A Masquerade in the Moonlight

Chapter 5

People who make no noise are dangerous.

— Jean de la Fontaine

Well, look who’s here—and only two hours late. It’s a good messenger you’d be, Tommie, if I was to send you looking for Death.”

Thomas stripped off his hacking jacket and aimed it at Dooley, then headed for the drinks table. “I was,” he began, then threw back two fingers of whiskey before turning to look at his friend, “pleasurably detained, Paddy. Do I have time for a quick wash and brush-up before we meet with Harewood? I smell all over like sweaty horse.”

“And that I noticed, boyo. Horse, and mayhap just a tad like a randy goat,” Dooley sniped, throwing himself into a chair and glaring at Thomas. “We’re to meet with that fella, Sir Ralph, at someplace called Gentleman Jackson’s in Bond Street in little over an hour. He sent a note ‘round this morning after you took yourself off a-wooing. Now, why d’you suppose he changed the meeting place, that’s what I’m after asking you? And don’t you go flinging that shirt on the floor!”

Thomas looked owlishly at the shirt and neck cloth he had just stripped off, shrugged, and tossed both onto a chair. “Gentleman Jackson’s? Really, Paddy?” He motioned for Dooley to follow him into the bedroom.

The water in the pitcher on the washstand was cold, but Thomas poured some into the bowl anyway, then plunged his face into it, splashing some on his neck and back, and coming up like a hound out of a pond, shaking his head to rid himself of the excess water. He soaped his face, hands, and chest in advance of subjecting himself to the cold water again before blindly reaching out a hand for the towel Dooley was sure to place in it. Dear Dooley. He was better than a valet, if underpaid for the job. But a hired servant might hear something not meant for his ears.

“Ah, that’s better. Thanks, Paddy,” Thomas said, dropping the towel and accepting the shirt his friend was holding out to him. “You’re going to enjoy this,” he told him as he searched in the cabinet for a fresh neck cloth. He tied it without looking into the mirror over the washstand, so that it hung loosely around his neck, giving him the air of a man who knew his linen should be clean, but had better things to do with his life than spend his time primping. And, he also knew, he was young enough and handsome enough to carry off such sartorial nonchalance. He ran his brushes through his hair, then smoothed his mustache with his thumb and index finger.

Less than ten minutes had passed since Dooley had greeted him at the door.

“Gentleman Jackson’s is a boxing saloon, Paddy. I’ve heard all about the place. For a fee, any gentleman of ability can step into the ring with the retired English champion for the honor of having his nose broken by the great man. They also square off with each other, which I admit must be a treat to watch. Do you suppose Harewood will challenge me to a bout?”

“Not if he has half a brain in his head, but I doubt even a full brain would stop an Englishman from believing he could wipe your Irish mug all over the floor,” Dooley said, grinning as he held out a bottle-green frock coat once Thomas had succeeded in pulling on hose and a freshly pressed pair of buff-colored breeches, his shirttails neatly tucked inside before he closed the buttons against his flat belly. “Wear the pumps. You’ll not be wanting your boots, boyo, if you’re going to have to step into the ring, for I’m not going to act the valet in the middle of Bond Street.”

“Who says I’m going to mill anybody down, not that the thought doesn’t serve to brighten my day? And you’re getting fairly full of yourself, aren’t you, Paddy?” Thomas teased, searching through a pile of clothes and papers lying on the desk in hopes of locating his hat. “Anyone would think I’d asked for your assistance. I’m fully grown and capable of looking after myself, thank you.”

“Your hat is in the other room, hanging from a candelabra, your cane propped on the floor beside it,” Dooley told him, heading out of the bedroom they had been sharing since coming to London three weeks earlier. “Now, come on, boyo—we’ve got our country’s business to attend to and, if we’re lucky, an Englishman or two to bash.”

