by Darcy Burke
The bell on Ambrose’s side rang. “No rabbit punches!” Saxton yelled.
Nolan held up his hands and backed to the side of the square. “I didn’t mean to. He moves fast is all.” He grinned, revealing a gap in the upper right of his mouth.
The bell rang once more, and the fight resumed. Evenly matched, they traded blows for several minutes—or maybe it was an hour. Ambrose lost track of time, of place, of everything but the pulse of his blood and the analysis of his opponent and where to strike next.
It was wearying. Sweat ran into his eyes. Blood trickled from his lip, and his battered knuckles ached. He recognized the same in Nolan and dug deep for an attack. He danced forward and landed his fist against Nolan’s chin. Nolan staggered backward and Ambrose followed, sending another punch to the side of his opponent’s head. Then another to his cheek. Then another and another, to his side and middle.
Nolan slumped and then dropped to his knees. The bell sounded. He was down. His second rushed into the square. Ambrose backed up to the scratch and waited. Thirty seconds. Stay down thirty seconds and it will be over. His mind counted as the umpires did the same.
Three, four.
Ambrose looked up at Philippa. She sat at the edge of her chair, one hand raised part way to her mouth.
Seven, eight.
Nolan’s second bent down and spoke to him softly, words Ambrose couldn’t hear. Nolan shook his head, sending droplets of sweat and blood splattering to the floor. He already sported a bruise on his cheek, a bloodied nose and lip, and his knuckles looked every bit as destroyed as Ambrose’s felt. But he refused to look at his wounds or indulge his pain. Not yet.
Twelve, thirteen.
More whispering from his second. Another head shake from Nolan. The second rubbed Nolan’s shoulders, dabbed at his sweat-covered neck and face.
Eighteen, nineteen.
Hopkins came into the square and gave Ambrose a towel. He swiped it over his face and chest, the back of his neck. He thrust the sweat-sopped cloth back at Hopkins.
Twenty-three, twenty-four.
Nolan leaned forward and laid his palms on the floor. Ambrose’s blood surged with imminent victory.
Twenty-seven, twenty-eight.
Nolan sprang to his feet. His second shoved him toward the scratch, getting him to the line just before Ambrose would’ve been declared the winner.
He wrenched his mind back from the brink of victory and refocused. Nolan shook his arms out and then pounced. He did what Ambrose had just done—fists flying with a precision that should have been dulled at this point in the fight, especially after going down as he did. But had he really gone down, or had he just taken a respite?
Ambrose deflected, but he was tired. A blow caught him beneath the chin, snapping his head back. Then a series of punches landed against his middle, where he still wasn’t completely healed from his trip to Jagger’s. He managed a glancing blow off Nolan’s head, but the answer from his opponent was punishing. Damn, but his right hook was merciless.
Bright light flashed as Nolan’s knuckles pummeled Ambrose’s eye. Another hit to the side of his head and another to his mouth. He bit his tongue and blood gushed. He coughed against the bitter taste and then he slipped. Down he went, his knees hitting the wood.
He pitched forward and couldn’t quite catch himself. The rough-hewn planks of the wood floor scraped his cheek. The hardness welcomed him as pain enveloped his mind. The cacophony faded around him. He closed his eyes and found peace.
Chapter Thirteen
PHILIPPA screamed and jumped to her feet. She rushed to the edge of the balcony and gripped the rough wooden railing. Jagger came to her side while people stared up at her from below.
“Sit down,” Jagger whispered close to her ear. “You don’t want to draw unnecessary attention to yourself.” No, she didn’t, particularly when Swan had stolen her shawl as some sort of trophy.
She looked down at Ambrose’s body lying halfway over the scratch into the center of the square. Nolan stood over him, a grin splitting his battered face.
Ambrose’s second kneeled beside him, and Saxton stood nearby. Philippa curled her fingers around the railing and wished she could go down and pull Ambrose to his feet. When Nolan had collapsed she’d learned that a fighter had half a minute to get himself back up to the scratch or his opponent would be declared the victor. They were already at fifteen seconds, and Ambrose hadn’t stirred.
