The Fighter and the Fallen Woman

by Pamela Cayne

  “No, for one of us.” He watched her face go from hard to not-so-hard. He turned his attention back to the street and listened to her footsteps match his. Conversation wasn’t going to be one of those things they shared.

  “I found out anybody can be a whore,” she said, and the surprise of it made him catch his breath, then hold it so as not to scare her into stopping. “Spread your legs, get a few shillings a day and that’s one more day you don’t starve. But I could see there were worse things than starvation and I didn’t want that to happen to me.” She let silence fill the next several steps. “So I stole the first black dress and apron that fit and started to spend my days in London. I’d sit in the park or near a tea shop—anywhere society women gathered. Dressed as a maid, I was invisible. I could stand there for hours listening, watching, learning how to act like a lady.” She fell silent again and King slowly exhaled, letting her relive the memory as she needed.

  “On the way home or when I was working, I’d practice my speech and my actions. I knew I’d succeeded when a cop pulled a paying customer off me. He’d heard me speak and thought a proper lady was being attacked.”

  King heard the amusement in her voice and glanced at her. She was barely smiling, but she had been looking at him. When he caught her eye, she turned her gaze forward though her lips were pressed together in mirth. She was a stunner any day of the week, but with this mischievous expression she wore, King felt everything he’d promised not to do crumble into dust.

  “Lady! Oh, I say—Lady!” King stopped, completely ripped out of his thoughts, and looked over his shoulder to where he heard the call. Jonathan’s American boss was across the street, waving at them with a fistful of ragged flowers. King looked back at Lady, and though her expression was pleasant, he could see in her eyes that she was obviously confused. King stood to her side, but also a step in front of her, able to be her shield if Mr. Collins became too familiar. Even though Lady did what she did, he didn’t think it gave men like Mr. Collins free rein, even though they all thought it did.

  He watched the American run across the street, careless as a schoolboy, and present Lady the flowers with a flourish, a wide grin splitting his face as he waited to get his breath under control.

  “Why thank you, Mr. Collins. Such a surprise.” Lady held the blooms up to her face. The nearest flower cart was at least one hundred feet back, long enough that Mr. Collins hadn’t just seen the two of them. He had to have followed for a distance.

  “How could I not? As soon as I saw you I knew I absolutely had to.” The American turned to him. “And I watched you last night, King. You have some impressive skills there.” He held out his hand. “You can call me Mr. Collins.”

  King shook his hand and nodded. “Many thanks, Mr. Collins.”

  “Actually, it was quite fortunate I happened to come across you today, my boy. I have something important to ask you. Could you meet me at the Four Crowns later, say about six?”

  “Sure thing,” King answered, every instinct he had shouting a warning while every lesson he’d ever learned told him never to cut off an option. “Six tonight at the Four Crowns.”

  “Splendid. See you then.” With a jaunty wave, the American set off like he was strolling through the park instead of one of the roughest slums of London. It wasn’t until he was well gone from sight that he and Lady shared a concerned glance.

  “What was that about?” she murmured, and he didn’t know if she was talking to him or not.

  King answered regardless. “I wish I knew.”

  * * *

  “Mrs. Nesbitt to see you, Mr. Adams.”

  “Very good, Mrs. Binkley. Please show her in,” Hannibal said. His good mood of last night was carrying into today. “And if you could bring in a tea cart, please.”

  “Yes, Mr. Adams.” Mrs. Binkley bobbed a curtsy. Hannibal gave her a wink as she left, and he heard her giggle as she closed the door behind her. He liked Mrs. Binkley; she was good people. Her husband, also, and Hannibal was happy with how they cared for him. They were aware of their supreme fortune in finding posts in his home and their service showed as much. Hannibal poured himself a brandy. Indeed, life was good.

  “Mrs. Nesbitt, sir. And I’ll bring your tea the instant it’s ready.”

