Chapter 5
5
H arry ducked when, out of the corner of his eye, he spotted the haymaker punch coming, but not soon enough. “Argh!” he grunted while taking the blow to his temple.
Ricky Thompson dropped his hands to his sides. “My bloody oath, you’re facing Dudley the Destroyer on the morrow. He’ll eat you alive.”
“Not likely.” Harry raised his fists and danced a few steps, while images of Lady Charity doing the same addled his mind. For the love of Moses, over a week had passed. Could he stop thinking about the garden stroll that had never happened? “Come again,” he beckoned Ricky with flicks of his fingers.
Whack!
Without a single warning, the fiend threw a hook. Refusing to flinch, Harry rubbed the side of his face. “What was that for?”
Though he was reed-thin, Ricky could clock a man in the muns like none other. “Someone needed to show you that your head is anywhere besides inside this godforsaken shed.”
Harry glanced from one wall of the rickety old lean-to to the other. “I’m standing here am I not?”
Ricky strutted around him with a scowl. The man had been Harry’s best mate for longer than he could remember, but at the moment, the lout was nothing short of annoying. Nonetheless, there was no other man in all of Christendom who knew Harry’s past. They’d shared the worst of the worst, and they’d stuck together through every last miserable moment. Ricky had a wife, two children, and a modest farm where he raised livestock for the shop, though the clientele in Brixham was so sparse they needed all the spare work they could muster, just to feed their mouths. Together they’d embarked on this boxing venture—Ricky playing the booking agent and Second, while Harry did the heavy work.
He had enough of a competitive spirit not to lose. Most of the time it was easy. There weren’t too many fighters out there larger than him. Some were better trained. None were hungrier. And even if his mind was on Lady Charity, he wasn’t about to let a woman—an untouchable lady, no less—crawl under his skin. Tomorrow night he’d be using the byname of The Butcher for the first time, and he fully intended to flatten Dudley the Destroyer—and afterward, people for miles about would know The Butcher was a serious contender.
Needless to say, the morrow’s fight was merely a warmup for the one he’d be facing a fortnight later with Alanzo the Terrible—if Harry could manage to focus on the task at hand and win. Everyone knew Alanzo fought like a demon possessed. There weren’t many rules in the ring, but of the few that existed, the fiend had a reputation for ignoring them.
And winning.
Un-de-bloody-feated.
If Harry succeeded tomorrow, his fight with Alanzo would be high stakes, and folks would be coming in from miles away. But first he had to beat Dudley the Destroyer. That alone gave him the impetus to go on the offensive. As Ricky held up the pillow Harry attacked—a right, a left, an uppercut to the jaw of the figure drawn on the pillow slip, a jab to the gut, a hook to the ribs. He threw one punch after another until the pillow burst, sending hundreds of downy feathers sailing throughout the shed.
Ricky pulled a white one from his eyebrow. “What the hell was that about?”
“Are you complaining?”
“No.”
“Good.”
“Everything well with your mother?”
“Is it ever?” Harry grabbed a threadbare cloth from the nail on the wall and wiped his face. “With the roofing job and the upcoming fights, I’ll earn enough money to send her to Bath to take the waters.”
“Do you really reckon it does any good?”
“She does. That’s what matters.”
“But she’s not getting any better.”
Harry gave his friend a look—one that said shove a cork in his gob. Ma had raised him. She’d endured fifteen years of abuse from the tyrant she married, the same blackguard Harry was ashamed to call Father.
Worse, he was just like him—looked like him, too. Had a killer’s inclination just like the old man. There wasn’t a day the sun rose when Harry didn’t swear he’d do anything to prove he was in no way the spitting image of that man.
He’d do anything to see her smile again.
Anything.
Ricky tossed the remains of the pillow into the barrel they used as a rubbish bin. “I’ll see you on the morrow, then?”
“You will.”
His friend punched his arm firmly. “You’re ready.”
Harry gave a single nod. They both knew how much was riding on this fight. It wasn’t just beating Dudley the Destroyer that mattered. Securing the fight with Alanzo would help him become noticed by the Londoners—and that’s where the real money was made.
Wearing black with an unpretentious poke bonnet, Charity led the way from the carriage to the harbor warehouse from which a throng of raucous voices arose.
“Are you certain you want to go in there, my lady?” asked Miss Satchwell, also dressed in black, and close on her heels.
Charity reached back and pulled the viscount’s daughter alongside her. “First of all, as I said in the carriage, we can dispense with the formalities. You are simply Ester and I am Charity. And secondly, of all the ladies at Huntly Manor, I assumed you would be the least likely to object to attending Mr. Mansfield’s boxing match.”
The lass stood immobile. “I’m not objecting on the grounds of being in attendance. It is just that you are the sister of a duke, no less. Are you not worried about tarnishing your reputation?”
“Which is exactly why we’re not dressed to attend a ball at Almack’s in London, and exactly why we are dispensing with formalities. I highly doubt anyone here will have a clue as to my identity.”
