One Wicked Night

by Noelle Mack

  "So. Mr. Quinn is your friend, I believe."

  I inclined my head. "He is."

  Diego gestured to the waiter. "More wine." He did not order any for me, not even pretending to be civil.

  He waited in silence before it arrived, every inch the Spanish grandee. "He is no friend of mine. I believe my wife is having an affair with him."

  That caught me off-guard. "I—I could not say."

  "You hesitate."

  I shook my head. "Don Diego, you are a gentleman and so am I. You cannot trap me, or ask me to incriminate Mr. Quinn."

  His eyes blazed. No matter what I said, he would think the worst. Quinn might get his throat cut for my sake.

  "My apologies," he said evenly. "There is the matter of the engravings. Have you seen them?"

  "I don't know what you're talking about."

  "Yes. You do."

  He did not seem like the sort of man who would bluff but I could not answer him. If someone who knew him had seen me in front of Mr. Martin's printshop, I was doomed. And I doubted that whoever had spotted me had done so accidentally. He must have had someone watching Quinn, and they had seen it all.

  The men at the table grew loud and boisterous as the play progressed and bets were placed. Turning an apoplectic red with anger, one man rose to argue with another who sat across the table, grabbing his lapels and dragging him out of his chair.

  The lamp in the middle of the table fell over and cracked and the tablecloth caught fire from the spilled oil. An outward-spreading ring of tiny flames reached the edge of the table and leapt up as the folds caught. The room filled with smoke as the waiters tried to put out the flames, throwing pitchers of water at the fire. Pushing, screaming, trampling upon each other's feet, the gamblers tried to get out, clogging the door to the stairway.

  I rose, coughing, and shoved my way out. Diego was right behind me. I dodged a fat fellow who tripped over someone else, and he took the Spaniard down with him.

  Pushing past the others on the stairs, I came out onto the street, taking great lungfuls of air, grateful to have escaped.

  Then I heard Don Diego's voice coming from inside. So he had escaped as well. Given his sheer strength, it did not surprise me. He bellowed my name before I saw him and I deliberated for only an instant. I took to my heels and ran.

  Later in the week . . .

  Richard Whiston settled himself in the chair by my desk and looked about, not idly. "I see you have some new pictures. The one of Mount Etna is very nice.

  "Thank you."

  "No one else would put an erupting volcano on the wall. Does it signify anything?"

  I snorted. "Only you would ask a question like that."

  "And what is the answer?" His pleasant voice was dryly hu­morous.

  "It is only a volcano."

  Richard nodded and smoothed his hair. "Very well. If you say so. Now tell me why you had to see me in such a hurry."

  "I need to pick your brain."

  "Then begin."

  "You are quite the social butterfly, Richard."

  He nodded thoughtfully. "I suppose I am. If it is gossip you want, I'm your man. I even know a few facts about some rich and important people. Who sleeps with whom, that sort of thing." His irreverent smile broadened into an out-and-out grin. "And who are you sleeping with these days?"

  Since he had been my secretary for the last seven years, and had started with keeping my social calendar, the question was a reasonable one. But he had taken on greater responsibility when I inherited this house and began to invest the money my father left me. Richard had a good head for business and gave me very shrewd advice on it.

  "Let us concern ourselves with rich and important."

  "As you wish." He looked at me expectantly.

  "I want to know more about a man at the Court of St. James's."

  "Ah. He travels in exalted circles."

  "He is the Spanish ambassador."

  "Yes," Richard said thoughtfully. "Don Diego. Someone pointed him out to me. Striking man. Tall, dark, menacing."

  "That is him. And where have you seen him?"

  Richard shrugged. "He goes to the boxing matches."

  "Oh."

  I must have looked dubious because Richard smiled. "Everyone does, from dukes to dockworkers. But they go for different reasons. I just want to look at the men, of course. I leave at the first bloody nose." He held up a hand. "In answer to your next question, I doubt that is why he attends."

  "Would you care to speculate?"