  Hannibal turned to see Mrs. Nesbitt standing inside his study, coyly glancing at him, as lovesick as a girl with her first beau. And like a girl smitten, she was also very nervous, jumping when Mrs. Binkley closed the door. He reminded himself Mrs. Nesbitt could run a household for pennies yet still be intimidated or encouraged enough by him that spying was no question. She wasn’t the best, but until he found that person to place in Lady’s house, she’d do. Then she could retire six feet under with Lady’s first housekeeper.

  “My dear Mrs. Nesbitt,” Hannibal said, striding toward her so he could take her rough hand in his. “Please, have a seat. Mrs. Binkley will be back soon with tea and if I’m not mistaken, a sweet or two.” Hannibal laughed like a naughty boy, and it worked like it always did. The biddy in front of him relaxed and let him lead her to the sofa. He gently pulled her down to sit beside him and patted her hand twice.

  “Now tell me, how is everything at the house?”

  “Quite well, Mr. Adams, quite well. The boy you sent over is real good at hauling things and has been a real help. And I’ve saved a shilling a week by changing butchers,” she added with a proud smile.

  “Lovely, lovely. I can always count on you to take care of me, can’t I?” He patted her hand and almost felt sick as she blushed. This woman was too weak to take care of one of his greatest possessions. “And speaking of taking care, did you go with Lady to take care of King today? I needed my number-one girl to take care of my number-one man.”

  “Oh, yes, Mr. Adams, yes. She got him fixed right up. Took him to the apothecary to get a salve for his hands and face. He’ll be in top form, even after his meeting with Mr. Collins.”

  “What meeting with Mr. Collins?” Hannibal asked.

  “When Lady and King were heading to the apothecary, Mr. Collins came up. He gave Lady some flowers and asked to meet with King before the fights tonight.”

  “Where are they meeting?” Hannibal wanted to hit the old woman, just to see if an answer fell out. As much as she was a loyal employee, sometimes smarts meant more. He’d have to look into getting her replaced sooner rather than later.

  “At the Four Crowns, but I think they were supposed to meet a quarter hour ago, so I don’t know how long they’re going to be there,” she trailed off in a soft voice.

  “That’s all right, Mrs. Nesbitt.” He patted her hands. “I know what they’re talking about so don’t worry your pretty little head about it. Now, you said he gave Lady flowers?”

  Mrs. Nesbitt gave a jerky nod. “Yes, he did. Said he just had to. My Lady has that kind of beauty, she does.”

  “You mean my Lady, Mrs. Nesbitt. Not yours.” Hannibal slammed his hand on the armrest, making the old biddy jump again. Definitely sooner.

  “Y-y-yes, Mr. Adams. I m-m-meant your Lady. Of course she’s yours.”

  A light knock sounded at the door and Mrs. Binkley came in with a tea tray.

  “Ah, lovely, Mrs. Binkley,” Hannibal said, the wide smile on his face coming from deep within. “And look, Mrs. Nesbitt,” he said, standing up and rubbing his hands together. “I was right. She brought me a few sweets.”

  * * *

  King waited across the street from the Four Crowns until Mr. Collins went in. Jonathan had come thirty minutes ago, spent maybe five minutes inside and another fifteen loitering outside, finally walking away after that. King would lay even money that he was somewhere a little farther out, in deeper shadows. He headed for the pub and put Jonathan out of his mind. The lean Aussie might be the brawn, but Mr. Collins was definitely the brains.

  King stopped inside the doo
rway and got his bearings. He was a regular here, but he wanted to get a better feel with Mr. Collins in the picture. He waved at Molly behind the bar, then nodded at a table of acquaintances playing cards in the back corner. Mr. Collins was at a table halfway down the far wall that was private yet communal. King couldn’t have picked it better himself, and that’s what made him nervous. Mr. Collins had obviously thought this through. Yes, he was definitely the brains.

  “Mr. Collins,” King said as he approached the table. Following the American’s gesture, he sat down.

  “I’m glad you could make it, King. I have something I want to discuss with you and didn’t want to have to compete for your attention.” Mr. Collins shared a smile with King, then waved the barmaid over. The giddy schoolboy who had given Lady flowers was gone.

