Barbara Metzger (10 page)

“And if the Oak loses?” Brennan asked suspiciously.

“Then you go to Almacks like Mother’s good little boy and do the pretty.”

Bren looked at the sleek pair in front of him, then at the mighty boxer in the ring. He couldn’t lose. “Done.”

It was the contender’s turn to enter the ring. The mob hooted and whistled. Lord Mayne focused his glass on the young blond giant and nodded his satisfaction. She hadn’t said identical twin, but the challenger could have been Willy of the glass jaw—and the strong right. Wally handed his coat to his second, the butter-stamp Willy, and the audience took on a new frenzy. There was not an ounce of fat on Walter Minch, just taut muscle. In addition, he and his twin were right handsome English lads, not foreigners. Bets were changed, notes passed across carriages.

“How are you at the quadrille?” Forrest laughed at his brother’s look of dismay, then turned his glass back to where Willy and the waterboy were arranging towels and buckets and—

The smile faded from the viscount’s lips, to be replaced by the most colorful string of curses heard outside a navy brigantine. Brennan would have been impressed if he didn’t fear for his brother.

“Are you hurt? Did someone toss something at the bays? Should I send for a doctor, Forry? Do you want to go home? Do you want to change your bet?”

“Shut up, you rattlepate, you’re drawing attention. And if you ever call me Forry again, I’ll use your guts for garters.”

Attention? Bren looked around. Everyone else was watching the referee giving instructions. Brennan didn’t know whether to fear for his brother’s sanity or for his own life. The curses were lower now, more mumbled than spoken, and seemed to be mixed with smoke. Bren could pick out expressions like “sons of rutting sea serpents” and “flogging around the fleet.”

Life with his parents having taught Bren much about the Mainwaring tempers, he thought he just might get down and visit with some friends from town. “A little closer view, don’t you know?”

The viscount did not know about his brother’s painful climb down from the high-perch phaeton, nor Bren’s worried backward glance as he limped toward a rowdy pair of bucks in a racing curricle. He didn’t pay any attention to the shouted rules of the match, and he did not notice when his looking glass slipped through numb fingers to the ground far below. All he noticed—and the image would be etched in his mind’s eye forever, magnified or not—was the waterboy. A slight, scruffy lad he was, dressed in a loose smock and baggy britches tied up with rope. His face was dirty, as though someone had rubbed his nose in the mud, and a greasy woolen cap was pulled low over his curls. His bright coppery curls.

He was going to kill her. There was no question in Forrest’s mind. He was going to take her pretty little neck in his two hands and wring it. After the bout. Then he’d deliver some home-brewed to Willy’s glass jaw—he owed him that anyway—and he’d shatter whichever of Wally’s bones the Oak left in one piece. After the bout. To act before would not be prudent, and the viscount was always discreet. To smash his way through the crowds the way he wanted to with a raging Red Indian war cry, to tear the threesome limb from limb starting with the bogus waterboy, just might draw a tad of attention to Miss Sydney Lattimore. Murdering her was his fondest desire; protecting her reputation had to come first.

If one hint, one inkling of her presence here reached the tattlemongers, she would not have to worry about dresses or dowries. She’d never be received anywhere in London and no man could think of offering for her. A woman in britches? Fast didn’t begin to describe the names she would be called, and her precious sister would be tarred with the same brush.

And if Sydney didn’t know what could happen if this horde of drunks found out she was a woman, then Wally and Willy should have known. They were supposed to protect her, weren’t they? Hell, he only kissed her, and look what it got him. The twins couldn’t be stupid enough to bring her unless they were sharing one brain between the two of them; he’d find out if he had to tear their skulls open.

Sydney must have twisted them around her thumb, Forrest decided, the same way she wheedled the loan out of him when he had no intention of giving it. Damn and blast, how could she have been so mutton-headed as to jeopardize her life and her entire future this way, and after giving her word, too?

That wasn’t quite true, he conceded. She’d sworn only to stay away from the cents-per-centers, not boxing matches or congregations of castaways. The viscount cursed himself for not getting the little fool’s promise to
pretend
to be a lady. Then he cursed himself for getting involved in the first place.

