Chapter Two
What in the hell was Nicolas doing? Watching women pommel each other while his family lost everything was bloody irresponsible.
But he’d done precisely what the mysterious widow had asked of him, showing up at The Lyon’s Den a week after her nocturnal visit, only to be told she was too busy to meet with him.
“There is a secret mill going on in the basement,” the widow had said from behind her black veil. “I dare say, it will be exciting. Female pugilists. Head downstairs and watch. As my guest, of course. We will discuss Blue Cliff Manor and your family’s debts after the two bouts.”
“But two fights will last all night,” Nicolas said.
“If all goes well,” the widow said with a hopeful lilt.
His irritation needled, Nicolas had descended the stairs to the crowded basement that smelled of unwashed bodies and stale ale.
He was no stranger to boxing. He’d been a skilled pugilist in his Cambridge days.
However, he preferred physical exercise to wagering.
And unlike most of this crowd, he rarely drank because he refused to meet the same demise as his forefathers.
So here he sat, stone-cold sober amongst the inebriated throng, watching women inflict violence upon each other.
This was in no way his idea of a good time.
At least his old chums Viscount Jonathon Davenport and Tristan Keats, the Duke of Griffendale, were present.
In Nicolas’s humble opinion, the first fight of the night had been a hoax.
Anyone with any sense had to realize the loser had been paid to throw the bout.
Her fall was entirely too theatrical, and she’d taken care to protect her arse and head.
Ruth, the winner of that fake fight now sat beside him, practically begging Griffendale to tup her as she rubbed her body up against his.
Meanwhile, Davenport, the cad, had rested his palm on Ruth’s lap.
“Your Grace, I would be honored to be your fighter for The Duke’s and Dame’s Mill,” Ruth said, thrusting her bosom forward. “I know I can beat Lady P.”
Not that it was any of Nicolas’s business or that he gave a farthing, but if Griffendale wanted a fight instead of a theatrical show, he’d be a fool to choose Ruth the Jewel. Jabbing Josie was the intelligent choice.
Nicolas had to give Josie credit; despite dodging a punch to stare in his direction, she was one hell of a fighter.
Confident. Strong. Precise. Hungry. However, she was clunky on her feet and could use some grace.
Still, she was utterly captivating with a physique that was equal measure firm muscle and feminine curves.
Sporting bountiful cleavage when her breasts were obviously bound was damn impressive.
Just like the other women, the bodice of her loose gown had been pulled down, and she’d tied the sleeves around her trim waist. Unlike Ruth, she hadn’t presented her tit for all to see.
If he had to guess, he’d say Jabbing Josie was quite modest.
She also had the thickest plait he’d ever seen. When her hair flowed free, it must have hung to her waist in soft waves.
“Jabbing Josie!” the crowd cheered as she pommeled Sweet Clementine in the breadbasket.
Clementine stumbled backward. Josie took advantage of her opponent being off balance, landing a flurry of hits to her midsection.
From beside him, Griffendale and Davenport jumped to their feet to cheer. Below him, the crowd standing around the stage went wild. Meanwhile, Josie continued to pummel Clementine.
Even from this distance, the red spatters on the women’s white chemises were visible. Finally, Clem toppled, her back against the ropes, her legs splayed in front of her. Blood oozed from her nose.
The crowd’s palpable enthusiasm energized Nicolas so that he leaped to his feet.
For a moment, his gaze locked with Josie’s, but then she looked past him to stare at Griffendale.
The heavily rouged Ruth was in the duke’s arms, hopping about as if celebrating Josie’s possible victory.
Ruth could pretend all she wanted; Nicolas was not naive.
There was no way that Ruth the Jewel was happy for Jabbing Josie.
Ruth the thespian was all about being the center of attention.
Davenport clapped him on the back. “That chit is one hell of a fighter. Damn fine night for you to be here, Wentworth. Aren’t you happy you left that dreary home of yours?”