  "I think Don Diego likes bloody noses. And broken ribs. And pain. The wilder the fight, the more intent upon it he is." Richard looked at me levelly. "I do hope you are not planning to import olive oil or some such thing from Spain."

  "No. Unless you think it would be a good investment."

  "I couldn't say." He paused, drumming his fingers upon one knee for a few seconds, then picked up the newspaper folded upon my desk, peering at the front page and reading one head­line aloud. "Fire Breaks Out In Gaming Hell. All Saved. How inspiring."

  I could not speak to that.

  He put the paper down. "Is there something else you want to ask me?"

  I sighed. I could not put off confessing to at least some of what I'd done. "Yes. I have a question on an entirely different matter. Is it possible to love more than one person at the same time?"

  "I take it this is not a rhetorical question."

  "No, it isn't."

  He pondered the matter while pressing the tips of his fingers together and humming under his breath. I was half-expecting a skeptical answer but his was thoughtful. "If everyone is agree­able to the arrangement, it can be done."

  Should I take him into my confidence about Xavi? I decided not to. He hadn't mentioned the Spanish ambassador's wife. I would have to talk around the matter.

  "What if one of them is married?"

  Richard shook his head. "Well, that is different. In my world, some men are and their wives know nothing at all of their affairs with other men."

  The parallel world of men who loved men was his milieu, of course, and I knew that the situation he described was common enough. Of course, affairs were equally common among men who loved women.

  "I think," he said slowly, "that the sacrament of marriage is meant more for the procreation of children than the preserva­tion of love. Many go looking outside their homes for that."

  I nodded.

  "And many go looking for sex as well," he added in some­what of an afterthought.

  I had found both without ever having gone looking, really, not expecting it to happen, and certainly not with two very dif­ferent women at the same time, if not in the same place. They shared the same experience of having known great unhappiness in marriage. Anne would not even tell me what had happened between her and her late husband, but it was clear that she loathed him. And Xavi lived under the thumb of a violent and unpredictable man.

  "I think that is especially true in a miserable marriage."

  "Yes." Richard said the one word quite carefully. "But the partners in it will still remain married. Divorce is next to im­possible. The remaining solutions are melodramatic: running away to sea, committing murder, that sort of thing. Or mun­dane. One packs one's bag and moves into a house five streets away."

  "Well, I have no desire to commit murder, I assure you."

  "I am glad to hear that. But since you are not married, per­haps what you are getting at is that someone may wish to mur­der you."

  His tone was light and I knew he was joking. However, he was close to right. And I was not the only person in jeopardy, far from it. That Diego would suspect Quinn had not occurred to me, although the conclusion was understandable.

  My decision to end my affair with Xavi had been made in haste, but I could not simply cut all ties to her. She was still at risk of a beating or worse, for something she had not done. On principle, that bound me to her more tightly than our illicit lovemaking. She had no one, I mused, who would come to her aid
now but me.

  "And what do these elliptical questions have to do with the Spanish ambassador?" he asked. "You have gone from the spe­cific to the vague. Never a good sign."

  "Ah ..."

  "I see. You are involved with his wife."

  His guess was a shrewd one, and I would not deny it.

  "Edward, may I say that the probable complications are probably not worth the pleasure?"

  "There is rather more to it than that."

  He frowned. "One of which is her husband's taste for vio­lence."

  "Yes."

  He surveyed me with a worried look. "Would it not be bet­ter to leave well enough alone?"

  "Not at this point."

  "So the hole you have dug for yourself is too deep to climb out of."

  "Something like that. Richard, we fell in love."

  He nodded sagely. "A grand and glorious emotion. It sel­dom lasts."

  "Are you saying I should give her up?"

  "You know as well as I do that the lady in question is all the more desirable because she is unattainable," he said crisply. "And there is the matter of her husband's honor. Some men are tolerant of their wives' affairs, some are not."

  "He is not."

  "That is to be expected," Richard said. "A pity, though."

  "Don Diego is not faithful to her."

  Richard made a wry face. "You have her word for it, I sup­pose."

  I was silent.

