Chapter Thirty-One

Briggs

“What did you hear, exactly?” I ask Westley as our horses break from the stables and onto the road to Brumbury. I cling to Apollo’s reins, urging him forward.

“That your brother and Blythe’s father were discussing boxing at length. August said that there was to be a match tonight between Thomas Walker and some lad from London and that he was certain Thomas would win. He spoke of reasoning and deduction, and Sir Anthony seemed rather mystified. I thought it best to keep it to myself, but when I couldn’t find August later, I knew I had to inform you.”

“And you think they must be at the match now?”

“I’m afraid so.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose, trying to maintain some semblance of control over my reaction. “August grossly overestimates Thomas’s abilities based on his own fear of the boy.”

“But what of Sir Anthony? Surely he doesn’t wish to gamble on August’s bias alone.” Westley laughs, as though to ease the tension, but I cannot find it quite so amusing.

“Everyone believes that August knows best,” I say. “Because he’s so taciturn and is always reading. I suppose if he finally condescends to pass judgment, all must obey.”

“Do you think we’re too late?”

We pass through Brumbury, all the shops closed up for the night, their proprietors more than likely fast asleep after the harvest festival. “I can’t be sure, but Westley, Sir Anthony can’t lose this gamble. Not if what Julian told me is to be trusted.”

Westley takes a deep breath. “You can trust Julian,” he tells me. “He’s made me aware of just how dire the circumstances are at Awendown House.”

Which is exactly what I was afraid of.

We break into a gallop, and I whisper how sorry I am to Apollo for waking him from his peaceful slumber. I’m even more sorry for leaving Blythe. Tonight surpassed anything I could have ever imagined, and all I want is to return to her, but I know that she’ll understand my need to leave. She’ll understand that I always want what’s best for her.

Beyond The Hearth and Hound, there is a vast field, wild land that belongs to no one, and it is the perfect place for a boxing match where gentlemen from London can congregate and place bets on fighters with anonymity.

There is a large group of men and a few women, which doesn’t surprise me. A fight of this magnitude is rarely seen in towns like Brumbury, and after all the excitement of the harvest festival, I can imagine everyone still wanting more entertainment. Autumn is well on its way, and it will be months before anything exciting will happen again. At least out of doors.

I shake my head, realizing that this is going to take much longer than I anticipated. “I should have sent Miss Rowley home. I told her I’d return, but I wasn’t prepared for the size of this event.”

Westley whistles lowly. “And? I can tell there is more.”

“We…became better acquainted.”

He trots up beside me, lowering his chin and glowering at me. “What?”

“Not that much better acquainted. But I almost…” I swallow and pull at my cravat. “I almost told her.”

“Told her what? The most profitable stocks? Your unending fear of squirrels? Out with it, Goswick.”

“That I loved her, all right?” I adjust my collar and sigh. With relief, actually. I glance over at him, trying to read his reaction. “Besides,” I add, “squirrels have those strange little grabby hands. Are you happy now?”

Westley grins and then sighs. “I’m almost as happy as if you said it to me yourself.”

I shake my head and close my eyes. “You’re a son of a bitch, Westley.”

“Still not ruining my mood.”

“And don’t ever mention my fear of squirrels, please. She doesn’t seem like the kind of girl who has a fear of anything.”

We approach the throng of onlookers, and I dismount, allowing my horse to graze at his leisure, and Westley follows my lead. I search the crowd for familiar faces, hopefully my brother, and then Sir Anthony. But the first face I recognize is Lord Drummond’s.

“Goswick!” he cries upon seeing me. “Come to see my protégé fight one of these young bucks?”

Will Jones. My eye throbs at the memory. I remind myself that I cannot be cross with Drummond. He has nothing to do with Blythe, has no idea that my brother might convince Sir Anthony to bet on Thomas Walker, or why that would be an utter disaster. But then it occurs to me. I have two purposes in being here: the first, to keep Sir Anthony from making a terrible, terrible mistake, and the second, to protect my tenant’s son from a certifiably undefeatable foe. It’s bad enough that Mr. Walker has to contend with me as his landlord. If he loses the help of his son to an injury, his farm will suffer. There is no doubt about that.

“Drummond,” I say. I try to act as casually as possible. “You haven’t seen my brother, have you?”

“August?” he asks. “Here? Can’t say that I have.”

Piss, shit, and corruption.

“I’m sorry, I must find August before the fight begins. You’ll excuse me?”

“Of course,” says Drummond. “Best of luck!”

Westley and I weave through the crowd, our shadows casting long and far in the roaring light of the bonfire, and when I begin to feel desperation tapping on my shoulder, I resort to calling August’s name. But it’s no use. I can’t find either of them. A cold wind whips free from the forest, bringing with it the first dry, scattered leaves of autumn.

“What do I do now?” I ask Westley.

He shrugs, standing on his tiptoes to gain a better perspective. “What about trying to stop the fight altogether? You’re a wealthy landowner in Brumbury. They’ll respect your wishes.”

I laugh, even though I don’t find any of this funny. Wealthy landowner in Brumbury. What other jokes will the universe play on me this evening?

I yank my hat from my head, and my shoulders slouch. “Yes, they’ll respect my wishes. But they’ll resent me for it.”

“Maybe it isn’t as bad as you think. After all, perhaps Thomas Walker is a better fighter than we even know. Perhaps he can win against this boy from London.”

“Westley,” I say. “He could die. This is no boy; this is a trained fighter with thousands of pounds behind his name. Thomas is scarcely more than a child. I can’t let anything happen to him. I’d never forgive myself. Especially when I know better.”

