“Oh?” Iefan tossed a crust and turned to face her. “You understand the arrangement in Sharla and Dane’s household. I know you do. And everyone knows about Jack and Jenny. How are they any different? They all have moved beyond their marriage beds in one way or another.”
“It is different!” she declared. After weeks of frank talk, she believed herself to be beyond blushing, yet her cheeks were flaming. “Sharla and Ben, and Dane and Stephen and Jack and Jenny…they all, well, they…it’s just different.”
“Because they love each other?” Iefan asked, his brow lifting.
“Yes!” she said hotly.
“And why can love not be the goad for my friends, too?”
“Because they do it for entertainment!” she shot back. “For the novelty! It is shameless!”
“It is harmless. No one is hurt by it. In fact it could be argued the arrangements are beneficial. Look at how unhappy Jenny was in her marriage. You would insist she have stayed with the ogre? No. Yet you would insist upon that standard for everyone else. There’s a name for that thinking, Mairin.”
Her cheeks blazed even more. This time Mairin could not find a response, for Iefan was right. She was using two different measures and that was not fair. “I detest how small you make me feel,” she said, with a heavy sigh.
He turned back to tossing bread, as the wind rippled across the pond and stirred the stray, wavy lock of black hair which always settled on his forehead in defiance of any brush. “You should congratulate yourself on your ability to feel any shame at all. Most people are not self-aware enough to spot the hypocrisy. They will fight to their last breath to stay that way, too.”
Mairin nodded, for she could name several lords and ladies whose double standards she had noticed, lately. “Gascony, at least, is not one of them,” she said thankfully.
With her rapidly building awareness of the hidden nature of many people in society, Mairin soon made another discovery. The revelation should have been plain from the beginning, only she had been too naïve to see it.
Iefan took pleasure in a great many ladies’ beds, too.
The first time Mairin considered the possibility she had felt a deep discomfort. Iefan’s roguish ways had been the subject of gossip for years. Every new debutante learned quickly that rogues carried their ne’er-do-well ways into the bedroom, too. Scoundrels were best avoided if one wished to keep their reputation and maidenhead intact.
Mairin had failed, though, to apply that wisdom to Iefan. He was family. A cousin. It was natural to think well of him. Had she been as naïve about Iefan as she had been about most of society and the secrets it kept?
After observing Iefan for some days when he talked to his friends and by listening with more diligence than usual to the chat between ladies who knew Iefan well, Mairin concluded that yes, Iefan was as active in that area as any of his friends.
There were hints of past associations. Smiles of remembrance and sometimes a sigh or two of regret. There was speculation about Iefan’s current…mistress, Mairin supposed.
Thankfully, no one considered Mairin to be suitable mistress material, especially Iefan. With her growing knowledge, she realized her inexperience with worldly matters had protected her at first, for no one had wanted to spoil her innocent outlook. Now, everyone seemed to accept that Mairin was simply not interested in bedroom sports of any kind.
Mairin observed Iefan with greater care than usual, to determine exactly who he was spending his time with. Despite her observation she failed to learn who the lady—or ladies—might be. Iefan was astonishingly discreet.
Knowing he would tell her the truth, Mairin asked Iefan directly while on the way home one night, when he could not escape her unless he jumped from the moving carriage.
Iefan didn’t look awkward or uncomfortable, though. “Currently? No one you know.” His brow lifted. “You look disappointed. Do you require the names of the ladies, so you might measure them?”
Ladies.
Mairin shook her head. “I would rather not know at all. Now, though, all I can see is illicit affairs happening right before me. Has everyone grown careless around me, Iefan?”
“I think, rather, you have grown more sophisticated and now understand what is before you. If you watch carefully enough, you’ll spy such things everywhere you go. Even your precious Gascony is not above a dalliance or two.”
Mairin drew in a sharp breath. “No, he would not!”
