Chapter Ten
T ime was ticking. Maggie spied the carriage waiting on the opposite side of the street, but she wouldn’t leave until she heard Aunt Alice’s telltale breathing. She plastered her ear to her aunt’s door, listening for the signs that usually followed her aunt drinking three glasses of sherry. Ordinarily, Alice stopped at two; however, Maggie may have induced her to partake in a third after dinner when she asked her aunt about the gossip currently making the rounds of the ton . She didn’t usually present herself as an enjoyable gossip companion, so Alice hadn’t been able to resist the temptation.
When the whistle-like snores drifted through the bedroom door, Maggie finally had her answer. She shrouded herself in her black cloak and hurried down the stairs, making sure not to run into anyone as she escaped out the servants’ entrance.
The carriage door flew open the moment Maggie came into view. An arm appeared from the darkness, and she wasted no time, grabbing hold and launching herself inside.
Lord Oliver appraised her from his seat. “You’re strong,” he remarked with a chuckle. “Not many women would have been able to do that.”
“Cricket,” was Maggie’s only answer.
“Ha!” He squinted at her as if she were a curiosity in a museum as the carriage started to pick up speed. “Yes, Jo did mention that. It all makes sense now.”
The duke’s carriage was enormous. Five more people could have been inside, and Maggie still would have had ample legroom. She settled in her plush velvet seat, trying to act like this was an everyday occurrence and not the first time she’d asked a man she barely knew to drive her to an illegal boxing match outside the city.
Maybe Michael was right. Maybe Maggie did need someone to save her from herself.
When she couldn’t straighten her dress or tug at her cloak anymore, Maggie faced her partner in crime, the man who had had no quibbles answering her letter this afternoon, informing her that he would be delighted to accompany her to the boxing match.
“So… you know where the fight is being held?” Maggie asked, cringing at how high her voice sounded.
“Of course,” the duke replied, draped lazily in his seat. His inky hair was disheveled, and Maggie understood what the bloodshot redness clouding the whites of his eyes meant. Still, his black jacket was impeccable; his linen shirt was whiter than whipped cream and just as stiff.
Lord Oliver was the epitome of a gentleman, even if he didn’t make a habit of speaking like one. “I told you to wear something bright,” he spat, lifting his lip as he surveyed her clothing.
Dumbfounded, Maggie looked down at her dress. “It’s yellow. It is loud.”
He made an unintelligible noise. “That’s light yellow, baby’s-breath yellow, for Christ’s sake. And why are you wearing a black cloak? You look like you stole it off a corpse.”
Maggie was stunned by her perplexity. He’d told her to dress nicely; this was her nicest cloak! She squirmed in her seat. “I assumed that the point was not to be noticed, to blend in with the crowd. I don’t want anyone to notice me and tell my aunt.”
“But you’re with me ,” Lord Oliver explained in a terribly snobbish tone. “I never blend in.”
Maggie threw her hands up. “I don’t understand.”
“Ugh, fine, let me explain, little one,” he drawled. Lord Oliver uncrossed his long legs and leaned his elbows on his knees. “I am a fixture at these sorts of things, and it is customary for me to have a woman on my arm. Or two.” He rolled his eyes. “Fine, sometimes three.”
“I’m a woman.”
The cluck Lord Oliver made with his tongue almost made Maggie slap him. “A different kind of woman. If someone— you —seems out of the ordinary, people might stare, ruining your little subterfuge.”
The realization came hard and fast. “You mean a harlot. You wanted me to dress loud… like a harlot?”
“That’s rather rude,” he said, sniffing. “I prefer to call them paid companions.”
Maggie balked, unable to tell if he was serious, which was a growing problem with the duke. “Well, I’m sorry, but this is all I have. We will have to make do.”
Lord Oliver slumped back into his seat. “I suppose so.”
“I suppose next you’ll order me to hang on your arm or sit on your lap during the fight? Will that prove to everyone that I’m one of your different girls?”
