A Lady's Revenge, page 5
“Tony,” John greeted him, feeling like he needed to stretch his jaw to drop the posh accent he’d spoken with all evening. “You didn’t think I’d miss this, did you?”
“I was ready to send after you if you did,” Tony said. “There’s too much money in the room tonight.”
“Good house, then?” John glanced around at the spectators clutching sweaty wads of paper. Since Napoleon’s fall, there had been more and more men crowded about. It had gotten rougher, all the ex-soldiers crammed into a tight space.
“Great house tonight!” the fat man roared. Tony had changed little in the twenty-odd years John had known him; not even a single hair on his head had turned gray. “You’ll make some money.”
“Winning or losing?” They walked into their corner of the room. John stripped off his greatcoat. “Having this kind of crowd is risky for an in-Town fight, Tony. Greed is making you reckless.”
The big man waved him off. “Did you not see our patrons in the corner? We’ll not have problems tonight. Paid off the dogberries proper this time.”
Aristocrats huddled in one corner of the crowd, the members of Gentleman Jackson’s Pugilist Club next to them, with the spread of tradesmen and the lower orders crammed into the rest of the space. “There’s the Fancy.”
The Fancy kept them safe and kept many of them afloat. They came to matches, lords and ladies alike, took lessons, and watched the boxers spill their claret—or, if the toff hadn’t been in the Fancy long enough to understand the parlance—watched them bleed. But most importantly, they parted with the contents of their pockets.
“Perry’s here, want me to send him over?”
“Aye,” John said. “Who am I fighting?”
“A toff,” Tony said, spitting into the corner.
John stretched his back, pulling one shoulder and then the other. He wouldn’t mind showing an aristocrat the hardworking knuckles of the lower orders. After that dinner, he was glad to drop the affluent accent and slip into the familiar cadence of the old neighborhood.
Caulie elbowed his way through the crowd. He was a friend from the old days, but he worked with John at the Exchange. He was a jobber—the lowest of the rungs on the financial ladder. Between his accent, his short stature, and his cauliflowered ears, there wasn’t a way for him to climb up to real respectability, even though he had the blunt to do it.
“Them’s thick out there,” Caulie said, shaking his head. When he caught sight of John’s togs, he pranced in mockery. “Oh, hellooooo sir, I thought you might be my friend John, not realizing we have a dandy about.”
They laughed. “It’s a bit far to keep your fighting name, but I weren’t about to question it,” Tony said.
John’s fighting name, Corinthian John, was meant to evoke fineness and the Fancy who came down to slum. A true Corinthian would dress for dinner as John was dressed tonight, throw his coin about, drink too much, and maybe find a whore to keep company. But though John could dress the part, even give florid bows that John and Caulie had practiced for months, he could never bring himself to those habits. He remembered those whores as the girls they’d been when they’d all stayed in the abandoned buildings in St. Giles. He’d been terrified that would happen to Pearl, and he’d set her up as best he could, praying every day that he wouldn’t get taken up to Newgate for stealing. They didn’t mind hanging street urchins for taking anything worth more than five bob.
Instead, he found Tony, and he didn’t steal, he fought.
Tony called Perry over to their huddle. “But here’s the thing, see? Toff has wagered against himself. Secret-like. I think he aims to throw the match.”
“Which toff? This one?” Caulie pointed to John. “Or that one over there?”
Thrown matches were never a good idea, and this crowd tonight wouldn’t suffer a cheat. He looked across to where Caulie had pointed out the other toff but couldn’t see him. John found the massive Russian in the sea of faces, but he couldn’t find Lady Lydia next to him, though he was sure she would be there.
John’s brow furrowed. Perry appeared, a lanky ginger boy who reminded John of himself, handing him a small, watered-down beer. The boy marked John’s face from a container of grease. Without it, the other man’s knuckles could tear the skin. With it, a blow had a better chance of glancing away. “You’ll be my bottleman, then, Perry?”
The boy’s eyes lit up.
“Are you even going to ask if I’ll be your second?” Caulie said, arms folded.