It took almost a full half hour for the rented hack to take them through the early afternoon traffic from Piccadilly to Bond Street, and Thomas passed the time munching on a meat pie he had purchased from a hawker just outside the hotel, so that he was refreshed, if thirsty, when he and Dooley walked into Gentleman Jackson’s Boxing Saloon and asked for Sir Ralph Harewood.

“The gentlemen’s party is awaiting them upstairs,” the liveried servant said, bowing, and then ushered them toward the staircase with a wave of his hand.

Dooley looked back at the liveried servant before he and Thomas climbed the stairs two at a time, and remarked, “Bunch of nonsense, Tommie. Bowing servants, great hulking chandeliers, Chinese wallpapers. It’s embarrassing, that’s what it is. Ah—this is more like it! A place like this—full of fists aching for a hit—I’ve died and the sweet angels have lifted me up to heaven’s gate.”

Thomas stopped at the head of the stairs and grinned in agreement. They were faced with a most enormous room filled with roped-off rings and painted squares marking areas on the sawdust-strewn wood floor. Sawdust was good. It meant the gentlemen were expected not only to hit each other, but to bleed as well. He felt his palms itch, aching for the friendly opportunity to beat one of his fellowman’s two ears into one.

Everywhere Thomas looked gentlemen, some stripped to their waists, some still dressed for the street and standing by idly, drinks in their hands, were immersed in performing or observing the manly sport of boxing as it was practiced in London.

In Philadelphia the scene would have been very different. Mills took place out-of-doors, for one thing, and the rules weren’t quite so stringent. But spilled blood was still red, and a fist was still a man’s best weapon. How different could it all be?

The room, Thomas noticed, was as bright as it was big, for there were floor-to-ceiling windows lining two walls, and dust motes danced in the sunlight pouring in through those uncurtained windows.

The noise level was delightfully high, the air smelled of sawdust and sweat, and there wasn’t a lady to be seen—which was as it should be, for females did nothing but muck up what they couldn’t understand, crying and fainting at the sight of a little blood. Although he thought Marguerite might appreciate the scene.

No nuances here though, either, such as Thomas had faced in society, had just encountered with Marguerite. No saying one thing and meaning another. No foolery. Just fists and jaws—and backslaps and drinks once it was over. No hard feelings. No recriminations. This was a man’s world, a man’s kingdom, and Thomas immediately felt at home.

“There’s Sir Ralph,” Dooley said, breaking into Thomas’s thoughts as he gestured to a small knot of men standing to the right of one of the rings. “He’s over there with Mappleton and some bloke I don’t recognize. Now there’s Death, boyo—and I didn’t even have to send you for him.”

Thomas looked in the direction of Dooley’s pointed finger, immediately seeing Harewood and Mappleton, and just as quickly dismissing them. There was a third gentleman standing with them, half a head taller than the tall Harewood, and he was speaking to them earnestly while they seemed to listen as if he was saying something of immeasurable importance. The man’s jaw, remarkably square and spare, was topped by a wide, thin-lipped mouth below a long, aquiline nose, and his dark eyes were framed by black slashing brows. The silver hair at his temples added nothing to his age, but only to his air of consequence. Dressed all in black, his snowy white neck cloth climbing halfway up his throat, the man had an air of leashed energy about him.

Death? No, not Death, Thomas decided, one side of his mouth lifting in a thoughtful smile. Danger.

“Give me the time, if you’d be so kind, Paddy,” Thomas said quietly. “Are we unfashionably early?”

Dooley pulled a huge pocket watch from his waistcoat and snapped it open. “Only by about twenty minutes, Tommie. Why do you ask?”

“No reason, although I believe Sir Ralph and his friends may have thought we’d be fashionably late. Come along. Now that we’re here, we wouldn’t wish to keep our host waiting.” Thomas snatched a glass of wine from the tray of a passing servant—a bandy-legged little man who looked up at Thomas angrily then, seeing how far he had to tip back his head to do his looking, smiled nervously and blurted out, “Thank you, sir!” even before Thomas tossed him a coin.