Happy? No.
Forced into temporary submission by a mysterious woman who was probably about to blackmail him? Yes.
Clementine’s attempt to rise was for naught. She was halfway to standing when her feet slipped out from under her. The crowd roared as the umpire grabbed Josie’s hand and lifted it high.
Instead of strutting the perimeter and celebrating her win, Josie dashed to the corner, climbed over the rope, and dropped into the audience.
“What in the devil is she doing?” Davenport asked. “Is she trying to get herself killed?”
If Nicolas were a betting man, he’d wager she was trying to get to Griffendale, and for some inexplicable reason, the notion stung like hell. However, since she was akin to a piece of grain in a crate of starving chickens, she would never reach him unharmed.
Why weren’t the referees, umpires, or her coach trying to help her?
Suddenly, Josie’s body appeared above the unruly mob. She was flat on her back, perched on the tips of foxed men’s fingers, and traveling toward him in a zigzagging line. He blinked, then squinted to ensure he wasn’t imagining the scene below him.
After careful regard, Nicolas made up his mind. If no one else was going to help her, he had to. Instead of weaving through the tables to reach the stairs, he leaped from the platform, colliding into the man below him.
“Bloody hell.” The bloke growled at Nicolas and wound up to throw a punch.
Nicolas easily caught his fist and pulled him off balance. The man crashed into another bloke. That bloke whirled and knocked his attacker in the opposite direction. Thereupon, at least two hundred bodies pushed and shoved each other in all directions.
Nicolas was frantically searching for Josie when she stepped in front of him and whacked his shoulder. Lord, help him, but he quite enjoyed her angry touch, and a bolt of heat shot to his groin.
Yes, he seriously needed help. Or physical exercise. Or a tup.
“Thanks a lot. Ye started a fight, ye bloody fool,” she said, elongating her vowels in a heavy East End accent.
Someone bumped into her. She whirled and planted her fist in the man’s face. At the same time, Nicolas ducked a punch coming from his side.
“I was trying to protect you,” he said.
Apparently, that was the wrong thing to say because she directed her snarl at him as she shoved another man backward. “I don’t need protection. Especially from a soft toff, like ye.”
At that moment, Nicolas spotted a large man charging toward them. He shot out his fist and clobbered him. “Why are we arguing at a time like this?” Someone leaped on his back and smashed him in the back of his head. “Shite,” he grumbled at the sting of the unexpected thwack.
“We wouldn’t be arguin’ if ye hadn’t stuck your bloody aristocratic nose in me business,” she said.
Nicolas was too busy trying to remove the man from his back to respond to her comment. She circled around him, probably to help his adversary knock him out. To his surprise, she pulled the man from Nicolas’s back. He turned just in time to see her kick the scrawny lad in the bollocks.
Feeling sympathy for the hunched-over man moaning in pain, Nicolas winced.
Josie grinned.
How did a fighter have a mouth full of straight white teeth? Beautiful teeth. The most gorgeous smile he’d ever seen.
A gunshot echoed. All movement and noise halted.
Nicolas followed the others’ wide-eyed gazes to find the Widow of Whitehall standing in the middle of the ring, gripping a pistol that was now aimed at the floor.
The insane woman had shot a hole in her own ceiling.
She slowly raised her other hand to point at Nicolas, and then she swung that ominous finger toward Josie.
“Bloody friggin’ hell,” Josie mumbled. “See what ye did?”
Before Nicolas could respond that it wasn’t his fault that this lot was inebriated and unruly, two large men grabbed his arms, and their meaty fists locked his hands behind him.
“Shite,” he grumbled.
The crowd parted as the Wolf Pack dragged him toward the stairs.
He hadn’t meant to start an out-of-control brawl; he’d only meant to help a woman. The same woman hissing and kicking as four men dragged her from the crowd and up the stairs behind him.
On second thought, she probably hadn’t required his assistance at all.