Everything But the Earl

by Willa Ramsey

  “I see. Another of your acquaintances from…outside Mayfair?”

  “He’s a navy man, Ryland. That’s all you need to know.”

  Navy Man winked at him.

  “A quiet one, at that.”

  “You’re sure I can’t talk you out of this?” Quillen asked, shifting from foot to foot. “We could say you’ve been called back to town—”

  “No. Let’s just get on with it.”

  “All right, then,” he replied as he scooped up another brandy, then another, drinking each in a single draft. “Let’s walk.”

  The three of them put on their greatcoats and set out on a lane near the rear of the house. It led through a wood to the village of Beauton and the heart of the festival. From Banmoor to the ring was a walk of about a quarter-hour, Quillen had told him.

  When they emerged from his property and onto the road, they saw a veritable stream of humanity, young and old, man and woman, rich and poor, all making their way into Beauton, shoulder-to-shoulder and laugh-to-laugh. No one appeared to take much notice of their entrance into the lively parade.

  “No one is heading away,” said Adam. “Every single person is going toward the festival.”

  “Of course they are, Ryland. You’re the main draw,” Quillen replied. “They’ve made you the last fight of the day. Of the entire festival, in fact.”

  “People will be quite drunk.”

  “Aye. And I hope to join them, as soon as possible.”

  Adam sighed, trying to ignore his accelerating heartbeat. He changed the subject. “What is Portson’s style of fighting, these days?”

  “Oh, he’s quite preoccupied with what the fancy calls ‘the science of boxing.’ He’s smart, as you know, and I suspect he’ll try to be especially quick today as he doesn’t have the advantage of size.”

  “He’s not a small man.”

  “No,” Quillen replied with a snort. “And from what I hear, he trains obsessively. But he is no giant.” He nodded over Adam’s shoulder. “Be easy, Ryland—don’t look. But I believe you’ve been recognized.”

  Adam scoffed. “Anyone glancing this way is just admiring your curls.”

  “Nay, Ryland. The postings they put up around the village included a rather nice description of you.”

  He groaned.

  “‘Raven-haired,’ I believe they called you.”

  Adam glanced around and saw that several people were indeed looking his way and whispering to their companions. The heady buzz in the air, and the thick flow of people—all heading in the same direction for once—seemed to have created a rare camaraderie among the swarm of them.

  “You get him, Lord Ryland,” a man in farmer’s attire said before glancing around, perhaps fearful of being heard speaking against a duke. “I’ve got a guinea on you.”

  “Make ’im bleed, my lord,” whispered a middle-aged woman with a babe in her arms, walking alongside him.

  “What are the odds on the bout?” Quillen asked her quietly.

  She nodded at Adam. “This gentleman is favored quite heavily, I believe.”

  “And is that on account of his reputation? Or is there something people have against the duke?”

  She pulled her child tighter against her, her eyes whiter suddenly. “I’m sure I couldn’t say, my lord,” she replied. She curtsied and headed into the crowd with two or three looks over her shoulder.

  “It puts one in an awkward position, betting against a duke,” Quillen said brightly.

  “It puts one in an awkward position, fighting against a duke,” he replied.

  Quillen grabbed his shoulder and squeezed. “It’s not too late to come up lame, you know. Or to invent some charming but urgent emergency, back in town.”

  He looked straight ahead. They had reached the festival and their fellow pilgrims spread out among the dozens of tents, carts, stands, and the occasional cluster of musicians, jugglers, and magicians. The smell of pies, of burning wood, and of sweat and stale ale hung heavily in the air.

  “What’s your strategy, Ryland?” Quillen asked, his tone sharper now.

  Adam exhaled and picked up his pace, trying to match the runaway gallop of his heartbeat. “To get the damned thing over with.”

  Caro leaned out the window of the carriage. She could not believe the mass of carriages, carts, animals, and people on the road, all of them moving just feet at a time. The sun was sinking fast, with no regard for her being stuck in traffic, still well away from Adam. She drew back into the carriage and took her watch from her reticule. It was nearing five o’clock, and the bout was to begin at half-past.