Raising his voice about three notches, so that he would be heard over the din all around them, Thomas employed both hands to protectively clutch the knob of his cane against his chest and all but shouted, “Where do you suppose Sir Ralph to be, Paddy? Surely you misread our invitation—for whatever would civilized gentlemen do in a place like this? Good Lord, Paddy—that man’s bleeding! Terrible!”

“That’s a little too thick and rare, boyo,” Dooley whispered out of the corner of his mouth as Thomas noted with some satisfaction that the tall black-clad gentleman had already moved off, to stand looking into the ring at two combatants in the process of exchanging sloppy, ineffectual punches. “It would take the world’s worst looby to believe you were one what couldn’t handle his fives.”

“Never underestimate the thickheadedness of those who would believe you their inferiors, Paddy,” Thomas said softly, then stepped forward to extend his hand to Sir Ralph, who was approaching them from across the room, an undecipherable smile on his nondescript face. “Sir Ralph! A pleasure, I’m sure. How condescending of you to agree to meet with us.”

“As official representatives of your government, Mr. Donovan, Mr. Dooley, how could I refuse this interview?” Sir Ralph responded, his voice carrying over the din all around them. “Although I must warn you beforehand, my own government is adamant in refusing to assume any culpability in this business of English sailors called to serve their country.”

“Then I expect our business is already concluded.” Thomas’s grin was wide and unaffected. “Which does not mean we three cannot enjoy each other’s company on such a fine afternoon, does it, Sir Ralph?”

“Indeed, no. We are all civilized people, Mr. Donovan. In truth, my invitation for you and your friend to join Lord Mappleton and myself today was strictly social. We can’t always be speaking of business, now can we?”

Thomas nodded, considering the man’s words. “How very kind, Sir Ralph.”

“Thank you. Now, won’t you join Lord Mappleton and me as we watch the sparring going on just over here between Lord Ludworth and Baron Strath? It has so far proved to be an impressive display of the proper science of attack and defense.”

“Really? How interesting. I’m ashamed to admit I am not familiar with the science of the thing. Coming, Paddy?” Thomas asked as Sir Ralph headed back the way he had come.

“I shouldn’t. Not if I had a thimbleful of sense,” Dooley growled in an undertone, taking the cane Thomas held out to him. “The devil’s peeking out from between your two eyes, boyo, and no mistake. Remember—we’re here for a reason, and it has precious little to do with bashing anyone on the noggin. Although I wish I were five years younger and two stone lighter, so I might climb in the ring m’self.”

“Twenty years, at the least, and three stone, Paddy, but I’ll do my best not to disappoint you.”

Sir Ralph had walked ahead of Thomas and Paddy, and by the time they had caught up with him, Lord Mappleton was glaring at them through a quizzing glass stuck to his left eye. “What? What? I know they’re here, Ralph, for pity’s sake, for I can see them clear as day. You don’t have to remind me. I say, hello there, Donaldson. Awfully good to see you again. Sorry about the other night. Busy, you know. Dreadfully busy. Tonight the Royal Opera House. Miss Balfour has expressly insisted upon my attendance in Sir Gilbert’s box.” He shook his head and the quizzing glass became unstuck, falling to the middle of his chest, where it hung from a green, satin riband. “Busy, busy, busy.”

“More than a few slates off this one’s roof, ain’t there, Donaldson?” Dooley whispered from behind Thomas. “I think I’ll just be taking myself off to go watch those fellas over there awhile, seeing as how nobody ever pays me a whit of attention anyways. One of them ain’t half bad with his right hand.”

“Do that, Paddy,” Thomas said with a smile before extending his hand to Lord Mappleton, who looked first to Sir. Ralph, as if appealing to him for guidance as to whether or not he should shake the American’s hand. “Lord Mappleton—how good to see you again. And to hear you’re still having such marvelous success with the ladies! How gratifying. But then, I am not surprised. An interesting gentleman such as your lordship will always be surrounded by female admirers.”