Lord Oliver surprised her with a grin showing all his straight teeth. “That sounds like a lovely plan. Should we practice before we get there?”
He widened his legs and patted his lap while Maggie lobbed him a savage glare. “Are you ever serious about anything?”
The duke unearthed a flask from his jacket pocket and took a long drink. He made a dramatic “ahh” sound before returning his attention back to her. “What do you think?”
“I think I’m not sitting on your lap.”
“That’s too bad.”
“Why?” Maggie asked despite all her misgivings. “Because you’ll only ask this one time?”
The duke’s face screwed up in confusion. “Are you mad? I’ll probably ask five more times tonight.” He shrugged. “I just thought it would make your Michael jealous, that’s all.” He rested his head back against his seat and lowered his hat over his eyes. “Just give it a think. You know where to find me if you change your mind. Until then, be a dear and don’t talk anymore, all right? And wake me when we get there.”
*
In a little hamlet thirty minutes outside London, the Oyster Inn was not what Maggie had been expecting. The inn was quaint and lovely, a white beacon in an otherwise barren landscape; it was the kind of place that one only ventured to when one was trying to get to somewhere else.
After she woke Lord Oliver, slapping his cheeks lightly for the fun of it, he hurried her out of the carriage, fighting through the substantial crowds, insisting that they didn’t have time to spare. Maggie had never seen so many people outside of London, and all of varying degrees of income. In the flat field behind the inn, day laborer mixed with landlord, duke mixed with tavern owner. All were equal in the eyes of the gambling gods.
“Will you stop dawdling?” the duke muttered, grabbing hold of the top of Maggie’s arm. Impatiently, he hustled her toward the center of the storm, deep into the field where a ring was set up for the event. The ring was actually a square, set off on all four sides with two ropes. A crush was already settling in, squeezing as close to the ropes as possible for the unencumbered view. Even in the outdoors, Maggie wished to pinch her nose closed. The awful, masculine mixture of tobacco, sweat, and hair grease was entirely too suffocating.
Lord Oliver, on the other hand, didn’t seem to have the same problem. Trudging through the throngs, flicking a disinterested nod to some of the men who called out his name in greeting, he situated Maggie a few rows back from the action. It was there that the stares began to come her way. Maggie fixed her cloak, making sure it still hid most of her face. “Why aren’t we up front?” She balanced on her tiptoes, relieved that she could make out the ring behind the medium-sized man in front of her, whose top hat was the only tall thing about him. “Surely someone would have given up their spot for you.”
The duke snorted at her blatant na?veté. “We have the best spot here,” he explained. “You don’t want the front row. Too much blood splatter. I learned that lesson the hard way. My father took me to watch Billy Gains when I was fifteen. Old Billy took a hard right to the eye and blood spilled all over my new necktie. My mother was furious with me. A perfectly good tie was ruined forever.” He side-eyed her cloak and sniffed. “On second thought, maybe I should have placed you next to the ring. Christ, I hate waiting. When will the damn thing start?”
Lord Oliver wasn’t the only one growing impatient. The longer the minutes dragged on, the rowdier the crowd became. Maggie was protected by her placement next to the duke, but she would still have a number of bruises by the end of the night based on all the elbows going around while people jockeyed for position. She was relieved to notice that she wasn’t the only female in the crowd, though thanks to the duke’s tutorial in the carriage, she surmised that most, if not all, of the colorfully clad ladies were being compensated for their time. Hopefully well compensated.
“Fuck,” the duke griped, glancing at his pocket watch. “Have I told you that I hate waiting?”
“You mentioned it.”
“Well, I do. I can’t abide lateness. I don’t know why it’s so bloody hard for people to be on time for things. If I can do it, anyone can.”
Maggie eyed her companion. He’d looked pale and withdrawn in the carriage, but in the brilliant light of the moon, the poor man appeared at death’s door while he whined like a child. She reached into her reticule. “Are you hungry? Is that why you’re so surly? Here, I think I packed some cheese…” She rifled through her bag, taking out a few wedges wrapped in cloth that she’d packed for the carriage ride.
