time to relax. The break lasted only half a minute before the two were once again in the center, squared off against each other. The dancing continued, but Mr. Safton was being more careful this time. She gasped as his fist connected with Kevin’s nose, and Kevin fell. She hadn’t realized she’d jerked forward on the seat until Fiching grasped her coat and pulled her back.
The seconds separated them again. Kevin perched on Giles knee while Nigel squeezed an orange into his mouth. Mr. Safton pushed the fruit he was offered away.
“Arrogant toad,” Jenny muttered, trying to calm herself. Fiching grunted in agreement.
A half minute later they returned to the square. Thus it continued round after round, until Jenny could barely stand it. Sometimes Kevin managed to knock his opponent off his feet. More often it was Mr. Safton who made the hit.
Jenny took the opera glasses from Fiching during the eighteenth round. As she had feared, Kevin’s lip was bleeding, his left eye was beginning to swell, and sweat glistened on his chest. An ugly bruise darkened the underside of his left ribs. She bit her lip and lowered the glasses, almost afraid to watch any longer. All she could do was send up a prayer for his safety.