Sara planted an elbow on the bar. “Word’s floatin’ ’bout a brawl. Rigg’s boy. Where and when?”
The barman eyed them both dubiously. “Eager for blood, are ye, ladies?”
“I have cutthroat tastes,” Clary told him. “Do you know anything about a fight this evening?”
He gestured toward her hand and the coin below. She slid him the crown across the bar.
“Might do,” he said after pocketing the money. “Stroke o’ midnight. Back o’ me rival’s establishment.” He nudged his chin left. “West a mile. Edge of Whitechapel. The Crossroads.”
“I know the place,” Sara whispered eagerly to Clary. “Let’s go.”
Starting down Whitechapel Road, they walked until Clary’s feet ached and the muscles in her legs burned. A few times, Sara stopped to catch her breath, patting and rubbing her belly before continuing on.
“Are you with child?” Clary finally whispered to her.
The young woman gulped before casting her a defensive look. “And what if I am?”
Clary offered her a soft smile. “Then I offer you felicitations and insist we get out of here as soon as we can.”
“Believe me, I’ll drag the fool out of this stew by the scruff of his neck if I have to.” Sara picked up the pace. “I only wish Thomas were here to help us, but I didn’t wish to wait any longer before coming to find you.”
“Is Thomas your husband?”
Sara’s face lit in a smile. “He soon will be.”
A few more steps, and Sara grabbed Clary’s wrist. “That’s it. Just up ahead.”
The building housing the pub was taller than most. Light spilled out onto the pavement from its many windows, along with the music of accordions and raucous laughter.
“We should go ’round back,” Sara advised. “If Gabe’s come early, that’s where he’ll be to prepare.”
Finding a side lane several buildings down, they proceeded to an alley that ended abruptly at a high wooden fence that enclosed the yard behind the Crossroads pub.
“How do we get inside?” Clary asked as she scanned the wood for any opening or loose slat.
“We knock,” Sara told her as she lifted her fist to rap on the wood. A moment later, four slats several feet away parted, and an enormous man stuck his head through.
“Rigg sent us to see to ’is man,” Sara told him boldly.
The man raked her with a leering gaze. “How about you see to me first, luv?”
Sara sauntered over, and Clary followed close behind. “Let us in,” she told him, “and we’ll negotiate.”
The man cast a gaze at Clary and licked his beefy lips. “Two at a time is just to my taste.” He pulled back the linked slats farther, leaning in close as Sara and Clary stepped inside.
Sara pulled Clary away from the man and leaned in to whisper in her ear. “Go and find Gabe. Convince him we must leave here. I’ll distract this one.”
“He’s too big and too vile. I can’t leave you alone with him.” There was little point in finding Gabe and convincing him of her love if she allowed harm to befall his sister. She knew him well enough to know he’d never forgive her.
“I’ve got a blade in my boot and another stuffed in my corset.” Sara glanced back at the randy gatekeeper. “I’m not afraid to use ’em. Now go,” she said with a shove to Clary’s arm. “Find him so we can get out of this miserable place.”
Clary walked quickly across the yard, attempting not to draw the notice of the men clustered around various spots inside the walls. Some stood smoking, others sat in chairs, as if awaiting the fight. Still others worked on stringing long lines of rope around the space, creating the fighting ring itself, she assumed. Up ahead, she saw light inside the open rear door of the pub, and to the left, another area, covered with a tarp but not part of the building itself. She ducked toward the shadowed space, and the air whooshed from her lungs.
At the far end of the tarpaulin shelter, Gabe moved in the dim light of a lantern. Bare from the waist up, he jabbed at a bag that hung from a beam overhead.
She ran toward him, and he pivoted at the sound of her footfalls.
“Clary?” he rasped.
He caught her as she slammed into him, holding her tightly in his arms. She plastered herself against him, linking her hands behind his back, unwilling to let him go. When he tipped her chin up to gaze into his eyes, she saw the same relief that was singing through her body.
“What the hell are you doing here?” He tore off the padded gloves he wore and took her face in his hands, which were wrapped mummy-tight in strips of fabric. “You need to leave here.”
