Chapter Five
W hy were Agnus Cooper and Joan Foy holding a half crown in each hand?” Miss Harrington asked Alexander as they left the amphitheater. “Was it to give their blows more heft? Does it make it more painful? I thought you said that Championess Quick’s rules improve safety, but don’t the coins make things more dangerous?”
Alexander grinned at Miss Harrington’s unbridled enthusiasm. She’d stopped trying to hide her enjoyment of the fight after Lizzie Quick and Jane Hawkins had exchanged six strikes with their quarterstaffs. Poor Lord Clifville had barely been able to ask a single question. Georgina had just fired away her inquiries with nary a pause.
Not that Alexander minded. He rather liked her endless queries.
“The pieces of sterling are to prevent the competitors from gouging each other’s eyes or from scratching, which Championess Quick strictly forbids,” Alexander explained. “That’s why she requires them to carry the money.”
“That happens?” Miss Harrington asked, looking horrified.
Alexander nodded grimly. “I’ve seen it myself. It’s terrible. Jack Broughton introduced rules a decade or more ago to help prevent deaths in the ring. But it is still chaotic. Like I said earlier, Championess Quick has developed her own set of laws. She believes in less blood and more talent.”
“The more I learn about her, the more remarkable she becomes,” Miss Harrington said.
“She also runs a charitable boxing academy for youths from the street. It is to protect them from unscrupulous promoters and to provide them with a way to make a living.” Alexander had donated funds as Willoughby Wright after he’d penned a piece about the prurient cruelty of unregulated bouts between poverty-stricken competitors. Even Championess Quick had no idea that he was the one who’d sent her the money. Nor did she realize he’d penned the short story about a rich man pompously attiring himself for watching a fight by determining which colors would go best with blood splatters.
Uproarious laughter drew Alexander’s attention away from his conversation with Miss Harrington. Instantly, he wished that he hadn’t glanced in that direction. A throng was gathered in the yard of a nearby tavern for a cockfight. The crowd likely had been so big that the owners of the birds had moved the event outdoors. Such entertainment must be a semi-regular occurrence—not enough for a proper sunken cockpit with tiered seating, but enough for a crude stage rimmed with a low, mostly see-through wicker fence.
Alexander and Georgina were still some distance away, but he could make out the fowls. The size difference between the two sickened him. A huge meaty rooster with dark coloring and spurs on his feet strutted in his cage while a small, fluffy white one cowered in his. Alexander had never seen a chicken like it. Its profusion of feathers looked almost like a mammal’s pelt. Massive tufts grew from its crown and legs, making the bird appear like it was wearing a fur hat and boots. The extreme plumage would encumber the already undersized rooster, giving its opponent something to grab and tear.
Rage and disgust filled Alexander as he realized that this round was merely for the depraved humor of watching the stronger animal torment the weaker. A familiar sense of helplessness washed over Alexander as memories of old jeers mixed with the current taunts.
The faces of Viscount Hawley and his younger brother, Lord Henry, lurched into Alexander’s mind. He saw their sneers as they and his mates pushed him into the manure heap outside the boarding school’s stables. Phantom throbs pulsed in Alexander’s arms, chest, and legs. In his vision, he saw his own cane lifted against him as the boys laughed. He heard his only friend Matthew cry out for his older siblings to stop, but the other students held him back.
“Alexander?” Miss Harrington’s voice broke through Alexander’s pain. “Alexander?”
Dimly, he turned in her direction. She stared at him with worried brown eyes.
“Are you all right? You’re so pale, and you’re rubbing your leg. Did you twist it?” Miss Harrington spoke with concern and not pity—a difference that Alexander knew too well.
“I am fine. I’m just revolted by man’s degenerate nature. That white bird can’t defend itself. They’re sending it to slaughter for their own enjoyment.” The words flew out of Alexander’s mouth before he remembered that he was speaking to a sheltered miss. It was clear from her questions during the prizefight that she knew little of modern violence, even if she had read and studied ancient wars.
“We should stop the fight,” Miss Harrington declared.
Alexander turned fully in her direction. Was this the same woman who had declined his offer to teach her how to defend herself and claimed that she was not an adventurer?
