by C. J. Archer
"This isn't going to be a lark, Cara," Jacob said grimly. "Just because a peer of the realm attends the fights doesn't mean it's safe or legitimate."
"I know that." He'd already told me—twice—that bare knuckle boxing was no longer the popular sport supported by the rich and titled fancy. Since the introduction of rules and gloves, the bare knuckle fights had been relegated to the rookeries where London's poorest eked out an existence amid disease and filth. It would seem Lord Alwyn was one of the few gentlemen who frequented the illegal fights nowadays.
"I still cannot believe I allowed you to come," Jacob muttered as he climbed out of the coach. "What was I thinking?"
"You were thinking that you wished to stay on Emily's good side. No harm will come to me, Jacob. I'll be beside Quin the entire time and keep my head low."
Tommy jumped down from the footman's seat at the rear of the coach and held his hand out to me. He snatched it back as he realized a boy wouldn't need help. It was unlikely anyone had seen. The only other sign of life was another coach that passed us and continued around the corner. It didn't have its lamps on, and it seemed ghostly in the darkness.
Jacob's coach rolled away and the four of us entered the tavern. The smell of ale didn't quite cover the undercurrent of sweat and urine that leeched out of the shadowy corners. A handful of heavy-browed types, holding tankards in dirty hands, narrowed their eyes as we passed. Their gazes sent icy prickles down the back of my neck. Jacob spoke to the keep behind the bar. After a brief exchange, in which Jacob handed him a wad of money, the keep directed us to a door that led out the back. A sound like a wave crashing on a distant shore came from the other side. The noise became louder as the keep opened the thick door and led us through to a storeroom, lit by a single hissing lamp. Behind a wall of barrels was a trapdoor in the floor. The keep left us and we descended down the steps into the bowels of the tavern.
The basement was filled with perhaps a hundred men, roughly arranged around a near-empty square that was best viewed from the steps. There were no barricades around the crude boxing ring, not even a rope. It was simply a vacant space surrounded by all but two men who were in it, fighting. Behind the crowd were stacked barrels, and broken tables and stools, which had been pushed out of the way to make room. If the police arrived, they could be quickly arranged in such a manner that would make it look as if the room was simply another storage space.
Inside the central square the faces and fists of the two bare-chested men were covered in blood. One punched and the other ducked, but he was too slow and received a blow to the jaw that sent him reeling back into the crowd. Dozens of hands pushed him forward again, into the fists of his opponent. With one eye swollen shut and blood pouring from his nose and mouth, he was too injured and dazed to put up much of a fight. Another hard punch to his stomach had him doubling over and collapsing to the floor. A mustachioed man I'd not seen before bent over him and appeared to be saying something to the boxer. When he received no response, he declared the fight over.
A segment of the crowd rushed into the ring and circled the victor, while most of the others exchanged money with a few large men with thick necks and bruised knuckles. Moving through the throng, with the confidence of a general surrounded by his loyal army, was an extremely tall fellow sporting a stomach that tested the seams of his well-cut suit. A fat cigar dangled from his wide, fishy lips as he spoke with a round fellow with a scar pinching the skin above and below his eye, as though someone had tried to slice right through it. The cigar smoker was the only one dressed as a gentleman; he must be Lord Alwyn.
A bald man with no facial hair tapped Alwyn on the shoulder and pointed at us. The earl pulled the cigar from his mouth and gave Jacob a shallow nod of greeting.
"Is that Alwyn?" Quin asked Jacob.
"Yes. Let's go talk to him then get out of here."
We made our way down the steps into the throng. If I'd thought the smell upstairs was bad, it was positively putrid in the basement. I didn't even want to try and identify what might be causing it. We moved slowly through the crowd. Most people paid little attention to us; one or two sized up Jacob and Quin, but Tommy and I were overlooked. Perhaps they thought us the servants of wealthy gentlemen and not worth fleecing. Somewhere off to our right, an argument broke out and we were forgotten entirely as the protagonists were encouraged with shouts and the sort of language a lady ought not to hear. In front of me, Jacob's back stiffened, but he did not turn around. Behind me, I felt Quin's solid, comforting presence draw closer.