  "Edward, he is still her husband and he has the right to do as he pleases, unfortunately. And you are the odd man out."

  "But— "

  Richard rose and began to pace about. "Do you like boxing, Edward?"

  "Yes. So long as no one is too badly hurt."

  He stopped in front of the calendar on the wall. "There is a match this Friday. The East End Terror versus Billingsgate Bob. It starts at nine o'clock, and if the Terror is lucky, it will be over at five minutes past nine. Do come."

  "Perhaps I will. Thank you for the invitation."

  He took a pencil from my desk and jotted down the other details.

  "Most likely Don Diego will be there," he said casually. "He often is on Friday nights."

  "I do not want him to see me, Richard!" I blurted out.

  "Oho. So he knows who you are."

  "But not what I have done." I was thinking of Quinn, of course. I had not explained Diego's suspicions concerning my friend to Richard.

  "You did not tell me that."

  "I—I did not know how to."

  Richard clasped his hands behind his back and rocked a little on his feet. "He is not a man you want to provoke, Edward."

  "I know that," I said almost savagely. "So why are you try­ing to throw us together?"

  "I am not. He will sit in front, where the lights are brightest and he can see everything. He gets there early and leaves late.

  You and I shall do the opposite by arriving late and leaving early, and we can sit far in the back, in the dark."

  "I have not said yes. And 1 still do not understand why you want me to go."

  "Know thine enemy, Edward. That is all."

  The place where the matches were held was nothing much to look at: it was a low building of brick with no windows, on the south side of the river Thames and not far from it. A loose crowd of men—as Richard had said, they were a mixed lot, with top hats among the greasy caps—and even a few women milled about outside. Richard and I sat in the hired carriage waiting to see if Don Diego would appear. He was nowhere to be seen. When the hour drew close to nine, Richard opened the door of the carriage and jumped out.

  "Wait here. He may already be inside, but it is best to check."

  He made his way to the entrance, ignoring the rude com­ments from the people around him and spoke to the man at the door, then went in.

  I saw him come out a minute later. He walked quickly to the carriage and gestured to me. "Come. He is here. Down in front, where I thought. There is a woman with him."

  I made no comment to that but got out, and followed him. A slouched hat provided some concealment for my face, and the high collar on my coat would do the rest. Richard had assured me once more of Don Diego's intense concentration upon the fight and the contestants. The others who had waited were now mostly inside.

  Agreeing to go with him had been an impulsive decision and a last-minute one. Perhaps it was male instinct that did make me want to know my enemy, as Richard put it. And observing a good fight ought to keep me on my mettle.

  We squeezed past several pairs of knees belonging to the on­lookers in the back row of benches, muttering our apologies.

  "He is there," Richard murmured, pointing to the back of Don Diego's head. As he had said, there was a woman with him, small in stature, sitting pressed against his side. The crush in the front was considerable and perhaps she had no choice.

  I could not see his face or hers. She wore a neat bonnet that covered her hair and a dress and jacket of some dark material. A latecomer attempted to find room next to her, but Don Diego reached out swiftly to push him away with one long arm. He wrapped it around her almost protectively.

  The two combatants entered the roped-off square, illumi­nated by a battered lamp high above, hanging from the ceiling. They waved to the audience, who cheered and yelled, rooting for their favorite champion well in advance.

  The East End Terror sported bizarre tattoos that covered most of his chest, shoulders, and arms, and much of his face. The odd design looked pagan—there were no hearts, flowers, or sweetheart's names, just thick blue lines that swirled over his skin. I supposed him to be a sailor lately come back from the South Seas. He looked quite capable of consuming human flesh.

  His opponent was no less ferocious. Billingsgate Bob had only one tattoo, and it was of a fish. His heavy muscles slid and moved under his skin as he clasped his hands and flexed his arms. The crowd roared their approval.

  The air was soon thick with a fug that made me cough. I was still feeling the aftereffects of having been caught in the fire, and the oppressive atmosphere made me feel weak. But I could not take off my hat or coat, even though we sat in the dark, and so I suffered in my own silence.