  “We’ll never get there in time to speak with Lord Ryland before the match.”

  “We’re getting close, Miss.”

  She untied and re-tied the silk strings of her bag. “And I don’t understand all the pretense to secrecy around this thing.”

  “Prize fights are illegal, Miss. You know this.”

  She scowled. “Take a look outside, Mrs. Meary! There are thousands of people on this road. And any magistrate who can’t discern the reason for it should be stripped of his title at once.”

  Mrs. Meary smiled at her and pulled the curtain aside. “Miss Crispin, I understand you are worried for your…for Lord Ryland. But he is rumored to be a very capable fighter. And many people are rather excited to see him in the ring after all these years.”

  Caro’s scowl hardened into a tight knot, and she leaned out the window and whistled up to Stinson and Edwards, each of them reclining with a tall blade of grass in his mouth. “Hullo, you two! Can’t you find a way through this mess?”

  “No, Miss. There’s no other way,” the coachman called back to her. “Why not try to enjoy the country drive?”

  She scowled at them, too, then looked down and saw a trio of men coming toward them. They stood out in part because they were the only people heading away from the festival, and also because two of the gentlemen were holding up the one in the middle, and he appeared to have been badly beaten.

  What violence is this? Her first thought was to wonder what sort of crime the poor man had been a victim of, what terrible assault had happened upon him. But then she remembered where she was: some quarter-mile from a “harvest festival” that was little more than a pretext for two days of fighting spectacles.

  This man is a boxer, of course. Perhaps a participant from the most recent bout? To begin with, his nose looked…wrong. Not in the wrong place, exactly, but crooked in the middle somehow. Bent. Jointed. Broken. His face was covered in tiger-stripes of grit then blood, grit then blood, and he held one hand cupped tightly over his right eye. As they got closer, he lowered it a moment and she could see that his eyeball had come loose from its socket, and was dangling about two inches below it.

  Caro reached inside and grabbed Mrs. Meary’s arm. “What is this place?” she hissed. “This can’t be right. We cannot be in the right place.” She felt weak suddenly, as if she hadn’t eaten in a month. Everywhere she looked, figures and objects appeared to be dissolving in stars, all around the edges.

  “We are most definitely in the right place,” Mrs. Meary replied calmly.

  She took a deep and clarifying breath and leaned outside again. “Sir! You, there! I am sorry for your loss. You must be very brave.”

  Another of the men looked up at her. “Beggin’ your pardon, Miss! But you’re looking at the winner!”

  “Stop!” she called out, rapping hard on the side of the carriage. “Stop if you please—stop. We’ll go the rest of the way on foot, thank you.”

  Edwards complied, and Stinson jumped down to assist the women as they descended the steps. Mrs. Meary took Caro’s hand and gripped it tightly before plunging into the crowd, making no apologies.

  No one seemed to expect any. Everyone they passed was having a right jolly time, in fact, and their merriment made Caro even more despondent. Don’t they know what is to happen? Don’t they care about these men? About their blood, their bruised torsos, their eyes and their v
ision? Stinson followed behind her, having relayed a message to Edwards about where he should wait for them.

  It quickly became clear that even on foot, even with Mrs. Meary plowing steadily forward, they would not reach the ring in time to speak with Adam. But Caro could see the thing, at least—the patch of flattened grass surrounded by two ropes and a set of stakes. A dozen or so feet outside these was another set of ropes and stakes that held back the swelling, straining crowd.

  She could see figures inside the ropes, too, but knew they were too far off to hear anything she might yell. It was time for a new scheme.

  Mrs. Meary glanced back at her. “Are you well, Miss?”

  She nodded.

  “You are quite pale.”

  “I am fine,” she lied. Her head felt full of gauze, and stars still flickered at the edge of her vision as she struggled to put each foot in front of the other. Thank Heavens for Mrs. Meary and Stinson, who pulled and pushed her forward. She was going to need her strength, for the only thing she could think to do that might stop this madness was to make a scene of some kind.

