Kate Moore (12 page)

“You have
other
merits?” she said.

“Touché,” he said. “I’m well served for my conceit. In any case I will dance with all the others in your party starting with that cat Ann Trentfield if you think the gossips must be appeased.” With that he surrendered her to the group around Juliet.

Susannah was attempting to compose her disordered senses when she heard her name and froze. It was Henry, his voice not unlike her father’s, the voice that had reviled her yet had been missed.

“Susannah Lacy?”

“Once,” she said. “Now, Susannah Bowen.”

“I thought so when I first saw you,” he said. “But I . . . couldn’t be sure until you danced just now. Then I remembered. You were such a good dancer. Young as I was then, I remember. You always danced beautifully.”

Several people were near enough to hear this exchange. Juliet was looking at her with frank interest, and Ann Trentfield’s eyes were upon her again.

When Susannah remained silent, he said, “I’m Henry, your brother. You do remember me, don’t you?”

Susannah looked at the earnest, hopeful face, and yielded. He had been but a boy. He had not cast her off. “Yes,” she said. “I do.”

“Fancy our meeting here,” he continued. “I would never have looked for you here. . . . That is I didn’t know you’d come to town, thought you were somewhere in the country.”

“Let me present you to Miss Lacy, our cousin. I’ve come with her for the season.”

Juliet offered her hand and smiled at her newly met cousin.

“And your husband?” her brother asked.

“Bowen is dead,” Susannah replied tightly.

“Oh, of course,” said her brother. “Let me present you to the Grangerfords.”

There followed a cold, formal exchange that left Susannah feeling that her poor brother had blundered if he hoped to impress Miss Grangerford’s family with his town polish. Mrs. Grangerford clearly had no relish for introductions to mere chaperones. Her glance took in Susannah’s cap with icy disdain.

“May I call on you?” her brother asked in parting.

“Of course,” Susannah replied.

***

It was Mrs. Trentfield who claimed the
on dit
of the evening in conversation with her friend Mrs. Chaworth-Musters.

“Evelina is so blind. That companion of her daughter’s is hot enough under her cap and fichu. You may be sure Warne’s onto her.”

“An improper widow?”

“Very. The name Bowen threw me at first, but of course, she was Susannah Lacy before. We came out in the same season. I remembered when I saw her dance. She was mad for a penniless officer. The name will come back to me, not Bowen, I’m sure.”

“Is she the one who ran off? After the Ravenswood ball?”

“Yes, but I didn’t ever hear that she’d married.”

“Not Price. That was the fellow she ran off with. He threw up a dozen skirts that spring.”

“I wonder where she got Bowen? Her brother didn’t seem to realize she’d married. You would think the family would acknowledge her if she had married.”

14

Henry Lacy called on his sister the day after their meeting at Almack’s. He brought his friend Edward Noakes, with whom he shared rooms near Gray’s Inn, where the two were studying the law. They were welcomed indifferently by Evelina and allowed to sit apart from her other callers. After the formalities had passed, a question from Susannah about the nature of their studies elicited an easy flow of talk from the two young men. Upon the arrival of another set of callers, Juliet left the fashionable circle around her mother and drifted over to the sunny corner where Susannah and her guests sat.

“The thing is,” said Henry, “the law is the great instrument for moral good. It embodies our aspirations for justice.”

“But laws just tell us what we can’t do, don’t they?” Juliet asked, speaking up for the first time.

“Well,” Henry replied frowning, “there are a number of laws that prohibit this and that . . .”

“Thousands,” interjected Ned.

Henry glared at his friend. “But even those laws are teaching us virtue—the virtue of forbearance.”

“Prudence, at any rate,” suggested Ned dryly.

“I say forbearance,” insisted Henry with a flash of his fine brown eyes. “The law teaches us a decent respect for others by requiring that we not act on our impulses of selfishness, malice, or revenge.”