“I’m not going anywhere without you.”
“Clary—”
“Gabe, listen to me. Sara is here. We need to find her and go.”
He cast a gaze over her head. “Where is she?”
“With the gatekeeper, but I don’t want to leave her with him for long. Please”—she latched her hand around his and urged him to follow her—“let’s go.”
But he didn’t budge, no matter how she pulled. “I need to do this, Clary.”
She shook her head until it ached. “You need to come home with me. I need you.”
He let out a breathy chuckle. “I’m not sure you’ve ever needed anyone.”
Striding closer, she confessed, “I never expected to, but now I do.”
“The money from tonight—”
“I don’t care about Rigg’s money, and we’ll have plenty of our own.” Clary wound her arm through his. “Wouldn’t you rather have my money than his?”
When his brows tented in confusion, Clary stepped away from him, casting a glance back toward the spot where she’d left Sara. Apparently, the gatekeeper had gotten her a chair. She sat just inside the walls of the yard. He stood nearby, seemingly engaged with her in friendly conversation.
“Clary, please take Sara and go. I can’t do this if I’m worried about you two.”
“Then don’t do this at all.” Reaching for Gabe, she said, “I know this isn’t the place or time, but I have a proposal for you.”
A horn blasted the air, and then a man’s low shout echoed around the yard. “The moment has come, ladies and gentlemen.”
“It’s time,” Gabe said ominously. He hauled her into his arms, then quickly released her. “Go. Now. Don’t look back. Take my sister and get out of here.”
“I love you.” She wouldn’t convince him. He was determined. She could see it in his eyes.
His expression changed, softening, warming. She saw a bit of the Gabe who’d kissed her, made love to her as if she was all he ever wanted.
“Ragin’ Boy,” the announcer shouted through his bullhorn, “returns for the bloodiest fight of his life.”
Gabe’s head snapped up. Thunder came into his eyes, and his muscles bunched as he shifted and tensed. He slammed a fist into the opposite palm. Began bouncing on his toes.
“Wot ’ave we ’ere, then?” A dark, gravelly voice came from behind, and Clary wheeled around to find a thin, bearded man leering at her. A lit cheroot at the corner of his mouth let off wisps of smoke.
Then he was gone. Her view of him cut off as Gabe planted himself in front of her, nearly knocking her off her feet.
“Yer name’s been called, boy. Up in the ring with ye.” An evil, rasping chuckle emerged from the man. “I’ll keep yer lovie entertained.”
Gabe glanced at her over his shoulder and mouthed one word: Go. He said more with his eyes. They were bleak. Cold. In another man, she’d call them cruel. The look told her that he would brook no arguments. That he didn’t wish to know about her proposal or why she’d come. That declaring her love again hadn’t changed his intentions one whit.
He didn’t want her here. Perhaps he no longer wanted her at all. But he clearly intended to fight.
The odious man—Rigg, she guessed—scooped up Gabe’s gloves and led him toward the ring, slapping his cane against Gabe’s back to urge him on faster.
Gabe tugged his
gloves back on, waited while Rigg tied the laces, and then lifted the rope to duck underneath. Once inside the ring, he glanced back at her. A fleeting moment. She could read nothing in his gaze but seething anger.
A burly man approached from the edge of the yard. “Rigg says yer to sit up front.” He hooked a massive hand under her arm and began to haul her off.
“No, thank you.” Clary brought her boot down on his foot, yanked her arm from his grasp, and searched the yard for Sara. The crowd had thickened, bodies packing in, shoulder to shoulder. A hand shot up through the crowd, and Clary glimpsed Sara’s dark hair and pale face. She picked up her skirt and ran toward her.
“We should get out of here,” Sara told her.
“And leave Gabe?”
The crowd let out a raucous roar, stomping their feet and waving fists in the air.
Sara stretched onto her toes to see over the sea of hats and bare heads. “It’s too late,” she said miserably, “the fight has begun.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
She was walking away. Gabe told himself that was good. It’s what he wanted. Clary and Sara and the baby needed to get to safety.
