by Amelia Grey
Prattle placed his hat on the table and picked up the glass and took a long drink, downing more than half of what Race had put in the glass. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and then said, “I’m not a fighting man.”
But he obviously was a drinking man. Race looked at the man’s large shoulders and barrel chest and found it odd that such a stout man didn’t have the stomach for fighting. But maybe that was a good thing. With his build, if Prattle knew how to fight, Race wasn’t sure there’d be a man who could beat him.
Race kept all that to himself and simply said, “Neither is Sir Randolph a fighter. Yet you challenged him to a duel, and he accepted.”
“I-I know now that I shouldn’t have done that. I’d had a bit of ale the night before, and I was jug bitten when I talked to Penelope that morning. I didn’t really want to harm anyone.”
“I wish you had thought of that before you made your pronouncement in the park with more than thirty witnesses.”
Prattle’s round eyes twitched, and his heavy cheeks trembled. “I-I don’t know what happened. Some kind of madness overtook me, and I wasn’t thinking clearly. We went to see Sir Randolph later and apologized. We asked him not to—”
“Wait a minute,” Race said, leaning over the table. “Are you telling me that you and your sister went to see Sir Randolph?”
“Yes, of course. Penelope apologized and told him she was sorry for what she told me and hadn’t meant to cause so much trouble when she asked him to kiss her. She knew him to be a gentleman and was hoping, if she accused him of compromising her, he might simply agree to marry her.”
“Didn’t she realize what she was doing to Sir Randolph’s honor and her own reputation by accusing him of something that wasn’t true?”
“Not at the time. She was dreadfully sorry, my lord. She thought if she accused him of wrongdoing, he might agree to marry her to keep scandal away from his good name. She told him she had always fancied him. She asked him what she could do to make it up to him.”
Race was going to strangle Gibby. That devilish whipster should have told him about this. “What did Sir Randolph say?”
“He said the only thing we could do was go on with the fight. That I’d already ruined my sister by challenging him in the park, and if we didn’t fight, our reputations would be ruined, too.”
Gibby was probably right about that. The entire city was in a heated fervor over the fight. Race picked up his glass and sipped his wine.
“How is your sister now?”
The man breathed deeply. He had such a sad look on his face. “She won’t come out of the house. She knows this is her fault, and she says she’s never going out in public again.”
“There’s enough blame for both of you to carry, but there might be something I can do.”
“I know I don’t deserve a portion, but if there’s anything you can do to stop the fight, I’d be obliged.”
“I’m talking about helping your sister, Prattle, not you. Unfortunately, at this point, I agree with Gibby. The fight must go on. The men who have put down their wagers deserve their fight. If you didn’t show for the mob that will gather in the park, they would probably come and find you both and make you fight. And quite frankly, you both would deserve it. However, your sister started this by her error in judgment.”
The man cast his eyes downward.
“This is what I’m prepared to do. You and Gibby will fight, and you will make it a good fight. You must hit him, because he will hit you. But after a reasonable amount of time, let him knock you to the ground and stay down. And if you do that, I will see to it that your sister gets enough money to move to a new place where she can start her life over, away from this scandal. Whether or not she wants you to go with her, I’ll leave to her.”
Prattle’s eyelids shot up, and his eyes bulged. “You would do that for us?”
“For her, Prattle, not you. Also, I insist that neither of you speak of this incident again.”
The man picked up his wine glass and took another long drink. He wiped his mouth with the back of his beefy hand.
“I’m glad she confessed to Sir Randolph. That was the right thing for her to do, and that is why I’m willing to do this for her. Now, do we have an agreement?”
The man looked calmer. “Yes, my lord. I know exactly what I must do.”
“Good.” Race slid a card toward Prattle. This is the name of my solicitor. The day after the fight, you are to take your sister to his office, and he will have everything ready for her.”
The man’s heavy cheeks trembled again. “I don’t know what to say except thank you kindly, my lord.”