  He allowed Mr. Collins to order and drive the conversation through general, safe topics while they ate and enjoyed a nice ale. After their plates had been cleared and Mr. Collins ordered two expensive brandies to go with the Virginia cigars he’d brought with him, King settled in for whatever was coming next. That was the rule—he was treated to dinner and fine drinks, and in return, gave Mr. Collins his consideration. Much like Lady and her business.

  King lit his cigar. He suddenly felt a little ill. Nobody could know she ever had been in his thoughts and what a mess she’d made of them. She had come in unbidden tonight but he could escort her out. He lived in a whorehouse. He knew how to walk one to the door.

  “Now, Mr. Collins, I am fed and relaxed. You have my full and satisfied attention.” King turned in the booth so he sat sideways, facing the room with an arm across the top of the bench.

  “Good, very good.” Mr. Collins lit his cigar and dipped the end of it in his brandy before tucking it between his teeth. “I want you to lose the fight.”

  Chapter Five

  King was glad he was exhaling his cigar smoke, because if not, he would have choked on the curse that popped into his head. “Lose what fight?”

  “The title match.” Mr. Collins said it with the same lazy smile. “Let’s be honest. You and Jonathan are obviously the best fighters in the tournament. You have the skill, the physical presence, but most importantly, the drive to win. I think the only way somebody’s going to beat either of you before you have a chance to beat each other is with a length of chain and a club.”

  King sipped his brandy and studied Mr. Collins. He looked calm, peaceful and happy with the world, but if King would have run into him on the street, looking like that, with no introduction or previous knowledge, he would have avoided him. There was something not right in his eyes.

  “So you don’t think Jonathan can beat me?”

  “I’m not sure yet. I haven’t seen you fight enough to know how you stack up against Jonathan, only know that you’re the best of this bunch.” Mr. Collins took a puff of his cigar and watched the smoke as he exhaled. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to get this concluded so I can conduct some other business while in town.”

  King nodded. “So what are my fists worth?” he asked.

  Mr. Collins smiled conspiratorially. “Five hundred pounds.”

  King whistled and leaned back against the bench. “That’s almost enough where I can deal with Mr. Adams when I lose.”

  Mr. Collins nodded slowly.

  “Any other details I need to be aware of?” King asked.

  “No, none that I can think of. If you choose to do it, we can work out the arrangements then. If not, we’ll see who’s truly the best.” Mr. Collins stood up and tugged his jacket down. He reached into his wallet and pulled out twenty pounds. “If you say no, we part company as friends and forget this conversation ever happened. Sound fair?”

  King glanced at the money in Mr. Collins’s hand, and nodded once. The American dropped the money on the table, inclined his head in a farewell gesture and left. King slipped his hand over the bills as soon as Mr. Collins’s back was turned, waiting for a moment before sliding them close enough that he could fold them, minus two for food and a little extra for the barmaid, into a pocket. If nothing else, he got dinner, a fine brandy, and enough money to support him for a while if he was careful.

  If he was careful.

  * * *

  Lady stood still as Nessie put the finishing touches on her dress. The heavy crimson silk was trimmed with velvet in alternating bands of pearl gray and charcoal, and the train was gathered up with gilded cords. Knots sat strategically placed at each hip and at the cleft of her bottom and made a man “want to be tied up in them,” according to Mr. Adams. Two decorative cords tied each split sleeve closed at the elbow and Nessie had to tie those last, even after slipping on the matching pearl-gray gloves. She helped Lady into her matching velvet wrap and brushed the nap back down.

  “You’re certain you were all right?” Lady asked.

  “Yes, of course I was. Like I said, he was doing his usual checking up. I told him a few things, including you seeing King and Mr. Collins, acted a little more scared than I was, and he seemed fine with it.”

  “And he asked nothing about the flowers?”

  “No, he was more interested in Mr. Collins’s appointment with King.” Nessie tucked a stray curl back into Lady’s coiffure. “But since it was too late to do anything, Mr. Adams seemed to shrug it off.”

  “What a blessing that turned out to be. Now I need to remember to brush off the flowers as pathetic and give him a brief update myself on King, and we’ll be fine.” Lady wrapped her friend in a brief hug, needing the comfort after a disturbing thought that Mr. Adams might not think all was fine after all. “Thank you for taking care of me, Nessie.”

