Chapter 29

CHAPTER 29

“ D amn it,” Viscount Sutton hissed as William went down.

Bridget could hardly hear the murmurs in the crowds as her heart was pounding in her ears. William was down and there was no sign of him getting back up… but as she counted, so meticulously, so slowly, his shoulders began to flex, and he got to his knees.

Relief washed through her as a man handed him a bottle of water and a slice of lime. She bit her lip and fretted; that large brute could severely damage him, and she did not care if he won the money or the title, all she wanted was for him to live.

“He’s distracted,” Baron Thornbury remarked.

“I think so too,” Viscount Sutton affirmed, his shrewd eyes raking over William. “His head is not in the game, but what is taking his concentration away?”

She watched powerlessly as he wiped the sweat away from his brows and leaned an ear to the man talking to him before he got back to his feet and walked over to Sampson.

The next two rounds went by in a blur, with very little action and mostly graceful maneuvers from William to evade any further shots to his head, all while Bridget held her breath in apprehension. Before long, the gong for the fourth round rang out, and by some miracle, they were tied at two each.

“The lummox is slowing down,” Adam murmured. “I suppose he is more brawn than anything else. He might have planned on taking the match in under five rounds.”

Yes. William is quicker. That much is certain—

But a sudden blow to his stomach had William winded, worse than any he had delivered to Sampson.

Bridget could not take it anymore and, propriety be damned, gathered her skirts and ran to an umpire.

“Ma’am—”

“I need to speak with him,” she told the man barring her way. “Please, I need a moment.”

“I don’t think so.”

“I’m his wife,” she said, strangled. “Please, if he dies in that ring—”

The man’s jaw was tight, but he looked over his shoulder and spotted William clinging to the ropes again, chest heaving. He turned back to Bridget and said, “You have ten seconds.”

Ducking under his arm, she rushed to William and grasped his hand; he blinked dazedly. “Bridget?”

“You don’t have to win. Just come back to me,” she whispered. “Come back alive. I believe in you, and I love you no matter what.”

Knowing her time was up, she pulled away, but he held on to her hand as if needing an extra moment; his throat worked with a thick swallow. A heartbeat later, she drew away again and regained her seat, heart pounding and ignoring the looks shot her way before training her gaze on William once more.

Twiddling her ring, Bridget held her breath as William stood, rolled, turned to her, and sluggishly plucked the mask from his face.

A collective gasp rang through the room as the Masked Marauder was now found out to be the Duke of Arlington.

Another thing for the papers. Gentlemen of the peerage do not prizefight.

He had his fists up and the match started again, fists flying and the sixth round went to William, while she realized Sampson’s bulk only had him moving in direct lines, he did not bend and weave like William; something fully utilized to his advantage.

As William danced around the lummox, Sampson's punches slowed, and his footwork lost momentum. William looked like a renewed fire alive from its smolder, delivering quick, pounding blows to the torso, side, and abdomen that were finally beginning to have a conspicuous effect on Sampson.

“We might be getting somewhere,” Baron Thornbury murmured in awe, sliding an eye to Bridget. “Whatever you said to him worked.”

William leaped away from a blow that came after a feint and a swift hook sent the man to his knees.

“Round to Marauder,” the umpire said. “Five to three. Final round.”

“I will grind you to the ground, maggot,” Sampson spat.

With a snarl, Rollo launched at him with a hammering fist and William dodged the blinding blow, and with blistering speed, uppercut Sampson’s midsection to throw him off balance, flung a cross to his ribs, and with a mustering roar, sunk a left hook into Sampson’s temple, sending him reeling to the ground.

Thunderous applause came from the audience and Bridget clutched at her heart in relief.

“He won,” she swallowed. “He won.”

“Yes, he did,” Adam mumbled, taken back. “Because of what you said to him. What did you say to light the fire under him?”

“Only that I loved him no matter what,” Bridget said.

