Chapter 8

CHAPTER 8

E ven sequestered away in a little room by himself, William could hear the roar of the crowd assembled for his first match. Bracing his hands on the edge of the rickety table, he gazed at himself in the dusty brass mirror.

A gentleman boxer was unheard of in the ton but no one—aside from his two friends, manager, and valet— knew about his secret identity.

Whatever the case, he found himself immune to social scrutiny. It wasn’t as if anyone saw him as a gentleman, after all. All they saw was the image he made sure they needed to see— that of a charming, arrogant, and indolent rake.

Now, though, when he saw himself, shirtless and clad in leather breeches and boots with his hands wrapped in white strips, he didn’t know which persona he preferred.

“Arlington,” Silas strode into the room. “It is nearly time. Are you ready?”

Pulling away from the mirror, he reached for the leather hood with the eyeholes cut out, and tugged it over his head, and tied it. “I’m ready.”

“Remember the strategy,” Silas said. “They’re starting you off with a brawler and not a real boxer but beware, Brooks is flashy but still a brute, so you remember to keep your guard up. He will pander to the crowd before delivering—”

“Uppercuts, I know,” William nodded. “It's his signature move.”

“He’s rung more than a few bells with that uppercut,” Silas added. “When he goes high, don’t go low, because that second hook will come out of nowhere to clock you in the sternum.”

“I’m aware.” William felt his heartbeat increase. “Let’s begin. I am eager to finish this battle before round five.”

“Well, power to you on that,” Silas grunted. “Just get through it alive, man.”

Though the match had not yet begun, the roar of the rabble was already deafening as he left the room and headed out into the night air. The mob on a corner off James Street in Covent Garden was larger than any he'd seen at his previous fights.

It was the best location as the Bow Street chaps hardly bothered with Covent Garden, deeming it a place unworthy of their attention as Spitalfields, Whitechapel, and other slums in Greater London.

Four stakes roped off the eight-foot square where the match would be held, and surrounding the ring were men, bet-takers with boxes of money and books open, pens flying. Beyond them, men—holding bottles of Blue Ruin and rum—were spreading as far as the eye could see.

“Move yer asses!” Silas hollered, his cockney accent loud and snapping. “The champion is coming through! Move!”

With practiced precision, he avoided the grubby hands grabbing at him and ducked under ropes to stand inside the ring. With the time handed to him, he took stock of the ring, the crowd, and the line of dark carriages in the far-off and sucked in a breath.

The Masked Marauder had no enemies that would try to assassinate him.

The Duke of Arlington did.

“The challenger approaches!” Someone else screamed out and like Moses standing in front of the Red Sea, the crowd parted for Brooks to come through.

The man was a beast; over six feet tall and with at least four stones of burly muscles over William. Before he entered the ring, Brooks raised his ham-sized fists, punching the air, and the crowd erupted in cheers and screams.

“All show, no substance,” William muttered.

Brawlers did not know the same technique wrestlers did, they were really the bottom of the pole when it came to prizefighting, and they employed brute force more than any strategy.

There was strategy in the punches, strategy in his breathing and footwork, and most importantly, strategy in knowing how to draw out a match and when to end it.

“Look at this mongrel!” Brooks shouted. “Before the night is done, I will have him collared and leashed.”

Resisting from rolling his eyes, William rested his arms on the ropes, flexing his tightly bound fingers, and assessed where best to land his blows. He noticed Brooks flexing shoulder, as if there was a tense knot there, and how his left ankle had a small limp. Was the man injured?

“Any reply, Masked Man?” Brooks guffawed.

William looked up. “The only dog I see here is you. You will be groveling by the end.”

He's all brute strength and no skill. You can take him.

Growling, Brooks jumped into the ring, cracking his knuckles and approaching William. “At the end, you will have my foot on the back of your head. I’ll rip that mask off yer face and show everyone who you truly are.”