“He does, sweet Mairin. I tell you not to spoil your opinion of him but to ensure you continue your seduction knowing fully what you are getting into. Marry him and you will find yourself at the other end of one of those marriage arrangements you find so distasteful.”
As usual, Iefan was as truthful as she had expected and more. She had been given far too much to consider.
Again.
Only, time for reflective thought was abruptly curtailed the very next evening, for Gascony was called to the Palace for an interview with the Queen. To make up for his absence, Iefan suggested Mairin come with him that night, instead of going to Almack’s, where poor dancers would step on her toes and tear her hems.
“Where are you going?” Mairin asked, knowing it would be something interesting at the least. Iefan hated the gentlemen’s’ clubs which others found so rewarding.
“Oh, a pub in the east end,” Iefan said airily.
Chapter Six
The public house was a small, old building with a bowed, thatch roof and mullioned windows. Gaslight shone through the windows, spilling into the night and painting warm red squares on the road. There were more modern conveniences inside, then.
The door in the middle of the building stood open and from the aperture came a steady roar of drinkers talking and laughing within.
“I’ve never stepped foot inside a public house,” Mairin warned Iefan as they climbed out of the carriage and moved toward the building. She eyed the pub doubtfully. There were cobblestones all around it and an old-fashioned open drain ran down the middle of the alley beside the building. The alley likely led to a stable yard at the rear. Many of the old inns and pubs still had facilities for the highway coaches which had used them as stopping points on their journeys, despite the widespread use of trains for travel, now-days.
“My mother will expire if she learns I have been here,” Mairin added.
“It is as well you will not be stepping inside, hmm?” Iefan said, moving slowly beside her. He had long legs and had to shorten his step considerably if she was to keep up with him.
“Where are we going?”
“Behind the pub,” Iefan told her.
Groups and clumps of men moved along the alley, most of them dark shadows, all of them heading behind the pub. Something stirred in her mind. An old memory. “What is behind the pub?”
“Right now, a rather large group of men waiting for the start of a boxing match.”
Mairin caught her breath. “Oh! Is this the place where Ben used to box?” she asked, as the memory reasserted itself.
“One of them, I think. You knew about Ben’s fights?”
“Everyone does. Bronwen told me, before she was sent up north to Jasper and Lilly.” Mairin frowned. “Although now I remember it, I think she told me to shock me.”
“Quite likely,” Iefan said. “Bronwen considered herself a lady rascal, even though a real rascal would have terrified her. Tor, thank God, removed all her ambitions in that direction.”
“Acting out does seem to run in your family, doesn’t it?”
“Says the daughter of Seth Williams, privateer and transportee.”
Mairin laughed. “Guilty,” she admitted. They moved into the alleyway, their footsteps echoing flatly. Another small group of men walked right behind them, too. “Will there be many other women there?” she murmured to Iefan.
“No.” He took her hand. “You’re safe with me, though.”
Reassured, she walked beside him into the yard behind the pub. It was a former stable-yard, as she had e
xpected. It wouldn’t have surprised her to see the yard was covered in hay, although the same cobblestones covered the area.
There were perhaps two hundred men gathered in the yard. Coal drums stood on end, with fires burning in them to light the yard. Between them was a roped-off space roughly ten feet per side.
The men in the yard gathered about the roped-off area, calling out for the fight to start and cheering for their favorites. They were not all roughly dressed working men, either. Mairin spotted the white shirt fronts and bow ties of several upper-class men in evening suits. They were not pummeling their neighbors’ backs in enthusiasm, though, or shouting and waving their fists.
The noise of the swirling, masculine crowd was deafening. Mairin shrank closer to Iefan’s side. He pulled her toward the rope, easing through the gesticulating and screaming men. Mairin was thankful hoops were no longer fashionable. She only had to ensure her short train was not stepped upon, instead of worrying about her hoops being pushed in, or worse, tilted upward to reveal more than her ankles.
