After the Fall (The Matlock Fitzwilliams #2)
Prologue
The crowd pressed in—a sea of cloth and stench.
Muddy boots jostled for footing, coats clung damp to shoulders, and the air swam with sweat, pipe smoke, and spilled gin.
Crushed straw and the iron tang of old blood—shed by lesser men—hung thick, the air still remembered the day’s bouts.
Chalk scratched slate, wagers clattered hand to hand, and the sound rang like coins striking a tavern table.
“Walton! Over here, man.”
He turned—Kettering, flushed from brandy, grinning sly as a gamester.
“Fifty on your lads. Two fighting one. Unheard of.”
Walton allowed a thin smile. He pitched his voice for every ear nearby. “Five thousand.”
Gasps rippled—envy, approval—the very murmur he intended.
He elbowed forward, ignoring the curses. His boots pulled at the sticky floorboards, but he planted himself firm—chin high, cravat straight, one polished shoe an inch from the ring.
He had dressed for this moment. Let them see him untouched by ruin, unbowed by shame, with a daughter—at least in appearance—ready to do her part.
But invitations had grown scarce. Creditors sniffed at his door like hounds.
Winnifred had failed to catch even a second son, and ruin snapped at their heels.
That morning, she had passed him on the stairs, hair still unpinned, humming to herself—off-key, as she always was.
She had not been born pretty—but powder and low necklines could compensate.
He had nodded and gone on, already tallying figures in his head.
Wallace and Walter stripped to the waist, bare fists clenched, grinning like stage buffoons as they strutted the ring’s edge and tossed playful jabs into the air.
The crowd roared.
“They’ll cry after their first punch!” someone called.
“Aye—if they can land one!”
Walton’s lips twitched, but he kept his eyes on the ring. Let the rabble jeer. They knew nothing.
His trump card waited behind them.
Tom Cribb. Champion pugilist. Living myth. Arms thicker than most men's thighs. His mere presence steadied a crowd.
Cribb had agreed—for a heavy purse—to stand with his sons and secure the outcome, though he had not met Walton’s eye when the terms were settled.
Terms—a loan from a Dial scrivener—tainted coin for honour’s redemption.
He still had plate. Wine. And—if it came to it—Winnifred.
She could still bring them back. She only needed to try harder. He had told himself it was marriage he meant, always marriage. Anything else was unthinkable.
Movement at the far side of the ring. Darcy—rich as Croesus, immaculate in every stitch. The elusive pot of gold Winnifred had failed to snare.
He did not examine why the unthinkable came so readily to mind—
A tap at Walton’s shoulder. “They’re cousins, you know.”
“Who?”
“Duke Darcy and Fitzwilliam.”
Walton laughed at once. “Common knowledge, my friend.” He kept the smile fixed.
A flicker caught his eye.
A diminutive young man slid between the ropes, made eye contact, then turned his back.
“Did he just cut us? Impudent devil!”
“Never you mind. We shall have the last laugh.” Kettering raised a silver flask. Walton nodded.
Fitzwilliam pulled off his shirt and handed it to Darcy. He rolled his shoulders once. He worked his neck left and right. Muscle caught the tallow light—no fop’s body, this. Walton’s mouth went dry.
Fitzwilliam turned. Walton forgot to breathe.
A heavy foot slid back loudly. Cribb stiffened. Stepped back.
No.
Cribb turned, climbed out.
Walton caught his arm. “What are you doing?”
“I weren’t paid to die. Find another fool.”
Walton watched him vanish into the crowd.
Whispers spread.
“He’s gone.”
“Cribb’s out.”
“Won’t touch him.”
Walton’s mouth worked. No words came.
Walter elbowed his brother. Wallace stepped forward.
A twist. A crack. A scream.
Walter shouted, charged. Sidestep. Kick.
He crashed to the floor, legs in the air.
Crack.
Fitzwilliam drove his brow into Wallace’s face. Wallace dropped, blood leaking from his nose.
Walton’s legs buckled. He seized the nearest arm. A red-coated officer yanked him back.
“No one touches the commander.”
Walton looked—buttons, jaw, eyes. Wellesley? Here?
Darcy’s voice cut like steel. “Mr Fitzwilliam, is your family’s honour satisfied?”
Walton exhaled. Perhaps this could yet be lived down.
“NO!” Fitzwilliam paced a slow circle round the fallen. He crouched beside Walter. Grasped his hand.
Eyes—black as pitch, unblinking—met Walton’s. He knows.
Snap.
Snap.
Snap.
Walton stared at Walter’s hand. The fingers lay wrong.
His throat seized. Gorge rose.
He bent double and retched, his contents hitting the boards with a sound more shameful than pain.
Fitzwilliam looked up. Hissed.
Walton pressed a linen square to his mouth.
Lord above, what have I done?
Snap.
“Mercy,” he whispered.
Fitzwilliam gave Walter’s shoulder a savage twist, then rose. He stared at the crowd, daring someone to speak.
No one did.
“Stand tall,” Kettering murmured, voice all honey and gall. His hand clamped Walton’s arm. “Tell me, old friend—did you wager guineas, or your name?”
Walton did not answer. For the first time that night, he could not recall the exact terms of the loan—only the certainty that something else had been placed on the table without his noticing.