Chapter Eight
Henley breathed in the familiar, welcome scent of sawdust and sweat as he walked into the Fives court practice arena. His old coach grinned as he approached, dusting chalk from his hands as he strode toward him.
“Henley.” He nodded and offered his calloused hand.
“Buxby.” Henley accepted the handshake and grinned. “It’s nice to see an old familiar face, even one that looks like yours,” he teased.
“Ah, you know the ladies are charmed by my scars.”
“Whatever lies you need to tell yourself…” Henley joked, then sobered. “You’ve not said a word?”
Buxby nodded once. “On my honor, I’ve not said a word, but to the one bloke I mentioned, and that’s only because you approved of the training.”
Henley gave a curt nod. There was no need for any of his time at the area to be disclosed to anyone. This was simply a necessity for Henley; he questioned if he’d keep his hands off his brother if he didn’t find some sort of outlet.
Buxby shifted on his feet, his brows drawn so low they nearly shielded his eyes. “Are you sure you want to do this? I mean, I’m all for it—but last time…”
“Is he not as trustworthy as you said? Now I’m second-guessing—”
“No, he’ll be as silent as the grave—”
Henley narrowed his eyes and took a step back.
“That … I didn’t. Okay, poor choice of words on my part but you get the point.”
“Yes, I do.”
“So, you’re sure, I just want to give you a way out if you want it.” Buxby stood straight, waiting.
“I’m sure.” Henley nodded, squeezing his fists and feeling the skin pull over his knuckles.
He studied his hands, noting how clean the skin looked now—only the faint crosshatch of old scars remained, quiet reminders of his former fighting history.
“It’s about time I earned a few new ones, don’t you think? ”
“Scars? Sure.” Buxby grinned, glancing at his own knuckles and the puckered skin there. “Each one has a story, after all.”
“That’s the truth.” Henley noted the tight line of Buxby’s mouth. “It’s just a practice fight. Not a real one.” He paused. “Help the new kid out, that’s all this is. No one knows, no one hears about it, and I’m a ghost as far as anyone’s concerned.”
Buxby winced. “Yeah, a bloody ghost. Damn, I missed you, kid.”
Henley bounced lightly on the balls of his feet, throwing a few warm-up jabs.
“He’ll be here. Couldn’t wait to get a piece of you.”
“Cocky bastard, is he? That’ll make it more fun.” Henley chuckled. “I remember being new. Humility goes a long way.”
“It does, and this kid needs a dose. But not total destruction, if you catch my meaning. Let him learn.”
“I will. And I won’t even have to say a word.”
Buxby nodded and waved someone over from the side.
Henley studied the approaching figure. Despite Buxby calling him a kid, he couldn’t have been more than a year or two younger.
“Lord Allendale,” the fellow greeted, nodding at Henley.
“No need for formalities in a fight.”
Buxby leaned against a nearby pillar marking the fighting ring. “You’ll want to call him far less honorable things once you feel his undercut.” He grinned. “But for now, first names will do. Henley, this is Mr. George.”
“A pleasure.” Henley extended a hand and noted the strength of George’s grip.
Overly firm—a clear sign of someone trying to prove themselves. In the ring, one didn’t prove anything until the bell rang. Jumping the gun gave away their hand. Boxing was like poker—you keep your cards close.
“Shall we?” Henley gestured to the practice floor. As George stepped into the ring, Henley observed his every movement—the hitch of a shoulder, repeated gestures, the subtle imbalance. George rolled his left shoulder three times, his right only once. Stiffness? A left-handed fighter, perhaps.
“One round,” Buxby said. “You know the rules—knockdown means eight seconds to come up to scratch. If not, it’s over. London prize ring rules apply. No biting, kicking, below-the-belt hits, or gouging.”
Henley flexed and unflexed his fists, nodding once. “Shall we?”
“Let’s,” George replied.
Henley heard Buxby sigh—then the bell rang.
George danced quickly, nimbly around the floor. He darted in close, only to retreat, testing Henley’s reaction. Seeing if he’d flinch.