Ned applauded. “Can’t you just hear how he’ll be in court?” he asked, and Henry reddened.

“I am inclined to oratory,” he confessed in lowered tones.

“Your brother,” said Ned to Susannah, “sees the law as a golden city, whereas I see it as a garden overrun with weeds.”

“And yet you share lodgings?” Susannah teased. She could see how close a friendship this was and knew her brother could not find a like companionship with Richard.

Ned laughed. “Henry may have his head in the clouds about the law, but nobody likes a good mill quite as much as he does.”

“A mill?” asked Juliet. “You like boxing, Mr. Lacy?”

A passionate spark lit Henry’s dark eyes again. “Going to see a mill this Sunday at Hill’s. The Sinister Scot against Beecham the Bruiser. Tom Cribb himself will be there. Should be quite a match,” Henry said.

“We saw the Bruiser last month,” Ned Noakes explained. “He’s got fists the size of melons, and he’s immovable as an oak.”

“What about the other gentleman?” Juliet asked.

“Haven’t seen the Scot, yet,” Henry told her. “He’s a young fellow, brought up by Hill. Supposed to have a wicked left.”

“Will there be any ladies there?” Juliet asked.

The two young men gaped at her. “Ladies,” said Ned recovering first, “should never attend a mill.”

“Is that a
law
, Mr. Noakes?” asked Juliet.

“It should be,” Ned replied heatedly.

“Well, I’d like to know why,” said Juliet.

Ned began to tell her, and Henry turned to Susannah. “I hope I did right in coming here, Susannah,” he said. “Last night, well, last night you did not look pleased to acknowledge me. I have been a poor excuse for a brother to be so caught up in making my own way in life and not to think about what became of you or how you were faring. I never even heard you had married or anything,” he concluded.

Susannah studied her hands folded in her lap. She had not minded concealing the truth in the country. No one remarked her, and to have
Mrs.
before her name merely meant she could go about her duties undisturbed. Nor had she minded her deception in London. Any scandal attached to her would only harm Juliet. But in the face of her brother’s kindness she suddenly wanted only truth. It would hurt him with the Miss Grangerfords of society if he were kind to an erring sister, but she looked up to find him regarding her with that hopeful gaze and could not bear to lose his friendship so soon. “It was good of you to call, Henry. I am grateful and glad to see you getting on so well.” Conscience made her ask, “Won’t Richard object?”

Henry frowned. “I suppose he will. He’s rather stiff that way, likes me to be sure everyone I meet is well-connected. He can’t even like Ned, but we need not tell Richard we’re friends.”

“I would not want you to quarrel with him on my account, Henry,” Susannah said. “But I shall always be glad to see you.”

“You must rely on me,” he told her, casting a glance at Evelina. “If you need someone on your side in a fix.”

***

Kirby’s seconds pressed a cold sponge to the cut above his right eye. His ribs ached with every breath. He let his lids close and shut out the noise and confusion of the crowd and the worried faces of the friends who’d bet on him. The fight had been grim. The Bruiser had a stolid cunning and was not easily moved or tricked. Kirby’s speed had saved him from the man’s blows, but his own punches might have fallen on stone for all their effect upon his opponent. He was like a gnat trying to worry a bull.

He studied his opponent again, remembering that Hill’s word on the Bruiser was that the man had never had to go the distance. He’d always brought his rival down in the first rounds. Those heavy fists were first a threat, then a liability. In the early rounds they had been swinging for Kirby’s head, and had just one of them caught him on the ear or the jaw, he’d have been felled. In the last round the huge fists had been catching him in the ribs, as if the Bruiser didn’t have the strength to lift them higher. Kirby pictured the man’s shifts and feints. What was the Bruiser covering?