Lord Mappleton puffed up his chest (which, for the majority of the time, resided closer to his generous stomach), and grinned in genuine happiness. “Like you, Dollinger—truly I do. Don’t you like him, Ralph? Pity he’s American.”

“Shut up, Arthur,” Sir Ralph said without emotion, then gestured for Thomas to step closer. “I must be honest, Mr. Donovan. I suggested this meeting not just to show you some English hospitality, but also in order to get some of the preliminaries out of the way before our get-together on Saturday. I’ve spoken with Sir Peregrine, you understand, concerning the interview you had in his office the other day, and we—er—I felt it necessary to reassure myself of your sincerity, among other things.”

“Really?” Thomas answered, deliberately raising one eyebrow as he peered incredulously into Sir Ralph’s face. “How extraordinarily depressing. I’m so ashamed. Was it something I said?”

“You made mention of the French,” Sir Ralph told him, speaking quietly, surreptitiously, out of one corner of his mouth. Didn’t the man have any idea about the workings of subtlety? There couldn’t be anyone higher than a footman in this entire place who wouldn’t know with one look that some secret conversation was taking place. “That was an unfortunate accusation, Mr. Donovan, and totally without foundation.”

“So Sir Peregrine assured me,” Thomas answered, seeing that the man who had lately been with Sir Ralph and Lord Mappleton was now being assisted from his frock coat by one of the servants. “It had been merely a random thought, and I’ve summarily dismissed it. My belief in your sincerity now knows no bounds. Anything else?”

Sir Ralph took a single step closer and cleared his throat. “Yes, as a matter of fact, there is something else. It concerns Miss Balfour. Stay away from her.”

The man had discarded his neck cloth and shirt, so that he was now bare to the waist. The servant bent to remove the man’s black pumps, so that he soon stood clothed in nothing save his snow-white hose and black tight-fitting breeches. He might have twenty years or more on Thomas, but he certainly stripped to advantage, his shoulders broad, his arms neatly muscular. “Miss Balfour, you say, Sir Ralph?” Thomas asked, frowning. “I don’t understand. Is she betrothed?”

“What? What? Betrothed? Nonsense, man! Not allowed, don’t you know. Talk, dance, keep her occupied. But betrothed? Oh, I don’t think so. He wouldn’t like that above half.”

Sir Ralph’s dark eyes flashed with anger, but only for a moment—a moment anyone less observant than Thomas would have missed. “What Lord Mappleton here means, Mr. Donovan, is we are all rather fond of Miss Balfour—Lord Mappleton, Sir Peregrine, Lord Chorley, and myself—and we do not care to hear her name bandied about as you did last night. We may have dealings with you Americans, but we do not appreciate your boldly stated salacious attention to our young ladies of quality. Am I making myself clear, Mr. Donovan?”

“Salacious, Sir Ralph?” Thomas sliced a look toward the now empty ring and the man still standing outside it. If the fellow was going to eavesdrop, Thomas didn’t wish to disappoint him. “That may have been the case in the beginning,” he said in a clear voice, “and I truly regret my rash, ungentlemanly words—but my emotions are now thoroughly engaged. I’m sure Lord Mappleton understands, also being very fond of the ladies. Ah, but when we fall, we scamps, we fall hard. I plan to wed the young lady, if she’ll have me. So you can relax, Sir Ralph. My intentions are entirely honorable.”

Lord Mappleton, who had been in the process of sipping from his wineglass, began to choke and cough, as if the wine had found its way into his windpipe. “Me?” he blustered once he could find his breath. “Why would I understand that?”

