by Amelia Grey
“I can tell you are nervous for him,” Susannah said in a quiet voice.
He turned to her and sighed. “I was hoping it wouldn’t show, but yes, I’m worried about the old man. It’s difficult to bear the thought that he might get half his teeth knocked out, his jaw broken, or worse.”
Susannah’s face wrinkled in quiet concern. “You did what you could to stop him. He is well capable of making his own decisions. He decided he wanted to do it. Don’t blame yourself for any of this.”
He gave her a grateful smile and nodded. He wanted to reach over and touch her soft cheek, hold her hand and lean in close to her, but knew those things were forbidden, so he refrained and promised himself she would soon be his.
“I know you told me you have never seen a boxing match, but look across the ring and directly in front of you on the first row of seats to the robust man wearing the solid red waistcoat. He is England’s current boxing champion, Daniel Mendoza.”
Susannah eyed the man before saying, “Ah, I had already noticed him because even from here I can see how misshapen his nose is.”
“I’m told his jaw doesn’t work too well, either. There are several other well-known pugilists here. At the end of the row to the left is John Jackson. He owns a fighting club. He spent a couple of days with Gibby, teaching him how to protect himself as well as how to box, before turning Gibby over to Danger Jim for more lessons. There are also several members of the Pugilistic Society here. It surprises me that they have come.”
Susannah smiled at him. “Perhaps they want to make sure they have no new up-and-coming competition.”
“Gibby and Prattle?” Race chuckled. “This is such an amateur fight, I doubt the bruisers are worried about two men well past their prime taking the shine off their accomplishments. The boxers probably came so they could have a good laugh.”
“Tell me, did Sir Randolph ever come up with a fighting name for himself?”
Race grinned. “I think you cured him from wanting another name when you suggested he should be called a bird that looked like a lark.”
Suddenly from a distance, Race heard the sound of bugles trumpeting, and everyone who was seated rose and looked behind them. Even as tall as Race was, there were so many people he couldn’t see what was going on.
Morgan stood on his chair, looked around, and then glanced down at Race and Blake with a rueful grin and said, “I don’t believe this. It is Gibby’s coach, being pulled by six white horses. It’s decorated with red and white ribbons. There’s a bugler sitting with the driver. They are both dressed in white.”
Race looked at Susannah and shook his head. “I should have known Gibby would have to make a grand entrance. He is all about getting attention.”
The crowd started clapping and cheering as the people parted to allow Gibby’s coach to come in close to the ring. When it stopped not far from them, the footman jumped down and opened the door. Gibby stepped out, dressed in a buff-colored satin jacket with gold buttons down the front and epaulets on his shoulders.
Loud cheers and chanting of his name erupted to the point it was deafening. Gibby waved and smiled at the huge gathering. His trainer, Danger Jim, and two other bruisers stepped out of the carriage behind Gibby and flanked him as he walked to the rope, ducked under it, and entered the prize ring.
Race had no idea where Prattle came from, but all of a sudden he entered the ring from the other side, with only one lone man standing beside him. The short, thick man was wearing a simple black shirt, breeches, and stockings. There was such trepidation in Prattle’s expression, he looked like a hen staring at a fox.
Gibby taunted Prattle with a wave and a smile, and the crowd roared its approval once again. Gibby then made a production of taking off his jacket and handing it to one of the men standing beside him. Most pugilists fought bare-chested, but Gibby wore a collarless, buff-colored shirt, breeches, and stockings. He looked much thinner than Prattle, and more fit and muscular than Race would have thought possible, given his age.
Race shook his head and chuckled to himself. Under any other circumstances, Sir Randolph Gibson would never appear before anyone half dressed. Even seeing it with his own eyes, Race had trouble believing Gibby was going through with this fight.
A middle-aged man dressed in a collarless white shirt and black breeches stepped into the ring, and within seconds the crowd quieted down. The referee called Gibby and Prattle to the center and talked to them for less than a minute before blowing a whistle and stepping aside.