He hated that they’d come into this ugliness to find him. Hated that Clary had seen him here among the thugs and brutes. Hated pushing her away and causing more pain.
God, he’d missed her. A few hours apart, and he’d ached for her every damn minute.
He could smell her floral scent on his skin.
But other smells swarmed in. Scents that hadn’t changed after all these years. The sweat of a hundred bodies. Liquor spilled and guzzled as the audience gaped with eager eyes. Sawdust, gritty and pungent, beneath his boots.
The sounds were the same too. The shouts of the crowd, the dancing gait of his opponent’s shuffling feet, Gabe’s own blood rushing in his ears.
He’d never met his opponent before this night. The boy was too young, too fresh-faced to have spent much time in the ring.
There was a typical Rigg cruelness to it. As if the devil had thrown him a puppy to batter.
An angry puppy. The young man gnashed his teeth and glared at Gabe as they waited for the call to begin.
Gabe understood. These moments before the violence began were when a fighter stripped down. Peeling away thoughts of the woman he loved and the life he wanted. This was a time to bore down to basics and tear one’s opponent apart. Not with fists. Not yet. First, he took a man to pieces in his mind. The body before him didn’t have a name. There was no wife or family or lover watching from the sidelines. His opponent became an obstacle. A threat to his existence. A marauder who’d take everything if he could.
For Gabe, besting this young man who was slavering to rip him limb from limb, would be a ladder out of the chaos and muck.
Forever.
Rigg took over the bullhorn, rasping through the mouthpiece in a smoke-deep roar. “Do yer worst, boys. Who craves a bit o’ blood?”
The crowd let out an earsplitting cry of enthusiasm, begging for the coming blood sport.
Gabe’s opponent danced straight toward him, assessing his speed and movement, before stepping back. The young man was light on his feet, and Gabe guessed he outweighed the boy by several stone.
The first blow came at him fast. He ducked and feinted left. The boy was quick, but Gabe was quicker.
He was older too, and his body immediately reminded him of the fact. As he circled the boy, shifting and diving to avoid two more jabs, muscles pulled and stretched. Twinges of pain shot across his back, and his bruised temple began to throb.
“Hit me,” the boy demanded. “Do something, you bastard.” He was dancing about so eagerly that he was already breathless.
Gabe didn’t mind letting the kid tire himself out.
“Kill him!” someone shouted from the crowd.
Others joined in. “Bash ’im.”
“Do the rotter’s head in.”
“Blood! Blood!” The chant swept across the bystanders in a wave, more voices added until the word became a crescendo.
The boy obeyed and came at Gabe with a series of swift, hard left, right punches.
Gabe took one, ducked another. Then he miscalculated and caught a punch straight to his jaw. He stumbled back. The boy was far stronger than he looked.
Scrawny bastard.
Blood rushed over his tongue. Old impulses sparked. Fury tangled with fear. Hunger twisted with hate. Shifting on his toes, he lunged forward and delivered a low cut to the boy’s midriff. Stepping back, he waited for his opponent to shift and landed another punch to the lad’s clean-shaven cheek.
The boy stumbled, shaking off the daze of his strike. Dizziness. Spots of black. Bells ringing in his ears. Gabe knew exactly what he was feeling. He’d learned to fight after being beaten by bullies far better at brawling than he was.
The boy spit blood into the sawdust, slammed his gloved fists together, tucked his head, and came at Gabe like a wild bull. A daring move but worth every ounce of energy spent if it got one’s opponent off his feet.
Unfortunately for the lad, Gabe anticipated the blow. Planting his feet wide, he took the boy’s weight as all the air rushed from his lungs. But he was still standing, and that’s what mattered. He hooked an arm around the boy’s shoulders as their bodies crashed together.
When his opponent tried to retreat, Gabe held him in place and delivered one quick jab to his ribs.
The punch had virtually no effect. Twisting away, the boy straightened to his full height and slammed a quick blow to Gabe’s face.
The strike caught him off guard. Gabe ducked away, but the boy saw his confusion. Saw his advantage. And swung again. The next blow caught Gabe in the temple. The spot where Rigg’s thugs had bashed him thoroughly. The spot Clary had cleaned so tenderly.