There were two men standing inside the ropes. Neither wore shirts of any kind and both were thick with muscle, their flesh gleaming in the firelight. A third man wearing a black suit stood in one corner. He would be the referee, she surmised.
Her gaze returned to the two fighters. They were flexing their shoulders, making their arms expand and lifting their chests as they glared at each other.
Iefan bent closer so she could hear him. “What do you think? Who will win?”
“Why?”
“Part of the fun is wagering on who you believe will be the victor. See?” He nodded across the ring.
A man in a colorful waistcoat and battered top hat scribbled on a folded sheet of paper with a pencil. The men surrounding him shoved coins and notes at him, which he tucked away in his pockets.
Mairin spotted several more men just like the first. Men clustered thickly around them. Most of the shouting seemed to be related to the laying of wagers.
“So, who do you think will win?” Iefan asked her.
“How can I possibly know that?”
“It helps if you know the history of the boxer. In your case, you can only guess based upon what you can see in each man. Who is the strongest? Which of them looks as though he can outlast the other?”
Mairin considered the two fighters, her heart strumming with the energy and wildness of the place. The taller of the two fighters was pacing about in one corner, growling and showing his big square teeth beneath a thick orange mustache. He turned and yelled at the other fighter—possibly an insult or challenge, although Mairin couldn’t hear what he was saying for the shouting all around her.
The other man was shorter and quieter. Shorter was not good, she seemed to remember. Something about reach… She frowned, examining the man. He was clean-shaved and his muscles were firm, with no spare flesh between. The other man had a belly and the flesh between his muscles jiggled.
The shorter man watched the bigger one with a steady gaze. His hands clenched and unclenched as he stared.
Mairin had seen that steady expression before…
She tugged on Iefan’s hand. “That one,” she said, pointing.
Iefan looked, then laughed. “He’s completely unknown! Jonathon Fallows, there, is the reigning champion. He hasn’t lost a match.”
Mairin shook her head. “No, that one,” she said. “Can I…will they let me make a wager?”
Iefan smiled. “I will put a pound on the man for you if you insist.”
“Ten pounds,” Mairin said.
Iefan’s eyes widened. “The odds could be as high as ten to one. Are you sure, Mairin?”
“What does ten to one mean?”
“If your man loses, you must pay back ten times the size of the original wager.”
One hundred pounds. It was an enormous sum. Mairin considered the quiet fighter once more. She studied his forearms and the way the tendons worked as he squeezed and released his fists. “If he wins, I get one hundred pounds back?”
“Yes.”
“Place the wager,” she told Iefan. “I am certain.”
Rather than leave her there, Iefan took her with him, making his way through the crowd to the nearest man recording wagers. He pushed through the squash of backs and bodies, his arm extended to keep hold of her hand. Mairin saw him shouting at the man taking the wagers. She couldn’t hear what Iefan was saying.
The man’s pencil paused. He said something to Iefan, his brow lifting.
Iefan shouted back.
The man shook his head.
Iefan pulled folded notes from his inner pocket and laid them over the top of the man’s tally pad.
The man sighed. Mairin could see his shoulders lift and fall. He blew his breath out, then tucked the money out of sight and scribbled on the sheet. He tore off a corner of it and handed it to Iefan.
Iefan pushed back out of the cluster and handed Mairin the scrap of paper.
₤10 – Hitchens, it read.
“Don’t lose it,” Iefan said, lifting his voice to the point of shouting.
“Should we move away from them?” Mairin asked, looking at the frantic men trying to place their bets.
Iefan shook his head. “We’ll stay right here, just in case.”
“In case of what?”
“The match is about to start,” Iefan warned.
The referee in the suit held up his arms, calling for silence. The noise level dropped, although he did not get silence. It was enough for him to speak, though. He called out the names of the fighters, introducing Hitchens first. Hitchens nodded, his expression tight and his jaw hard.
The referee pointed to Fallows, gave his name and added a series of places and months. “Swansea, September. Manchester, December…” The list was long.