“How? I may hold a courtesy title, but those men won’t listen to me,” Alexander said. His earliest satire had been a very ribald one about men strutting around and striking each with their own erect cocks. It had been his juvenile attempt to criticize the link between masculinity and blood sport. The tale had sold fairly well, but he’d never found an organization to donate the funds to. Banning animal fights was one of the laws that Alexander wanted to champion when he became Duke of Falcondale.
Miss Harrington jerked her head toward the row of cages set up close to the stage. “If I free the other birds, their escape will ignite a proper commotion. In the confusion, we can grab the fluffy one and escape.”
“I thought you were supposed to be a scholar, not a swashbuckler,” Alexander said in disbelief.
“I cannot watch another creature harmed. You should have seen me when I fought off the neighborhood dog pack with my reticule to save Ruffian Caesar,” Miss Harrington said, utterly and completely serious.
“Who is Ruffian Caesar?” Alexander asked in confusion.
“The terrier whom I rescued,” Miss Harrington explained. “We better hurry. They are about to open those two roosters’ cages, and I am afraid that little white one won’t last long.”
“But Miss Harrington, I can’t run,” Alexander pointed out.
“We’ll meet by your curricle.”
Before Alexander could stop her, Miss Harrington seamlessly wormed her way through the onlookers. With her petite form, she could sneak through the spaces in the milling group. If Alexander tried to follow her, he’d only attract attention, which could land Miss Harrington in more than just a spot of trouble.
It struck him that her daring plan to rescue the chicken wasn’t entirely out of character. After all, in the space of half a day, she’d already donned two costumes to track down her flighty cousin.
Alexander followed her with his eyes the best that he could. Here and there, he spied her for a moment before she disappeared again.
Although he had no idea how exactly to protect her, he couldn’t just stand on the street and desperately hope her hastily planned mission did not go awry. Picking up his own pace, Alexander headed over to the man collecting coin from the spectators. After paying the fee, Alexander made his way to the part of the stage closest to the coops.
From his new spot, he watched Miss Harrington slink up to the caged creatures. Alexander’s heart clenched, and he gripped the head of his cane so hard that the Nemean lion’s teeth dug into his palm. Fortunately, the cockfight had begun, and everyone’s attention was riveted to the stage.
Sweat dripped down his back, and his muscles tensed. Alexander continued checking the crowd and Miss Harrington’s progress. Slowly, she lifted each of the wooden pegs holding the cage doors closed until they were almost out of their looped pinning but not completely. Both Alexander’s curiosity and admiration grew. Miss Harrington clearly had a plan, and he hoped for both their sakes that it worked.
When she’d finished loosening all the fastenings, she disappeared behind the stack of twenty-four cages. With a resounding bang, the entire pile crashed to the ground. Miss Harrington must have also dived to the dirt because, even though Alexander looked, he could not spot her, not even the top of her white wig.
The doors to the coops bounced open. Angry roosters flew haphazardly into the throng and darted along the ground, hissing and flapping their wings. Men shouted as talons scraped their faces and shoulders. Some of the birds had already been fitted with metal spurs, and the spectators screamed as they ducked and even fell to the ground. The chickens stampeded over the prone humans, their beady eyes glowing with malicious glee. One perched on a gentleman’s head and crowed as if seeing its first sunrise. Alexander couldn’t have written a better scene.
The onlookers who hadn’t fallen to their knees batted at the aerial poultry, driving the fowls straight onto the stage. The roosters rage-squawked as they awkwardly but determinedly fluttered straight at their handlers. The owners raised their hands to protect their faces as curses spewed from their lips. In the ring, the bigger rooster abandoned the furry white chicken. The hefty fowl opened its beak wide as a hideous screech escaped from its muscular chest. The startled fluff ran around in a tight circle, seemingly too overset to even make a sound.
Miss Harrington leaped onto the stage and scooped up the small rooster. In her haste, she tucked it under her arm backward. As she bounded away, the poor creature’s body bounced this way and that, but its fleecy head remained perfectly straight in that peculiar balancing habit of chickens. If Alexander hadn’t been so worried for Miss Harrington, he would have laughed.