“Nothing else need be said, Prattle. Feel free to finish your wine before you go, and from now on, take better care of your sister.”
Race rose and walked out the door.
Nineteen
My Dearest Grandson Alexander,
These words from Lord Chesterfield will serve you well as you travel through life if you heed them: “The reputation which you leave at one place where you have been will circulate, and you will meet with it in twenty places where you are to go. That is a labor never quite lost.”
Your loving Grandmother,
Lady Elder
TENSION COILED TIGHTLY IN RACE, BUT HE HAD never seen a more beautiful day in Hyde Park. There wasn’t a cloud in the azure sky. The sun beat warmly on his neck while a cool breeze stirred the midday air. A boxing match always drew crowds, especially if it was free, and this one had brought out thousands from every walk of life.
Race had never seen so many people in the park. There was chatter and laughter all around him. In the distance he heard someone playing a lively tune on a flute, and he smelled the harsh scent of burned wood from camp fires. Carriages of every size and description, from gigs, curricles, and fancy coaches, had been brought in close to the ring with men, women, and children standing on the seats, sitting on the roof tops, and hanging off the sides of them, hoping to get even a glimpse of the fight. More than half of the crowd that had gathered wouldn’t be able to see any of the much touted pugilists’ match between Gibby and Prattle, even though Gibby had picked the highest mound in the grassy park to set up the prize ring. It was highly unlikely that more than a couple of hundred would be able to see any of it, but thousands would be able to say they had attended.
Pugilism had long been one of the most fashionable of amusements in London, even though it was usually brutal, ending only after one of the bruisers was unable to come to the scratch, which was the center of the ring, and continue the fight.
Race groaned silently at that thought. He didn’t know if he could trust Prattle to keep his end of their bargain and not do irreparable damage to Gibby, but Race had resigned himself to the fact that he’d done all he could to ensure that Gibby wouldn’t be hurt too badly. And to ensure that Gibby wouldn’t ever find out what he had done to help him.
Race looked over at Susannah, who sat beside him, and smiled to himself. He loved her more than he would have thought possible. It made him feel good just sitting beside her. He had crawled through the hedge in the dark of night to see her three times this past week, and each time, it became harder and harder to leave her.
Falling in love had been the last thing on his mind when Susannah had first arrived at his door. Now, he couldn’t imagine her not being a part of his life. He wanted to marry her and make her completely his, but he wanted to give her more time to realize she loved him. He knew it was asking a lot of her to give up her prestigious and coveted title of duchess, but he wasn’t planning on her giving it up until he convinced her he would never make her sorry she had.
Race let his gaze stray over to Mrs. Princeton, who sat on the other side of Susannah. She was giving him a less than friendly look, so Race leaned back in his chair and turned toward Blake, who was to his left. No doubt the woman had figured out by now that he was slipping into Susannah’s bedchamber, judging by the evil eye she was giving him. Blake’s wife, Henrietta
was seated beside him, with Morgan on the other side of her. They all had front-row seats for an event Race had wanted never to happen.
When they had first arrived at the park, the group of them had to wade through a sea of gorgeously gowned women wearing wide-brimmed hats and faultlessly dressed gentlemen to get to their seats in the dignitary section circling the ring. All the others were at liberty to find their own places to stand or sit, be it their carriage, their horses, or a nearby tree.
Race and his cousins had wanted to ride with Gibby in his carriage to the park for this event, but he had insisted he didn’t need them for anything other than as spectators. Gibby wanted only Danger Jim, who had been teaching him to box, and his assistant to be at his side during the fight.
The day before, Gibby had allowed Race and his cousins to be with him in the park as he spent an enormous amount of time making sure the ring was the right size and that chairs for the dignitaries were a safe distance from the rope.
There was talk in all the clubs that the prince himself, an ardent admirer of boxing, might appear for the match. Race had seen the Lord Mayor, the Duke of Norfolk, and several members of parliament, but so far, he hadn’t seen anything to suggest that the prince would be in attendance.