There was a reason she had the carriage stop several streets away from the warehouse. And it was most fortunate the little coach Martin had appointed for her use didn’t even have the Dunscaby coat of arms emblazoned on the door. Her identity was no one’s business, and as long as she minded her own affairs and avoided spectacles, no one would be the wiser—especially not Mama, who was still at Stack Castle.
Ester glanced over her shoulder. “But everyone is looking at us.”
Charity cringed. She had considered wearing a veil to cover her face but had decided against it because a veil might impinge her vision. “Let them look.” A placard nailed to the wall caught her eye. “Have a wee peek at that—' Dudley the Destroyer faces The Butcher in a bout of iron wills .’”
“A butcher and a destroyer?” Ester asked sardonically. “I wonder who will smite whom?”
“How can you even ask? Of course our butcher will be victorious,” Charity replied, not giving a whit about the other fighter’s foreboding name. Inside her breast, her heart was glowing. Mr. Mansfield had actually adopted the title she’d suggested—or at least helped him create.
“My money’s on The Butcher, for certain,” said a fellow pushing through the door.
“At what odds?” asked another, following.
Ester tapped Charity’s arm. “Are we going in or do you want to examine the placard for a time?”
Charity slipped her hand in her reticule and pulled out two pennies. “Of course we are going in. If nothing else, Mr. Mansfield needs our support.”
“You haven’t been to a boxing match before, have you?”
“Have you?” Charity asked, throwing the question back.
Ester seemed to grow an inch or two taller. “Actually, I have.”
Good heavens, she’d assumed the lass to be worldly, but not irresponsible. “Where?”
“At the horse races.”
“You’ve frequented horse races, have you?” Charity asked, though even her Mama attended Ascot.
“I frequented them, yes. Remember, that I mentioned I once spent a great deal of time at the track?” The lass took Charity’s elbow and pulled her into the throng moving through the entrance. “And, as a result, I’m now a guest at Huntly Manor.”
“The onion begins to peel. Why did you not tell me all this before?”
“I told you I was fond of horses.”
“Aye, but that’s a far cry from attending races that also host boxing matches.” As they passed through the door, Charity held out the change and dropped them into a man’s palm. “Two, please.”
The attendant’s finger’s snapped closed around the coins. “Ye’ve come to pray over the deceased, have ye, luv?”
“I beg your pardon? We’ve come to watch The Butcher slice Dudley the Destroyer into fillets.”
The man raked his gaze down her dress. “And mourn the loser, I reckon.”
Ester tugged Charity’s hand. “Come, my lad-er-um. Let’s find a place near the ring.”
Inside the din was positively uproarious, and the contenders hadn’t yet made an appearance. The mob was packed in tight, men waving bank notes through the air, placing wagers and Lord knew what else.
Charity spotted a block of bleachers off to one side where a few other women were seated beside well-dressed gentlemen. “Perhaps we ought to sit.”
“Agreed, I’m in no mood to battle a mob.”
“I simply want to observe.”
“Then let’s take the top tier.”
“Excellent idea.”
As she led the way, it was no simple feat to gracefully climb over the rickety old benches, but they managed to do so without attracting much attention. After all, most of the men in the crowd were behaving like a swarming flock of gulls after Cook tosses the breadcrusts out on the rear lawn at Stack Castle.
“I never dreamed an old warehouse could ever come alive with such unabashed enthusiasm,” Charity said, as she sat and fluffed out her skirts.
“There’s something about wagering that turns men into unhinged lunatics, be it at the track or at a fight.” Ester flicked her handkerchief toward a swarm of men. “Look at those fools waving their money through the air, shouting at the top of their lungs, begging to throw their hard-earned wages away.”
“Unless they pick the winner.”
She snorted. “At the right odds.”
“You speak as if you have experience with wagering in addition to all the time you spent at the track.”
“Some. With a father whose only love is a stable full of racehorses, I learned a great deal about it, not that I’ve ever placed a bet of my own.”
Charity narrowed her eyes at her newfound friend. How worldly Miss Satchwell appeared to be—were her activities at the track the sole reason her father dismissed her? “Did you now?”
“I did.”
“Might I surmise your chaperone was not always in attendance when you attended these events?”
Ester glanced aside and bit her lip. “Who said I had a chaperone?”
“Oh my. I do hope you will do me the honor of relaying the entirety of your story one day.” As Ester gave a somber nod, Charity placed her palm over the lass’s clasped hands. “When it isna too painful for you.”
“That will never happen.”
“Perhaps not. Though time has a way of healing wounds—even those of the heart.”
A flicker of defiance flashed through Ester’s eyes. “What would you know about it?”
Alas, the woman was right. Charity was only repeating words she’d heard from her mother. Though it hadn’t quite been a year since her father had passed away and she still felt his loss dearly, she had yet to experience the type of heartache that comes with the loss of a lover. Even though Ester hadn’t been forthcoming about the reason for her father’s dismissal, it wasn’t difficult to guess the lass had suffered from a broken heart. The quandary was, how badly had she been burned?