One of the match organizers lunged in her direction, and his thick fingers nearly caught the back of Miss Harrington’s coat. Frantic to protect her, Alexander did the only thing that he could think of. He smashed his walking stick through the wicker fencing around the stage and transformed into a gentleman in high dudgeon.
“What is the meaning of this travesty?” Alexander shouted loud enough that the owners of the birds could hear him over the cacophony. A few of the men closest to him quieted down, interested in the new spectacle.
“I paid good coin to watch a cockfight,” Alexander continued to yell. “Instead, I— I —am attacked by a flock of poultry! Do you not know who I am?”
“I also want an accounting!” The gentleman who’d had a rooster crow on his head hopped up from the ground.
Alexander whacked his cane against the wooden boards again. The crack echoed through the tavern yard. The chaps gathered around the stage began bumping each other with their elbows. As the crowd quieted and their attention turned to Alexander, the organizers of the bout looked at each other in pure panic. Miss Harrington slipped away, the fluffball now secure against her bosom. The other roosters began to flap and dash to freedom, their thick necks bobbing from the effort.
“Recompense! I demand recompense!” Alexander hollered, punctuating each word with a strike of his walking stick.
The throng took up his cry. In unison, they shouted. “Recompense! We demand recompense! Recompense! We demand recompense!”
The man collecting the coins clutched the purse close to his belly as he ducked his head and began to dash away. A collective roar filled the air.
“Get him!” a rough voice called out.
“Attack them all!” another cried.
The throng surged forward, some to tackle the fellow with the proceeds, the others to bring down the two onstage. Alexander took the opportunity to stroll away unnoticed. Reaching the street, he hummed a jaunty tune as roosters darted around him. Passersby gasped as armed chickens filled the thoroughfare. Some of the fowls emitted joyous battle squawks before they raced down side alleys to their freedom.
As Alexander walked by a bakery, he paused. He had little coin left for the month, but Miss Harrington would probably want to feed the white puff. Changing to a whistle, Alexander strolled into the store and bought the cheapest bun. Stuffing it into his pocket, he headed to the curricle, where he found Miss Harrington perched on the seat, the chicken nestled in her lap. Although the pouf on top of its head obscured its eyes, its slumped neck revealed its frightened exhaustion. Miss Harrington, however, was the very picture of excitement.
Her cheeks glowed a soft, wonderful pink, and her brown eyes sparkled with fierce joy. Her bound chest still moved up and down from the exertion of the rescue. The wig had slipped a fraction, revealing her tightly pinned brown hair and giving her a rather jaunty appearance. She simply shone with life.
Alexander’s heart felt like it did when he took a sharp bend during a carriage race and one of its wheels lifted dangerously. And just like then, he wasn’t about to exercise caution.
At his approach, Miss Harrington turned. For once, she did not fix him with a half-skeptical look. Although she did not precisely smile, she looked happy and perhaps a touch relieved.
“You were brilliant!” Alexander told her as he hoisted himself into his curricle. “Your scheme worked perfectly. I do believe you liberated every single rooster and not just your fluffball. The streets were filled with fleeing fowl. They’ll never collect the birds.”
Miss Harrington beamed, and her wig dipped a bit further. And so did Alexander’s heart. She looked utterly and completely fetching.
“I did not know that I possessed the ability to do something like that.” Miss Harrington’s expression turned introspective but no less enthusiastic. “I must have been inspired by the prizefighters at Championess Quick’s. It was so exhilarating watching their bouts.”
Miss Harrington had been the thrilling one. The way the coops had clattered to the ground had been truly marvelous. Alexander could still see her flying onto the stage and scooping up the befuddled rooster.
“Do you think we should leave now?” Miss Harrington asked. “Could they be chasing us?”
Alexander shook his head. “They are otherwise occupied. I turned the crowd against them. The spectators are determined to see blood flowing, having been deprived of the promised cockfight.”
“Normally, I abhor violence, but I do believe those men deserve their comeuppance, tormenting helpless creatures like that for money.” Miss Harrington sighed deeply as she gazed down at the chicken. The rooster remained frozen in shock, oblivious to the adoring gaze he was receiving.
Foolish fowl. Alexander would cherish such a look from Miss Harrington. He definitely wouldn’t remain a motionless lump.