And while waiting for the fight to begin, Jagger had made it very clear that Ambrose had to win. He’d made a bargain with Jagger for her reputation and losing would nullify the deal. If Ambrose lost, Jagger would remove her mask. Her gaze moved to where several of Benfield’s partygoers—including Allred—were seated. Several of them—again, including Allred—had already looked in her direction. What did they see?
“Get up!” her mind screamed.
She leaned further over the side, and Jagger clasped her arm and drew her back. “Can’t have you falling over.” He kept his hand around her bicep. His grip was firm and as the seconds ticked by, his fingers bit deeper into her arm.
Twenty-three already!
“Drag him up!” someone yelled. Philippa’s gaze roved the crowd, and she spotted a man near the square cupping his hands around his mouth to be heard above the throng. “Drag him, Hopkins!”
Hopkins must be his second. The large man pulled Ambrose to his feet, but he was limp. They were already at the scratch, but Ambrose’s head lolled back. Hopkins grabbed the hair at Ambrose’s nape and tugged.
Ambrose’s eyes fluttered.
Twenty-nine.
His shoulders squared.
Thirty!
Ambrose’s eyes opened, and he lifted his head.
Nolan’s umpire tried to call the fight for Nolan, but Saxton surged forward, his glare positively glacial. “He was up to the scratch.”
“No, thirty seconds had passed.”
“It was precisely at thirty seconds.”
The crowd yelled their own opinions, drowning out the debate between the umpires. Jagger squeezed her arm, and she turned her head sharply.
“You’re hurting me.”
He released her with a murmured, “Sorry,” his gaze never leaving the spectacle below.
While the umpires argued, Hopkins mopped Ambrose’s face and neck. Philippa willed him to look up so she could affirm he was all right, but he didn’t.
Saxton towered over the other umpire, but the shorter man stood on his toes and waved his hands. Finally, the other umpire nodded and stepped back. Both umpires spoke to the principals and their seconds. Then everyone left the square but Ambrose and Nolan.
The bell rang.
Philippa sagged with relief for the briefest second, but then her body coiled with tension once more as she watched Nolan strike out.
Ambrose tried to answer, but his movements were sluggish compared to his opponent. Over the next few minutes, he managed to maintain a defensive posture and mostly protect himself, but he wasn’t causing any damage. The fight had already lasted forty minutes, how much longer could they go before fatigue and injuries completely claimed them?
Ambrose danced backward and sat down in the corner. The bell chimed, and again the umpires came out and started counting. Philippa stared in disbelief as he pulled his boots and stockings from his feet and tossed them at Hopkins. He jumped back up and was leaping toward the scratch before the count reached twelve.
The umpires retreated from the square, and the bell sounded once more—Philippa prayed for the last time until it signaled the fight was over.
Ambrose launched forward as if the loss of his footwear had somehow restored the strength and energy sapped from him over the course of the bout. Nolan jerked back, but Ambrose followed. He dropped his defenses and simply attacked. He drove Nolan back with blow after blow. A sickening crunch came after a particularly brutal strike to Nolan’s nose, and blood flowed over his mouth and chin. One of his eyes was nearly swollen shut. Ambrose continued
on, and Philippa bit her lip to keep from calling for him to stop.
She watched, transfixed, as he viciously attacked the other man, causing horrific damage to his face, not to mention the series of jabs to the man’s ribs. She wrapped her arms around herself protectively, as if the fight were somehow hurting her too.
Nolan tried to protect himself, but his hands fumbled ineffectually between him and Ambrose. Then he simply sagged and fell back against the railing. Philippa held her breath, waiting to see if he might pitch over into the spectators, but he slid down and then slumped forward.
Ambrose took a step back, his chest heaving. He wiped his hand beneath his nose and then flexed his fingers. The umpires rushed forward and began the count. Philippa prayed the man wouldn’t get up. And she prayed he was all right. How could men watch this for enjoyment? How could men do this for sport? She felt sick.
