Chapter 28

CHAPTER 28

“ T he ballroom?” Bridget asked in shock at the footman of a sprawling estate in Mayfair mansion. “Can a prizefighting bout be held here?”

“For the major patron of the Circuit, yes ma’am,” the footman bowed. “Now, please.”

“It means the riffraff is excluded,” Baron Thornbury muttered as they descended to the ballroom. “The masses have had their turn, now it is the gentlemen’s.”

“If it weren’t for His Grace’s generosity, I daresay I would be counted in such riffraff,” Adam said humorously, brushing a hand down his jacket.

The ballroom was extensive and had seating all around the ring, made with mahogany posts and red velvet ropes, while the bet-takers were in proper suits behind desks and with ledgers. Waiters, in gray and red livery, passed by with glasses of champagne, punch, whisky, and other spirits for the guests.

“The master says the reigning champion Rollo Sampson will take the match, and it will be a fight that will go down in the history books,” Viscount Sutton said. “Someone might be carried off here in a gurney.”

“ What ?” Bridget gasped in a wavering voice. “You mean—”

“God forbid,” Lightholder muttered. “The crazy bastard is up against a Goliath.”

“My coin is still on Arlington,” Sutton shrugged, nodding to the bet-takers, “Anyone with me?”

Bridget pulled a coin purse from her reticule. “One hundred pounds on William,” and when the brows went up, she blushed. “Erm, Mr. Lane has met me halfway. It’s not all mine.”

“You know the match must be significant when the valet has wagered two years wages on one night,” Thornbury laughed. “But we shall see how it goes. My money is still on our dear duke though—”

Just then, the opponent came in; he was a beast of a man, over six and a half feet tall and with a single thigh the size of William’s torso, all of that weight in muscle and ham-sized fists.

“—or not.” Thornbury’s eyes widened. “Dear god, he truly is Goliath.”

Anxiously, Bridget looked to the other door where William was bound to emerge. When he did appear in his black ensemble and black mask covering his head, save his eyes, he did not look anything like what she had imagined.

The loud chatter and bragging hullabaloo grew quiet compared to the havoc within Bridget’s heart. This was all William wanted; all he desired in life, to come out as the champion for something he had truly earned.

The moderator called the crowd to order and Bridget sat, barely hearing the bet-taker yell, “No more bets, no more bets.”

“Welcome lords and ladies,” the moderator began with an unearthly boom. “This is the ultimate match of The Circuit! Both contenders have fought hard to get to this point, between them eliminating six other competitors, and those competitors, twenty-four. For your pleasure, we have Rollo Sampson, the reigning champion, and the new contender, the Masked Marauder.”

Bridget’s fingers clenched around her skirts—she did not know that William assumed a pseudonym when he battled. William craned his neck to look at his opponent, his fists curling by his side.

A sharp gong reverberated through the hall, followed by, “Now begins… round one!

William did not feel steady.

Even while standing on steady ground, he felt unstable—thoughts utterly erratic. He had to force himself to concentrate, to have a plan and execute it impeccably if he had a prayer of surviving this match, much less winning it.

Stay in control. Most of all, don't get knocked down in the first damned round.

Most of William’s bouts in this Circuit had lasted fewer than ten rounds. Due to the plans he made in advance with studying his opponent and using a variety of defense tactics, he'd managed to escape any major injuries… so far.

His gut told him this night would be different.

Sampson’s trump move is two jabs to the gut, a feint to the left and punch to the right temple. It has taken out more men than you can count.

Hands up around his face, William bounced smoothly on his feet, working on ingrained memory rather than a plan; a plan he had narrowed down to one word; survive .

Sampson, for a large brute, was quick on his feet and shot out a testing fist that William luckily dodged.

Every moment, you must decide whether to go left or right, to dodge or to weave, to duck or to lunge. Flawlessly.

The whistle of air by his cheek jolted William out of his head and he barely dodged the second thundering punch that would have shattered his shoulder, ducking out and grimacing when the man snorted with mocking laughter.

“Are you already counting the pounds, masked man?” he taunted in a low bellow. “You will not get by me to get it.”

It was high time for William to get into the game, and with the ferocity of a jaguar, he agilely sidestepped the man who was coming in like a raging bull, before landing two heavy jabs to Sampson’s side, though they didn’t seem to make a mark. Rather, William felt like he had punched a brick wall.

“What was that?” Sampson laughed. “A fly? A gnat? Aren’t you supposed to be the best?”

I’m a murderer.

A heavy fist flew into the side of his face, and William floundered back against the rope, staggering to keep his balance. Before he could get his bearings, another punch landed on his stomach, causing him to hawk up bile.

“Prohibited,” the umpire called. “Round to Sampson but no point, Marauder is on the ropes.”

Pushing himself up with a grimace, William pressed the tips of his fingers to his temple, hoping he was not bleeding while trying to piece his next attack together. Sampson was sure to knock him out by round two if he did not put up a challenge. His eyes flicked over Sampson’s shoulder and…

His stomach lurched. Bridget . She was standing now, her blue gown a shimmering refuge of color in the dark, her eyes wide, her lips pressed tightly in fear for him.

With newfound grit and lightning speed, he went in low, his fist connecting with Samson’s midsection. It was like trying to crack marble with a hairpin, and pain jolted through his arm. He ignored it, following through with alternating jabs, finding the soft spots, and exploiting the breaks in his defenses—only for a wicking punch to send him down, his head smacking the parlor floor.

Everything went black.