Chapter Two
One week later
Violet adjusted a sprig of heather and stepped back to survey her work, considering them with the same scrutiny she reserved for most things in her life these days.
Two baskets of arrangements sat upon the table, each distinct in character.
One displayed soft, romantic blooms for Mrs. Penworthy’s tea, and the other looked bright and cheerful for a young woman recently recovered from a fever.
Both, she hoped, would do justice to their recipients.
One could never be too careful, after all.
A stem too long, a bloom too eager, and the entire arrangement lost its balance.
People, she had found, were much the same.
With the exception of her friends, flowers were far easier to manage.
Fortunately, she’d been too busy for loneliness to settle in her bones since her friends had returned to London.
The shop demanded more of her than she’d anticipated—early mornings trimming stems and setting out fresh arrangements, afternoons divided between her courtyard and the little plot of land behind the shop, and evenings spent tallying accounts by candlelight.
There had been no time for melancholy to creep in. Not that she would permit it, anyhow.
She didn’t care much for broods.
She preferred enthusiasm.
This might not be the privileged life she’d lived before, but it was the one she’d chosen for herself.
She’d never enjoyed idleness anyhow. A life of leisure, she’d learned, at least in her case, invited too many thoughts to the surface.
Thoughts peppered with “what if I”. Better to keep her hands busy and her mind occupied.
Flowers didn’t hurt, didn’t expect, didn’t break their word.
Flowers brightened, cheered, and soothed.
Something neither her brother nor her fiancé could ever do.
Never mind them.
She’d learned to block out the horror of them. The nights spent sobbing into her pillows. The disorienting feeling of slowly disappearing into a void of nothing and ceasing to exist.
Violet was on another path.
“Miss Sharpe?” Angelica popped her head from behind the curtain that separated the backroom from the front. “The boys are here.”
Ah, good. “Tell them to come collect the arrangements.”
A few seconds later, Terry and Pip hurried in.
“Morning, Miss Sharpe,” they chirped in near unison.
Violet shook her head and smiled, greeting them back.
These boys would never have been her first choice in hires.
They were far too young. However, they had scared off all the other children, and their persistence had won her over in the end.
“That one’s for Mrs. Penworthy and the other for Miss Barnes. ”
“Yes, miss,” said Pip, already reaching for a basket, while Terry reached for the other.
“There are two more arrangements for later this afternoon.”
Both boys stilled, arms falling to their sides.
Violet arched a brow. Oh? What was this?
“This afternoon?” Pip asked.
“Do you have better things to do, then?” Violet asked.
Angelica crossed her arms. “Just what is it? Spit it out. What mischief are you planning to cook up this afternoon?”
“We aren’t cookin’ up anything!” Terry denied.
Angelica narrowed her eyes on the boys, which made Violet smile. “This isn’t about the prizefighting, is it?”
Violet promptly froze. Prizefighting?
The word set a violent shiver trailing the length of her back. Her body understood the danger long before her mind could reason it away. And her mind did attempt to reason all the danger away.
It’s nothing, Vi.
These sorts of things happen all over England. The world.
“It’s promised to be the biggest fight Brighton’s ever seen!” Terry blurted, his eyes gleaming, plucking a leaflet from the back pocket of his trousers and handing it to Violet. “Everyone’s goin’, even some gents from London, they say.”
Pip nodded vigorously. “The man with the undefeatable fist is fighting. They say he’s never been bested! Not once! You must’ve heard of him, Miss Sharpe. He’s a right legend!”
Violet blinked. She hadn’t heard of him, in fact. Not even the event, for that matter. “The undefeatable Brighton Brute? Sounds rather unpleasant.”
“Unpleasant?” Pip gasped. “He’s brilliant! One punch could end a man’s life!”
Rather dramatic.
Angelica tutted. “You’ll both end up in the jail if you’re caught at one of those brawls.”
“Who’s going to arrest me?” Terry argued hotly. “Not even the prince has the bullocks to stop a fight with the Brighton Brute!”
“Terry!” Angelica scolded.
Violet laughed. She’d met the prince once, and they were right.