Her questions would have to wait, not only until Ester was ready to open up, but because the crowd erupted in a roar. Charity hopped to her feet, looking into the direction of the commotion and unable to see a thing over the mass of men wearing all manner of top hats. As the mob moved toward the ring, the first contender, clad merely in breeches and shirtsleeves finally appeared and stepped between the ropes.
“That’s not Mr. Mansfield,” said Ester.
As soon as the words left her lips, the man himself surged from the crowd and threw a few fists through the air, earning a bout of cheers. Charity clapped her hand together and clutched them over her heart, trying very hard not to hop up and down. “There he is!”
“I’ll say, and it appears as though he’s favored.”
For some silly reason, that fact filled her with abounding pride, made her feel taller, and stronger. Made her want to grab her parasol and bop someone over the head with it. Of course, Charity would never purposefully consider striking another human being with her parasol, and had been mortified when she’d smacked Mr. Mansfield in the heat of battle. But seeing how the crowd cheered for Brixham’s butcher was very uplifting, nonetheless.
The two contenders each occupied separate sides of the ring, throwing punches into the air, rolling their necks, and dancing from one foot to the other. Another man stepped into the ring beside Mr. Mansfield and clapped the boxer’s cheeks between his palms, leaning in and saying something.
“I’d give a penny to hear that exchange,” said Ester.
“Mayhap even a whole guinea,” Charity mumbled, earning a wide-mouthed gape from the viscount’s daughter.
“My heavens, you’re not fond of Brixham’s butcher , are you?” she asked, her voice filled with disbelief.
Thankfully the light in the warehouse was dim. By the way Charity’s cheeks burned, she must have turned red as a tomato. “Define ‘fond’.”
“You know what I mean...entertaining ideas of courtship.”
Charity batted her hand through the air as if she’d never considered Mr. Mansfield handsome, or braw, or incredibly masculine in an undeniably feral sense of the word. “Of course not.”
Ester tucked her kerchief into her sleeve. “That’s a good thing.”
“Why?”
“Because, if you haven’t noticed, you are a highborn lady, one of the highest born, mind you, and he is a…”
“Butcher?”
“Exactly.”
“Aye, and that is why we’re here incognito, giving him our support because…”
Ester leaned in. “Hmm?”
“Because he not only rescued Lady Modesty from certain death, he has been invaluably helpful in repairing the stable’s roof.” Which had been delayed because they were still waiting for crossbeams. “And he makes bacon that will melt in your mouth.”
The lass licked her lips. “His bacon is quite good.”
Charity reverted her attention to the ring, while a man wearing a black suit of clothes and a neatly tied neckcloth strutted around the inside of the ropes, hollering the rules, though nary a soul could hear him over the racket. She watched Mr. Mansfield on his side, his face unreadable, his eyes hard, as if he were not the man she’d come to know, but he’d been replaced by a ruffian who was about to come to blows with the blackguard on the other side—who, by the way, glared at The Butcher as if he intended to pull a cleaver from behind his back and start butchering. The fellow was positively fierce.
And Charity was afraid he might win…until both of them removed their shirts.
The warehouse suddenly grew overwarm. “Oh my.”
“Do they always do that?” asked Ester, not bothering to mask the admiration in her tone.
“I have no idea,” Charity replied, unable to pull her eyes away, close her mouth, or otherwise appear as though she weren’t gawking, yet again.
Had she ever seen a grown man without his shirt? She may have bathed with her brother Frederick when she was a wee one, but he was a boy, a child. Mr. Mansfield was no child. He had hair on his chest, a very broad, well-muscled chest. As his name was announced, he stepped forward and threw a couple of jabs, making the muscles in his abdomen ripple—making Charity wonder if Georgiana had tied her stays too tightly, or if the man had the same head-swimming effect on every woman in the warehouse.
“He is quite well-formed, is he not?” asked Ester.
Evidently, Charity was indeed not the only one who’d noticed. “I believe he is larger than Dudley the Destroyer, for certain.”
“And that fellow is no dwarf.”
“Mr. Destroyer looks rather mean, I’ll say,” Charity added just to ensure Ester didn’t think she was gawking, which she had been doing an awful lot of recently.
“And The Butcher doesn’t?”
Charity provided no reply, as the bell rang and the two contenders lunged toward each other. The first swing came from Dudley the Destroyer, smacking poor Mr. Mansfield across the jaw. But Mr. Mansfield was barely affected, except the rage in The Butcher’s eyes was palpable as he advanced, throwing punch after punch until the bell rang again and the umpire separated them.
After a brief interlude, the bell dinged once more and the two contenders were back at it, this time, Dudley the Destroyer, throwing punch after punch. “Dunna let him pummel ye, Mr. Mansfield!” Charity shouted, cupping her hands around her mouth and not giving a whit who heard.
Except The Butcher must have heard. His gaze darted directly to her and he scowled as if a dark cloud passed right inside the warehouse. “Watch out!” Charity cried, right before Mr. Mansfield ducked beneath a strike so vicious, it surely would have knocked him off his feet.
But that was the last punch Dudley the Destroyer threw. The Butcher bared his teeth, brutally attacking, throwing one savage strike after another, until the contender dropped to his knees, then fell face forward.