“Briggs,” says Westley, crossing his arms over his chest and scratching his chin. “Is Will Jones the reason you had a black eye earlier in the summer?”

“He is very much the reason for my black eye. Now help me go and convince Thomas that he can’t fight this boy.”

Westley follows me through the crowd until we are standing behind Thomas Walker and one of the grooms from Mistlethrush. He’s trying to boost Thomas, of course, provide him with words of support in the face of what is sure to be a painful (terribly, obscenely painful) defeat, but I can see the boy’s courage begin to wane.

I shoulder my way through the remaining men, all of them reeking of sweat and beer, shouting for the match to begin. “Excuse me, pardon me. Watch your elbows.”

“Goswick, my boy!” Someone grabs my arm and yanks me backward. The path to Thomas Walker closes before me. Turning to reprimand the lout, I see that it’s Sir Anthony, and behind him, my most beloved younger brother.

“Sir Anthony, August,” I say, trying my best to hold my voice steady. “I’ve been looking for you.”

“And here we are.” Sir Anthony is a solid man, jolly and good-humored, and he has always made me feel welcome in his company. I wish I could be more forthright in my presence at this match, but I can’t let him know what Julian Browning told me about the state of his finances.

“Yes, you know, I never attend these matches.”

“What are you talking about?” August calls over the roar of the crowd.

He’ll give me away. He can never take hints, and he loves to be right in all situations. “I’ve never attended a boxing match, and I had no idea that there would be one this evening. I’m surprised you didn’t invite me, August. Rather unbrotherly of you.”

“You seemed preoccupied,” he says simply.

How I should love to punch my brother right in the face. “Well,” I say, “here we all are. Who are we betting on, gentlemen? This young man from London, I daresay?”

“Yes,” Westley pipes up. “He seems scrappy, doesn’t he?”

I close my eyes and breathe in deeply through my nose. Scrappy. “Indeed,” I reply. “Yes, a menace. What do you say to betting on him, Parker?”

“I’m in,” he agrees.

“No, no, no,” says August. “What a ridiculous waste of your money. You might as well toss it into the air and let the masses scramble for it. No, you should bet on the challenger, that Thomas Walker. That’s what Sir Anthony and I have done.”

I close my eyes, covering them with my hand. I cannot believe this is my brother. “August, honestly.”

“I saw him kill a sheep once.”

I am awestruck. “August, he’s a farmer. How do you think your dinner ends up on the table?”

He scowls at me. “Still, it’s barbaric.”

“I’m rather firm in betting on Will Jones,” I say. This isn’t working, and I’m getting sweaty.

“I’ll stick with young Goswick’s thoughts,” says Sir Anthony, thumbing in the direction of August with a rather self-satisfied expression. “He was telling me a great deal about probability and statistics, and I was rather impressed.”

“Yes, my brother is a font of knowledge,” I grumble.

“Oh!” cries Sir Anthony as the crowd begins to quiet. “I believe they’re getting ready. Best get in our places for the best view, eh, my boy?”

“Ah, indeed,” I say. My time is beginning to run out, and I can’t think of any more options. “Westley, would you come with me? I want to see if I can get a better view from over there.” I nod in the direction of Thomas Walker. “Over there .”

“Yes, of course. Over there.”

We edge around the crowd until I sneak up upon Thomas Walker, grabbing him by the shoulder and pulling him backward. “And what in hell do you think you’re doing?” I spit through gritted teeth.

“Mr. Goswick,” he says, his mouth flapping in confusion. “You’re not gonna tell my father, are you?”

“Why shouldn’t I?” This is good. This is better than I thought. He’s afraid of his father finding out.

“Because there’s good money in this fight if I win!”

“If you need money, you can come to me.” That’s kind of a lie; it’s not like I can lend him money, but maybe I can help him find some.

Thomas stifles a chuckle, his grin widening. “You can’t even get us wood for a fence, Mr. Goswick.” Then he sobers. “No offense, Mr. Goswick.”

“None taken. Now get out of this field.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” says Thomas, “but I have to do this.”

“Briggs,” says Westley behind me. “What are you going to do?”

I sigh, throwing my head back and staring up into the night sky. “I have one option left.” Shrugging out of my coat, I hand it to Westley, along with my hat. I roll up my sleeves, tap Thomas on the shoulder once more, and when he turns, I punch him square in the face, then shake out my hand.

Westley stares at the pile of boy on the ground. “Oh, Briggs.”

“He’ll wake in the morning with a headache, but at least he won’t be dead.”

“What have you done?” cries his instructor, grabbing his own hair with both hands. “Don’t you know how much money is riding on this match? If you don’t find someone to take his place, the boy from London wins!”

“This is marvelous,” says Westley. “Truly, the night couldn’t get any better.”

“I’ll fight,” I say. Perhaps I’ve struggled with verbally telling Blythe how much I love her, but at least I can prove it here and now—by taking Thomas’s place.

Beside me, Westley screws his eyes shut and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Trust me,” I whisper to him. “I’ve watched him fight before. I know his moves. I know his weaknesses. I even have some of the same.”

“Moves or weaknesses?”

“Both, actually. Now go back to Sir Anthony and my brother and convince them that all is well. Don’t let them change their bet.” I say the words to bolster Westley, but really, I’m trying to assure myself that I’m not about to die.

“This feels wrong in so many ways,” says Westley. “But good luck, Briggs. It was an honor knowing you.”