She watched, motionless, as the seconds counted by. It seemed several minutes before they reached thirty, but when they got to that number, Nolan was still on the floor. Saxton raised Ambrose’s arm, and cheers filled the hall. Philippa held her hands to her ears.
Ambrose turned and looked up at her, then shifted his gaze to Jagger. He narrowed his eyes.
Jagger nodded and then spread his lips in a wide grin. He pulled Philippa’s hands from her ears. “Come, dearie, time to see your lover.”
“He’s not my lover,” she spat, never taking her eyes from Ambrose.
Saxton and Hopkins practically dragged him from the square. Outside the railing, they helped him don his shirt before leading him through the crowd. They could barely move forward, however, as men rushed to congratulate him.
She turned to look at Jagger who was still grinning. “I knew he’d win,” he said.
“Yet you abducted me to intimidate him anyway.”
Jagger shrugged. “What do you care? No one saw you.”
Though the fight below had sickened her, she wanted very much to punch her captor. Perhaps everyone had a breaking point at which violence became acceptable. Had something happened to Ambrose that made brutality easy? Perhaps he had killed his brother. The idea repelled her, but also made her want to know why. She had to see him, ensure he would be well. “Take me to Sevrin.”
Jagger turned to one of his men and said something. Philippa couldn’t hear what they discussed—the sounds around her were far too loud and distracting. Jagger nodded to the two men who’d brought her there, though they were no longer garbed in Holborn livery. They took her arms and guided her out of the box onto the balcony. Up ahead was a staircase that would take them down to the main floor.
The balcony was narrow and choked with men. Swan walked behind her while the other led. Neither let her go. The air was hot and reeked of sweat and alcohol. A surge from behind jostled her forward into the back of the man in front of her. She couldn’t put her hands up to keep from crashing into him. The man behind her pulled her back so she was upright once more, and they continued on in this fashion until they reached the staircase. The rickety wooden steps creaked as she descended, and she worried the stairs weren’t meant to carry so much weight at once.
Finally they were on the floor making their way through the crowd. If the jostling had been extreme on the balcony, it was far worse down here. Large, smelly men fell against her, and she had to struggle to keep her footing. She tripped and stumbled, but a man gripped her elbows and kept her from falling. She looked up expecting to see one of her captors and froze.
Allred stared down at her.
A loud buzz blocked all sound from her ears, and motion seemed to slow around her. Allred cocked his head to the side, contemplating her as if… Did he recognize her? She swallowed with difficulty.
“Ho, ho, it is her! By heaven, it’s Sevrin’s mystery woman!” A gentleman—one she recognized from the foyer of Lockwood House—stepped next to Allred.
Allred’s brows drew together.
Finally one of her captors—and she couldn’t believe she felt even a second’s gratefulness, but she did—snatched her against his side. “Hands off!”
They pulled, not that she wasn’t eager to go, her away through the crowd and a few moments later pushed into a corridor. The air was a bit cooler, and no one followed them. This was clearly some sort of back area where the masses were not admitted.
Swan shoved her up against the wall, startling the breath from her in a loud gasp. The blow jarred her spine. He put his face a scant inch from hers so that all she could smell was his stale, fetid breath. She tried to turn her head to the side, but he gripped her chin and forced her to look at him.
“Yer lordship may’ve won, but I’ll still find a way to collect from ye. Maybe not tonight, but soon. Soon.”
“Swan!” The other man pulled Swan’s arm. “Jagger told us not to touch ‘er.”
Swan cursed as his cohort grabbed Philippa and dragged her to a door. He opened it and shoved her inside.
She was shaking from her encounter in the corridor, but her fear of Swan quickly morphed into concern for Ambrose. He sat slouched in a chair with Hopkins dabbing at his left eye, which was puffy and nearly purple. Saxton stood nearby, his gaze now firmly planted on Philippa. Did he recognize her?