Something ran over Adam’s face, but she ignored it and turned as William gently slid out from under the ropes and headed to the room beyond, the man who had assisted him the whole time helping him inside.

Glances were flickering over her person as everyone knew she was William’s wife; while they ranged from inquisitive to judgmental, she ignored them all. The one thing she cared about was to know William was all right and all she craved was returning home with him.

“Your Grace,” Colin said, patting her on the back to get her attention before handing her a pouch. “For your bet, you have earned a thousand pounds.”

Her mouth dropped and her eyes flicked to him. “W-what?”

“I, myself, placed six thousand pounds on him,” Colin grinned while reaching for his champagne. “My winnings plus an initial stake added up to fifty-five thousand pounds. Handsome, isn’t it?”

Still shocked, she gazed at the pouch. It was more money than she had ever touched in her life. The room was busy as bets were paid off and more champagne flowed in the room, but she kept her eyes on the door, waiting with bated breath for William to emerge. And when he did, dressed, large cloth pressed into the cut over his eyebrow, he only had eyes for her.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” the umpire announced, grabbing William’s arm and holding it up. “The winner of the final match and of the fifteenth season of The Circuit is none other than the Masked Marauder!”

They presented him with a handsome silver cup and an equally handsome purse of a hundred thousand pounds, and while members of the ton wanted to speak to him, William barely gave them a second look as he crossed the room and gathered her in his arms.

Relieved, the world disappeared, and all she saw was him.

"I won," he muttered hoarsely, with love in his eyes.

“I knew you would,” she sighed, her face tucked under his neck. “Are you ready to go home now?”

“I want nothing more.”

The groan that left his mouth as he slipped into the warm bath made her chest tremble.

“Are you grievously injured?” she asked in uneasiness.

“No,” he dropped his head to the towel behind him. “Bumps and bruises. I may need a day or two and jars of salve to recover… but I think I will be alright.”

“You made Lane a very happy man this evening,” she replied with a smile. “And I have enough money to cater to my godmother for at least 3 years.”

“If it was not for you and those words at the end,” he swallowed, “I fear I would have lost it all.”

“Baron Thornbury supposed that you were distracted,” she mentioned in passing. Perching on the stool next to the tub, she plucked a bottle of soap from a ledge and poured a handful in her hand, then lathered it into his hair.

He moaned as she massaged his scalp. “I—it's nothing, my sweet, forget it. Keep on, please.”

She worked at his scalp, using the pads of her fingers to stimulate his skin, then, after rinsing his hair, moved to unknit the tight muscles along his neck and shoulders. Using the heels of her hands, she got the tight knots out and slid her fingers up the back of his neck again—only to find William was half-asleep.

“William,” she stirred him. “Please tell me you have the strength to get out of this tub because I do not have the strength to lift you out.”

He laughed, “I’ll be up.”

Gently, he stood and stepped out of the tub, dried off in a towel before donning a silk banyan, then fell into her bed. She believed he was off to sleep before his head even hit the pillow.

She brushed a damp curl off his forehead, then kissed his cheek, and when her touch failed to rouse him, she left him to sleep and went to tidy up the bathroom. By midnight, she disrobed and joined him, happy that he had won, but happier that he was there by her side.

William was still slumbering peacefully when Bridget left for breakfast and Lucy was pouring her tea when Lane entered the room, bearing the tray for the sideboards with a newspaper tucked under his arm.

“Good morning, Your Grace. Are you having a good morning?” He asked, rather jovially. “And is His Grace doing well?”

“He is, just exhausted and sore,” Bridget replied, her eyes dropping to the paper under his arm. “If that paper has a headline with the words Duke Arlington is a Gentleman Prizefighter, or anything along those lines, please burn it.”

Lane casually tossed the paper into the fireplace and dusted his hands off while a footman came to the door. “Your Grace, there is a Baron Howell who seeks your attendance. Should I let him up?”

