Chapter 11

In a dark dock warehouse in Rotherhithe, Nathaniel slipped unnoticed through the crowd of men who were cheering and drunk on strong ale as they bartered and wagered on the match ahead. Nathaniel wore a hooded cloak, conscious of not being noticed until he reached the rear of the warehouse where he would find his second and the man who organized these bouts awaiting his arrival.

"Nathan, where the devil have you been?" a gruff voice barked as Nathaniel entered the curtained off area. Sawdust covered the ground, and a few men lolled in chairs, their bruises and cuts being tended to by burly men with little understanding of medicine.

Nathaniel shed his cloak. "I had some business to attend to first. I told you yesterday."

"I hope you're not plannin' to fight in that," the man, Arnold Merryweather, remarked, eyeing Nathaniel's elegant attire. There had been no time for Nathaniel to return home to Mayfair to change his garments, nor had he wanted to invite the suspicions of his mother.

Nathaniel began to remove his fancy clothes. "Of course not. Do you think this is my first boxing match?"

"Certainly isn't." Arnold laughed, his scarred and grizzled face twisting into something like a happy grin. "There's a lot staked on you tonight, so you'd better not get distracted like you did the other night. Thought it was the end of you—your fightin' career, anyway."

Nathaniel took off his boots until all he wore were his trousers. He liked to fight barefoot and had learned long ago that a shirt of any kind gave the opponent an advantage, allowing them to grab and yank. "I told you, I was tired. I told you I should not box that night, but you insisted because you had debts to pay."

"Aye, I did. You made me a small fortune that night, even though I was half-certain you were about to get knocked out." Arnold passed Nathaniel a pot of dark paste made from ash and tallow. It smelled vile, but it was the only thing that could disguise Nathaniel's identity which was becoming more and more prominent, thanks to his mother's meddling. He had tried a mask before, but his opponent had ripped it off. So, it had to be the paste.

Nathaniel began to smear the paste over his eyes, covering the top half of his face. "You should learn to have more faith in me, Merryweather. Have I let you down in all the years I have been doing this?"

All the years I was forced to do this, he neglected to add, for though it had begun as an involuntary sort of punishment, it had become the only thing in his life that kept his mind clear. Or, rather, the only thing that kept his doubts, insecurities, fears, and lingering pain from creeping in. He might have been a mediocre Duke, but he was a champion in the boxing ring.

"Not yet," Arnold said, allowing Nathaniel's second, Bill, to take over.

Bill Hodge was a withered shrub of a man with spiky white hair, a face that was a mess of wrinkles and liver spots, and a mouth perpetually twisted as if he was puffing on a pipe, but he was someone Nathaniel had come to trust—even if he used to be his father's closest acquaintance.

"Not thinkin' about that woman again, are you?" Bill asked as he set about rubbing Nathaniel's tight muscles. Somehow, he always knew which ones were stiff and sore without Nathaniel having to say a word.

Nathaniel rolled his eyes. "I was not thinking about her the other night. That is not why my opponent struck me. My foot slipped because I was tired and because the floor was slippery. It is quite simple and has nothing to do with Leah."

"Aye, and I was born this morn with a silver spoon in me mouth," Bill remarked, flashing a knowing look with his scrunched black eyes, squinted permanently after years of sailing.

Nathaniel had to laugh. "I promise, I was not thinking about her."

"You wouldn't have mentioned her to me at all if you weren't thinkin' about her half the time," Bill observed. "Not that I mind. I think it's good for you, truth be told. You shouldn't be doin' this no more. You should be settlin' down and havin' yourself a family. I never did understand why your pa brought you here when you were a lad, and I've kept me mouth shut all these years, but you might as well leave it all behind while you're still a champion."

Nathaniel shook his head, smearing the last of the black paste across the bridge of his nose. "I am not grateful to my father for many things, but this is one of them. Besides, I have something I need to buy, and it cannot be bought unless I win."

"What? I thought your coffers were brimmin', and not just ‘cause of what you make here," Bill said, giving Nathaniel's shoulders a pinch.

Nathaniel smiled. "Never you mind about the state of my coffers. Yes, I could purchase what I need to with my father's fortune, but I would prefer to purchase it with the money I have made with my own efforts."

"And you can't just buy a ship or somethin' like so many of your sort are doin'?"

"I have business ventures, Bill, but… I want to earn this money tonight, my way," Nathaniel replied. He could not explain it and did not think Bill would understand even if he could explain it.

Bill shrugged. "Then don't be thinkin' about that woman, else you'll be in the sawdust faster than they can ring the bell. Think of everythin' you're angry about instead as you've always done."

"How do you know that?" Nathaniel frowned at his second and longtime friend.

Bill tapped the side of his nose. "It's like I said, I'm not keepin' me mouth shut anymore." He paused. "I was once like you, Nathan. I had a lot of rage in me heart and nothin' could quiet it ‘cept this. Do you know how that ended for me?"

"With a broken nose and a full coin purse?" Nathaniel teased, but the old man seemed entirely serious.

"It ended with me bein' alone, no wife nor children to speak of, kneelin' in the dust next to you, worryin' that you're goin' to get beaten black and blue," Bill replied. "At least I've got the excuse of havin' no other choice, but you've got choices, Nathan. Don't want you makin' the wrong one."

Nathaniel sighed. "Do not worry for me, Bill. I am not yet thirty."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Nathaniel winked. "That is the year that I shall relinquish all this, for, as I have been told so often, that is the year when I shall become weak and worthless and decrepit."

"What a lump of old pigswill," Bill scoffed. "I was at me prime at thirty, seein' things your young mind couldn't imagine aboard the Ruby. It's forty when the bones start to creak, and they'll start creakin' all the quicker if you keep fightin'."