  And that was going to take some doing.

  Adam had to stoop low and bend his knees to make it through the ropes. Portson was already inside, at the opposite corner of the ring, and Adam couldn’t help looking over.

  His opponent was facing away and jumping up and down, cocking his head from side-to-side. Then he stopped and walked in a broad circle, swinging his arms in unison.

  “Stop that!” Quillen hissed, pulling Adam around. “He wants you to look at him. He’s trying to intimidate you.”

  Adam felt heavier on his feet than ever, as if lead had been poured all through him, starting at the top of his skull. His head felt foggy, and he swayed slightly. Quillen and Navy Man each took one of his arms and pulled him closer, into their corner.

  But after a moment, they turned away to discuss something and Adam couldn’t help but turn back again to look at the duke.

  He had been curious about his old competitor. He knew that Portson had become a successful fighter, but nothing of what had become of his temperament since their schoolyard bout.

  Portson had already disrobed, down to his breeches. He was wearing an unusual pair of boots, probably the special ones that Quillen had told him about—the ones with the spikes on the sole. The rules of the fancy allowed fighters to wear such things, and they were certainly sensible for someone who had invested as much in the sport as Portson apparently had.

  The duke was a few inches shorter than he, and seemed compact in comparison—muscular but still swift. Just as a man ought to be, Adam thought, smiling at a line from a favorite novel. He looked down at himself, recalling how Father had cocked his head at him when he was just fourteen, mumbled something about his being too slim, and instructed him to begin spending his mornings with the workmen building a stone wall around the park. It required a great deal of heavy lifting, and he knew it was meant to build up his physique for boxing. But Adam didn’t mind it; indeed, it helped him discover just how much he preferred such projects to the sparring, jumping, and running in circles Father often demanded of him.

  When Adam looked up, the duke drank something his second had just handed him, and it looked suspiciously like a multitude of yellowy egg yolks.

  Devil take it. He should’ve known to listen to Quillen.

  Portson looked up and caught Adam staring at him. He smiled, stopped his incessant jumping, and swaggered over—his hand extended in greeting. It was not the smile of a man who had been broken, in bone or in spirit. But neither was it a friendly one.

  The first blow landed immediately, a second into the fight.

  Caro yelped and jumped back, but her cry was lost amid the shouts of the crowd.

  Adam staggered backward, and her heart felt like it went with him.

  She could not watch this.

  She turned to Mrs. Meary, her face still. They were still holding hands, their knuckles forming the palest of spines. “I cannot do this,” Caro yelled to her, trying to be heard over the crowd. But Mrs. Meary didn’t answer.

  She looked back at the ring. The Duke of Portson looked like he was dancing as he came hard at Adam again. Adam went down on one knee, and the referee called for the end of the round. Lord Quillen and a man she did not recognize came out and grabbed him and brought him swiftly to their corner.

  Good. Lord Quillen will know what to do. He will do whatever it takes to get Adam out of there alive. With both eyes intact. And, she hoped, in their proper place.

  There were perhaps three or four rows of people between them and the first rope. She could barely shift from foot to foot, so tightly were they packed together. The roar of the thousands assembled around them was shocking in its volume and intensity and it seemed as if everyone in Beauton was itching for a fight—starved for it, even—and would soon become livid if they did not get it.

  “Get him back out there!” hollered a man directly behind her, his voice coarse, his breath terrible. She turned and smiled sweetly at him, blinking innocently as she asked, “Pray, Mrs. Meary—where is my cudgel? I may have found a need for it.”

  The man shrunk back, and she turned slowly around again as others in the crowd continued their jeers and whistles.

  She had never felt so small and vulnerable, and it was clear that she could faint or pretend to birth a baby and no one around her, no one, save perhaps her housekeeper, and maybe not even her, would care a whit or even notice.

  She wouldn’t be able to create much of a scene; the bout was already the scene of the day, and it was a good one.