Thomas pretended not to hear Lord Mappleton’s remark, just as he pretended not to notice that the man beside the ring had straightened his already stunningly erect posture. “I say, Sir Ralph,” he began enthusiastically, “I see the ring just behind you is no longer occupied, although there is a gentleman standing there, apparently without an opponent. I realize I’m not a member, but do you suppose, now that our business is concluded, could I presume—I mean, not that I’ve ever done more than engage in the random alleyway brawl after a night of drinking—but would it be possible...?” He allowed his voice to trail off as he raised his hands, palms up, as if unable to find the correct words to describe the “science” of boxing.

Sir Ralph turned to glance behind him, and then looked back to Thomas and inclined his head in the affirmative. “Say no more, Mr. Donovan. After all, you’re my guest here today. Excuse me, and I’ll see if the Earl of Laleham is agreeable. Although I must warn you, you have picked a most worthy adversary. The earl is known for his expertise, which is why he so seldom has a partner, save Jackson himself.”

Thomas nodded, then looked to Lord Mappleton, who alternately frowned and smiled, as if not sure how he should react now that Sir Ralph was not there to guide him.

“Mr. Donovan? William Renfrew, Earl of Laleham,” the silver-winged gentleman said a few moments later, extending his right hand as if extraordinarily pleased to meet Thomas. “Sir Ralph here tells me you’ve expressed an interest in sparring.”

Thomas refused to wince as the earl’s firm handclasp threatened to grind his bones into dust and only inclined his head politely. They were much of a height, he and the earl and, if anything, the earl’s shoulders were broader. “Your lordship,” he returned affably. “But I must warn you—I am not well versed in the rules.”

“I believe we’ll manage, sir,” Lord Laleham said, finally releasing Thomas’s hand, “and I promise to begin slowly, so that I do not overpower you. Do you have someone who will assist you, or shall I summon one of the servants?”

“A servant? Oh, no. I can’t say that I’m in the least comfortable issuing orders, your lordship. Perhaps my associate will agree to assist me.” Thomas looked about the room, quickly locating Dooley. “Paddy!” he called out cheerfully, so that Lord Mappleton clapped his hands over his ears. “Don’t just stand there with your fingers in your mouth. Come help me out of this coat.”

Thomas could see Dooley’s lips moving as he strode across the room to rejoin him, and he grinned, knowing he had just become the object of a few healthy Irish curses. Thomas went to meet him halfway, then turned his back to the Irishman and held out his arms, wordlessly signaling for Dooley to tug him free of the tight sleeves of his new frock coat.

“Well, would you look at you—cock of the walk, ordering me about. Keep this up, boyo, and I’ll soon give you a leveler myself,” Dooley whispered, taking hold of Thomas’s left sleeve and giving it a mighty tug. “That the one you’re going in the ring with?” he asked, jabbing his head in the direction of the earl. “Looks sound enough to give you a fair tussle. Why not Harewood? Why this fella?”

“Because that fella very much wants me to, Paddy. Because that’s why we were invited here today in the first place,” Thomas answered quietly, raising his chin so that Dooley could remove his neck cloth and unbutton his shirt. “He’s considered to be exceptionally good, and I am about to be punished for my upstart American ways.”

“He wants to? That’s no reason. You never do a thing I ask you to do, and you’re supposed to be my friend.” Dooley peeked around Thomas to look at the earl once more. “Taking a big bite, aren’t you? He’s got a good long reach, and strong pins under him. And don’t let those silver wings fool you, boyo. He looks like the spawn of Satan. You know what they say—the devil’s children have the devil’s luck.”

By the time Thomas had stripped to the waist and removed his shoes a small crowd had gathered around the outside of the ring, word of the earl’s upcoming bout having sped through the large room with remarkable speed. Thomas lifted his long arms high up and over his head, stretching his muscles as he rejoined Sir Ralph and the others, secretly pleased to see Lord Mappleton surveying his bared chest and well-muscled shoulders with what looked to be mingled awe and even some trepidation. And why shouldn’t he be impressed, Thomas decided. The Earl of Laleham wasn’t the only man in the world who stripped to advantage.