Mairin glanced at Iefan.
“Previous wins,” Iefan said.
Mairin swallowed as the list of victories went on, with the men around the ring cheering at each one. The referee had given no wins for Hitchens.
Her heart picked up speed. She squeezed the wager slip between her fingers. It was too late to change her mind now.
The referee stepped into the corner of the ring. “Begin!” he called.
The two fighters circled each other as the audience shouted and called once more, encouraging their champion.
Closer together, the difference in the size of the two opponents was more apparent. Mairin’s heart sank.
There was a flurry of fists and she heard flesh smacking on flesh. The two stepped away from each other, breathing hard. Neither looked subdued.
The crowd growled. Satisfaction or displeasure, she didn’t know which. Perhaps both. Mairin realized she was squeezing her own hand into a tight fist. Her heart would not slow.
This time, Hitchens surged forward, moving fast. His arm swung under and up. The crack it made as it connected with the flesh beneath Fallows’ jaw made Mairin wince and turn her head, although she could not stop watching. Hitchens swung his left fist in a flat circle, his full weight behind it. His fist rammed into the side of Fallows’ face.
Blood sprayed from the champion’s mouth.
Mairin moaned and closed her eyes. She felt a little sick.
Iefan’s hand tightened painfully around hers. He glanced at her. “How did you know?”
Mairin swallowed, watching Fallows stagger and shake his head, as the blood dripped onto the cobbles at his feet. His fists were still up, though.
The match lasted only a few minutes more. Fallows landed a few punches, while Hitchens ducked easily. Hitchens’s first blows had done the work for him. As Fallows stood swaying, Hitchens stepped in close and drove his fist between Fallows’ eyes.
The champion sagged, then rolled onto his back on the cobbles.
The crowd was silent. Mairin listened to her heart beat. Once, twice, three times. Then an outraged roar rose from every throat around the ring.
Iefan pulled on her hand. “Hurry!” he shouted. He
moved toward the man with whom he had placed the wager. The man did not look happy at all. He saw Iefan coming and shook his head as he reached into his pockets and pulled out a roughly folded collection of pound notes. He counted them off, while Iefan waited. He slapped the bills into Iefan’s hand and waved him away with a flick of his hand, his expression thunderous.
Iefan shoved the bills into his jacket, glancing around as he did. His expression was also grave.
Mairin’s heart gave another stutter. She did not understand. It had been many weeks since she had felt so ignorant and she did not enjoy the feeling.
She moved closer to Iefan. He shook his head as she opened her mouth to ask him what was wrong. “Hurry. Back around and down the street and let us hope a cab is nearby.” He pushed her, his hand on her back, guiding her through the crowd.
Her heart pattering heavily, Mairin picked up her skirts and hurried, almost running to keep up with Iefan’s long strides. He glanced back to see if she was with him. He thrust out his hand. “Hurry,” he urged once more. His gaze flickered behind her.
He strode down the lane. A thin stream of men was also leaving the yard. Most of the departing men muttered their dissatisfaction with the outcome of the match. Rather more men lingered around the ropes. They roared their anger and frustration, still.
Out on the street once more, the roar was subdued. Iefan pulled her along, as he turned his head, looking for a cab. This was Whitechapel, though. Cabbies didn’t linger in the area, for customers were too rare.
Even the gas lamps were few and far between.
“We can walk to Whitechapel Road,” Iefan said. “There is more likely to be a cab there. Can you walk that far?”
“How far as it from here? I don’t know this area of London well.”
“No, I don’t suppose you do.” He glanced over his shoulder again and slowed his pace a little. “It is nearly half a mile. I hope you didn’t have your stays pulled tightly tonight.”
Mairin felt as though she should blush at such an intimate comment, although she had neither the breath nor the inclination to be shocked. “Of course, only you could make such an observation sound perfectly practical, Iefan.”
Season of Denial (Scandalous Scions Book 7) Page 6