The thought of her cleared his mind. Chased the pain from his body. He had a purpose in this ring. He needed to get through this bout, see this night to its end, and get her back in his life.
The boy came at him again, and Gabe caught him low. Midriff, ribs. Two quick jabs. Left, right. The boy bent from the pain. Gabe hooked his jaw and sent him back on his arse.
Sawdust burst up, and Gabe tasted the wood pulp on his tongue.
As the boy bounced up on his feet, baring his teeth at Gabe like a rabid dog, a murmur swept the crowd, rolling toward them like thunder. Louder. Shouts mixed with cries of outrage.
“Scarper!” someone shouted into the bullhorn, “The rozzers is ’ere.”
Bodies moved in snarled clusters, hats toppling, arms flailing as some got pushed out of the way to make room for others.
As the crowd thinned, Gabe spotted the detective he’d met at the Ten Bells. The man tipped his bowler Gabe’s way, then nudged his chin toward the edge of the yard.
Two burly coppers had clapped Rigg’s behemoths in irons. Rigg himself had been swarmed by four uniformed constables—one in front, one in back, a man on each side. The detective knew as soon as Gabe mentioned Rigg’s name that he’d stumbled on the biggest catch of his career.
Gabe realized his opponent was still standing beside him when the boy’s gloves thudded into the sawdust. “You can be done with him now,” he told the boy. “Rigg. Whatever he had on you, he doesn’t own you anymore.”
“All this just to snitch on ’im.” There was no recrimination in the boy’s tone. Just a thread of admiration. A grin lifted his bruised cheek as he watched a copper secure the irons around Rigg’s wrists. “Wot if someone worse comes along to replace ’im?”
“Could there be worse than Rigg?”
“Nah, you’re right. Ain’t nobody worse.”
“Do you have a job?”
The boy slapped a fist against the opposite palm.
Gabe side-eyed the boy. “A proper job, I mean.”
“Not sure I’m cut out for proper.”
At the boy’s age, Gabe didn’t think he could change either. But he’d taken the opportunity Leopold Ruthven offered in lieu of payment. “If you change
your mind, I’ll give you a chance for honest work. Ruthven Publishing. Southampton Row. Come and find me.”
As he climbed from the ring, he stopped in his tracks and realized what he’d said. Mercy, those blows had turned him dotty. He couldn’t offer anyone a job. He didn’t even have employment of his own.
But he would. He was free now. He could wash himself clean of this life and pursue what he wanted most.
Clary. He scanned the crowd for her and felt a strange mix of regret and relief when he couldn’t find her. Perhaps, for once, she’d taken his advice and gotten herself and Sara to safety. Perhaps they’d gone to Fisk Academy. He’d go there as soon as he settled one last score.
Striding toward the cluster of constables, Gabe tossed his gloves away. He felt the rush of the fight ebbing. His pulse began to steady. His breath came in even bursts. And pain came on with a vengeance. There wasn’t a part of his body that didn’t ache.
Still, he squared his shoulders, stood up tall, and clenched his fists as he approached the circle of policeman surrounding Rigg. The H Division detective strode over and gave his constable a nod. The burly young man backed away and shot Gabe a grim look.
There was no cheroot in Rigg’s mouth now. No smirk under his grizzled mustache. Only hate burning in his black eyes. “Never knew you to be a rat, boy.”
“You never knew me at all.” Gabe lifted his arm, wound back, and planted a facer on Rigg’s nose.
The devil didn’t even wince. Blood gushed down over an evil, snaggletoothed smile.
“I’m done with you, old man.” Gabe turned and jerked a satisfied nod toward the detective.
He stumbled across the trodden grass. Fatigue and weariness set in. It was over. This part was done. Now the rest of his life could start.
A few stragglers remained, loitering around the yard. He bumped into one woman, who waggled a finger at him. “Terrible fight, son. Not enough blood.”
He moved past her and another feminine voice called out of the darkness. “Are you ready to hear my proposal now, Mr. King?”
How to Woo a Wallflower Page 21