Chapter Twenty-Four #2
Men sat or stood around the boxing ring watching a match that, judging by the blood and sweat covering both pugilists, appeared to have been underway for several rounds.
Will removed his jacket and hat, untied his cravat, handing the items of clothing to a nearby servant in exchange for a numbered ticket, and rolled up his sleeves, preparing himself for a bout when an opportunity arose.
“How long have they been at it?” he asked the nearest man.
“Five rounds.” The fellow inclined his head without breaking his focus on the fight. “Neither will throw in the towel. I believe they fight over a woman rather than duel for her affections.”
Will assessed both pugilists. Finally, he pointed to the slightly smaller man who was lighter on his feet than his opponent. “My money is on that one. Although neither of them is going to look respectable enough for a morning call after this.”
“Care to place a bet on the outcome?” The voice came from Will’s other side in lightly accented French, but not from an area Will could immediately place. The inflection was different, and—
Will turned to the newcomer. A brief assessment of his clothes and hair, clean nails and polished manner suggested he had money, but Will knew how well a fraudster could hide within a role. Appearance was everything, as he well knew.
“And your name is?” Will left the question hanging, keeping his gaze and manner cool.
“Laurent St. Giles, at your service, monsieur.” He slid a pocketbook out of his pocket and removed some money, setting it on the shelf behind them. “How does five guineas on the big man sound?”
Will nodded. He set the same amount of money on the table beside the Frenchman’s and then held out his hand.
“William Ravenshoe,” he said. They shook and returned their attention to the bout in time to watch as the smaller man feinted to the right before jabbing his left hand into his opponent’s stomach, then following up with a right uppercut.
The larger man dropped to the canvas and lay there like a stunned fish, gasping and wordless in his pain.
“Ah, le fils d’une pute a perdu. I should have waited one more minute before placing my bet. The pot is yours, Monsieur Ravenshoe.”
“Timing is everything, monsieur.” Will collected his winnings and raised a finger towards the manager, trying to catch his eye and book a bout for himself.
“Are you here to box too?” St. Giles’s question stopped him.
“Yes, if you’re after a round yourself?”
The Frenchman nodded. “I am. While I am not yet very familiar with the Marquess of Queensberry’s rules, I offer myself as an opponent.”
“Looking to make another wager on the outcome?”
St. Giles grinned and nodded. “Naturellement.”
“Good then.” Will strode up to the ring and added their names for the next available opening. Returning to the Frenchman, he said, “There is one bout ahead of us.”
“That is not too long to wait.” He removed his jacket and hat, handing both to a servant before standing and adjusting the line of his vest. “Ravenshoe. That is not a name I’ve heard other than—Are you by any chance associated with Ravenshoe Imports and Exports?”
“I am.” Will crossed his arms and met St. Giles’s eyes. Was their meeting merely a coincidence? “Are you looking for a ship?”
“Perhaps. I heard you have been in America looking to expand your operations to Britain’s former colonies. Would your proposed routes include Canada by any chance?”
Thankful he’d taken the time to read up on American ports and products, Will shrugged.
“Possibly, although my recent travel was to examine the viability of expanding my business onto American soil. Canada isn’t part of my plan, at least for now, but I like to keep an open mind if opportunity presents itself.
Why, what product are you looking to transport? ”
“Maple syrup. Now that the war is over, I am looking to secure markets in France for the maple syrup from my family farm in Quebec. It is sweet and robust, the best you will find in all of Canada.”
Will narrowed his gaze on St. Giles, teasing out the facts from the Frenchman’s enthusiasm. Was he truly passionate about the syrup, or was it a cover, a way of gaining an introduction, or distracting attention from his real purpose?
Or was Will still seeing villains where none existed?
“I haven’t tasted this syrup. Is there truly a market for such food?”
“We had established a plantation in Quebec, and my father had begun seeking promising future markets back home before the Revolution. Before Bonaparte took the crown, we were ready to begin exporting our product. The trees are mature, the war is over, and we are once again looking to export our syrup.”
Will set the serendipitous nature of their meeting against the prospect of getting in at the beginning of a new market, one he had not looked for.
The idea was tempting, but he would need to investigate St. Giles’s claims and background before he even considered the possibility of opening a new trade route into Quebec. Still…
When their turn came, he climbed into the ring, throwing a few feints to test the Frenchman’s mettle. St. Giles ducked and wove, proving light on his feet for all that he had an inch or two on Will.
Will began throwing punches with more power, but the Frenchman’s tactic seemed to be to dodge and weave and wear Will out without expending too much of his own energy.
The right hook came out of nowhere, landing Will on his behind. He sat, ruefully rubbing his jaw and frustrated that he’d allowed his focus to slip.
“You were right, St. Giles. You don’t use the Marquess of Queensberry’s rules.” He jumped to his feet. “We’ll go again.” He raised his fists and, having regained his balance, eyed off his opponent with grudging respect.
St. Giles nodded his agreement to the manager to continue boxing, and they began again.
The same tactic would not work twice, and now he had the measure of his opponent, he understood they weren’t playing by the strict rules that usually governed a boxing match but by the street brawler’s unwritten handbook.
With the exception of eye gouging, almost anything would be allowed.
Gentleman Jackson himself appeared in the boxing salon, his arms folded as he watched. He knew Will well, although this was the first time since his departure for France that he’d fought here, but the owner allowed the unusual bout to play out.
The battle was hard fought and tipping in Will’s favor, and would probably have ended soon, but Rufus appeared, strolling into the middle of the boxing floor.
“Call it a draw, gentlemen. There are others seeking a turn and an excellent bottle of brandy at my club when you have made yourselves presentable.”
Glancing between the two men, Will had a strong feeling that meeting St. Giles today was no accident, but he remained quiet and watchful as he washed and dressed before following them into Rufus’s carriage.
What was the connection between the two men, and how did it involve him? Was it connected to his new mission?