With all the advance advertisements that had been plastered all over London by Gibby and others, Race didn’t think anyone remembered or even cared why Prattle and Gibby were going to box. The crowd just wanted to see a free fight.
“I can tell you are nervous for him,” Susannah said in a quiet voice.
He turned to her and sighed. “I was hoping it wouldn’t show, but yes, I’m worried about the old man. It’s difficult to bear the thought that he might get half his teeth knocked out, his jaw broken, or worse.”
Susannah’s face wrinkled in quiet concern. “You did what you could to stop him. He is well capable of making his own decisions. He decided he wanted to do it. Don’t blame yourself for any of this.”
He gave her a grateful smile and nodded. He wanted to reach over and touch her soft cheek, hold her hand and lean in close to her, but knew those things were forbidden, so he refrained and promised himself she would soon be his.
“I know you told me you have never seen a boxing match, but look across the ring and directly in front of you on the first row of seats to the robust man wearing the solid red waistcoat. He is England’s current boxing champion, Daniel Mendoza.”
Susannah eyed the man before saying, “Ah, I had already noticed him because, even from here, I can see how misshapen his nose is.”
“I’m told his jaw doesn’t work too well, either. There are several other well-known pugilists here. At the end of the row to the left is John Jackson. He owns a fighting club. He spent a couple of days with Gibby, teaching him how to protect himself, as well as how to box, before turning Gibby over to Danger Jim for more lessons. There are also several members of the Pugilistic Society here. It surprises me that they have come.”
Susannah smiled at him. “Perhaps they want to make sure they have no new up-and-coming competition.”
“Gibby and Prattle?” Race chuckled. “This is such an amateur fight; I doubt the bruisers are worried about two men well past their prime taking the shine off their accomplishments. The boxers probably came so they could have a good laugh.”
“Tell me, did Sir Randolph ever come up with a fighting name for himself?”
Race grinned. “I think you cured him from wanting another name, when you suggested he should be called a bird that looked like a lark.”
Suddenly from a distance, Race heard the sound of bugles trumpeting, and everyone who was seated rose and looked behind them. Even as tall as Race was, there were so many people, he couldn’t see what was going on.
Morgan stood on his chair, looked around, and then glanced down at Race and Blake with a rueful grin, and said, “I don’t believe this. It is Gibby’s coach, being pulled by six white horses. It’s decorated with red and white ribbons. There’s a bugler sitting with the driver. They are both dressed in white.”
Race looked at Susannah and shook his head. “I should have known Gibby would have to make a grand entrance. He is all about getting attention.”
The crowd started clapping and cheering as the people parted to allow Gibby’s coach to come in close to the ring. When it stopped not far from them, the footman jumped down and opened the door. Gibby stepped out, dressed in a buff-colored satin jacket with gold buttons down the front and epaulets on his shoulders.
Loud cheers and chanting of his name erupted to the point it was deafening. Gibby waved and smiled at the huge gathering. His trainer, Danger Jim, and two other bruisers stepped out of the carriage behind Gibby and flanked him as he walked to the rope, ducked under it, and entered the prize ring.
Race had no idea where Prattle came from, but all of a sudden, he entered the ring from the other side, with only one lone man standing beside him. The short, thick man was wearing a simple black shirt, breeches, and stockings. There was such trepidation in Prattle’s expression, he looked like a hen staring at a fox.
Gibby taunted Prattle with a wave and a smile, and the crowd roared its approval once again. Gibby then made a production of taking off his jacket and handing it to one of the men standing beside him. Most pugilists fought bare-chested, but Gibby wore a collarless, buff-colored shirt, breeches, and stockings. He looked much thinner than Prattle, and more fit and muscular than Race would have thought possible, given his age.
Race shook his head and chuckled to himself. Under any other circumstances, Sir Randolph Gibson would never appear before anyone half dressed. Even seeing it with his own eyes, Race had trouble believing Gibby was going through with this fight.