“Do I need to?” John asked.
“Course not,” Caulie said with a grin, revealing gaps from missing teeth.
“Who are the other mills?” John asked.
Tony only grinned that way for one fighter—Bess Abbott. She was terrifying, and Tony loved her. They all did.
“I’ll go wish her luck,” John said.
Tony pulled out a pocket watch. “Ye haven’t much time. Better get to her now.”
John walked into the crowd. The ring was marked out by lazy ropes on the floor, men crowding the lines. Typically, the ladies’ fight was first, but some young amateurs must have taken the opening slot. Ladies’ fights worked the crowd into a frenzy. Hopefully, Vasily could properly protect Lady Lydia when the time came.
Bess was nowhere to be seen. John pushed through the mob of people. The mill was still going and none of the men wanted to let him pass, so he elbowed the best he could. Before he knew it, he was face to face with Vasily, whose meaty, folded arms gave no unsure impression of his feelings.
“Hello, old friend,” John said, restoring his aristocratic dialect.
Lady Lydia peered around the mountain of a man, surprise writ across her face. Her hood was still up, masking those who might try to recognize her, but anyone who knew Vasily would spot her instantly.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded. Her eyes trailed down to his undone cravat and partially unbuttoned shirt.
He’d fight bare-chested, but the first ceremony of any match was peeling off the garments. The room was already hot with anticipation of blood.
“I should ask you the same. This is no place for a lady,” he said. “Are you part of the Fancy?” His eyes flicked to the big man. The crowd erupted. John didn’t need to look at the ring to know that one of the fighters was knocked out. Money would be changing hands soon, the ring would be cleared, and the next match would be set.
Lady Lydia glanced to the ring and back to him. People elbowed past, everyone wanting the best vantage point. She was uncomfortable with him, that much was clear, but she didn’t seem to be bothered by the jostling masses. She seemed the type to abhor the crush of this sweaty basement, but here she was, at ease with them and not with him.
“Should you need any further assistance,” he said, glancing at the pony-sized driver, “I am at your disposal. However, I have a pressing matter in just a few more minutes.”
“You took a fight on the same night as our invitation to dine?” She seemed insulted.
Should she be insulted? He fought every night he could, and the invitation was issued days before he knew the night of the fight. It was the only way they could keep ahead of the magistrates.
“A prizefighter must fight. That’s in the name, is it not? So what good would I be if I turned down such invitations, whether to dine or to bleed?”
“That’s a pretty speech for a half-dressed man,” she countered.
“You should hear my speeches when I am thoroughly undressed,” he said, flashing a smile that he was almost certain would earn him a backhand from her driver.
“I’m not certain I could stand it,” she said, not batting an eye.
He took a step forward, not thinking, just wanting to engage her further, smell her hair somehow? Oranges and vanilla would be a far sight better than the stink of unwashed men. But Vasily wedged his foot between John’s and hers. He retreated, and Vasily gave a grunt of approval.
“I would be happy to help you push your limits,” John said, bowing as best he could amongst the crowd.
“Fine manners, wot you got,” he heard from beside him.
He straightened to see Bess Abbott standing there, hands on hips, towering over Lady Lydia and damn near looking the Russian bear in the eye.
“Bess!” He clapped his hand on her shoulder and shook her hand with the other.
“John,” she said, grinning. “Like the old days, right? Me on first, then you bringing in the crowd for the crimson end.”
“Nuffin’ like old mates,” he said, his accent shifting again.
He glanced past Vasily’s meat barrier to Lady Lydia, who was looking at him with an expression he couldn’t read. What better time to scandalize the highborn than when they went slumming?
“Lady Lydia, may I present my old friend, Bess Abbott,” he said, returning to his proper accent.
Lady Lydia bowed her head. “Bess,” she said, with no trace of hauteur or dismay.
Wasn’t that a fine thing, then? What was she doing here, and why wasn’t she appalled that he had called her name and introduced her to a lady fighter? In fact, why had she addressed Bess with her Christian name?