Lord Oliver sniffed at her generosity. “I’m not surly. I’m just annoyed.” He snatched a wedge out of her hand. “Oh, fine, since you brought it. I am feeling rather peckish.”
He finished the cheese in two bites and returned the cloth. Maggie wouldn’t say that he was a transformed man, but the food brought a little color back into his pallid cheeks.
“Now,” the duke began, brushing off his hands, “why don’t you tell me why you’re here? I thought the idea was for you to avoid the viscount. Make him follow you around like a helpless puppy.”
Maggie had been waiting for the question. The duke was too insightful and ill-mannered to let it go. She’d prepared an answer while she was getting ready in her room earlier, one that seemed to fit the plan she’d concocted. Only now, in the center of this hive of activity, enjoying the buzz of anticipation, she didn’t want to lie.
“Michael asked me to come,” she said. “And I wanted to see him.”
The duke stared at her for a long beat before snorting. “And what if your being here makes him want you less? What about absence makes the heart grow fonder and all that rot?”
The crowd stirred and a loud cry went out as a bustle of people started to move near the inn. It would have been impossible to see Michael’s opponent if he hadn’t been a whole head taller than most of the horde. The ground seemed to rumble with his every step. Maggie had never likened Michael to King David before, but it was the only way to describe him now, since his opponent was clearly Goliath.
In what world could Michael fight—and win—against someone like that? But instead of regretting that she’d come, Maggie felt her conviction only intensify.
“Are you going to answer me?” the duke prodded.
Maggie swallowed the nervousness in her throat. “I’m not here to make him fall in love with me.”
“Then why the hell are you here?”
Maggie’s eyes were glued to the ring. “I’m here to watch him win.”
*
If only watching weren’t so painful.
Thirty rounds and forty minutes later, Maggie confirmed that watching someone you know fight must be infinitely worse than actually being in the fight. Because even though Michael was the one taking the punches, he at least had the aches and strains that went along with them. All Maggie had was her imagination, and it was running wild.
“How much longer can this go on?” she asked, cringing as the Irishman ducked one of Michael’s punches and responded with a smack to his gut. Sweat flew from Michael’s hair, and he stumbled back, catching himself on his heels before he could lose his balance.
“As long as it takes,” Lord Oliver answered. He let out a whoop! when Michael rebounded with two quick jabs to O’Shaughnessy’s face.
Maggie found that watching the fight was so much easier when she did it through her hands. There was only so much she could take. “Why does he keep doing that? His punches are only making O’Shaughnessy madder!”
Oliver threw her a disgusted look. “That’s the point! Don’t you see? Michael can’t take the giant down with one punch. He knows that. Hell, O’Shaughnessy knows that. So he has to make him mad, throw him off his game. Tire him out. It’s the only option.”
The duke was right. At first, Maggie didn’t see much rhyme or reason in the fight. Each man threw punches, and the other one took them; however, the longer she studied, the more she recognized patterns and strategies. Michael didn’t have the Irishman’s height or bulk, but he did have speed and long arms. Whenever Michael saw a window of opportunity, he would get inside the giant’s body, launch a series of attacks, and then withdraw before getting too damaged. It didn’t happen often, but it was just enough to keep the giant guessing, and on his toes.
“Do you see that?” Oliver called out, pointing toward the ring. “Look at how hard he’s breathing. O’Shaughnessy is almost down. Michael’s plan is working. I can hardly believe it, but it is.”
Maggie frowned, trying to see the same clues that Lord Oliver highlighted, but she would need more convincing. In her limited opinion, Michael was breathing just as heavily as the giant, and had more scrapes and bruises on his face than Maggie ever wanted to count.