“Mr. Donovan?” the earl intoned expectantly, then bowed his head to enter the ring beneath the rope Sir Ralph had lifted to facilitate his entry. Once his lordship was through, Sir Ralph allowed the rope to snap back to its original position, leaving Thomas still outside it.

“Whenever you’re ready, your lordship,” Thomas said, bowing to the earl, who now stood in the center of the ring, his hands already drawn up into fists. “I may be an American, and not conversant with your rules, but I do consider myself a gentleman. Considering the disparity in our ages, I’ll do my best not to hurt you.”

“Oh, that’s good, boyo. Insult the man while you’re about it, why not,” Dooley commented as he stepped forward and lifted the rope, allowing Thomas to duck under it. “There’s an old saying I’ve done my best to remember since one otherwise forgettable night in Kilkenny. ‘A soft word never broke a tooth.’ Mayhap you should have learned it, for that fella looks like the sort who would take an eye out of his own head to take two of yours.”

Thomas arched one eyebrow as he looked at his friend and said quietly, “And mayhap I should be buying you a rocker once we’re home, so you can set with your mother-in-law beside the fire. You’re turning fearful, Paddy, like an old woman, if you think the day has come when any Englisher can best one of us in a fair fight.”

“Who said it was going to be fair?” Paddy fairly hissed. “I’ve been watching, boyo, and they don’t fight like anything I’ve seen above once before—dancing and prancing around like a hen on a hot skillet, their fists up at their eyes, bobbing and weaving their heads like pigeons strutting in the square. You can’t hit something that don’t stand still like a real man.”

Thomas looked to the ring thirty feet to his left to see that Paddy was right. The two men moving inside it were hopping about like fleas, their bared fists lifted high, flicking punches at each other, then hastily dancing away. He lifted a hand to stroke thumb and forefinger over his mustache, then smiled down at Dooley. “Look a little silly, now that I’m really watching, don’t they? Not to worry, Paddy. I’ve got a plan.”

”A plan, is it? Ain’t that wonderful. You have a head as well, boyo, but then so does a pin,” Dooley countered, stepping up on tiptoe to roughly massage Thomas’s shoulders for a few moments before giving him a mighty push toward the center of the ring. “Now go kill the bastard.”

With Dooley’s last words ringing in his ears, Thomas halted two feet in front of the earl and smiled. “According to my friend and assistant, Mr. Dooley, this is to be a civilized exercise, unlike anything I am accustomed to. I take it then there is to be no gouging of the eyes, tripping, or kicking a man while he’s down. What, then, are the rules?”

The earl likewise inclined his head and said, “We shall use Broughton’s rules, Mr. Donovan. Sir Ralph will umpire, stepping between us if necessary, and once a man is down the other participant is to stand aside until it is determined whether his opponent is able to rise. As we are gentlemen, and this is only friendly sparring, I suggest that we indulge in no more than three falls and not total annihilation of our opponent. Agreed? And I give you my word as a gentleman that I will not knowingly take advantage of your inexperience.”

“Sounds fine to me,” Dooley said from behind Thomas. “Falling is always easier than rising anyway. But don’t worry, your lordship. I’ll help you up every time Tommie here knocks you down.”

“Paddy, go away,” Thomas said, trying not to smile. “Your lordship? I appreciate your consideration, and thank you for it. Ready when you are.”

Sir Ralph stood back, then motioned with both arms for the earl and Thomas to commence boxing.

Thomas stood very still, his heart pounding with expectation, his fists waist high, his knees flexed as he watched to see what the earl would do.

The man didn’t disappoint him. The moment he was given the signal, William Renfrew leaned slightly backward, chin up and head erect, his elbows bent, his fists as high as his eyes, with his fingers toward his face and the backs of his hands presented to Thomas. He looked, Thomas decided, like some sort of unnaturally stiff statue.