She nodded, “Please.”

While Lane fixed the sideboard, Adam came into the room and bowed. “Your Grace,” he said, lips twisting. “I feel so strange addressing you as that. All this time I have held you as my younger sister.”

“In every sense of the word, I am,” Bridget hugged him. “I’m surprised you are still in town.”

“Something you said last night got me thinking,” he chimed back. “…And there is something I need to show you, which I fear cannot wait any longer. It is not far, so would you please consider taking a few dozen minutes out of your day to accompany me?”

Unsure, Bridget looked over her shoulder, as if asking Lane his permission, but the manservant was impassive, so Bridget decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. “Lucy, will you join me, please? I’ll go with you, Adam, just give me a few minutes.”

She returned to her room and gazed at William, laying on his side, as he slumbered on. Deciding not to disturb him, she drew on a coat, a leghorn hat, slipped a few coins into her reticule, and then headed out. Lucy was waiting at the door, her dark coat the same shade as her maids dress, and together, they mounted the carriage Adam had waiting.

“Where are we going, Adam?”

“If you don’t mind, I believe it would be more… proper to show you,” he replied, his eyes flickering to her maid. “Please, indulge me.”

The buildings of the city passed by as the countryside took over. The more they traveled, the more worry and concern grew in her heart. What was Adam going to show her, and more importantly—where?

The cemetery was the last place she expected.

“Please, follow me,” he inhaled sharply before stepping out. He took her and Lucy’s arms and they headed off down the main lane, heading into the denser part of the cemetery, where the pauper graves were pushed tight together.

He stopped at one, a simple grave, the dirt mound not even pressed tight yet, and motioned to the simple wooden cross stuck in it.

With a furrowed brow, she slowly followed his line of gesture to the engraved name on the carved stone— Frederick Wycliffe —and collapsed.

Adam grasped her inches before she hit the ground, but her piercing scream shattered the morning quiet. Disbelief and agony wracked through her and she grabbed at Adam, her nails biting into his skin.

“No—no—” she choked, “ No ! Pl-please God no!” Tears flooded her eyes and were rivers down her face as she looked where her brother lay. Chest burning and vision blurry from tears, she collapsed in on herself.

Her chest was hollow with grief and sorrow, her limbs numb and fragile. Her mind flooded in and out of conscience.

“I am so sorry, Bridget, I am so sorry you had to find out this way but if I had told you, I know you wouldn’t have believed me.”

Chest heaving, she pressed her face into his neck and held on to his shoulder, the sobs now dry but still as aggrieved as the moment she’d laid eyes on the grave.

“H-how…” her throat was rough. “How did he die?”

“Bridget, I don’t want to—”

“Tell me!”

Adam sighed. “To regain the fortune he lost and to pay off his debts, he took up prizefighting. About a month ago, he got into the ring with the Masked Marauder… and collapsed,” Adam murmured hollowly. “I was there, Bridget, I saw it. William delivered a blow to his chest, and he died, right there, in the ring.”

This time, on top of the disbelief at Frederick’s passing, she could not dare believe that William had a hand in her brother’s death. “You’re lying!”

His expression was painful. “No. I wish I was, but I am not.”

Still, she shook her head viciously, “I don’t believe you! He—he wouldn’t do that, not to me, not— not when I asked him to save Frederick. He wouldn’t—he would not kill him!”

“I don’t think he did it on purpose,” Adam replied softly. “I wondered if he had told you, but soon, I realized he had not, so I decided to do it for him. I am so sorry, Bridget.”

Still firmly unbelieving, she weakly got to her feet. “This—this cannot be true. I need to ask him about this to his face. I’ll know if he lies to me. I must return home.”

While guiding her back to the carriage, he asked, “What will you do when he tells you the truth?”

“I—” she faltered, heart twisting at knowing she loved William, but could not square up with the thought of him betraying her so cruelly. “…I don’t know.”