Although his body was moving better. Where O’Shaughnessy was stiff and flat-footed, Michael was spry. He bobbed and weaved, changing up his stance like a dancer, forcing the giant to come to him. And that made O’Shaughnessy furious.
“Ah, it’s over.”
Maggie whipped to Lord Oliver. “What do you mean? They’re still fighting. Michael’s not down!”
“I’m not talking about your man,” he replied sullenly. He tossed a hand toward the fight. “The giant. He’ll go down in the next few minutes. Trust me. I’ve seen it before.”
A rush of excitement gripped her. Maggie was positively giddy. “Then why are you so upset? Didn’t you want Michael to win?”
Lord Oliver squirmed, avoiding her gaze. “Naturally, I wanted Michael to win,” he said cagily. “However, I’m a realist, and a realist puts his money on a giant.”
Maggie’s mouth dropped open just as Michael landed another combination, causing the crowd to shake the earth with cheers. “You bet against him?”
The duke grunted.
Another cheer.
“How much?”
He shrugged. “Just a couple?
Maggie’s brow lifted. “A couple pounds?”
“A couple thousand pounds.”
A bubble of laughter escaped her. It came out so freely and effortlessly, due in large part to the fact that Michael was getting out of the match with his life intact. “Serves you right,” she chided the duke, smiling as the giant stumbled around the ring, grasping for a lifeline that was nowhere to be found. Now Michael was the hunter, tracking O’Shaughnessy, never letting up, not allowing one inch of refuge. “You shouldn’t have bet against your friend.”
Lord Oliver’s top lip curled back. “Who said Michael was my friend? I can barely tolerate the sour bastard, although he is a damn good fighter. Besides, there’s no such thing as friends when it comes to gambling, which is precisely why I like it so much.”
Maggie scowled at the disreputable man but managed to bring her attention back to the ring in time to see the giant go down. The crowd erupted in chaos, and what seemed like a thousand arms appeared to pierce the night sky all at once. Breathless, speechless, Maggie watched a short, bald man climb inside the ring and hug Michael, allowing the fighter to hang on him while he accepted the praise.
Maggie balanced on her tiptoes, craning her neck as high as she could. Blood and sweat dripped from Michael in some places and dried and stuck to him in others; he looked like he’d just gone for a gory swim. His body glistened; the muscles of his arms continued to tense and flex as he attempted to relax. She waved her hands, hoping to catch his attention, but there was too much noise, too many others clamoring for his notice. Maggie’s heart was fit to burst. Michael’s face was a mixture of extreme fatigue and pride. He’d known he would win even when others hadn’t, and he’d done it. He’d done the impossible.
Maggie understood what it was like to win, to feel that unmistakable exhilaration. But she’d always experienced it with her teammates. Sharing it had always seemed right. Better.
Instantly, she made up her mind.
“Wait!” Lord Oliver cried, reaching for her arm. “Where are you going?”
Maggie fought free, setting her sights on the inn. “I need to see him.”
The duke captured her again, paralyzing her with his somber expression. “Oh, no you don’t. You shouldn’t. Let’s go now before this place turns into a powder keg.”
“I’m not leaving until I see him. I just… I want…” Maggie couldn’t explain it; sharing this experience with Michael seemed so incredibly important. She didn’t want him to be alone after everything that had happened. She needed to be there for him. With him.
“You don’t understand,” the duke continued, shaking his head. “A man isn’t himself after a fight. His blood is up. It takes a lot to bring him down. I know what you think of me, I know that I tease, but believe me now—inside that inn is not the place for you. For a lady.”
Maggie considered him. This wasn’t the playful man, nor was it the haughty duke. For once, Lord Oliver appeared genuine, serious, and she almost heeded him. But she was serious too.
“But I’m not a lady tonight. I’m a paid companion, remember?” She kissed him on the cheek. “I won’t be long. I promise.” Maggie flew out of his arms, elbowing her way through the crowd toward the inn.
“What’s so important that can’t wait?” she heard him call after her.
You have no idea .