Race tensed. He hoped Prattle kept to his part of the bargain as the two men lifted their bare knuckles into the air and began to circle each other. Race had tried to make it clear to Prattle this had to be a real fight, but he didn’t want Gibby hurt. Gibby would know if Prattle just gave up and didn’t try to win.
Gibby, the taller of the two men by at least a head, wasted no time advancing on Prattle, delivering several jabs to his head and a couple of punches to his stomach. From what Race could see, only one fist had actually made contact with Prattle’s midsection. The crowd roared its approval of Gibby’s aggressiveness with his rapid punches and dancing feet. Even though Prattle was stocky, he was quick on his feet, and he was bobbing and weaving to avoid Gibby’s fast fists.
It was clear neither man really knew the art of boxing for sport, or about timing and judgment of throwing their punches to insure accuracy, but both men were giving it a valiant effort. Suddenly one of Gibby’s bare, tight-knuckled fists made contact with Prattle’s chin, snapping his head back, by what seemed to be an accident to Race. The expression on Prattle’s face instantly changed from fear to anger. Race moved to the edge of his seat, and so did every one else on the row chairs.
Suddenly, Prattle was the one advancing on Gibby, but the old man didn’t seem bothered by it. He was quick on his feet, and by sidestepping and dancing around, he was able to avoid all of Prattle’s jabs, but at the same time he wasn’t able to land any of his own, either. Race’s hands clenched into fists, and he flinched as one of Prattle’s fists landed against Gibby’s forehead. Race wanted to stop the fight before Gibby got hurt but knew he couldn’t.
It seemed like hours instead of mere minutes before the whistle blew, and the two amateur bruisers went to their corners for a moment of rest and water.
When the whistle blew again, Gibby and Prattle moved back to scratch and once again started circling each other, occasionally throwing a long punch or a short jab in the other’s direction, sometimes making contact and sometimes missing completely. The crowd started yelling for blood, and that sent a chill up Race’s spine.
In the blink of an eye, Prattle unleashed a powerful left hook to the liver, and the blow staggered Gibby. Prattle took advantage of Gibby’s weakness and went at him again, with another quick left-right combination, which sent Gibby slumping to the ground.
Race and everyone else in the dignitary seats jumped to their feet. The crowd yelled for Gibby to get up.
The referee quickly held Prattle at bay with his arm. Race felt Susannah’s comforting hand touch his, and he briefly squeezed her fingertips.
Gibby scrambled to his feet and shook his head as if to clear his vision and then started his fancy footwork again. The whistle blew before he and Prattle could resume the fight, and they each retreated to their corners again.
“Shouldn’t we stop this madness?” Morgan asked in an angry voice as they retook their seats and the crowd quieted down. “Haven’t we let this go on long enough now?”
“No,” Race said reluctantly. “This is Gibby’s wish. Not ours. We have to let him fight it out.”
“Much as I hate it,” Blake said, “I agree with Race. We can’t intervene.”
“But that man looks like a bull, and Gib looks like a plucked ostrich. I’m afraid the man’s going to kill him.”
“It’s still Gibby’s fight,” Blake said.
Race remained quiet and satisfied that he hadn’t told his cousins about his talk with Prattle. From the way the fight was going, it didn’t look like the man was going to keep his end of their bargain, anyway.
The whistle blew and the boxers returned to the center of the ring and started their wary dance. Prattle was sweating profusely and sucking short, shallow breaths, appearing completely winded. After only a few jabs, Race could see the bigger man was giving out fast. Gibby hadn’t let his knockdown dampen his spirit or aggressiveness. He advanced on Prattle again, looking as composed and unruffled as he had when he exited his coach. Race had to hand it to the old man. He had grit. And he had certainly found his bottom where his courage was stored.
The two men circled each other and soon started throwing short jabs and long punches, neither of them very good at hitting their mark. It wasn’t long before the whistle blew, and they retreated to their corners for rest, for water, and for a pep talk from the men waiting for them ringside.
