Chapter 7
seven
Anticipation for a boxing session burnt in Tristan’s veins as he walked to The Octagon.
A chilly breeze blew from the north, and the humidity blurred the glow from the streetlamps.
After the scare about Zeus and his anger at Winchester, he needed a good boxing session, or the twitch would become unmanageable.
Meeting Lady Effie again had set him on edge. For whatever reason, her simple and spontaneous behaviour kept intruding into his thoughts. Not to mention she’d saved Zeus.
His life was a back and forth between the damn urge to feel pain and thoughts of her kindness, smiles, and beautiful eyes.
When nervous energy consumed him as it did now, a fast walk to the edge of Chelsea was the best way to warm up his muscles and lower his anxiety.
His heart pounded, and tension rode him hard. He walked down seedy alleyways filled with drunken men and bored constables. The smell of urine singed his nostrils.
The Octagon was situated under a busy brothel, and he made his way through a queue of clients eager for another type of relief.
By the time he went down the stairs to the illegal bare-knuckle fighting ring, sweat damped his shirt and his body screamed for some pain.
One night years ago, when he’d finished working late at the factory where his first locomotive had been built, a group of anarchists had attacked him.
They had been upset about him being a rich and powerful lord.
No matter that he’d worked as hard as anyone to rebuild his family’s business after the financial disaster his grandfather had caused.
A disaster that had nearly finished the Montcrests.
There had been five angry men against one that night, and he’d been barely alive when they’d left him bleeding in an alleyway. He’d spent months in a deep sleep, only to wake up confused and weak.
Since then, something had changed within him, and not just his sense of safety, or lack thereof, when he walked alone at night. Between a punch and a kick, something other than his ribs had cracked deep inside him, and darkness had poured out of that crack.
He’d started boxing seriously, become more guarded, and learnt how to fend for himself. Though his body had learnt that lesson quickly, his mind had learnt something else.
He craved the pain and the excitement of a fight, as an opium addict craved his drug. He needed to calm the twitch that nagged him, the urge to feel pain. If he ignored the urge, those five men would invade his mind, and then fear would grip him until he threw up and collapsed.
Inside the underground boxing club, the smell of sweat and blood brought immediate relief to his ache.
The fights in The Octagon didn’t follow many rules.
The place didn’t rely on money or bets either.
If someone wanted to wager a bet, that was their business, but The Octagon wasn’t for gambling.
It was a place where those who wanted to fight could do it without too many worries. No gloves. Bare-knuckled. Violent.
He walked along the border of the fighting pitch, searching for a free partner. Just watching the others throwing punches and hearing the grunts of pain charged him with violence. The need for pain grew in intensity to the point that his vision became dark at the edges.
Dark pillars surrounded the octagonal space where people fought. The hall was as big as a cricket pitch with light coming from gas lamps and a few braziers, reminding him of an illustration of the Elysian Fields he’d seen in a book. But he was no hero.
Humid, heavy air pressed against his chest, teasing his need for a release further.
He found a man leaning against the wall. “Are you free?”
The man sized him up. “I am.”
Tristan beckoned him to follow, eager to find a free spot. His fingertips itched, and blood pumped in his muscles.
They chose an unoccupied spot and raised their fists. The man grinned, showing a row of yellowed teeth.
“One rule,” he said. “Don’t punch my face.”
“Why?”
“I like to stay pretty.”
The man shrugged. “Let’s start.”
After a good, bloody fight, there was nothing better than some peace and quiet.
Tristan sprawled on his favourite armchair next to the fire in the sitting room, a glass of brandy in his hand.
One might find the room bare, with only the essential furniture and no frills.
But to him, the room was airy and spacious without burdens.
For no reason, he thought of Lady Effie’s eyes, how they brightened or darkened according to her feelings.
She was a free spirit, the opposite of who he was.
He was trapped by his unhealthy urges, his unbreakable duty to his family’s honour, and his burning desire for redemption because the Montcrests deserved to be remembered as a powerful family, not as traitors.
He lifted his glass to take a sip and winced. His body burnt and ached. The opponent he’d faced in The Octagon had been no amateur. Strong punches, quick footwork, and clever strategy had assured the man’s absolute victory.
Not that Tristan cared. He didn’t go to the ring to win a boxing match; he went there for the pain, and he’d got plenty, especially since one of the fighters had slashed his abdomen with a shard of glass.
The cut was long but not deep, and it burnt.
Weapons weren’t allowed in The Octagon, and the man had been kicked out, but not before leaving a memento for Tristan.
Finally, the twitch that had bothered him for days was quiet. His mind was free, and his thoughts were clear. He would sleep peacefully that night.