  The shouts were nearly deafening as the boxers circled each other, crack-knuckled fists up at the ready, sweating hard. Their bodies gleamed under the light from the lamp, which cast strong shadows on their features, making them look even more fearsome. They were bare-chested, wearing only thin breeches tied just above the groin, and their calves were bare as well. The soft shoes that enabled them to move quickly were not unlike a dancer's, an incongruous note.

  Punches whistled through the air and were dodged with lightning speed. Bob landed the first one, a heavy blow to the ribs that made his opponent grunt. But the Terror was game and fought on, keeping his fists near his face as if he expected Bob to hit him there next, protecting his chest with his fore­arms.

  He got in the next one—Bob did not even see it coming. The Terror stepped nimbly back, and his arm shot out again, hitting the other man just above the eye.

  "First blood," Richard said, wincing. "No—he is not cut. It is only swelling."

  But I saw Don Diego lean forward. He was so close to the combatants that a stray punch might have hit him. I had the im­pression of a wolf sniffing the air, as if eager for blood that would soon flow. A lump rose above Bob's eye, beginning to close it.

  The boxers circled each other again, throwing jabs and lighter punches. Their savagery was contained to some degree by their desire to put on a good show before half-killing each other. The onlookers cried out for more, determined to get their shilling's worth of mayhem.

  The woman at Don Diego's side nestled against him. She was not much bigger than a child. I felt a wave of disgust.

  And then the battle began in earnest. Circling once more, than grappling in a clinch, they pounded each other's bodies. The thud of fists on flesh sent a visible thrill through the on­lookers, as toffs and workingmen howled for blood. They got it.
>
  The Terror had Bob bent over, the other man's head under his tattooed arm. He punched him relentlessly, opening deep cuts where skin stretched over bone. His mighty fist came down on his opponent's swollen cheek and I heard the teeth in­side Bob's mouth crack.

  Head hanging, eyes swollen nearly shut, he spat them out and reared up like an enraged bull. He charged the Terror, slam­ming his battered face into the other man's belly. The pride of the East End went down on his arse, his legs in the air.

  Everyone in the place rose to their feet, shouting hoarsely. Almost everyone. Don Diego and his companion did not. And I did not. Richard was standing but his gaze was averted from the carnage in the square.

  Billingsgate Bob had his man where he wanted him, and gave no quarter, kicking his ribs and his ears. The Terror clutched his head, keening in agony. He struggled to get up but could not. Gasping, standing his ground in the blood-soaked sawdust, Bob raised a triumphant fist. He had won.

  A collective groan of satisfaction came from the audience. An older man came out, a bucket of wet towels in one hand, and kneeled by the Terror. He wrung out a rag and stroked away the blood on his face, not listening to the ebbing force of the combatant's ragged, noisy breaths. I saw the Terror's tat­tooed chest heave upward once, twice ... and then it moved no more.

  The older man continued to wipe the boxer's face before he realized what had happened. He put his head down over the fallen man's heart and listened, then pressed his fingers against the side of his neck.

  "He is dead," was all that he said.

  No one present seemed to care in the slightest. Many were already on their way out, jostling each other. I tipped the brim of my head down when I saw Don Diego rise, and extend a hand to assist the woman with him. He spoke to her as they made their way out also—I could hear him but not see him. His voice was invigorated, deep and loud, and he moved more swiftly than his companion.

  Standing by me where I sat, Richard understood that I wished not to be seen and moved slightly so that his body blocked mine.

  "Coast clear," he said softly.

  I looked up from under the brim of my hat. Don Diego had gone on and the woman who had accompanied him had fallen behind. She was trying to get past a knot of louts who were chaffing her and gave as good as she got, kicking one viciously with her small half-boot. I noticed the spikes of black hair es­caping from her neat bonnet next and then I saw the gloves she wore when she reached up to tuck the hair back in: fingerless black mitts. Her slender figure edged by the men in her way and as she did so, she looked straight at me. I remembered those strange, glittering eyes at once. Kitty smiled at me.