Suddenly, Miss Harrington raised her chin to look at him. Although her eyes were not as soft as they were when directed at the chicken, there was warmth in them. “You are cleverer than I suspected, Alexander. It was quick-witted of you to cause a scene to help me escape. Thank you for coming to my rescue. If you hadn’t acted so quickly, that beefy man would have certainly caught me.”
Alexander swallowed at her sincerity. There was a time in his life when he’d been starved for true compliments, and Miss Harrington’s words touched that long-buried need. His heart thudded against his chest like a horse’s hooves against cobblestone.
As Miss Harrington started to turn from him, her wig tilted even more. Alexander reached up to right it. When his hand brushed against the side of her head, she froze, her face inches from his. If he dipped just a little closer, their mouths would touch. Alexander’s gaze flicked to her pink lips. Her tongue darted out as she nervously wet them, leaving behind a bead of moisture. Alexander wanted to brush it away—with his thumb, his lips, or even his tongue—it didn’t matter.
“Miss Harrington?” His voice sounded guttural to his own ears, and he hoped she understood the question he was asking.
“Yes?” She sounded uncharacteristically hesitant and maybe, just maybe, a little hopeful.
“Miss Harrington,” he started again, “may I—”
“Baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaawwwwwwwwwwaaaaaaaaawwwwwwwwwk!”
Both Alexander and Miss Harrington flew back at the chicken’s panicked cry. Its faculties—although limited—had returned. Even with its downy head thrown back as it moaned its woes to all and sundry, only its gray beak was visible through its plethora of feathers.
“I suppose the chicken wants us to leave,” Alexander joked, although he wasn’t sure if he should throttle or thank the fowl. Kissing Miss Harrington would have not been the wisest decision for many reasons. But the foremost was that Alexander’s personal code did not allow him to trifle with hearts. As much as Miss Harrington intrigued him, he had no intention of wedding someone whom his sire deemed appropriate. Although Alexander wasn’t precisely sure of Miss Harrington’s bloodlines, she was the legitimate cousin of a duke whose maternal lineage traced back to the Norman invasion. And Alexander’s father wanted nothing more than flawless, unblemished prestige and respectability for his next heir—an heir with a perfect body and no clubfoot. Alexander had sworn as a boy—when fever, chills, and pain had racked his body when fighting infection from another botched surgery—that he would never give the duke the satisfaction of a faultless grandson. Yes, he’d marry and have children, but he’d either choose a wife with questionable roots or wait until after his father had left this earth.
But it was too fine a day to dwell on such darkness. Alexander reached into his pocket and pulled out the bun. “Here. Perhaps this will calm the bird. I bought it for him.”
Miss Harrington regarded him thoughtfully. “That was kind of you.”
Alexander shrugged. “The poor creature had a nasty shock.”
As Miss Harrington ripped apart the bread, Alexander lifted the reins and clicked twice to the bays. When they reached the main thoroughfare, where the traffic inched along, he glanced over at the chicken on Miss Harrington’s lap. Its white plume waved merrily in the air as it enthusiastically pecked at the crust.
“What are you going to name him?” Alexander asked.
“Crinitus Legatus,” Miss Harrington said crisply.
Alexander barked out a laugh, feeling back to his normal self. “You’re giving that ridiculous creature the title of a Roman general? Although I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised, since you bestowed the honor of emperor upon your mutt from the streets.”
“It is a perfect appellation. I did call the rooster General Fluffy,” Miss Harrington pointed out.
“But since Crinitus Legatus is in Latin, it is absurdly dignified for a fowl, especially that one.”
“Well, I like it.”
“Fluffus Legatus?” Alexander suggested. “It has a more pleasing sound.”
“I beg to differ. His name shall remain Crinitus Legatus.”
“Fluffus Legatus.”
“Crinitus Legatus.”
“Fluff-us.”
“Crin-it-us.”
“You know I can keep this up the entire ride back to the Black Sheep,” Alexander pointed out, feeling gloriously lighthearted.
Miss Harrington regarded him with solemnity tinged by amusement. “So can I.”