I was determined not to be afraid. I had wanted to come and experience the illegal fighting scene. It was too late to back out now.
"Beaufort," Alwyn said to Jacob as he joined us. "Never thought I'd see you here."
"I'm looking for you. You're a hard man to pin down."
Alwyn's lips stretched into a grimace without dropping his cigar. A clump of ash fell off the end onto his stomach. He brushed it off absently and I saw that his waistcoat was already stained. "I find that makes it easier to stay one step ahead of the creditors, don't you?" He spoke to Jacob, but his attention was on Quin. He looked over the top of me and eyed Quin with a thorough, assessing gaze.
"I have a strange request to ask of you," Jacob said. "Indeed, my friend, St. Clair, does."
Alwyn thrust out his hand to Quin and Quin shook it. "Strong grip." Alwyn nodded in approval. "Big fellow. Ever been in the ring before?" He let go of Quin's hand and clasped his shoulder instead. I got the feeling he was assessing Quin's form, like a horse trainer checks over a thoroughbred.
Quin jerked away. "I want to talk to you about your library,"
Alwyn snorted. "My library? You don't look like a bookish fellow."
A roar went up around us and the crowd suddenly surged, jostling for position. Another bout must be about to begin. I was too short to see anything except backs and heads.
"We'll talk between fights." Alwyn moved off. "Come down to the front and place a wager before the first punch is thrown."
Quin and Jacob exchanged glances as Alwyn set off, not looking back to see if we followed. Seeing no other choice, we snaked our way through the crowd and stood at the edge of the square. Jacob angled himself in front of me, while Quin and Tommy stood behind.
"Since this is your first time, Beaufort, I'll give you some advice." Alwyn removed his cigar with stubby fingers and licked his lips. "See how that fellow limps?" He pointed his cigar at one of the fighters. "Put your money on him."
"Isn't the limp a sign of weakness?"
"It's a sign of strength. The victors don't escape injury, but the losers rarely fight again." He said something to the hairless man beside him and he in turn signaled to one of the thugs collecting money. It wasn't just one thug who descended on us, however, but six. They formed a ring of protection for one another. In a place like this, it must be necessary.
Jacob handed over some money and one of the men passed him a ticket before they all moved off. Alwyn slapped Jacob's shoulder and glanced at Quin again. He returned his cigar to his mouth and smiled around it before turning back to the ring.
The referee called the fighters to start and the crowd roared again. They surged against us and punched the air, much like little Gabe had done that afternoon. Some held tankards and spilled ale over their shoes, but none cared. The fight had begun.
I watched the crowd. Most were young men dressed in dusty, old clothes; the soles of their boots were worn down and their lank hair skimmed dirty collars. They cheered every punch, and some swayed drunkenly against their shouting, laughing companions. I was surprised to see a handful of women mingling with the patrons, though perhaps I shouldn't have been. From their exposed décolletages and painted faces, they were clearly as much part of the entertainment as the boxers. But even they were forgotten when the first drops of blood spilled in the ring.
The crunch of bone on bone had me focusing once more on the fight. I flinched and shut my eyes as blood sprayed in an arc from one fighter's no
se. Fingers pinched my arm, forcing me to reopen them.
"Watch, lad," Alwyn shouted over the cheers. I was startled that he'd even taken notice of me. "Pretty boy like you needs to learn." He turned back to the fight.
Behind me, Quin rested a hand on my hip. The gesture was possessive, intimate, and a risk considering I was trying to hide my gender. It lasted only a moment, but the sensation remained. It was as if I could still feel the weight of his hand there.
One of the fighters fell to his knees amid cheers and jeers from the onlookers. The referee moved forward, but the boxer waved him away and stood on wobbly legs, causing an even louder eruption from the patrons. To my complete shock, another man stepped into the ring—a dead one. He faded in and out as all ghosts did, as if he were half in this world and half in the next. He was bare-chested, like the fighters, and blood stained one side of his face, ear and neck. He was intent on the fight, even throwing a punch in his enthusiasm, but his fist traveled through the boxers.
