Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
D arcy kept his head down and ignored the lascivious calls from the bawdy-house windows, lifting his face only momentarily to take in his surroundings before lowering it again. He wished he had kept his eyes down, for just as he passed the dilapidated building, he espied a man he recognised walking out of its doors, his cravat askew and a voluptuous brunette hanging on his arm. It was the Marquess of Hastings.
His shock at discovering a peer of the realm, and a married one at that, in such an establishment was soon replaced with an acute revulsion towards the nobleman. Darcy scoffed. Noble the man certainly was not.
The irony was not lost on him. Had he not assumed, upon espying the man’s equipage an hour earlier, that anyone who partook of the offerings of such a place must be of low birth? That even great wealth would not cure the baser instincts that must run in such a man’s blood? And yet, here was a man who had everything he could possibly wish for—wealth, rank, title, a handsome wife, charming children, a good reputation in society—and he ventures to Clerkenwell to fraternise with debauched doxies. All Darcy could do was shake his head in confusion and keep on walking.
He passed at least two more brothels, several overpopulated boarding houses, a mews with its stables full of dubious horses for hire, and the shuttered windows of what must be the shop Tom-Tom had patronised. Rounding the second corner, the hoots and hollers of drunks and their ladies were drowned out by the sounds of shouting men, almost chanting, growing louder, and culminating in a thunderous roar before dissipating.
Darcy followed the noise to an empty warehouse narrowly situated between two well-populated buildings. The door was ajar, and the only area lit by lanterns was near the back, where two dozen men stood in a crowd around an open circle, laughing and chattering enthusiastically. As Darcy neared the group, he could see two men sans shirts, one of them being congratulated by several of the onlookers, one of them being practically dragged out of what must have been a boxing ring. The winner looked about Darcy’s size, perhaps a little shorter, but certainly as broad. His nose was bloody, but he appeared otherwise unscathed.
Judging by the coins that were being exchanged among the group, there were bets being made on the contenders. Darcy was not a betting man, but he could certainly see himself pummelling someone in that ring. George Wickham’s face flashed before him, and his rage began to percolate. The walk had done nothing to clear his head or calm his ire and seeing that blackguard in his mind’s eye only made it worse. He was working his jaw to a molar-cracking degree when he heard the gravelly voice of a stout, middle-aged man in an open collared shirt and a five-day beard.
“Who is next? Anyone got the grit? Who will give it a go?” called the man holding up a leather bag and jingling it for all to hear. It must be the prize money for the victor.
“I will,” Darcy called before he knew what he was doing. He had practised pugilism at university, and Lord knew right now he needed to punch someone.
The master of ceremonies, if one could call him that, looked Darcy up and down, gave a laughing snort and a nod. Darcy pulled off his jacket, careful to keep his small coin pouch concealed within his breeches, and walked into the open area. His rival, the same tough who had just splayed out his last opponent, lifted his fists in a boxing stance. Darcy did the same. The man nodded, sweat falling from his forelock. Darcy nodded. The start was called.
The erstwhile champion bobbed from foot to foot, starting them in a sort of dance where each fighter began scooting to the right. He lunged forwards with a jab Darcy was able to dodge, but Darcy’s answering punch only swiped the man’s side, the force he had put into it knocking him off balance. Before Darcy could right himself, his opponent landed a punch to Darcy’s torso. The low blow stoked Darcy’s fury afresh, and he turned around with a hook that, had it made contact, would have dropped the smug fighter that moment. Unfortunately, it did not, and the man’s parry threw Darcy into a full three-sixty that ended with a jab right to Darcy’s face. His eyes began to water and sting as he fell backward into the arms of one of the spectators, who mercilessly tossed him back into the fray, clearly clamouring for blood.
At that, Darcy went wild, jabbing and thrusting towards the other man with the frenzy only frustration, anger, and humiliation could spawn. He hooked and jabbed, seeking purchase with any part of his body, but the seasoned boxer picked off his punches like they were flies to be batted away.
Does he find this amusing?
Imagining himself an object of entertainment was the final straw. Darcy pulled his right arm back, ready to deliver a blow that would take his opponent out for good.
Darcy came to with a screaming ringing in his ears and the rather unpleasant sensation of being repeatedly slapped on his already sore cheek. It was beyond dark and eerily quiet. No, not quiet. The noises that must have been filling the Clerkenwell streets were simply eclipsed by the deafening ringing in his ears. Darcy opened his eyes and saw the master of ceremonies—that is what Darcy thought of him as, at any rate—hovering above him. The man’s mouth was moving, but Darcy could understand nothing. He blinked. And blinked again. The roaring in his ears died and was replaced by the usual din of his new neighbourhood, along with the shouts of this man who would not quit slapping his already aching face.
“Would you kindly refrain from striking me?” Darcy asked, pushing his torturer’s hand away none too gently.
“Oh, good, you’re alive. I was afraid you’d taken a bit too much. Bit of a glass jaw, you are.”
“A glass jaw?” Darcy said, rubbing the area, now tender to the touch and beginning to swell. He spit out the blood that had pooled in his mouth, thankful that there were no teeth in the mix. Apparently, he would have no need of the beetroot. His face would bear genuine bruising for some time.
“Two blows and you were down, ornery as you are. Just got no skills is all,” the man said cheerily. What on earth there was to be cheerful about, Darcy knew not.
“Pugilism is not my art, I suppose,” Darcy claimed, forgetting to disguise his accent as he struggled to sit upright through the ache in his abdomen. “And it was at least three.”
“You’re gonna have to learn to fight if you’re gonna make it in Clerkenwell,” he said matter-of-factly.
“I shall have you know I excel at fencing. In that, my technique is flawless,” Darcy responded in haughty defensiveness.
“Oh, you keep a sabre on you, then? So you can use your technique?” The man waggled his eyebrows at him as he shoved Darcy’s shirt and waistcoat into his arms.
“Why are you even still here? Leave me be.”
“Listen, I figure you got some anger you need to get out. And some potential, well-built as you are. Name is Beech,” he grizzled around his unlit cigar, holding out his hand, which Darcy simply stared at in disdain. “I think you should come back. Maybe keep out of the ring for a bit. Watch and learn and spar with the other fellers. I like you. You got spunk.”
With that and another painful slap on the jaw, the man did leave Darcy be. And Darcy, more humiliated and angrier than ever, made his way back to the inn with the solemn realisation that he was completely unequipped to defend himself in the real world.
Indeed, after such a public abasement, it was clear that he might very well need the assistance of this grotty group if he was to survive amongst the blighters of East London.
And that was a blow indeed.