Chapter Two #2
Bear folded his hand and pushed a line of coins toward Lord Lichfield with a polite smile. If William was here, he would tell Bear to stop. But Bear’s best and only true friend had perished on the battlefield in France. Now there was no one to offer him counsel or advice.
“You have better luck with fruit, Fairfield, than you do with cards,” Lord Lichfield smirked.
Bear inclined his head. “I fear you are right.”
Lord Lichfield inspected his winnings. “But in another couple of hands I’ll have won back almost everything you took from me with that apple trick.”
His words permeated the part of Bear’s brain that had not grown fuggy with whiskey and weariness. “I fear you are right on that count too.” He pushed himself up from the table. “I shall take my leave, gentlemen.”
His companions nodded abruptly, not wanting their game to be inconvenienced by his departure. Bear stumbled toward the gardens, needing air.
Was he a fool to imagine he could ever replicate his early success in the Lyon’s Den? And was it really little more than a month since he had first walked through these doors?
Loneliness and loss had directed him here. And an old trick of Granny Attley’s had brought him unanticipated riches when he confounded a large circle of hardened gamblers by splitting an apple using just his hands.
He laughed quietly to himself at the memory. Lord Lichfield and his cronies were cross enough believing the feat was rooted in Bear’s uncommon strength. If they only knew that it was all a question of technique!
The big doors to the garden were open against the August heat. Bear nodded to the doorman and wandered out onto the terrace, breathing in the scent of roses.
William would have laughed out loud at the story of Bear’s apple trick. But he would have frowned when he heard how quickly Bear had lost those early winnings.
“Benedict, I had a feeling I might find you here.”
Bear knew a wave of dizziness. For one terrible moment, he feared he would cast up his accounts onto Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s immaculate paving.
It was William. Blue-eyed, broad-shouldered, back from the dead and attired in mourning.
Bear put a hand to his brow, willing his racing heart to slow down.
“I apologize for startling you,” said the apparition. “Will you walk with me for a moment?”
Bear’s vision cleared. This was no ghost. It was William’s older brother.
“Frederick,” he breathed. “I did not realize you were a patron of the Lyon’s Den.”
The older man took his arm and motioned that they move someone more private.
Frederick Masterton was a shade shorter than his younger brother, meaning that he came only just above Bear’s shoulders.
But he exuded a gravitas that extended beyond his well-cut tailcoat, and it did not even occur to Bear to refuse him.
“I am not a patron here.” Frederick’s manner was short. “I have come explicitly to find you. Because it is what my brother would have wanted.”
Guilt, a familiar companion, washed over Bear.
“You do not have to do that,” he muttered, allowing himself to be steered away from the door and the keen ears of the wolves.
“It is what William would have wanted,” Frederick repeated, not knowing how his words wounded Bear. “And he would have wanted me to give you this.” He discreetly held out a thickly-stuffed envelope.
Bear frowned. “What is it?”
“You are sorely indebted to the house, are you not?” Frederick’s heavy eyebrows lifted a fraction. “And my family is indebted to you. For your kindness to William, especially at the end.”
A wave of grief stole Bear’s capacity to breathe. “No,” he managed. “You have it wrong.”
“Mrs. Dove-Lyon may call in your debt at any moment,” Frederick continued as if Bear hadn’t spoken. “Take this, so that you have the means to pay what you owe.”
“Your kindness is unnecessary.” Bear folded his hands behind his back, refusing to take the envelope.
“Forgive me for saying so, Benedict, but that is not true. You and William were friends since Eton. He spoke to us quite candidly of your unusual situation.”
Frederick paused, delicately, but Bear only laughed.
“All of Society knows of my unusual situation and the paltry allowance the Duke of Alton gives his second son.”
He bit his lip. He should not have spoken so freely. But it was true. Bear must make do on ￡30 per month whilst his younger brother, Oscar, enjoyed more than double that amount.
But Oscar shared the golden good looks of the Fairfields. No one glanced at him and wondered, privately or publicly, about his true father.
Bear looked down at his scuffed black boots beside the polished gleam of Frederick’s. “I cannot accept this from you. Not after what happened.” He took a breath. Guilt had been eating away at him for months and it was a relief to admit the truth. “It was my fault that William died.”
Frederick’s response was immediate. He stepped closer to Bear and looked him fully in the eye, as intimidating at that moment as any of Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s wolves.
“You said that to me once before, when I visited you in the hospital. But I have it on good authority that William died from canon fire. You dragged him to safety, summoned medical aid, and stayed with him until he took his last breath.” Frederick’s voice did not wobble, but Bear could read the emotion in his eyes.
“You have nothing to feel guilty about, Benedict. What’s more, you should accept help when it is freely offered. ”
But Bear was unused to accepting help from anyone.
“Thank you. Your support means more to me than any amount of money.” He summoned a smile, conscious of the sun beating down and his headache which still pounded between his ears.
Frederick put a hand on his shoulder. “I shall not push the issue. Not when it makes you so uncomfortable. But you can always count on our support, Benedict. And as for this,” he slipped the envelope back into his inside jacket pocket. “You know where to come if you change your mind.”
Wordlessly, Bear nodded. He did not deserve such kindness. Not when William was dead. His stomach rolled, but he waited until Frederick disappeared through the doors before giving into the nausea, putting his hands on his knees and groaning.
What a mess it all was.