A middle-aged man dressed in a collarless white shirt and black breeches stepped into the ring, and within seconds, the crowd quieted down. The referee called Gibby and Prattle to the center and talked to them for less than a minute before blowing a whistle and stepping aside.
Race tensed. He hoped Prattle kept to his part of the bargain as the two men lifted their bare knuckles into the air and began to circle each other. Race had tried to make it clear to Prattle this had to be a real fight, but he didn’t want Gibby hurt. Gibby would know if Prattle just gave up and didn’t try to win.
Gibby, the taller of the two men by at least a head, wasted no time advancing on Prattle, delivering several jabs to his head and a couple of punches to his stomach. From what Race could see, only one fist had actually made contact with Prattle’s midsection. The crowd roared its approval of Gibby’s aggressiveness with his rapid punches and dancing feet. Even though Prattle was stocky, he was quick on his feet, and he was bobbing and weaving to avoid Gibby’s fast fists.
It was clear neither man really knew the art of boxing for sport, or about time and judgment of throwing their punches to insure accuracy, but both men were giving it a valiant effort. Suddenly one of Gibby’s bare, tight-knuckled fists made contact with Prattle’s chin, snapping his head back, by what seemed to be an accident to Race. The expression on Prattle’s face instantly changed from fear to anger. Race moved to the edge of his seat, and so did every one else on the row chairs.
Suddenly, Prattle was the one advancing on Gibby, but the old man didn’t seem bothered by it. He was quick on his feet, and by sidestepping and dancing around, he was able to avoid all of Prattle’s jabs, but at the same time, he wasn’t able to land any of his own, either. Race’s hands clenched into fists, and he flinched as one of Prattle’s fists landed against Gibby’s forehead. Race wanted to stop the fight before Gibby got hurt but knew he couldn’t
It seemed like hours instead of mere minutes before the whistle blew, and the two amateur bruisers went to their corners for a moment of rest and water.
When the whistle blew, Gibby and Prattle moved back to scratch and, once again, started circling each other, occasionally throwing a long punch or a short jab in the other’s direction, sometimes making contact and sometimes missing completely.
The crowd started yelling for blood, and that sent a chill up Race’s spine.
In the blink of an eye, Prattle unleashed a powerful left hook to the liver, and the blow staggered Gibby. Prattle took advantage of Gibby’s weakness and went at him again, with another quick left-right combination, which sent Gibby slumping to the ground.
Race and everyone else in the dignitary seats jumped to their feet. The crowd yelled for Gibby to get up.
The referee quickly held Prattle at bay with his arm. Race felt Susannah’s comforting hand touch his, and he briefly squeezed her fingertips.
Gibby scrambled to his feet and shook his head as if to clear his vision and then started his fancy footwork again. The whistle blew before he and Prattle could resume the fight, and they each retreated to their corners again.
“Shouldn’t we stop this madness?” Morgan asked in an angry voice as they retook their seats and the crowd quieted down. “Haven’t we let this go on long enough now?”
“No,” Race said reluctantly. “This is Gibby’s wish. Not ours. We have to let him fight it.”
“Much as I hate it,” Blake said, “I agree with Race. We can’t intervene.”
“But that man looks like a bull, and Gib looks like a plucked ostrich. I’m afraid the man’s going to kill him.”
“It’s still Gibby’s fight,” Blake said.
Race remained quiet and satisfied that he hadn’t told his cousins about his talk with Prattle. From the way the fight was going, it didn’t look like the man was going to keep his end of their bargain, anyway.
The whistle blew and the boxers returned to the center of the ring and started their wary dance. Prattle was sweating profusely and sucking short, shallow breaths, appearing completely winded. After only a few jabs, Race could see the bigger man was giving out fast. Gibby hadn’t let his knockdown dampen his spirit or aggressiveness. He advanced on Prattle again, looking as composed and unruffled as he had when he exited his coach. Race had to hand it to the old man. He had grit. And he had certainly found his bottom where his courage was stored.