There was a soft knock on the door, and Harris entered. “My lord, Mr. Fleet wishes to see you.”
“At this time?”
“He came twice while you were away.” Harris gave him a long, appraising look. “Again. My lord, I must speak—”
“Show Mr. Fleet in. Thank you, Harris.”
Harris pressed his lips. “Very well, my lord.”
Tristan waved his hand in approval. He was too relaxed to be bothered by his business partner’s late visit or his butler’s worried tone.
George stepped into the room and eyed the glass of brandy and Tristan’s pose.
“Not again.” He poured himself a glass from the sideboard. “One day, you’re going to get seriously hurt or lose a limb for your foolish addiction.”
Tristan shrugged. He didn’t care about anything after a good session at the ring. Not even about the truth. “What did you want to tell me?”
George winced as he sipped the brandy. “This brandy is awful.”
“You came here late at night to inform me of the quality of my liquor?”
George sat in front of him, giving him a paternal look that made him feel guilty. But what was he supposed to do? Take opium? He would be dead in a matter of months.
“I knew it.” George tried the brandy again before putting the glass on the low table. “I feared you were out to get yourself punched. You, your father, and I made many sacrifices to rebuild your family’s business, and getting yourself almost killed—”
“Don’t.”
“—it’s a poor way to repay our work.”
He polished off his glass with one sip. Yes, maybe the brandy didn’t taste good. “If you’ve come to serve me with a sermon, you can leave.”
“Because I can only discuss business with you and nothing else?”
He didn’t answer. There was some truth in George’s words. Since Father’s death, George had grown closer to him, but he had kept him at arm’s length. He didn’t need George’s help to sort out his personal, intimate problems. They worked together, and it was better not to mix feelings with business.
“No, I came here to know if you talked with Winchester yesterday.” George went to the sideboard again. “We must start working in Easthollow and finish the new line before autumn begins.”
“The ass was visiting his son outside of London.”
“Rubbish.” George paused pouring himself a glass of Scotch. “I saw him in London.”
He sat bolt upright. “Where?”
“Close to the warehouse of Lord Carnegie after my meeting with him to discuss the steel supply. I was about to hail a cab when Winchester came out of the Russian anarchists' centre, shaking hands with them.”
Anger flared up again, but it was of a different type; it wasn’t the dark anger burning him when the twitch bothered him. It was a less destructive one.
“Since when did Winchester befriend the anarchists?”
George tasted his scotch and gave a nod of approval. “Who knows what business he has with them? Nothing good, mark my words. The point is, he was in London.”
Tristan drummed his fingers on the armrest but stopped when the simple movement shot pain up his arm. “The fact he avoids me is nothing new. But is he hiding his association with the anarchists? Those people keep placing bombs everywhere and killing innocents.”
Only two years before, the anarchists had bombed the Royal Observatory in Greenwich, and the Fenians placed bombs all over the kingdom as well.
“I don’t know what Winchester is doing. He’ll soon realise that dealing with the anarchists only leads to destruction.
What I care about is that he sells us that bloody piece of land first.” George curled up his upper lip in annoyance.
“That barren strip of rocks is worthless. No tenants live there. And he’s acting as if we asked him to sell us his home estate. ”
Another thing bothered Tristan. Effie might have lied to him about her father’s whereabouts.
Or maybe her father had lied to her. Why he cared about that insignificant detail, he couldn’t tell.
Perhaps because he hadn’t thought she was capable of deceit.
But then again, he couldn’t expect her to show him loyalty.
George exhaled. “Winchester will be at Lord Vaughan’s ball next week. You must go.”
“Must?” He gritted out. “Are you giving me orders now?”
George’s dark eyes flashed. “The day you show some common sense and stop letting strangers use you as a punching bag, I’ll stop telling you what to do. Right now, I don’t trust your judgement.”
“Get the hell out. That’s my judgement.”
George didn’t flinch. “Your father would be ashamed of you.”
“Father would be happy to see the progress we made to rebuild our fortune.”
“He cared more about you.” George’s tone was too serious to answer back, and he spoke the truth.
“What I do in my free time is none of your business, especially since it doesn’t have consequences on my work.”
“It does.” George exhaled. “I’m disappointed. All those expensive tutors, schools, and books, and you haven’t learnt the most important lesson about business and life.”
“Which is? Enlighten me.”
George stood up and finished his scotch. “Five hundred soldiers can’t win against five thousand, but five hundred friends can. It’s from the Hagakure, the samurai’s handbook. Good night, Tristan. I hope your personal bloodbath was worth it.”
Tristan rubbed his face when George left. Damn George and his books. And his truth.
Father wasn’t there; he couldn’t ask him what he did or didn’t want. And his twitch was starting again.