When the seconds finished in his corner, he stood and moved toward the mark. The crowd shouted its impatience. The Bruiser advanced with slow, heavy steps, and Kirby mimicked him step for step, trying to feel with his own body the man’s weariness, his uncertain balance. There was an exchange of blows and then a clinch, with the Bruiser resting his bulk on Kirby. The referee parted them, and then the Bruiser ducked to avoid Kirby’s right. The duck was a bit too heavy, too slow, leaving an opening for Kirby’s left. He danced right, drawing the big man after him, fending off heavy blows. Then he tried the right feint again, brought the answering duck, and let fly with a driving left that met the Bruiser’s chin just as the man lowered it. The blow lifted him, and he fell back, shoulders and head hitting the canvas.

The crowd went still for a moment then erupted into cries as the referee made the count. The Bruiser heaved himself up to his knees, shaking his head, flinging sweat. Then he rose unsteadily to his feet. There was the half-minute rest period. Then the big man lunged at Kirby and almost went down again from his own momentum. The ropes caught him, and he came back to the center of the ring, swinging madly. It was Kirby’s turn to duck, and he knew an instant of blackness when one of the huge fists caught him a glancing blow on the side of the head.

The crowd was yelling wildly now. The Bruiser was spending all in a last burst of energy. Kirby would have to wait for the flailing fists to slow down. He kept moving, a light dance that drew the man’s heavy steps after him, dodging the blows with the bob and weave of his upper body, waiting, waiting. The Bruiser hit the ropes again, righted himself, and staggered back into the ring, holding his fists below a proper fighting stance. Kirby moved in. There came the downswing of the heavy head in response to his right feint. His left fist flashed up and caught the Bruiser square in the face. There was a snap like a dried limb breaking from a tree, and the Bruiser simply crumpled to the mat.

The ring filled with onlookers, who clapped Kirby on the back and shouted in his ears. Hill held Kirby’s arm aloft in the traditional sign of victory. Then he was lifted up on the shoulders of Garrett and others and borne out of the ring.

His friends left him in the changing room and went off to collect on their bets. Hill and his seconds bustled about sponging him down, offering water, fussing over his damaged hands, Hill criticizing every move of the fight. Kirby heard it all as if from a great distance. He had done it. He had won in the ring just as his father had beaten Lockyer, the Guardsman, years before. When he was dressed, he was led back to the hall to receive the purse.

Burly Tom Cribb himself made the presentation. “You’ve got bottom, lad,” he said. He handed Kirby a leather pouch, heavy with coin. Kirby took the prize and held it up for all to see. Then he was surrounded by friends and strangers who wanted to relive the fight blow by blow and buy him a drink. Garrett was shouting, “The Scot, the Scot.” Someone put a tankard in Kirby’s free hand. He raised it to his friends and took a deep draft. Hill clapped him on the back and shoved him into the crowd.

Several rounds later Hill returned and pulled Kirby over to the champion’s table. Cribb asked Hill a dozen questions about Kirby’s skills and experience, then he wanted to know, “Have you got a backer for the lad?”

Kirby shook his head, clearing it of the ale. “I’ve got my own backer,” he said. “I’d like the purse sent round to him, if you don’t mind, Mr. Cribb.” He laid one of his father’s cards on the table. Cribb took it, and cast Kirby a shrewd glance. “What’s your name, lad?”

Kirby gave the name he’d been using at Hill’s. Cribb looked doubtful. He signaled to one of his men. “Teague, deliver this to his lordship tonight.”

It was a test, but Kirby kept his gaze steady under Cribb’s.

“Save some for yourself, boy,” Hill advised, gesturing at the purse.

Kirby opened the leather pouch and retrieved a handful of coins before he handed his prize over to the messenger. “With the card,” he insisted. Cribb gave the card to his man, and the messenger set off.

“Well, then, Hill,” he said. “I think we can do something with this one.” The two men returned to their talk of future fights, and Kirby considered how much time he had to make an escape.