Frederick was right about one thing. Bear couldn’t hope to restore The Towers, or pay off Mrs. Dove-Lyon, on his pitiful allowance. But he had promised Clara just this morning that they would live there together, free from their father’s disdain and disapproval.
There was still one way he could keep his promise.
Bear needed a big win.
Rubbing at his temples, he reentered the Lyon’s Den to find the gambling floor in a state of high excitement.
“What is going on?” he asked Egeus, who had magically reappeared at his side with another whiskey and water.
“Captain Black has offered two hundred quid to anyone who can beat him in a bare-knuckle fight.”
“Where, in Fenwick’s gymnasium?” Bear named the boxing emporium which entertained a large number of Lyon’s Den patrons, including Captain Black.
Egeus shook his head. “Right here, right now.”
Bear scanned the crowd. He knew Captain Black by association.
Though short, the man was grizzled and tough, with skin grown leathery thanks to long years on campaign in hotter climes.
In his younger years, Bear could imagine that Captain Black might have made a worthy opponent.
But now, his reactions were softened by years of drink and debauchery.
Bear had seen him on his knees, verbally incontinent, more often than upright and in control.
Sure enough, Captain Black was swaggering about the gambling floor on legs that barely supported him, jacket unbuttoned and cravat askew, loudly demanding for his wager to be met.
Across the crowded room, Lord Lichfield met Bear’s eye.
“There’s your man,” he said genially to Captain Black. “Lord Benedict Fairfield dazzled us all by splitting an apple with his bare hands. His strength is the stuff of legend.” He made a mock bow in Bear’s direction. “Will you not answer this challenge, Lord Benedict?”
The gambling floor fell silent as everyone turned to Bear.
Egeus sucked in a breath. “Two hundred quid.”
Bear was already doing the calculations. Two hundred quid would not cover the cost of a new roof for The Towers. But it would go a long way toward treating the woodworm and putting in new windows. Still.
He cleared his throat. “Two-fifty.”
A rumble of approval went around the Lyon’s Den. Captain Black steadied himself against a leather wingback chair and turned to consider his opponent.
“Two-fifty, you say?” he slurred. “And you can match this, should you lose?”
Bear sent up silent thanks that Frederick had already left the building. “I can.”
He couldn’t. Not without extending his debt further with the Lyon’s Den. But he had no intention of losing.
There was a flurry of activity as numerous wolves and attendants hurried to clear away the card tables in the center of the gambling floor.
Well-dressed gentlemen stepped out of the way and notes exchanged hands as more bets were passed as to the likely outcome.
Bear found himself clapped on the back and congratulated for accepting such a safe wager.
“I’ll bet you’ve never lost a fight yet,” slurred a heavily whiskered viscount.
“You’re twice the size of him, easily,” added Lord Lichfield’s companion.
“Allow me to hold your jacket, milord,” said Egeus.
Bear tossed back his whiskey and water before he could think better of it.
His stomach rolled threateningly, most likely because he hadn’t eaten since the night before.
But it was too late now. Two hundred and fifty pounds would solve a fair number of problems. He pictured Clara’s face and how happy she would be if he announced they could move to The Towers before winter.
He loosened his collar and rotated his shoulders, ignoring the burning complaint of his scars.
A cheer went up as he joined Captain Black in the makeshift ring. Pyramus, a giant of a wolf, came to stand between them.
“We’ll have a fair fight,” he cautioned. “Broughton’s rules. One round only.”
Bear nodded his ascent. Captain Black’s eyes glittered and for the first time, Bear considered his opponents wiry stature.
He must not underestimate him.
A bell rang and Captain Black sprang into action, raining punches before Bear had the chance to put up his guard.
Two whiskeys atop an empty stomach was no recipe for success.
But Bear was a trained soldier and he rallied quickly, ducking low to avoid his aggressor and then executing a swift upper hook that sent the man sprawling.
Black was up again before Pyramus had counted to five, and this time Bear was ready for him.
He punched right and left, not allowing any sympathy for the shorter, older man to disrupt his focus.
The crowd jeered as Black fell forward to grip Bear around the waist and Bear made himself stay calm whilst Pyramus separated them.
“Do you wish to continue?” bellowed the wolf.
Black nodded sharply, even as blood dripped down his chin. Bear was beginning to perspire but his mind and body were enjoying this new tightness of focus. He had not pushed himself physically since returning injured from France.
It is what I have been missing, he realized.
“On you go then.” Pyramus stepped away.
With Bear fully focused on the boxing ring, he was not aware that in the far corner of the room, Egeus had been tasked with moving a heavy table to make way for the growing crowd of spectators.
Keen to see the action, one young gambler jumped onto the table, moments after Egeus had lifted one end into the air.
The ensuing crash reverberated through the large room, making glasses tremble and the floor vibrate.
Immediately, Bear found himself surrounded by smoke and unable to breathe. His chest and shoulders burned, a whistling sounded in his ears and his ribcage filled with sheer panic.
William. He had to find William.
Out of nowhere, a fist landed on the side of his head. Bear slumped to the floor, memories of pain shooting through his limbs. He tried to speak but couldn’t make a sound. Cold sweat drenched his clean shirt as his hands frantically searched for the body of his friend.
He didn’t hear Pyramus counting all the way to thirty; nor did he take in the roar of the crowd as Captain Black was declared the winner.
All he could think of was finding his friend.