“We’ll see about that,” William flexed his shoulder, then gave Silas the eyes. “Start the match—” then he looked at Brooks, “—and may the best brute win.”

“Black and blue does not look good on you,” Andrew said as he handed William a congratulatory glass of whiskey before sitting in the other armchair. “At least it’s not on your face.”

“That would be a tragedy.” William pressed the cold crystal to the side of his face while he flexed his smarting shoulder. It was the one firm blow Brooks had laid on him with those ham-fists before William had unleashed his timed plan to take the man down. “Have I told you, I have insured my face?”

With Brooks being such a lummox, he had little versatility or agility, and William stayed light on his feet, ducking blows and landing his own in at the man’s weak points. It was not looked down upon to fight dirty in this arena and William used Barnes’s disadvantages to his advantage.

In three rounds, he had Brooks up against the ropes, and by the fifth, the man’s bluster proved to be all steam. A clock to Brooks’ temple sent him down to the floor and that time, he stayed down.

“No, you did not,” Andrew scoffed. “What did you earn this time?”

“A thousand and a hundred pounds altogether,” William replied. “Enough to cancel a debt of mine that I need gone.”

“Are you at any level concerned that you might seriously injure yourself or die?” Andrew asked.

“I’ve been on death’s door before,” William shrugged. “I am not that afraid.”

Leaning in, Andrew furrowed his brows. The light from the waning sunset through the window glinted over his cufflinks and the pocket watch’s chain.

“I knew you were a hellhound for years but being so blasé with your life concerns me, William. Where is this… ennui coming from? Do you not want to have a stable life? A relationship, a wife? Or is bed hopping the only intimacy you desire?”

Swirling his drink, William replied, “I have never lived a conventional life, Sutton, and moreover, I never wanted a conventional life. It's boring, it’s tedium, it's routine, and I have had enough of that from Eton and Oxford. And coming from one rake to another, is that not a tad hypocritical.”

“Just be glad my escapades have hidden all of yours,” William laughed. “They were all so agog with my jumping out of windows and scaling balconies to look at you entreating three women at Vauxhall.”

Sighing, Andrew sat back. “I am… deeply concerned for you, old boy, you know that.”

“I only have myself to blame,” William lifted a shoulder. “You know what they say about hitting rock-bottom.”

“I do,” Andrew nodded. “But is this the best way to go up, I wonder?”

“Meaning what?” he scoffed. “I won’t be plying myself out to a rich heiress to get blunt to shore up the hole I have dug for myself. A man fixes his mistakes when he realizes he has made them. A boy’s response is to have someone else fix them for him. I am the furthest thing from a boy.”

Rubbing the back of his neck, Andrew added, “I have told you before, I can loan you the money—”

“And I have told you before, I need to fix my other debt before I get myself back into one.” William took the last sip of his only glass and sat it on the coffee table. “It is not pride, as I know you are going to accuse me of parading around, but it is simply common sense.”

Reaching for the bottle, Andrew poured another glass and lifted the bottle, wordlessly asking William if he wanted another. Waving his hand, William pressed his fingertips into the bruise and knew a long bath was scheduled for him later that night.

“When is the next match?” Andrew asked.

“In six days,” William replied. “At least word has gotten out now that I am a contender for the Circuit’s grand prize, and I know the harder competition will come my way. Along with it the better coin. Brooks was a brawler, a novice if you will, and seasoned boxers will be coming out of the woodwork.”

“You must be exhausted,” Andrew canted his head. “I will leave you be. I cannot imagine brawling, much less bare-knuckling another man.”

“That’s because the hardest work you do is scribbling your name on an investment account,” William laughed.

“You forget that I fence,” Andrew smirked. “It is a gentleman’s sport.”

“Swinging a foil around is not awe-inspiring,” he scoffed. “Nor would I bet a ten-pound note on a match to see two men dance around each other.”

“And that—” Andrew chuckled, getting to his feet and reaching for his jacket. “—is my cue to leave, before I call you every disrespectful name in the book.”