Chapter 10

Riot and Rescue

Her whole life and future depended on this match, and Sydney could not watch it. While the viscount seethed about her presence there, chewing the inside of his mouth raw, not the least of his aggravation stemmed from the fact of Sydney’s viewing men’s bare chests. Blister it, the only bare chest she should ever see was his—her husband’s, he meant. He need not have worried. For the most part her eyes were closed. When she had to open them to perform her duties, Sydney was still oblivious to everything but the screaming, shouting men, the fumes from pipes, cigars, and spilled ale, the appalling sound of fist meeting flesh. The blood.

“Let’s go home,” she whispered in Wally’s ear after the first round. He gave her a big grin and pulled the cap down lower over her eyes. The bout went on.

The match was being fought under the new boxing rules with twenty-five timed rounds, short rests between, and judges to make the final ruling of victory or defeat. The old-style contests saw no break and no finish until only one man stood. The only decision was on the part of the loser, deciding when to stay down.

The innovations sought to make boxing less a gory contest of brute strength, more a test of skills and science. The new format appealed most to gentlemen like the viscount, who sparred himself and appreciated neat footwork and clever defense as well as carefully aimed blows. The nearer elements of the crowd, however, those on foot surrounding the canvas ring, had come to see mayhem committed. These bloodthirsty masses did not appreciate the finesse of a fencing match. They booed and hissed at each rest period and pressed closer to where Sydney stood, nearly paralyzed, along the ropes.

In the early rounds, the boxers were evenly matched. Wally had more cunning and quicker timing. He could dance out of danger, watching for openings and getting in some solid blows of his own. The Dutchman had the advantage in reach and devastating power behind even a glancing blow from those massive fists. Wally kept moving; the Oak kept missing. When the Dutchman connected, he did more damage. Wally’s blows barely rocked the Oak, though he got in twice as many of them.

Wally collapsed in his corner at the rests while Willy and Sydney wiped his face and ladled out cool water and advice. The Oak just stood and glowered. The crowd loved him.

In the middle rounds, Wally took a blow that sent him to the canvas. He valiantly got back to his feet, blood streaming from his nose, and the crowd started cheering for him for putting on a good show. The odds shifted again, and more wagers were recorded in the betting books. Those who’d bet on Wally to go ten rounds were happily collecting. Sydney clutched her bucket.

Wally got in a solid right in the very next round, then a left before he danced out of range. He quickly ducked back in under a flailing windmill to land another one-two combination, and still a third, to the mob’s joy, spilling the Oak’s claret for him, too.

By the nineteenth round, both fighters were slowed with exhaustion. Wally had visible bruises on his face and body and a swollen gash over one eye that was restricting his vision. He was still game, despite Sydney’s pleas that he not get up the next time he went down. The Oak was using the breaks to catch his own breath. He’d never had to go so long with a challenger, and his lack of conditioning was showing in the labored breathing. His worried seconds advised him to end the match soon.

The Hollander opened the twentieth round with a surprise roundhouse punch that caught Wally flat-footed. Now Wally’s other eyebrow was cut open and blood poured down his face. There was a vehement disagreement in the corner when Sydney tried to wrench the towel out of Willy’s hands to throw it in the ring. The mob howled, to think they would be deprived of the bloodletting.

* * * *

“What’s going on, for pete’s sake?” Bren asked, starting to climb back up to the phaeton’s seat so he could see better. He was almost knocked to the ground by his brother’s hurried descent.

“The waterboy’s trying to stop the fight,” Forrest shouted over the crowd’s roar as he pushed and pummeled his way toward the ring.

“My God, they’ll kill him,” Bren called, automatically following in his brother’s wake.

“No, they won’t,” Forrest said through gritted teeth. “That’s my job.”

* * * *

The gong finally ended the round.

“Enough, Wally. I’m going to end the match.”

“No, Missy,” yelled Wally, and “You can’t, Miss Sydney,” bellowed Willy. At least the noise of the rabble masked her name.

“We have to, Wally! You can’t see and you can hardly stand. You can’t get out of his way, and that’s slaughter! Give me the dratted towel!”

She reached for it, where Willy was using the cloth to staunch the blood. Wally was furious and adamant. “No!” he shouted, throwing his arms up.