She wanted to rush to Ambrose, but given her audience, she moved slowly, demurely toward him. The blood had been cleaned from his face, and now his wounds glared stark against his pale flesh. In addition to the black eye, he sported a split lip, an abrasion on his right cheek, a bruise on his left cheek, and a reddened ear. Somehow they’d gotten his stockings and boots back on his feet.
He looked up at her from his one open eye. He frowned. “Are you all right? Let me see your face.”
She glanced at Saxton, unsure if she ought to remove her mask or even speak. Saxton would surely recognize her voice. They’d been too familiar when he’d briefly courted her last fall. But really, did it even matter now? There was no way she’d escape this night without at least him discovering her identity. “What about him?”
“He won’t say anything,” Ambrose growled. His voice sounded as bruised as he looked.
She untied the mask and slipped it from her face. “I’m fine.”
“Blood of Christ,” Saxton swore. “What in the bloody hell is she doing here?”
Sevrin waved a hand as if he couldn’t be bothered to respond.
Philippa supposed breathing took effort at this juncture, so she answered Saxton. “Jagger abducted me from Benfield.”
“Who’s ‘Jagger?’”
“The man Sevrin fought for,” Hopkins supplied.
Saxton looked from Ambrose back to Philippa. “Why would he take you from Benfield? And how? Someone’s about to be sacked, I can promise you. You shouldn’t be here at all.”
“She wasn’t supposed to be,” Ambrose managed. “Jagger brought her here to entice me to win.” Saxton still looked furiously perplexed, but Ambrose sent him a single-eyed glare that silenced further questions. “Now that she’s here we can go,” Ambrose rasped. “Let’s be quick about it.” He turned his gaze toward her. “Put your mask back on.”
“Go where?” Saxton asked. “You need to get home, and Lady Philippa, good God, what are we going to do with you?” He stared at her as she fumbled with retying the mask around her head.
Her fingers wouldn’t work and strands of her hair kept getting tangled in the ties of the mask. “I told one of the footmen I was ill and returning to Herrick House. You could take me there.”
He shook his head then took over tying the mask. “Not if you want to avoid a scandal. I heard the men talking before I left the box.” She’d seen him with his father and the others when she’d first arrived. “They think you’re Sevrin’s mystery woman. If any of them connect you with her—your hair is completely uncovered for Christ’s sake. No, you have to be seen at Benfield. We’ll pretend you never left. That the footman was mistaken. You were merely ill tonight. Tomorrow you’ll arrive for breakfast as if you were at Benfield the entire time. I’ll
have Olivia and my sister say they visited you.”
That could work. She prayed it would work. She nodded. “Thank you.”
Saxton wrapped his hand around Ambrose’s upper arm. “My coach is outside.” He inclined his head toward Hopkins who helped him pull Ambrose out of the chair. Ambrose winced and his hands went toward his middle.
Philippa spotted Ambrose’s other clothing draped over the back of another chair and plucked the garments up. She folded the coat, waistcoat, and cravat over her arm.
She opened the door for them but two burly men stood in the corridor. One held up his hand. “Can’t leave till Jagger gets here.”
They started forward once more, but the two men stepped together, blocking their departure. Saxton snarled. “You don’t want to fight us. I’m nearly as good as Sevrin and this one,” he pointed at Hopkins, “is better.”
He was nearly as good as Ambrose? And Hopkins was better? Were they all fighters?
The men looked at each other then stepped apart and allowed them to leave. The corridor was—thankfully—almost entirely devoid of people.
Saxton left Ambrose in Hopkins’s care and took Philippa’s arm. He stared down at her, his eyes like shards of ice. “What is between you and Sevrin?”
Despite what they’d shared and the friendship they’d forged, the answer was still, “Nothing.”
“That can’t be true or Jagger wouldn’t have been able to entice Sevrin to do anything.”
Philippa looked straight ahead as they neared the end of the corridor. They left the building and stepped into the cool night air. The dank smell of the nearby Thames filled Dirty Lane, which was little more than an alley that ran off the Strand. They made their way toward the thoroughfare, but Ambrose stumbled.
Philippa cringed. “Help him,” she said to Saxton.