But he didn’t, like a statue, remain motionless. Before Thomas could react, the earl stepped forward and shot out his right fist, landing a punishing punch squarely on Thomas’s jaw. Less than a blink later, his left hand connected with Thomas’s stomach. A moment after that, he was gone, having danced away to another area of the ring. If this was “friendly” sparring, Thomas knew he would hate to be on the other end of the earl’s fists when the man was really trying.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Thomas said quietly, lifting a hand to gently manipulate his lower jaw, just to make sure none of his teeth had been loosened. “So that’s how it’s done.” Lowering his head and raising his arms only slightly —his left in front of his cheek, his right only shoulder high and partially extended—he stepped forward, knees still flexed, his eyes narrowed as he closed in on his prey. “Hardly seems sporting to hit a man, and then turn tail and run,” he said, and watched as the earl smiled.

“Perhaps, Mr. Donovan,” the earl responded, barely breathing hard, for all his exertion. “But, you must admit, it is extremely effective. Perhaps I have overestimated your ability and could end by hurting you. Do you wish to cry off?”

“I don’t know,” Thomas answered affably, flatfootedly stalking Laleham as the man danced toward the corner. “Why don’t you stop being so gentlemanly and really hit me, so I can make up my mind. So far I’ve felt nothing more than the breeze as you skip by me.”

“As you wish, Mr. Donovan,” the earl countered civilly, and then the fight was on in earnest, neither bothering to pretend this was anything less than it was, a test of just who was the better man.

The two began to circle each other, the earl landing stinging hits on Thomas’s left forearm as he deftly blocked each blow, while Thomas tested the earl’s reflexes with a series of jabs with his right.

The earl, Thomas could see, still believed he was toying with him, setting him up for a mighty fall, both physically and in consequence. The man hated him, really hated him, and Thomas wished he wasn’t so completely at a loss as to why. But, for all the air of quiet menace be sensed from the earl, the man seemed impervious to the predictable mistakes in judgment born of temper, not reacting when Thomas got in an especially good hit or acting impulsively when Thomas grinned at him, deliberately trying to incite him to a rash move. The man was like a machine, cold, emotionless, impenetrable to outside influence. Like a printing press, he simply performed, over and over and over again, shooting out controlled jabs, feinting, advancing, retreating, advancing again.

But eventually, impressed as he was with the earl’s prowess, Thomas became bored. He might have seen but never have fought by “Brougham’s rules,” but he was an Irishman and an American, and he had mowed down his share of men in fights both fair and foul. He knew what to look for in an opponent’s style of fighting, and he had not been disappointed this time.

And now it was time to end it. He had observed a minor weakness in his adversary, a slight lowering of his left shoulder each time he was about to deliver a body blow. It would be so easy to anticipate that move and slide his own right hand overtop the earl’s left, to break through the man’s defenses. Especially if the man believed himself to be winning.

So thinking, Thomas allowed himself to be hit, and hit rather hard, the next three times the earl jabbed at him with his right. He even staggered slightly after the third flush hit, blinking his eyes furiously as if to attempt to clear the fuzziness from his brain.

As the crowd of men around the perimeter of the ring began to cheer on their countryman to what had to be a sure victory, and Dooley could be heard yelling “cross and jostle, Tommie. Don’t just stand there getting bashed—use some cross and jostle!” Thomas looked for his opening.

And there it was. After three more straight jabs, all deflected by Thomas’s left forearm, Lord Laleham’s left shoulder slipped down a notch.

Reaching from his heels, Thomas snapped his right arm out, the back of his clenched hand parallel with the high ceiling, and gloried in the thud of bone crushing against bone as his fist connected with the vulnerable spot just to the south of the earl’s left ear. He followed up on his right with a lung-emptying left to the earl’s midsection.

William Renfrew’s legs buckled and he landed facedown, the thump of his body hitting the floor echoing like thunder in the suddenly silent room.