"That is somewhat comforting," Nathaniel said. "Or, perhaps, you have just given me an excuse to continue for another twelve years."

Bill pulled a face and helped Nathaniel to his feet as another fellow entered the curtained area—one of Arnold's men, come to fetch the next combatants. Beyond the curtains, the crowd cheered and chanted for the victor, the sound filling Nathaniel with a peculiar sense of excitement. It always had, ever since he was eleven and thrown into the ring to battle through his first fight for the entertainment of his father's friends.

"Remember, don't be thinkin' about this Leah lass," Bill warned, rubbing in a patch of black paste that Nathaniel had missed. "She'll not think you nearly so handsome if you end up with a broken nose or worse. It's a miracle you haven't had it punched out of place yet."

Nathaniel pinched the bridge of his nose. "It is made of iron, Bill."

"Aye, well, iron dents if you hit it hard enough," Bill replied, chuckling as they headed out to the ring.

The moment the crowd set eyes upon Nathaniel, they erupted into a fresh fervor, howling and applauding and slapping one another on the back. This was the fight that could make a man rich or destitute, this was the fight they had all been waiting for, and considering Nathaniel had been late in leaving the dinner party, their patience had worn down to a nub of pure, rowdy vigor, like hunting dogs penned in while a fox ran back and forth past the fence, taunting them.

"The Highwayman! The Highwayman! The Highwayman!" they bellowed, but the noise would not draw any unwanted constables; they turned a blind eye to such things or watched and made a wager themselves.

Nathaniel ducked into the makeshift ring and sat on the stool in his corner, awaiting his opponent. As he sat there, he soaked up the cheers of the crowd and the nickname he had carried with him for years: The Highwayman. It was not merely because of the painted mask he wore, but also, it was because the men would say, "He can rob you blind in a night or give you a bevy of riches." Despite his history as a rarely defeated fighter, men were still foolish enough to bet against him.

A few moments later, his opponent entered the ring—a younger man, perhaps twenty, with fiery red hair and skin so pale that Nathaniel needed to shield his eyes from the glare. He was skinny, too, with a hunger in his eyes that gave Nathaniel pause. The desperate ones were always the most dangerous, eager to make a fortune and a name for themselves and to pull their families out of poverty. In the boxing ring, it did not matter where a man came from; anyone could be king.

"For your hands," Bill said, hurriedly wrapping Nathaniel's hands in thin bandages.

In the opposite corner, the newcomer's second did the same. It would be an interesting fight, and for a moment, Nathaniel thought about letting the skinny boy win. But then, Leah popped into his head and all the events that they were to experience together in the coming weeks. It would not serve him well if he had any visible bruises, for he had only just evaded suspicion surrounding the one on his temple.

I must fight my best, he knew, thinking of what he hoped to purchase with his winnings. Besides, the skinny redhead would win other fights, and there were plenty other men in the crowd who were relying upon Nathaniel winning that night so that they could feed their families.

"Gentlemen," the referee said, beckoning for the two men to meet in the middle of the ring, "let us keep this clean and fair. No kicks, no blows below the belt, no biting, no scratching, no poking of the eyes. When your opponent surrenders, back to your corners."

Nathaniel nodded as did his opponent.

"Let's give them an exciting match," Nathaniel proclaimed, speaking in a rougher voice than normal to add to his disguise while offering his fists to bump against those of his adversary.

"Aye, one they won't soon forget." The redheaded man bumped his fists back in return, and with a grin, they waited for the referee to start the match.

In that moment, the years of experience set to work, his mind ticking swiftly, taking in as much as possible about his opponent before the boxing began properly. The redhead could not stand still, shuffling from foot to foot, twisting his hips this way and that. He was going to be quick, Nathaniel guessed, using speed rather than brute force.

"Begin!" the referee shouted, jumping out of the way as the two fighters clashed like gladiators of old, transforming into a blur of fists and fury as the crowd cheered on.

And though Nathaniel had promised himself that he would not think of Leah—for this was no place for her, not even in his mind—he found her pushing her way to the forefront of his thoughts, replacing the anger that usually spurred him on. He saw her beautiful face, her worried eyes, felt the silky softness of her glove against his hand, squeezing reassurance, and fought as he had never fought before.

I cannot embarrass her,he repeated over and over, his fists flying. I will not embarrass her.

Soon enough, his thoughts turned to Jonathan instead and the shame he had brought down upon Leah. Nathaniel thought of Leah standing alone at an unknown altar, waiting for a man who was not coming. He thought of her head whipping around at every sound that went past the church, hoping her betrothed had merely been delayed. He thought of her tears as she was forced to leave the church, knowing she had been jilted, and her sorrow at seeing the awful tales that the scandal sheets must have written about her. Last of all, Nathaniel thought of Jonathan's smug satisfaction and cruel taunts, even now, and let a different flavor of anger put power behind his fists and speed in his legs.

Your cruel victory ends here, Jonathan, he vowed, seeing that wretched fellow in the face of his opponent, wishing it really was Jonathan. For though he still barely knew Leah, Nathaniel could not abide bullies, and though he could never give due punishment to the greatest bully he had ever known, he could punish a few others in their stead.

Indeed, he had a feeling that a new condition was about to be added to the contract that he and Leah had made. A secret condition that only he knew about. From that moment until the season ended, Nathaniel intended to make Jonathan so afraid of coming close to Leah that, even when the pair parted ways in the "romantic" sense, the cretin would never dare to say an unkind word to her, ever again.

He could spare Leah any further torment in a way no one had spared him.