Alexander threw his head back and laughed. Miss Harrington may have the power to disrupt his vow to never fall for a gentlewoman, but Alexander found her presence just too delightful to part with her just yet. Besides, he’d made a promise to help her find Pendergrast. He couldn’t break that oath and abandon a friend in potential danger. Besides, what was the harm in indulging in a bit of diversion for a few days or even a week or two? As long as Alexander’s and Miss Harrington’s hearts didn’t become truly entangled, no harm would come of a new friendship peppered with light flirtation.
Later that day, Alexander glanced over at Miss Harrington as he drove to her half brother’s townhome in fashionable Mayfair. Once again, she had on the maid’s outfit that she’d originally worn to the Black Sheep, but she carried the male clothes in a satchel. She looked sterner under the floppy mob cap than she had in the white wig. Alexander supposed it was the contrast between the oversized, almost comical, ruffles and her serious mien. But he found her equally charming, no matter what attire she donned.
“Now that we are settled on a name for the poultry—” Alexander began.
Miss Harrington shot him a rather waspish look. “It is not settled.”
“Everyone agreed that Fluffus Legatus suited him the best—even Pan,” Alexander pointed out cheerfully.
“I am not going to allow a parrot to dictate to me,” Miss Harrington huffed. “Besides, Crinitus Legatus is my rooster.”
Alexander decided not to counter that statement. He sensed that Miss Harrington wasn’t happy about her decision not to bring the bird home with her. Her half brother and sister-in-law would apparently not accept a pet chicken. The Wick cousins had offered to house the fowl, but Pan had thrown a proper fit. In the end, Alexander had agreed to take in the fluffball, who was currently in a makeshift coop cobbled together from two baskets.
“Let me begin again,” Alexander said. “Speaking of appellations, may I suggest we use Christian names? It is terribly forward of me to ask, but I can be roguish that way.”
Miss Harrington shot him a grumpy expression, yet he sensed an undercurrent of amusement. “I already call you Alexander.”
“I’m asking permission to call you Georgina—or George, as appropriate for the circumstances at hand. Of course, I’ll still use Miss Harrington when social rules require.” Alexander didn’t know why, but as he spoke, a curious nervousness descended. He didn’t want her to reject his offer, and it baffled him that he cared this much about her response.
To his relief, she gave a curt little nod. “I suppose I can allow that. We do share chicken custody, after all.”
Alexander laughed heartily as he pulled his bays to a stop a little distance from her brother’s address. Georgina had confided that she had sneaked away, and she didn’t want to draw attention to her return. Alexander climbed down from his curricle and headed around the vehicle to hand Miss Harrington down now that she was in female attire again.
As soon as her bare hand met his gloved one, a jolt bolted through him. Her grip was stronger than he’d expected, but then again she’d spent her days shoveling and sweeping away dirt—not the life of a typical highborn lady. He liked the strength in her fingers and the confident way she dismounted from the carriage. Although he’d braced himself with his cane and good leg, she barely used him for support.
When her feet touched the ground, they should have released each other, but they didn’t. Alexander kept his hold light, allowing Georgina to pull away. Yet she remained standing in front of him as a gentle summer breeze swept over them, carrying with it the scent of late-blooming roses.
“Why if it isn’t Alexander the Galling!”
The familiar taunting voice broke the spell weaving around Alexander. He immediately dropped Georgina’s hand and sprang away from her. Reaching deep inside for his jovial mask, he turned to face Lord Henry. As he saw the handsome man’s smirking mug, Alexander reminded himself that he wasn’t the scrawny, cowering boy that he’d been. He knew how to fight back, and he wouldn’t let anyone or anything intimidate him.
“Talbot,” Alexander said, refusing to revert to formality for such a blackguard.
“I don’t know if I should be showing you gratitude or if I should thoroughly thrash you like I did when we were lads.” Talbot stepped so close that the tips of his ridiculously buckled shoes almost touched Alexander’s.
The move was meant to cow Alexander. As a boy, he would have tried to slink back. But as a man, he stood firm.
“You will find me not so easy to trounce anymore.” Alexander kept his voice light and bright. He wished to hell that Georgina wasn’t learning about the humiliation of his past, but it couldn’t be helped. He shoved the embarrassment away along with his old vestiges of fear.