Dooley, who had snatched up a towel from somewhere, rushed into the ring, draping the towel across Thomas’s shoulders, slapping him on the back as he looked to Sir Ralph. “Did you see that? Did you see that? Planted him a solid facer square on his bone box, that’s what he did, then knocked all the stuffing out of his breadbasket! Shoulda wagered a guinea or two on you with some of these fellas, Tommie, only I couldn’t be sure. That’ll teach me to doubt you. Fine piece of work, Tommie. Truly fine. Unless the earl’s dead, of course. That wouldn’t be friendly.”

Thomas took a deep breath and looked around the room to see Lord Mappleton was biting on his knuckle as if in fear and that many of the gentlemen who had been watching were melting away from the ring, going quietly, as if they didn’t want anyone to remember they had been witness to the earl’s defeat. Sir Ralph, he saw, was on his knees beside William Renfrew, whom he had turned over onto his back and was now fanning him with a towel.

“A bucket of cold water would do it faster, Harewood, if you’d dare such a thing,” Thomas told Sir Ralph quietly, seeing that the earl’s limbs were beginning to move, so that he knew he hadn’t done the man any permanent harm. As a matter of fact, he was beginning to realize he may have done himself some dangerous disservice—and not just to his right hand, which was beginning to pain him like the very devil. “Well, I must be going, as I have just this moment remembered a pressing engagement with a jeweler further up Bond Street. It’s always a good thing, don’t you know, to thrill a lady with a bauble or two when you’re courting her. Please thank Lord Laleham for me when he wakes, and tell him I’d be pleased to buy him a drink next time I see him. I believe his instructions were very educational. I may even attempt this again one day soon. Yes, yes, very educational. Thank you all for inviting me. Well, ta-ta. Paddy—my clothes, if you please.”

Thomas dressed unhurriedly, refusing to look down at his right hand, and only watching as the earl regained consciousness and Sir Ralph and Lord Mappleton helped him to a nearby chair, Sir Ralph still fanning him with the towel. Haphazardly tying his neck cloth, he motioned for Dooley to follow him out of the room, ignoring the stares of the men that followed him all the way to the stairs.

“Rushing away in the middle of your glory, aren’t you, boyo?” Dooley asked, frowning. “I would think you’d want to stay a bit, and take a few bows.”

“There’s no time for gloating, Paddy. Something strange was going on here today, and it has nothing to do with boxing. Something between the gentlemen we’re dealing with and Marguerite Balfour, and I’ve just stepped squarely into the middle of it. And even if I’m wrong about any sort of intrigue—the bastards just warned me off her and, Paddy, old friend, you know I’m not the sort to take that lying down. Come on—I have to get back to the hotel and get ready to go out again.”

“You have no engagements tonight, Tommie,” Dooley told him, fairly running to keep up with Thomas’s lengthy strides once they were on the flagway, heading up Bond Street.

“On the contrary, Paddy. And not just me, but the both of us. First, I’ll need a bath. Then we’re going to treat ourselves to a bird and a bottle, for I’ve begun to notice I’m suffering from a most prodigious appetite, and follow it up with a visit to Covent Garden. I have a niggling suspicion I’ll want to witness what’s going to happen there tonight. Oh, yes. And I have to visit a jeweler. Damn, but my hand hurts!”

“Do you think you smashed the thing?” Dooley asked quickly, lifting Thomas’s right arm at the wrist and eyeing his hand consideringly. “That one knuckle looks none too pretty, boyo. Was it worth it?”

Thomas grinned as Dooley used his own handkerchief to wrap the hand. “Worth it? Ah, Paddy, how can you ask? Didn’t you take a good look at his lordship? It’s a good thing he isn’t a talkative sort, for his jaw is broken for sure—sure as I am that I’ll be kissing Marguerite Balfour’s willing lips again before this night is over.”

“You’re a naughty man, Thomas Joseph Donovan,” Dooley said, clapping Thomas on the back so hard he nearly pitched forward into the street. “A bad, roguish, man. And it’s pleased and honored that I am to know you.” His grin slipped a fraction. “Just don’t tell m’wife!”