Sydney should have listened to Wally the first time, for he certainly had strength left. Enough strength for one of those arms to catch Willy on his all too susceptible jaw. Willy collapsed at Sydney’s feet like a house of cards.

Sydney was in a near panic, trying to decide what to do. Wally was half blind and his senses pain-dulled. Willy was out for the count. Crude voices were screaming at her and rough hands were reaching through the ropes. Heaven help us, she prayed.

Then strong arms grabbed her from behind and plucked her out of the ring. Sydney started to scream until she heard a gruff voice close to her ear say, “Stow it, Mischief.”

She had never been so happy to see anyone in her life, and neither had the crowd. Mayne himself taking a part in a great contest was just about the icing on the cake. Their angry shouts turned into cheers. Sydney couldn’t understand any of it, nor why her devout Christian prayers had been answered by a raging pagan war god breathing thunder, but she was content to let him take charge. She never doubted for a moment that Mr. Mayne was at home in Purgatory.

She watched as he cleared Wally’s vision with a few deft strokes and whispered some words of encouragement, like “I’ll kill you myself if you don’t get back out there.” Wally grinned and met the bell. Barely taking his eyes off the fight, Mayne grabbed Sydney’s bucket and tossed its contents over Willy.

Willy lifted his head, saw who was above him, mumbled, “Aw, gov, this ain’t the time for revenge,” and passed out again.

Mayne grabbed Sydney by the collar, giving her a good shake while he was at it, before thrusting the empty bucket into her hands. “Go fill it,” he ordered. She ran.

A stupefied Bren reached the corner just as Willy opened his eyes again. “Uh, Forrest,” Bren said, helping the twin to his feet, “mind if I ask a foolish question?”

“You’ve always done so before,” his brother answered, his gaze fixed on the fighters. Wally was circling and dodging, wearing the Oak down even if he wasn’t landing any blows.

“Uh, what are we doing here?”

“I thought that was obvious. We’re watching a prizefight.”

“But do you
know
these people?” he asked in disbelief.

“Thanks to you, dear brother, only thanks to you. Now you can repay the favor by taking my bays and getting the waterboy out of here. Send Todd back to me.”

Now Brennan was even more convinced that his brother had brain fever. “The bays? That guttersnipe?”

Willy was more alert. He knew what he’d seen the last time this angry cove was near his mistress. “You can’t take her! I won’t let you carry Miss—” Thanks to Sydney, Lord Mayne knew just where to hit the footman to stop his protests.

The multitudes cheered. Now they had two mills to watch! Brennan just gaped.

As soon as Sydney returned with the full bucket, she found herself thrust against another chest. Mayne made the introductions. “This is my nodcock of a brother Brennan, and this,” he said with a sneer, “is Sydney.”

Brennan could tell, even through the strips still binding his ribs, that the waterboy didn’t feel right. “But he’s a—” he started to say.

Forrest grabbed his shoulder. “That’s right,” he ground out close to Brennan’s ear, “she’s a lady. Now get her the hell out of here before anyone else notices!”

* * * *

A lady? Should he then try to hand this ragamuffin up to the carriage? Brennan stood indecisive by the phaeton.

“You’ll give the whole thing away, you looby,” Sydney hissed at him. “You wouldn’t help a boy to mount, would you?” Once she had clambered up and Sydney realized how well she could see, she declared her intention of staying to watch.

Brennan sent Todd back to help the viscount and took up the reins, muttering about totty-headed females, if she thought
he
was going to cross his brother. Sydney poked him in the ribs.

“Ow.” Then Bren had to concentrate on backing the bays out of the narrow spot, answering the shouts of the amazed neighboring spectators with information that the boy was a runaway and he was taking him off before they lost sight of him again. “Relative of one of Mayne’s tenants. The mother is frantic. M’brother’s always watching out for his people, don’t you know.”

Sydney waited for Bren to complete the delicate maneuvering and reach the nearly deserted roadway before ripping up at him. “How dare you carry me off against my will when I should be helping my friends, and then tell your friends I’m a truant schoolboy or something?”

Bren’s attention was fixed on the horses. “Well, I had to tell them something; it was the first thing I could think of, other than telling them Forrest was saving the bacon for a ramshackle miss. And I can’t see where you were doing your friends much good. Better to leave things in Forrest’s hands. It usually is.”