Talbot’s eyes narrowed as he started to lift his fist. Alexander just raised his eyebrow and tutted. “Engaging in fisticuffs in the broad daylight in Mayfair. My, my, you haven’t changed a whit since school.”
With what appeared to be a great effort, Talbot slowly extended each finger and then pressed his hand against his thigh. “Your role in bringing about the arrest of my elder brother has greatly changed my circumstances. On the one hand, it appears as if I will soon become the heir apparent and then the duke when Father shakes off his mortal coil. On the other, it will be because my brother’s neck will have snapped at the gallows.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Alexander saw Georgina lift her hand to her mouth. Her gaze bounced from Alexander to Talbot and back again.
“Your brother chose to kill people merely because it excited him. His hanging will hardly be my doing,” Alexander said stiffly. “Now if you do pardon me, I must be—”
“You exposed him.” Talbot shoved his face in Alexander’s.
Alexander didn’t flinch, but he did tighten his grip on his cane. If Talbot attacked, Alexander needed to be ready. As much as he’d boasted that Talbot wouldn’t find him such an easy target as before, the bigger man was a skilled fighter who had the full use of both legs. If Alexander had a hope of besting him, he needed to immediately bring Talbot to the ground.
“Father is worried that the king will strip him of his titles because of Hawley’s little mistakes—” Talbot whined.
“Murder is hardly a little mistake.” Alexander probably shouldn’t antagonize the brute, but he could not allow him to dismiss others’ lives with such abhorrent casualness.
“Why should I suffer for Hawley’s bloody sins?” Talbot snarled. “I thought when Father ordered me back from our shabby property in Essex that I could finally enjoy London again. But now I’m saddled with all these rules on how to appear proper and distinguished.”
Alexander froze at the mention of Essex. He’d forgotten that the Duke of Lansberry had property there. Clifville had mentioned that Talbot had displayed a peculiar interest in Georgina’s helmet when Pendergrast had brought it to Elysian Fields. Could Talbot be responsible for Percy’s disappearance?
Surreptitiously, Alexander hazarded a glance at Georgina. While she didn’t look particularly surprised at the reveal, she was eyeing Talbot with suspicion.
“Why were you in Essex?” Alexander tried to make his request sound as offhanded as possible since the bully would never respond to a demand.
“It was the property that Father assigned me to manage. It is depressingly small with a crumbly old house and not near the water. Father allowed me to set up my nursery there after I married Lucinda. She likes it, but heaven knows why. There is nothing to recommend the place other than its relative proximity to the capital. I left her and the children rusticating there when I moved back to London. It is much more peaceful living away from the brats.”
Georgina made a sound of disgust, drawing Talbot’s attention. Instinctually, Alexander moved to block her from view. Although Talbot normally barely registered the presence of servants, he’d never tolerate one showing disrespect. Alexander didn’t want Georgina in the man’s line of wrath. And if he recognized her, Georgina would face a scandal.
It was too late, though, for Alexander to shield her. Talbot’s gaze had already locked onto her face.
Talbot advanced slowly on Georgina. “You look oddly familiar, and I don’t generally consort with maids unless it is for one thing. Did I tup you once?”
This time, Alexander stepped fully between them. “That is enough. Stop harassing her. Your frustrations are with me.”
“Oh, are you trying to play the role of a gentleman now, Lord Heathford ?” Talbot used Alexander’s courtesy title like a mocking insult, just as he had when they were lads. Alexander sensed that it had always irked Talbot that Alexander had possessed a status he would likely never obtain.
A strangled sound emerged from Georgina. Hearing the absolute horror in her gasp, Alexander turned toward her with panicked concern. Accusation burned in her brown eyes. She lifted a shaking finger in his direction, just as she had at the Black Sheep.
“You. You! You’re Lord Heathford? The Marquess of Heathford?? ”
Stupefied by the venom in Georgina’s voice, Alexander blinked. What did Georgina think he’d done now? Had Pendergrast told a Banbury tale about him using his title? Could Alexander have inadvertently made a mistake in the past that harmed Georgina?
Pain sliced through him at the last thought. If he had hurt her, he would have to find a way to quickly repair whatever damage he’d wrought. His heart couldn’t withstand any more loathing looks from Miss Georgina Harrington.