Henley didn’t. He stood firm, letting the fight come to him.
George lunged, aiming a punch at Henley’s jaw.
Henley took the hit—not dodging, not blocking. Testing the power behind it. The blow landed on his lower jaw, a strong spot. It hurt—but more in an irritating way than incapacitating.
Yeah, George was new.
Henley smiled.
George’s expression faltered—clearly surprised the punch hadn’t fazed him.
Henley shifted left, rolled his shoulder—then launched a swift undercut with his opposite hand. The feint worked. George braced for a hit from the wrong side. Henley’s fist connected under his chin, splitting his knuckles and sending George sprawling to the mat.
“Get up, boy!” Buxby shouted. “That was one little undercut. You’ve got more in you, don’t you?”
Henley bit back a grin. That undercut had been perfectly placed—no wonder George’s ears were likely ringing.
He stepped back, balanced on the balls of his feet, waiting. Buxby started the count, but George staggered up before it finished.
“Damn, you hit like a pissed mule.” George groaned.
“That I do,” Henley replied, watching George work his jaw and shake his head before lunging forward again.
Henley deflected the blow easily and delivered another punch—this one just above George’s left ear. George dropped to his knees.
“Two hits—you can take him, George! Get up!” Buxby called, though his tone was more amused than encouraging.
Henley shot him a glare. “He’s new. Let the poor kid breathe.”
“Kid?” George stood and swiped at the blood near his ear. “I might be your age—and I’ve been fighting five years.”
Henley frowned and turned to Buxby. “Bux? I thought you said the kid was new?”
Buxby rang the bell. “That’s enough.”
“Bux.” Henley narrowed his eyes. “Explain.”
“I might have fibbed … a bit.”
“At my expense, clearly.” George rolled his shoulders. “I only landed one hit. He’s way better than you let on, Buxby.”
Henley stepped toward his cousin. “Go on.”
Buxby lifted his hands in a mock-defensive gesture. “Okay. There was a kid who needed a real fight. I figured you’d go easy on him and give him a chance to learn. But he backed out once he found out who you were.”
Henley sighed. “So?”
“So, George was practicing nearby. He heard everything. Wanted a go. I agreed. I never thought you’d come back, and I didn’t want to miss the chance to get you in the ring again.”
“And George is…” Henley looked at the man anew.
“George was the guy who took out Ol’ Tom.”
Henley blinked. “Tom Blecher? The one Prinny came to see?”
“That Tom.”
“But George … sucked bollocks.”
“I prefer to think of it as you being that good.” George clapped him on the back. “I’d fight Tom any day over another hit from you. You’re a nightmare.”
“I wasn’t even trying,” Henley muttered.
“Don’t make it worse.” George groaned. “I didn’t believe Buxby, but now I think he undersold you. I’ll take my leave—my pride’s more bruised than my face.” He waved and walked off into the dark hallway.
“You”—Henley turned back to Buxby—“have some explaining to do.”
“I thought I already had.” Bux groaned and slumped onto a bench.
Henley stared at the floor, frustration and pride warring inside him. He was good—bloody good. But it didn’t matter. A man had died by his hand—or because of it. Even if it happened days later, they still blamed him.
The whispers had followed. The ton had judged him without a trial. It was only their short attention spans and the next scandal that gave his family any breathing room.
That—and Henley walking away from boxing.
Yet here he was again.
“I have to go.”
“I figured you’d say that.” Buxby clapped him on the back. “But I wanted you to remember.”
“Remember what? That I ruined my family once already?” Henley shrugged him off.
“No. Remember that you’re a fighter. You don’t take second place. That’s what you need more than anything.”
Henley gave a weak nod. “Still doesn’t matter.”
“It might not matter here,” Buxby said, walking toward the hallway. “But out there? Winning always matters. I’ll see you. Come back when you want.”
Henley stood alone, Buxby’s words echoing in the empty room.
He’d forgotten how to fight—really fight. How to read an opponent, use their weakness against them.
But not anymore.
He’d learned a thousand life lessons in the ring.
It was time he started applying them outside of it too.