“Wouldn’t be anything I have not heard before.” William stood as well, moving to his room. “Please don’t call tomorrow, I will be comatose.”

After Andrew left, William made for his room and called for a bath while gently reclining on an armchair. The moment he closed his eyes, another face bloomed on the back of his lids mademoiselle mystérieux , her eyes vibrant, and her mouth ripe and trembling—she'd been enticing beyond words.

His instincts told him he had only scratched the surface of who the angelic Miss was. She was like a rare pearl just shucked from the ocean, a clean, unsullied, innocent gem on the inside, though her outer shell was hardened.

Why?

William knew he would have ample time to dissuade the girl from hanging her hat on Hansen—thank God he had honed his seductive wiles a long time ago, she would fall, he knew that.

But what happens after that?

He avoided that question like the plague.

Ten minutes later, with the help of his valet, Oliver, he sunk into the copper tub full of steaming water and relaxing lavender and sage oil, another tip his mentor had taught him.

The hot water penetrated his muscles and pulled out a sigh of satisfaction. His eyes grew heavy-lidded as the soothing scent infused his nostrils and the oils loosened the knots in his back and legs. Resting his head on the rolled-up towel behind him, he grimaced at knowing that a brawler had taken this much out of him.

Long mornings at Gentleman Jacks loomed over him, but he knew it was too late to pull out of this competition.

“Pardon me, Your Grace,” Oliver Lane knocked and entered. “A young lad is here to see you. Says his name is Ralph.”

“Oh, Ralphie,” William rolled his neck and winced at the cracks. “An intrepid young man who vacillates between honest work and whatever is on the fringes of society that will pay him but not get him sent to Tyburn Tree. Show him in please, and order the maids to keep an eye on the silver.”

When the lad, not more than twelve or thirteen, came in, he was sporting a tailored jacket, waistcoat, and breeches, the suit he used to pickpocket on Mayfair Street. Looking like that, the urchin could pass for the son of a well-to-do family.

“What news do you have, Ralfie?”

“I thought ye’d give me a better job than following a dowdy fob around town an’ spy on his mail.” The lad’s top lip lifted in scorn. “Anyway, it seems that the guv had got ‘imself an invitation to a singalong at Almacks to meet a lady next week, Friday night. I suppose it’s the same genteel lady you told me to be on the lookout for.”

“And was she there?”

“Nah,” he shrugged, “Ne’er seen a lady nowhere.”

“And where did you get this information about the sing-a-long from, Ralfie?” William asked.

“From a scullery girl named Anna,” Ralfie’s grin was wolfish. “She’s sweet on me, ya’know.”

“I’d imagine,” William’s smile was wry. “When did you say this singalong is happening?”

“I dunno,” he shrugged. “I’d ask Almack's that.”

“Anything else?” he asked the boy, “Or is extra information another penny?”

“Not this time,” Ralphie shrugged. “Y’eve been good to me mi’lord, so this is another tuppence of information with no fee attached. Anna told me the letter came from Lady Eleanor Pembroke’s estate.”

“I see,” William sat up. “Lane, give the lad a half-crown for his troubles and see him out.”

When the two left, William ruminated over what he had just been told. Lady Eleanor was an unassuming wallflower, sister to his friend Andrew, who lived alone and had the choice to marry or not, for her grandfather had left her a healthy inheritance. She was not the build nor the color of the lady he had kissed that night—if she were, Andrew would have his throat… so what was happening here?

“Well, the lad is off and the silver is safe,” Oliver said as he returned. “How are the muscles coming along and do I need to get some salve?”

“No, the water is working,” William replied.

“This Almack’s performance, Your Grace,” the valet asked. “Why are you attending when you despise those things?”

“The same reason Samson killed a thousand Philistines and why Jacob served fourteen years in indentured servitude for his two wives,” William replied. “A lady, of course.”