  “Of course I do. And I still think Mr. Adams does too—in his own way,” Nessie hastily amended when Lady suddenly pulled back. “Remember that. He does care for you and I think he’s trying to do good by you. And I’ll always do what’s best for you too, Lady. Always,” she said and Lady felt the first sting of tears. Even with Nessie’s torn loyalty, twelve years of friendship had built some very deep bonds. Lady could push the issue with Mr. Adams if she wanted, but now wasn’t the time.

  Nessie gave her one last squeeze and opened the front door. Softly, she said, “Now go on with you. Your carriage is here, Princess.”

  As long as the door was open Lady couldn’t show her any other signs of affection, especially if there was a possibility Mr. Adams or Shade could see. She’d learned that hard lesson with the first housekeeper Mr. Adams employed for her. Her name was Mrs. Wilkins and Lady still visited her grave on occasion. She took a breath, then slipped on her haughty whore’s persona easier than she had put on her wrap. “Make sure the house is clean for when I return, Mrs. Nesbitt, and be prepared to have tea ready. I’m sure I shall want some.”

  Lady approached the carriage, and held out her hand for Shade to help when she noticed it wasn’t Shade standing there, but King. The surprise of him waiting for her, watching her, caused her to abruptly jerk to a stop.

  “Are you well, Lady?” King stepped forward and reached for her as though she needed firmer footing. Little did he know her footing became more precarious the closer he got.

  “Yes, King, I’m fine.” She gave him her polite-yet-distant smile. “I twisted my heel in a crack in the cobblestones, but no harm done.” She allowed him to help her into the carriage, and per usual, she sat beside Mr. Adams but not touching him.

  “Hello, Mr. Adams,” she said in a sultry voice, offering him her hand as King seated himself opposite them.

  “Hello, pet.” He kissed her hand through her glove. “You’re looking especially ravishing this evening.”

  “I wanted to look my best for you, of course.” She gave a little moue and tilted her head. “And I think the men at the tournament need to know what they’re up against—a purveyor of the finest available.”

  Mr. Adams laughed like a man
who was both surprised and pleased, then stared at King until he laughed along. She wasn’t sure if Mr. Adams didn’t realize the absurdity of bringing King in on the joke, or if he did and was being exceedingly cruel.

  “That’s right, pet. The finest a man can buy,” Mr. Adams said, still chortling slightly. He reached over and roughly squeezed one of her breasts. She managed to turn her gasp of surprise and pain into one of delight. King had pushed forward and she almost teared up, knowing he wanted to protect her. She prayed Mr. Adams hadn’t seen him do it. It would get very ugly very quickly if he had and, as far as Mr. Adams’s assaults went, this was minor, not worth a fuss. But she treasured his gesture anyway, tucked it away with the few other attempts he’d made, like a posy in a book.

  “So, Mr. Adams,” she asked, affecting a coquettish pose that also protected her chest from another direct attack, “where is Shade this evening? I pray he is well.”

  “He’s well, and you’ll see him soon enough, pet.” He leaned over to look past Lady and out the window. They were arriving at the warehouse, men with barely hidden guns marking the entrance.

  The carriage stopped and King got out and stood by the door, acting as a guard. Lady stepped out next and as he helped her, she told herself she didn’t notice the warmth pouring through her glove or the way she felt held, and not grabbed. She especially didn’t feel the way he gave her hand a gentle squeeze. Looking straight ahead, she stepped up and put him behind her so as soon as Mr. Adams got out, she could take her customary place on his left. Arm in arm, they entered the warehouse with King following.

  As soon as they entered the fighting area, Mr. Adams led them on a slow circuit of the crowd, visiting, boasting and betting. When they came back full circle, Mr. Collins and Jonathan were standing in the crowd, watching them approach.

  “Sebastian.” Mr. Adams thrust out his hand for the American to shake. “Why are you here? This is only the second half of round one. Your man fought last night and is set for round two on Friday.”