“M’lady,” Bess said, giving an approximation of a curtsy. She was quick on her feet, Bess was, but she didn’t possess the finest manners. Once, when they were both younger, she’d been clocked with a quarterstaff so hard at the end of a mill that she couldn’t speak right for a week. The blow had ended the match, of course, and everyone agreed that she was lucky to keep most of her teeth. Since then, Bess didn’t like to duck her head to anyone—she refused to limit her field of vision.
A warning bell rang.
“I’m to my corner,” Bess said.
“Good luck, mate,” John said, clapping her on the shoulder again.
“Don’t need it,” she said, grinning. “But maybe you do.” Bess gave another approximation of a curtsy and then pushed her way through the crowd, shouting obscenities when someone took a drunken swing at her.
“If you are going to try to embarrass me, you’ll have to try harder,” Lady Lydia said, turning from him. “If you’ll excuse me, the match is soon to start. I’d hate to miss it.”
“I daresay it’ll scandalize you, my lady. The fairer sex is not so gentle.”
Her eyes flashed back at him, anger enhancing her beauty. The color in her cheeks he’d admired at dinner returned. “Finally. We agree on one thing, at least.” Then she flicked her hand at him, dismissing him.
His temper, usually so controlled, flared at her gesture. He was no footman at her beck and call. He cracked his neck, first the left, then the right, then the left again. The bell rang and the match was starting, so he left, elbowing his way back through the crowd.
Tony’s ample pockets were stuffed with notes. He was grinning like a jackal. “Bess is my girl,” he crowed.
“You wish,” John said, elbowing Tony in the ribs.
“Watch it,” he said. “Those elbows are deadly weapons.”
They stared out at the ring companionably for a moment, words unnecessary for men like the two of them who’d shared the rough life.
“That tart over there get you all worked up?” Tony asked, his eyes never wavering from the center of the room.
The women had their bottlemen undo their loose stays and take away their garments. The crowd whistled. Bess’s opponent, an older woman he’d not seen before, shook her rump at the crowd, egging them on.
“Take i’ off!” someone yelled.
Bess didn’t respond, didn’t waggle for the crowd. She was focused on her opponent, while the other woman was focused on the crowd. It would be her dominoes he’d step on in the ring, then.
Each woman wore nothing but a thin chemise, the straps loose on her shoulders, and damn near everything visible underneath the worn cotton. Bess banded her breasts, but not out of modesty. When she started the practice years ago, she claimed that not binding them knocked off her balance.
“Tits don’t have controllable muscle, John,” she had complained. “Don’t get all lathered up on my account.”
The opponent smoothed her chemise down against her body, showing off her tits to the crowd, which hooted and stamped in appreciation.
“You’re supposed to be revealed!” someone yelled at Bess.
She didn’t respond. Her stays were gone, which was all that was required. The bell sounded, and the two umpires got into the ring.
“I’ll be your kneeman!” someone else yelled.
“Won’t need one,” John murmured to Tony, who laughed in response.
Any fighter—any—was instantly distinguishable from a performer. Bess wasn’t famous because she was a showman. She was paid to fight, and fight she did. The muscles in her back, near to the twitch, were as wrought on her as on any man. She wasn’t a beauty, never had been, and so she fought to feed herself, just as John had.
Still, the men who watched didn’t appreciate her skill. They called her “Bes’ Close Your Eyes First,” mocking her homely looks—her ears cauliflowered, her nose having been broken a number of times. Her eyes were wide and brown, and her oversized stature made a man feel small.
But John would rather defend himself back to back with Bess than any other fighter he knew. His blood was up as they mocked her in the ring.
Between Lady Lydia’s dismissal and the obscene jokes made at his friend’s expense, it was all he could do to keep himself from tearing through the crowd. But he knew how to harness that, keep it at the ready for his opponent, when the time came.
The umpires conferred and released the fighters. They opted not to use weapons, which was probably better for the other woman. He’d seen Bess be lethal with a cudgel one night during a lurid match. She could’ve ended up in Newgate for that one, but luck was with her that night.