He wouldn’t stop the fight. Though she didn’t imagine it to be because he lacked anything, but rather, because the man would prefer to wager on the outcome.
All rather barbaric. “And what, pray, does this Brighton Brute gain from pummeling men senseless for sport?”
Pip grinned. “Glory, miss! He’s the best there is. He even has the scars to prove it! One vicious scar running from his eye down to his chin.”
Her breath caught halfway to her lungs, and her stomach gave a queer twist. No, that couldn’t be. But how many men had such a scar?
Only him.
At least here in Brighton.
Well, why not?
They were all rather suspect.
His face swam in her mind. Dark eyes, a jagged line marring one cheek, the sort of mouth that looked more accustomed to command than to speak any kindness.
For one unwelcome instant, she could almost hear his voice again, low and rough-edged, which left its mark long after the words themselves had faded.
Brighton Brute, indeed. The name fit him.
“Well, I certainly won’t keep you from your entertainment,” Violet said after a moment, surprising herself. “Once you’re done with your deliveries, you may go.”
Angelica motioned them to take the baskets, which they did, before rushing off.
“Don’t run!” Angelica called after them. “Honestly, these boys!” She turned to Violet. “Don’t mind them, Miss Sharpe. Those fights have an air of defiance and danger. Part of the thrill was being somewhere you shouldn’t be.”
The folly of all men.
Of course, thrill was also a word best reserved for people who had never been punished for disobedience. Even so, she could understand the allure. Hadn’t she been punished enough in the past to know?
“How many times must I ask you to call me Violet before you listen to me?”
Angelica chuckled and disappeared behind the curtain. Violet turned back to work when she spotted the leaflet in her hand. She unfolded the paper curiously. And for the third time that day, she froze. Not only did coldness wash over her . . .
But also dread.
She pressed the leaflet flat on the table, as though the simple act might steady her pulse.
No, Violet.
He was London’s problem, not Brighton’s. Whatever life he lived now, that life had nothing to do with hers.
Unless he was currently in Brighton.
Don’t panic. It could be someone else.
Bullocks. Who else would dare fight under the name Bulldog but him? He’d destroy anyone else who did. And what was with this wording?
PRIZEFIGHT!
This night at nine o’clock, the brIGHTON brUTE challenges any LONDON BULLDOG who is brave enough to prove his bite. Cowards need not answer.
How strange.
And nine o’clock?
Hadn’t the boys wished to run off this afternoon?
There must be more fights.
But only this one interested Violet. Her mind denied it, though every sensible argument agreed.
She ought to burn the leaflet straight away, reduce it to ashes, ignore it, and laugh at the notion that it could possibly concern her.
Even if he were here in Brighton, all she had to do was remain in her shop until he left.
Pip and Terry would certainly keep her informed on the matter.
And yet the words glared up at her, black and daring, as if inked solely for her eyes.
Cowards need not answer.
What on earth was that about? A taunt? Who had set up this match? For whatever reason, she couldn’t imagine the “Brighton Brute” stooping to such a level as to do this. No matter who, no matter what, Violet had to be sure.
She studied the address, searching her memory, but the name didn’t stir any recollections.
Of course, finding a street was just a matter of asking around.
Brighton was hardly so vast a place that a determined woman could not locate a direction or two if she put her mind to it.
Still, that did not mean she should go looking for trouble.
How easy would it be to pretend she had never seen this advertisement?
To tuck the matter away, return to her shop, and let the day pass as any other.
Sensible people did exactly that. Sensible people minded their business.
But . . . she couldn’t ignore this.
Ignore it, Violet.
Violet pinched the bridge of her nose. How troublesome. What was the worth of one’s peace? If it wasn’t him, she’d rest easy knowing the answer. If it was . . . well, she’d still rest easy because she’d know, beyond a shadow of a doubt. Not knowing would drive her mad.
And if fate meant to taunt her, she’d be damned if she didn’t meet it head-on.
*
“You think he came?” Reaper asked.
Drake flicked his brother a look. “I don’t know. And keep your voice down.” Knight occupied his usual spot behind the bar of the tavern, and the man had hearing sharper than a hound’s.