I watched him rather than the fighters. If he were still haunting this realm, he mustn't want to cross yet. Sometimes I would speak to spirits and find out what troubled them. Merely the act of telling their problems to a living person helped them to finally move on to the afterlife, but not always. Some were too deeply troubled and did not want to leave, preferring to haunt those who'd harmed them in life. It was difficult to tell which sort this spirit would be, and considering the dangers of revealing my talent in such a crowd, I didn't want to find out.
As if he could sense me looking, he glanced up. I quickly focused my gaze on the fighter once more falling to the ground, but it was too late. The spirit approached.
"You can see me," he said in a thick Irish accent. He leaned down and peered into my face. Then he sniffed me. I leaned back into Quin's chest. "Well, well. If only they knew you is a girl, and a toff one at that. Never seen a brown toff before."
I didn't answer him. Speaking to someone nobody else could see would be foolish. Instead, I signaled for him to go away with a jerk of my head that could pass as a twitch if anyone saw.
He didn't move. "That used to be me in there," he said, pointing at the fight. "I died here. Not in the ring in a fair fight, but out there in the alley where there ain't no ref'ree. It were him that killed me." The spirit jerked his chin at Alwyn.
I swallowed heavily. I didn't want to know anymore, but I knew it was foolish to pretend that Alwyn was a gentleman who followed the same code of conduct that decent men like Jacob did. Alwyn was not decent, I'd already realized. I had to hear out the spirit. He hadn't been able to tell anyone his story, and now that he had a captive audience, he wasn't going to let the chance go.
He bared his teeth at Alwyn and hissed. "I was supposed to throw me fight that night, see, but I wouldn't. If I can win, I win. I don't go down for nobody. The toff lost a large sum on me, so he got Sweet Moll to trick me into followin' her outside then set his men on me. I'm a good fighter, but there was six of 'em, all big bruisers. They left my body in the alley as a lesson for others. Alwyn wanted everyone to know that if he tells you to lose, you lose."
I blinked back at him, trying to convey sympathy without actually speaking. He seemed to understand my dilemma and nodded. "Stay away from him." He sauntered off and rejoined the fight as it entered into the final stages. He jeered along with the crowd as the injured man collapsed. Any sympathy I'd felt for him vanished. He was as bloodthirsty as the rest of them.
"Your library," Quin began as soon as the fight was declared over.
"Steady on," Alwyn said. "Need to collect my winnings first."
He was the first one the money thugs approached. Indeed, it wasn't he they approached, but his bald friend.
"Your ticket, Beaufort," Alwyn said cheerfully. "Show them your ticket, man. Our bruiser won."
Jacob gave the men his ticket. After the transactions were completed in silence, the thugs moved off into the crowd, doling out money as winning tickets were shoved in their faces.
"Now, what do you want with my library, St. Clair?" Alwyn seemed in a jolly mood after his win, but I couldn't help wondering if he'd paid the loser to fall. I looked around for the spirit but he'd vanished.
"I'm a historian with an interest in old books," Quin said. "It has come to my attention that you may possess a manuscript I've been seeking. Its last known whereabouts was in the hands of your ancestors."
"Bloody hell, is that so? This book worth anything?"
"Only to historians."
Alwyn's cigar and jowls sagged in thought. "I sold some old books off not long ago. Had some debts to pay and a priest came knocking, saying he wanted to buy 'em. It was probably among that lot."
"Priest?" Jacob echoed. "What was his name?"
But Alwyn didn't get a chance to speak. The crowd parted and spat out the fat man, with the scar across his eye, who Alwyn had been talking to upon our arrival. He was short, only my height, but was as wide as three men. The scar was a red, jagged line of puckered flesh that pulled his eyelid shut. It looked as if it had been inflicted recently. His bushy moustache curled back and he emitted a low growl in Alwyn's direction.
"You bloody cur," he snarled.
Quin, Jacob and Tommy bristled, but Alwyn pulled his cigar out and clasped the lapels of his jacket. He didn't look in the least concerned. "Bains, come and meet my friends."
Bains's gaze flicked to Jacob and Quin then back to Alwyn. "I'm not here to meet your friends, you dog, I'm here to warn you." He stabbed a fat finger into Alwyn's chest. "Don't do that again."
The same thugs who'd collected tickets and money ranged behind him in a wall of muscle and fierce scowls. One pulled back his jacket to reveal a blade tucked into the waist band of his trousers.
