Chapter 1
Chapter one
Eric Stone drove an uppercut into Spider Calhoun’s chin. Spider blinked, teetered, and then crashed onto his back.
Fists clenched, Eric loomed over his opponent, willing him to stay down.
It was not that he harbored ill will toward the hardworking, amicable chap, but he needed to collect his winnings and be on his way posthaste.
He had things to attend to, and he needed to breathe fresh air.
Not that the air was fresh in Whitechapel.
However, anything was better than the scent of unwashed bodies, stale ale, and cheap cheroots that permeated the windowless purple room.
“One. Two. Three…” the referee counted.
A red-nosed bloke, who had more ale coursing through his veins than brains in his skull, stuck his face between the ropes. “Get up on those spider legs,” he yelled. “I wagered it all on ye, ye bloody blighter.”
Spider’s corner kneeman tapped his boot on the foxed man’s bulbous snout, then pushed. A half-dozen members of the Fancy toppled like dominoes.
“... Eight. Nine. Ten!”
The ringmaster held Eric’s hand high.
The elated chants of “Roll like The Stone. Roll like The Stone,” overrode the booing of those who were about to lose their hard-earned blunt.
Eric’s chest swelled, but his joy was short-lived. Luxuriating in pride was a weak man’s pastime.
An unsettling tingling crept up Eric’s spine, and he cast his gaze over the unruly throng, searching for the source of his disquietude.
A well-dressed man standing in the far corner watched Eric with a gaze much too intense and calculating to be anything other than trouble. Luckily, he was much too fashionable to be a lawman interested in stopping illegal fights or curbing Eric’s nighttime activities.
Eric dropped the referee’s hand and marched to his corner to retrieve his shirt. “No, thank you,” he said, waving off the beer his bottleman slid under his nose. However, he accepted the proffered orange. Hopefully, the fruit sustained him this long night.
Eric climbed between the ropes and dropped to the ground.
Thunderation! He hated this part. Hands grabbed at his shoulders and patted him on the back and arse as he fought his way to the fighter’s private area.
Luckily, his coach and a watchman the size of a whale followed him, pushing away anyone whose touch lingered too long.
Once they were in the back hallway and away from the throng, Eric crooked his finger.
Whale leaned close.
“There is a suspicious-looking man out there,” Eric said. “He’s wearing a blue waistcoat and matching cravat. Don’t let him back here.”
Whale’s eyes widened. “I’ll take care of him, I will,” he said in his child-like voice.
Whale had been cursed with a toddler’s intellect, but he had the strength of a Titan, and his loyalty knew no bounds.
Eric patted the big bloke’s shoulder. “Good man.”
“I am a good man,” Whale repeated as he pushed on the door and re-entered the overcrowded cellar.
Coach Valentine raised a brow and rubbed his nose as fighters who’d taken one too many hits to their sniffers often did.
Eric pretended not to notice his coach’s skeptical regard as he trekked to the office where he’d left his belongings.
Unfortunately, Coach followed him. Crossing his arms over his chest, Coach leaned against the wall. “Where are you rushing off to?” he asked.
Eric needed to find a new, less perceptive coach. “Told you before. I don’t favor crowds.”
Coach snorted.
As Eric dropped the orange in his bag and then dug around searching for his towel, Coach’s gaze remained glued to him. The earnest man continued to watch as Eric unwrapped his hands, dried himself off, and slid into his shirt. Eric had just secured his last button when Coach cleared his throat.
“We need to talk,” he said.
What could he want now? If he had found out about Eric’s secret…
Heartbeat speeding up, he tied his fraying cravat as if he didn’t have a care in the world.
Luckily, he was spared Coach’s inquisition because the door opened, and Bear, the man who ran the fights, tossed a heavy pouch to him.
Eric easily caught his winnings and shoved them into his bag.
“You’re a good fighter, Stone, but next time drag the fight out a little longer,” Bear said. “It’s as if you are in a hurry to get out of here when The Purple Rabbit is a fine establishment, indeed. Who wouldn’t want to be here?”
Anyone who thought The Purple Rabbit was a fine establishment was either delusional or a confidence man. Bear might be a little of both.
Glaring at Eric, Coach pursed his lips.
A man of few words, Eric simply donned his coat.
They could badger him all they wanted. He had won the fight fair and square, and his personal life was none of their concern.
If they refused to respect his privacy, they could sod off.
He’d fight at one of the other underground establishments.
Hell, he’d travel outside the city and box in one of the legal championship mills.