  Adam and His Grace returned to the center of the ring. Both were standing tall. She took a deep breath.

  They went at each other again, arms raised, moving around, covering the entire area. Whenever they got near to her side of the ring, she yearned to call out to Adam, and nearly did so twice before stopping herself.

  She did not want to distract him and create a danger for him, for one thing. And she had no idea what she would say—all she knew was that she wanted this to be over with at once, and for Adam to be safe.

  His Grace took a number of swings at him, but his reach came up short, and he could not get his fists past the guard Adam put up with his own. But he didn’t seem to tire, even after many long minutes of his dizzying dance. He jabbed and swung at Adam, again and again, moving and easily ducking the few punches Adam did throw.

  “Is this what it’s always like?” she asked Mrs. Meary.

  She shook her head. “It’s only like this when the gentlemen know their craft. Usually, it’s an ugly, two-man brawl. This…this is beauty.”

  His Grace landed a fist on Adam’s side, but he appeared to absorb it without breaking his stance or concentration. Then there was more dancing, more of the untiring Duke of Portson swinging, and more of Adam’s long wingspan and skilled guarding. Then once again, His Grace landed another hit on his side. He absorbed it again, and the cycle started over. Indeed, it repeated with no apparent end in sight: dance, swing, dance, swing, dance, swing, hit.

  She glanced at her watch: The round had gone on a full half-hour. She flinched every time Adam was hit, wondering why he didn’t attempt more strikes himself, wondering how many blows a person could take. Perhaps it was her anxiety for Adam, but more and more of His Grace’s blows seemed to be landing, and she imagined that she saw more bending, more slouching in Adam with every successful hit. And then, to the shock of everyone assembled, Adam swung wide and struck His Grace with so much force that he literally flew off his feet and into the air—landing flat on his back as if hit by a runaway team of four.

  The crowd fell into a hush, and the referee called for the end of the round. His Grace’s men ran out to where he lay still on the ground, and Caro looked at her watch again, praying this would be the end of the damned thing. Thirty, twenty-nine, twenty-eight, twenty-seven. The crowd remained quiet, rapt, watching the fallen man for any sign of movement—of life, even. That blow had come as if
from a bear, and the Duke of Portson was but a bumblebee who’d buzzed a little too long around some honey that had already been claimed.

  She glanced toward Adam, too, but Lord Quillen and the other man hovered over him in their corner, and she couldn’t see him at all. Eighteen, seventeen, sixteen. She thought she might be able to go to him soon, and her heart strained and jabbed at her rib cage in anticipation.

  She wished no harm on His Grace, of course; she wanted to see him move as much as anyone. Just not too much, and not for the next several seconds.

  Ten, nine, eight.

  His foot moved, and the crowd gasped. There were claps and cheers, too, as His Grace sat up and shook his head as if trying to clear off some dust. Five, four, three. His men lifted him roughly to his feet and pushed him to the scratch line where Adam stood calmly by, as if waiting to cross the street at Picadilly. The crowd cheered for more fighting.

  The referee signaled the start of another round and His Grace sprung from the line, flying at Adam with his fists churning. He got through Adam’s guard before the latter seemed to know what was happening.

  “It was a ruse,” Mrs. Meary shouted to her. “His Grace got himself a rest, and in doing, set up a fine trick!”

  Indeed, he pummeled Adam into the ropes as if he hadn’t just been knocked silly by a powerful blow, as if he hadn’t already spent nearly an hour at fisticuffs. Adam turned away and His Grace hit him again and again in the back as the crowd became ever more frenzied. Caro hugged herself and looked into the faces of the people around her, uncertain if their grunts and blood-curdling whoops were because they wanted to win money, or because they wanted to see a gentleman—either one would do, it seemed—get trounced beyond all recognition.

  Damn fool! He’d hit Portson harder than he’d intended, but not that hard. He should have known the duke’s fall (and awkward splay on the ground) was just play-acting.

  Time seemed to slow as Adam curled away from the duke, protecting his face as best he could, taking a great deal of pummeling on his back and side.