"Come now, Bains," Alwyn said, throwing an arm around the shorter man. "You have no proof of foul play."
Bains pushed Alwyn's arm off. His good eye narrowed, disappearing into the heavy flesh of his face. "You think I need proof?" he said, voice a low warning.
Alwyn's smile vanished, replaced with a cruel sneer. "You do if you wish to accuse me. I can crush you and your tavern with a dash of my pen." He straightened and the smile returned, but it was as false as my disguise. "If anyone threw the fight, it's they you must punish, not me. I'm an innocent gentleman enjoying a night out." The smile turned hard. "Understand?"
Bains stared him down for a moment before backing away with his men. The crowd closed around us again, thicker and closer than before. I felt their cloying breaths in my hair, and their stench hung in the airless basement. I wanted to leave. Jacob asked Alwyn for the name of the priest again, but Alwyn didn't answer. His attention was back on the ring.
"Blast," he muttered as the referee introduced two bare-chested men with shoulders as big as Quin's. "He got to him."
"What's going on?" Jacob shot Quin a glance over the top of my head. Quin gripped my elbow, ready to steer me away from danger if necessary.
"Bains swapped fighters," Alwyn snapped. "That's bloody what." A string of curses followed then he shouted, "Bains! Where's Gibson?"
"Gone home to his mother with his tail between his legs," Bains said, laughing. "Old Filth here agreed to step in."
"We don't want 'im!" someone shouted. "We want to see a good fight!"
"Aye!" came the roar from the crowd.
Bains looked worried, but he stuck to his guns. "There ain't none here who's the right size except Old Filth."
Alwyn's gaze slid to Quin.
The spirit joined the men in the ring. He took one look at Alwyn and laughed. "Bains is onto him now," he shouted at me in triumph. "Ever since me death, he's been watchin' Alwyn, and now he's doin' somethin' about it. Y' see, Alwyn's been payin' fighters to throw matches, but Bains didn't know. It were me who told him. I weren't afraid of Alwyn. Alwyn can make a man's family suffer if he don't do what he wants, but I had no family in England. He couldn't get to 'em, so he killed me instead. Only Bains knows it now, and he won't stand for Alwyn throwin' fight
s and takin' all the winnings. You watch, girlie."
I did, but it was doubtful the fight would even go ahead. The crowd roared their disapproval at the last minute switch. They jeered and threw their ale onto the floor, calling for the vacant-eyed fighter named Old Filth to get out of the ring and Gibson to return.
"They want the fight to go ahead as planned," Quin said.
Tommy leaned close so that we could hear him over the jeers. "Bains has taken Gibson off, the fighter he thinks Alwyn paid to lose, and replaced him with Old Filth. Only no one else knows Alwyn rigged the fight and since Gibson is the better boxer, the crowd want to see him in there. They want a good show and won't be happy unless Gibson comes out."
"How do you know all this?" I asked.
"It wasn't that many years ago that I came to places like this to pick up a bit of extra coin in the ring. Old Filth was past it even then, but Bains would put him forward now and again and me and Jack learned it only happened when someone paid a boxer to throw the fight."
"We're going," Jacob announced, turning to us, his face pinched with concern.
"No," Quin said. He pinned Alwyn with a stare, willing him to turn around. But Alwyn was intent on the ring and the crowd, calling for Gibson. Quin swore in French. "I need that book."
"We'll wait until the morning and send a message to Alwyn's house. Now that he's met us—"
"I've waited too long already."
I frowned. Had I misheard him? From the desperate glare he bestowed on Alwyn, I didn't think so. He spoke as if he had wanted—needed—the book for much longer than he'd known me.
"The crowd is getting restless," Jacob told him. "It's too dangerous for…the lad."
Quin's gaze shifted to me. He blinked rapidly, dispersing the shadows that had banked in his eyes. "Aye," he murmured so quietly that I almost didn't hear it over the noise swelling around us. "Your safety is most important."
I felt numb, not able to think clearly. Quin had come to this realm to find the book and cure me—hadn't he? Or was there another reason he needed the book? His expression was unreadable as he gained Alwyn's attention.