What he would not do is stand here chattering and debating with these men.
“By the by,” Bear said. “There is a gentleman out there wantin’ a chat with you. Currently, he’s tickling Whale under the chin and feeding him sweetmeats.”
For fuck’s sake. Grunting, Eric secured his bag on his shoulder.
“You got a chit waiting for you?” Bear asked.
Thirteen chits counting Imogene and Mrs. Paulson, and an entire city, to be precise. Therefore, Eric did not have time to linger and blabber. Without another word, he barged past the men and climbed the back stairs two at a time.
The breeze cooled Eric’s skin as he trudged through the back alleys of Whitechapel. Although the underbelly of London was out in full force, not a single soul paid attention to him. He rather liked the anonymity the shadows afforded.
“The Stone,” someone behind him called.
So much for solitude. Eric peered over his shoulder and winced. Damn Whale and his love of sweets and tickles.
“My name is Hugh Fletcher, and I just want to talk. Could you slow down?”
Talk Eric’s arse. No man wanted to just talk.
Hugh Fletcher could sod off all the way to hell.
Eric had two choices. He could spin around and charge, knocking Hugh Fletcher onto his arse.
Or he could outrun the bloke. Considering the man weighed about fourteen stone, perhaps the latter was the superior choice.
Eric skirted a group of boisterous men warming themselves around a small fire and took off in a mad dash.
“Bloody hell,” his stalker hollered.
The clomp of Hugh Fletcher’s feet followed Eric as he sprinted through Whitechapel.
For a large man, Fletcher could run. However, Eric had longer legs and was faster.
Between training to be a prizefighter and his nightly excursions, Eric also had stellar endurance.
The truth was, very few men could keep pace with him.
Eventually, Fletcher’s footsteps faded away. Eric waited until he was certain he had lost his shadow before doubling back to his destination. After ensuring no one was watching, Eric used the back entrance to enter The Pink Petal.
Mrs. Paulson greeted him with a smile. “Halloo, Eric. I saved you a plate of your favorite beef stew. I was just rememberin’ how you used to devour it as a lad. Sometimes four or five bowls at a time.”
“I remember.” Unfortunately, Eric forgot very little. “I don’t have time right now.”
“You need to eat.” Mrs. Paulson waggled her finger in his face. “You can’t save London on an empty stomach. You are lookin’ too thin.”
She blocked his path, held out a fork, and extended the bowl. The scent of fresh rosemary and thyme wafted from the stew.
Since he couldn’t push the beloved woman out of his way, he grasped the utensil, then shoved forkfuls of roasted potatoes, carrots, and meat into his mouth. A grinning Mrs. Paulson held the bowl steady until he scraped up the last of the gravy.
“Delicious.” Eric kissed her plump cheek.
“Now, you may be excused.” Mrs. Paulson stepped aside.
Eric took the back staircase to the second floor. The landing led to a hallway, where he almost collided with a wall of muscle.
“Halloo, Stone,” Flynn said. “Win yer fight?”
Eric nodded.
“Good for ye. I knew ye would.”
Eric motioned for Flynn to lean close. “If you see a man who is built like you, with dark hair, wearing a blue waistcoat and blue cravat, lurking about, do whatever you must to discourage his presence. And no matter what, do not let him near the girls.”
Flynn saluted. “Aye, aye.” Hopefully, the brothel’s protector was not as easily distracted as The Purple Rabbit’s sentry.
“Is Auntie in her chamber?” Eric asked.
“Aye, she is,” Flynn said.
Thank the lord because Eric avoided the main parlor as if his life depended on it. There was no way he could watch depraved blokes paw at girls he considered to be family.
He patted Flynn’s shoulder, then hurried down the hall. He was almost to his destination when a door flew open, almost smacking his nose.
Wearing a purple gown that was so low-cut that most of her bosom spilled out over the top of the lace trim, Abigail peered around the door. “Oh, Eric. I’m sorry.”
She stepped into the hallway, pulling the door behind her almost closed.
Eric lifted his gaze from her décolletage to look into her blue eyes. As usual, he detected a warmth he could not encourage.
“No need to fret,” he said. However, her door had almost knocked him out more than once, and he was beginning to suspect that she listened for him.
Her lashes fluttering wildly, she whispered, “Would you care to visit me tonight?”
“I’m busy,” he said. Even if he had free time, which he didn’t, he would not tup Abigail no matter how pretty she was or how many times she invited him into her room.
“You don’t gotta pay,” she said.
Eric shook his head. “I’m sorry.”