The other woman approached the line, her lip in a snarl. Bess toed the line, her face impassive. The umpires called the start, and the woman took the first swing. Bess shifted her weight and planted a facer.
The woman went down, the claret flowing from her nose and mouth. The match was over; the other woman was out cold.
“That’s my Bess,” Tony said. “She knows how to pop the claret!”
The crowd booed and hissed, screaming obscenities, angry at the lack of show. They wanted more Amazons, more bare-breasted women, teeth on display—like sex without sex, just a tease before the drunken, soft louts went to the brothel.
Bess pulled up her dress and conferred with the umpires, who checked on the other woman’s health. Bess’s bottleman, not much more than a lad, tossed her an orange. She caught it with ease, and they shared a smile. Easy money.
Across the room, Lady Lydia chatted with another man, her bearing comfortable and relaxed. Maybe it was only because John was about to fight, but he hated the idea of her talking so calmly with another man in this sort of place. Especially a man as pretty as this one, with dark hair and eyes the color of spring peas, clear enough to see at a distance.
He was in a state of undress, no waistcoat, and wore his shirt loose, so perhaps this was the toff Tony had spoken about. John had seen this other cove in the ring before but never fought him. If he were as good looking as that chap, he wouldn’t step foot in the ring. But toffs took weird chances to prove themselves.
John’s stomach soured as he watched this dark-haired man lean over and kiss Lady Lydia’s cheek. She smiled back. So! He was a suitor. It dawned on him then that she had received a note during dinner, interrupting the flow of their overly polite, ultimately dull dinner conversation. This was the James that she had spoken of, whom her parents seemed unflustered about. If they knew where their daughter ran off to at night, they would certainly care more. Didn’t she have a reputation to protect?
“You’re up,” Tony said, patting him on the shoulder.
“I can’t lose this mill.” Anxiety pricked at the back of his neck.
“I’d never ask you to, my boy,” Tony said. “Go on, then.”
Perry came running up behind him with a bottle filled with the cleanest water in the area and a few oranges, just in case the rounds went long.
After the disappointment of the women’s match, Basil jumped into the ring. That little rat could talk Midas out of his golden touch, if need be. He had been a fixture of the underground rings since John was young, another urchin needing a way to feed himself. The years hadn’t put any more weight on him, but his tongue only got faster. Basil started shouting about the upcoming match.
John stripped off his shirt, handing it to Caulie. He felt out of sorts. He was never out of sorts for a match.
“You all right? Need a minute?” Caulie asked. “An orange, more beer?”
Maybe it had been the rich dinner; turtle soup was decidedly not on the list of acceptable training foods. Not that he’d been seriously training. He hadn’t had a proper prizefight in years, just these mills. Still, he wasn’t used to the rich foods. That had to be the reason he couldn’t focus. Not because of the lady in the hooded pelisse staring at him with midnight-blue eyes.
“Gents, gents!” Basil called to the crowd. “Next match, we have it for you! You know ’im well! Corinthian John!”
Caulie snorted, and John grimaced. His ring persona had come from years of sparring, where he wouldn’t inflict more damage than he had to. If the man was down, he was down, and John respected it. Basil had started the name, and it stuck because of its allusion to Greek debauchery the dandies all participated in.
John shot daggers at the little rat as he walked into the middle of the ring and performed his courtly bow. He couldn’t not think about Lady Lydia, her opinion, her safety—and he realized he wanted to see admiration in those dark-blue eyes. So, he made sure that he performed that courtly bow directly to her.
The room felt close and hot. She wanted to push her hood down, slip off her pelisse, and loosen her stays. Whalebone stays were a terrible idea all around. On the other side of the room, the Fancy gathered in a huddle. It was a rougher crowd tonight, veterans of Napoleon missing a hand or a leg, others just rough and sour looking. Lydia didn’t feel like joining the Fancy, skulking about in the back as she usually did. She wanted to see James fight—he’d been particularly melancholy since he’d met Miss Dorchester, but things couldn’t be helped.