***

Warne returned from yet another ball where Susannah Bowen had disturbed his peace. He retired to his library, settled himself in a chair before the fire, and swirled the bit of brandy in his glass. She definitely clouded his mind. Her discreet presence among the chaperones had made him lose his train of thought more than once. The start of a waltz had set him moving toward her when he was pledged to another. He remembered too well their kiss in the park, their dance at Almack’s, recollections that made him restless in a way that neither work nor running could settle.

She thought him ruthless and cold and willing to destroy anyone to achieve his ends, and he could not deny that he had become so, that he was not the boy who had loved and married Ellen Kirby. He wanted to protest that there was a warmer side to his nature, that he could laugh and dance and perhaps love. Let him capture this thief, and he would prove it.

A knock on the library door interrupted these reflections. Pedrick entered with his usual discretion, announcing, “A messenger, sir. The man insists on seeing you.”

“At this hour?” Warne asked, wondering that his butler had not summarily dismissed the caller.

“He presented this card, sir,” said Pedrick, handing it over.

Warne was on his feet instantly. He slammed the brandy down on a side table. “Who is he?”

“A Mr. Teague. I’d say a pugilist, sir.”

Warne strode past his astonished butler. In the entry he found a hulk of a man with a flattened nose and a loud waistcoat. At the sound of Warne’s steps, the fellow looked around.

“Beggin’ your lordship’s pardon,” he said. “But Mr. Cribb says you’re the backer to tonight’s boy. Wanted you to have the purse.” The man held out a leather pouch sagging with the weight of coin.

Warne took the purse. “Mr. Teague, pardon me, you say this purse was won tonight? Where?”

“At Hill’s, my lord. Just about an hour ago. Fine fight it was, too.”

“The winner sends me this purse and this card?”

Teague nodded.

It made no sense that the thief would send him prize money, but he had no time to puzzle out the mystery. “Did you come in a hack, Teague? Is it waiting?”

The old fighter nodded.

“Then I’d like to join you. I’d like to shake this fellow’s hand.”

Teague’s eyes opened wide at the suggestion. “It’d be an honor, your lordship, I’m sure.”

By the time they reached Hill’s establishment in Stanhope Street, Warne knew the young boxer had to be the man behind the other appearances of his card as well. The name Teague gave meant nothing to Warne, but all the other details fit too well.

As they pulled up opposite the place, Warne questioned Teague about a back entrance and was assured that it was locked during a match to keep the flash-coves out. Warne had the jarvey position the hack on the opposite side of the street, where he could view the swinging front doors. He remained in the hack. If the thief had not anticipated Warne’s being at home to receive the purse, he might be in the place yet, and easily trapped or foolish enough to bolt.

Warne did not risk taking Teague into his confidence. He simply asked Teague to report the delivery of the purse and to return to the hack if the young man had left.

Kirby saw the old fighter return. Perhaps an hour had slipped by after all. Something in Teague’s manner bothered him. The man was looking about. Their gazes met, and Teague gave a nod as if satisfied on some point. Kirby glanced at the swinging doors. No sign of anyone there and only the darkness of the street beyond. Surely his father would not come here. He set down his tankard, regretting that he’d let thirst and fellowship get the better of him. He ought to have made his escape an hour ago. His knuckles were swollen, the bruises on his ribs ached in spite of the ale’s effect. He thought fleetingly of the back door, but suspected it was still locked on account of the match.

The front door was the only means of escape. He put his arm around Garrett’s shoulder, leaned close, and whispered the name of a place of which Garrett was said to be fond. Garrett turned and a slow, wicked grin lighted his face. He rose to his feet and gave a shout like a battle cry. Newbury, Eastham, and several others looked his way, and in a minute all were gathering coats and hats. Eastham flung a jingle of silver at the tapman, and the group began to jostle its way to the swinging doors. Kirby put on his hat, his father’s hat, at an angle that matched his friends’. He had no plan but Odysseus’s plan, to remain concealed by the group until they reached a turning. If someone waited in the dark, Kirby would watch for the man to make a move, then he would break and run.