The fourth round started, and it seemed as if Gibby and Prattle were evenly matched in the amount of punches thrown by each of them. Prattle had an eye that was almost swollen shut, and Gibby had blood at the side of his mouth. All of a sudden, Prattle connected with a strong, fast right to Gibby’s stomach, and he doubled over, clearly in pain. Race watched as if in slow motion as Prattle moved in close with his right arm cocked, ready to wallop Gibby and finish him off.
Race, Susannah, and the rest of the entourage sprang to their feet and yelled, “Gibby!”
Sir Randolph Gibson must have heard them, because he straightened and as he came up he landed a stunning right uppercut to Prattle’s double chin.
Spittle flew from his mouth, sweat flung from his body as Prattle’s head snapped back. His eyes rolled back in his head, and he landed on the grassy mound with a heavy thud.
Gibby froze.
The crowd fell silent.
The referee bent over Prattle and tried to rouse him.
Race’s heart hammered like a stick on a drum. He looked at the man sprawled motionless on the ground. Was Prattle faking the knockout? If so, he was doing a damned good job of it. Race had seen enough fights to know that it looked as if Gibby had somehow literally knocked the man cold.
The official rose and yelled, “He’s out!”
The crowd went wild with loud cheers and thunderous clapping.
Gibby held both fists into the air and gave a victory shout as the two men who stood with him wrapped his jacket around his shoulders.
Race felt limp with relief. He didn’t know why he had ever worried about Gibby. The man lived a charmed life and was obviously more than able to take care of himself.
Not caring at the moment who in the crowd might see or what they might say, Race reached down and hugged Susannah to him briefly. She would be his wife soon enough. Somehow, he was going to make sure of that.
Twenty
My Dearest Grandson Alexander,
More proof of why I have always been a great admirer of Lord Chesterfield and his wise words: “To women, you should always address yourself with great outward respect and attention, whatever you feel inwardly; their sex is by long prescription entitled to it.”
Your loving Grandmother,
Lady Elder
The large doors of the Great Hall were open wide so the evening’s cooling breeze could flow through the stuffy ballroom. Music, laughter, and chatter hummed excitedly throughout the room. Hundreds of candles glittered and sparkled off the walls, making the hall bright and cheerful as Susannah danced across the floor with the handsome Lord Westford, who was doing his best to impress her with his charming smile.
Facing Lord Westford in the quadrille, Susannah twirled under his arm, sidestepped, and clapped her hands. She curtsied and smiled at him in all the right places, but her mind wasn’t on the earl. She had thoughts for no one but Lord Raceworth. Her gaze kept straying to the entrance of the ballroom as she waited for him to appear.
Lord Westford seemed very fit and quite intelligent. He would be a suitable catch for any lady, but Susannah felt no spark of romantic interest when she looked at him. Race had already captured her heart. She didn’t know why she hadn’t told him so these past few days. Perhaps she was just waiting for him to recognize, himself, that he had her heart safely in his care.
Immediately after Sir Randolph’s victory, Susannah had insisted Race go with his cousins to follow Sir Randolph to his house. Even though Race was elated the dashing fellow had won, she could see concern for him in Race’s eyes. She knew he wanted to make sure his friend of long standing was going to be all right and have no lasting ill effects from the hard blows he took from Mr. Prattle.
Susannah and Race had quickly agreed to attend the party at the Great Hall before he left with Blake and Morgan.
Finally, the dance ended, and Lord Westford politely escorted her back to where Mrs. Princeton sat chatting with some aging dowagers, but before Susannah could catch her breath Captain Spyglass walked up to her and bowed.
“Good evening, Duchess. Might I say that you are a vision of beauty tonight?”
Susannah smiled cautiously and said, “Thank you, Captain Spyglass. And how are you on this fine evening?”
Susannah still considered him the primary suspect for stealing the Talbot pearls. Once again, he was wearing more pearls than she had ever seen any woman wear. Tonight, he wore only one earring that consisted of three rather small pearls that fell from a gold stud. Clusters of pearls took the place of buttons on his waistcoat.
“I’m very well, Duchess, but busy. I wanted to make sure I spoke to you this evening, for this may be the last party I’m able to attend. I’ll be leaving London soon.”
Susannah’s heart started pounding. Trying to sound normal, she said, “But the Season is not over. Why would you leave before the last party?”
“I never stay too long in one place. My heart is full of wandering. I have made many friends here and will not hesitate to return to London one day, but for now, I’m ready to set sail for warmer climates. I’ve decided England is too wet for springtime.”
“So, will you be sailing for the South of France, or perhaps Italy?”
He laughed. “No, I won’t be that close by. I will be sailing to much warmer climates than that. I will probably find an island in the Caribbean, though which one I haven’t decided on. Please excuse me, Duchess.” He bowed again. “I see our host for the evening and I must go speak to him.”
“Of course,” she said. “I wish you Godspeed wherever your journeys take you.”
As the captain turned away, so did Susannah. Where was Race? She had been at the party for at least two hours, and there had been no sign of him or Sir Randolph. She was beginning to worry that something was wrong with Race or the winner of the fight.
She was anxious to tell Race about Captain Spyglass’s plans to leave. Even though Race had runners watching the Captain’s every move, he would still want to know the man intended to exit London soon.
“Your Grace, how wonderful to see you this evening. Your eyes are so bright they could light the night sky.”
Susannah forced a smile and said, “Thank you, Lord Snellingly. How are you?”
“Never better now that I’m looking at your fair face,” he said, holding a piece of paper as well as a handkerchief in his hand. “It just so happens I have a poem here that I wrote for you a few days ago. It’s not long. Only four lines. May I please?”
Maybe if she let him read the poem, he would stop pressing her about it. “All right, Lord Snellingly, please do.”
He cleared his throat and sniffed as he looked down at the paper and read:
“Mere words are inadequate
When candlelight graces your face
I long to tell you of my love, dear one
With a fierceness that clutches my heart like a summer wind.�
�
Susannah stared at him, speechless, searching for something nice to say about his dreadful poem, when suddenly a man’s hand slid in front of her and gave her a glass of champagne. Susannah turned and saw Race standing so close to her she could feel the warmth of his body.
He smiled, and her heart fluttered excitedly. All her earlier frustrations melted away.
“Excuse us, Snellingly,” Race said and ushered Susannah away from the poet.
“Thank you for rescuing me. He was reading me a poem that was positively dreadful.”
“I’ve heard his poetry and I agree. But it seems you have been busy tonight. You were talking with Spyglass.”
She gave him a teasing smile. “Well, you know better than I what Lord Chesterfield said about ‘while the cat is away.’”
Race moved closer to her, and in a low voice said, “The mice will play. And yes, thanks to my grandmother, I know Lord Chesterfield’s poppycock better than I know the back of my hand, and that saying did not come from him, but I do think it fits you perfectly right now.”
“It’s so easy to attribute everything to him, don’t you think?”
“Yes, whether he said it or not.” Race took a sip of his champagne. “Now, tell me, what did Spyglass have to say?”
“As it happens, the captain told me something very interesting. He said this would probably be his last party as he will be leaving London soon.”
The humor left Race’s face, and his eyes narrowed. “That could mean he is already preparing the Golden Pearl to set sail.”
“My thoughts exactly. Mr. Bickerman is going to have to make haste with his plans if the pearls are on his ship, as we suspect.”
“I’ll talk to Bickerman later tonight and tell him about this, if he doesn’t already know about Spyglass’s plans. He’s keeping a tight watch on the ship. But don’t worry, Susannah, I’ll see to it that Captain Spyglass’s ship doesn’t leave port until it has been thoroughly searched, even if I have to get the Thames Police to detain it. Now, I don’t want you worrying about any of this. Bickerman will take care of everything. Understood?”