With continued protests from Martha and grudging assistance from Fiching, Jenny managed to find a way to see the boxing match after all. A good two hours before the match was slated to begin the next day, she was dressed in Steven’s footman’s uniform and perched beside Fiching in the driver’s box of her closed carriage, overlooking what had been an empty field just north of London.

“Well, he certainly was right about the crowd,” she murmured to Fiching as she scanned the milling people between her and the tramped square of dirt where the fight would take place. It was roughly an eight-foot square, about which someone had hung rough rope suspended on stakes pounded into the turf. The makeshift barricade did not stop the people from crowding close.

From her perch above them, she could see elegant gentlemen in top hats and great coats, shabbily dressed fellows in tweeds and breeches, and several climbing boys in their dirt and grime. Bottles passed among the knots of men, and already she could see red noses and hear laughter that was overly loud. Someone on her right was selling brandy balls, the singsong call rising and falling over the conversations. To her left came the aroma of hot roasted chestnuts.

“He was right about the ladies as well,” Fiching murmured beside her, waving toward the field. “Not a proper miss in sight.”

“Nonsense,” Jenny started to protest. She could see any number of women threading their way through the crowd. Their presence made her wonder why she had bothered to masquerade as a man. Stevens’ top hat barely fit over her tucked-up hair, but his uniform was loose enough to hide her curves. Unfortunately, it was heavy and hot in the March sunshine. She would almost have preferred to dress as lightly as the ladies below. Then she looked again.

The ladies were not ladies after all. This one’s bodice had an alarmingly low décolletage, that one’s dress was obviously several sizes too small, and at least two of them had damped their petticoats so that their thin muslin dresses clung to their curves. Jenny averted her gaze in a blush.

“Perhaps you’re right,” Fiching allowed. “There may be a lady or two in one of the other carriages.”

Thankful for somewhere else to train her gaze, Jenny glanced around again. Hers was one of several vehicles circling the area, from high-perch phaetons to closed landaus. She thought she saw a crest on one of them.

“Marquis of Hastings,” Fiching said with a nod when she pointed it out. “Wouldn’t be surprised to find more than one gentleman from the War Office inside.”

“Even with this tale of Napoleon’s escape?” Jenny marveled. “One would think they had better things to do.”

Fiching shrugged. “They know what they’re doing, miss. Besides, Lord Hastings’s son Lord Petersborough and his crowd are big fight supporters. I don’t suppose they’d miss this even if old Boney was marching on London.”

Jenny felt much the same way. The two hours passed more quickly that she had thought possible. Just as she was starting to grow restless, the crowd stirred, and a rider and the familiar white curricle tooled down on the London road. She recognized the matched whites immediately.

“Sir Nigel Dillingham,” Fiching told her. “And the round-faced chap beside him is Giles Sloane.”

“We’ve met,” Jenny replied, recognizing the thatch of red hair as well. The rider on the bay was the one who held her interest. Kevin waved as he approached, and the crowd cheered. Jenny felt a surge of pride that made her straighten in her seat. The action unfortunately threatened to topple the hat off her head. She quickly ducked down behind Fiching in case Kevin should notice her.

He looked magnificent as always, dressed today in a navy coat and fawn trousers. He doffed his top hat at the cheer, and sunlight glinted off his golden hair. She couldn’t seem to take her eyes off him as he moved through the people to the square.

“Opera glasses, Miss Jenny?” Fiching offered, and she snatched them from his gloved hand, focusing them on Kevin.

He was smiling and joking with someone at the side of the square. He paused to doff his hat again, and she saw that a woman in a thin muslin dress had arranged her body for his review. Jenny dropped the glasses into her lap.

Another carriage arrived, an equally fine equipage with brown enameled sides. It was pulled by a pair of prancing blacks. George Safton, in black cloak and trousers, stood for the crowd’s approval. She did not think it was her imagination that made the cheer seem much less enthusiastic.

Fiching picked the glasses from her lap and applied them himself. “So, that’s The Snake. Looks like he’s ready for this.”

Even without the glasses, Jenny could see the confidence as Safton strode to the square, shrugging off hands that reached out to him in good will. He ducked under the ropes, coming up with a swirl of his black cloak. He took it off with a flourish. Jenny sucked in a breath.

Fiching looked at her askance. “Something wrong, Miss Jenny?”

“The books didn’t say they’d be bare chested,” she managed. She was almost afraid to look, but when she did, she saw that Kevin was peeling off his coat and shirt as well.

“Give me those,” she snapped, grabbing the glasses from a startled Fiching. Training them on the square, she saw the ripple of muscle as Kevin pulled off his white shirt, baring himself to the waist. His powerful shoulders and hardened arms seemed to glow in the sunlight. The flat plane of his stomach disappeared into the waistband of his trousers. One of the women in the crowd whistled. Kevin grinned at her. Jenny hastily returned the glasses to Fiching, face flaming.

Two men appeared from the crowd and joined Safton on his side of the square. Mr. Sloane and Sir Nigel joined Kevin on his.

“The seconds,” Fiching explained, although she had read about it in her studies. “They’ll serve as time keepers, and they’ll help their fellow during breaks. Those two,” he pointed to two burly gentlemen who had approached the square, the crowds giving way before them, “are the umpires. They’re ex-fighters brought in to make sure everything is fought fairly.”

Jenny nodded, relaxing a little. Surely Mr. Safton would have little opportunity to harm Kevin with two such gentlemen in attendance. As she watched, one of the umpires strode to the center of the square and drew a line in the dirt with his toe. He nodded to Mr. Safton and Kevin, who joined him in the center. He asked them a question. Mr. Safton shrugged. Kevin shook his head.

“He wants them to shake hands,” Fiching put in helpfully. “Mr. Whattling apparently refused.”

“Serves Mr. Safton right,” Jenny agreed.

Below, there was a few moment’s discussion, then the umpire stepped back.

“Gentlemen,” he called, deep voice echoing across the now-hushed field, “I give you a bare-knuckle bout between Mr. Kevin Whattling and Mr. George Safton.” Another cheer went up, nearly drowning his last words. “Fighters, toe the mark.”

Mr. Safton stood with arms raised in fists before him, and Kevin took up a similar stance across the line in the dirt. She thought his opponent said something and saw Kevin stiffen. Then he laughed, resuming his pose. The umpire nodded, and they started circling.

The crowd grew still again, but only for a moment. Then voices began calling, exhorting Kevin and his opponent to strike. The two continued circling, watching each other, and Jenny couldn’t so much as breathe. Then Mr. Safton swung, and she gasped, but Kevin blocked it.

They returned to circling, and the calls intensified. Mr. Safton jabbed, right, then left. Kevin blocked both easily. He dropped his guard and swung for the stomach. Kevin danced back out of reach.

The calls grew more numerous, and Jenny noticed that those rooting for The Snake had increased.

“Why doesn’t he swing?” Fiching muttered, glasses glued to the view.

“He’s sizing him up,” Jenny replied, remembering Kevin’s description of the sport. “He wants to exploit Mr. Safton’s weakness.”

“As if he has one,” Fiching scoffed, then he lowered the glasses to offer Jenny a contrite smile. “Sorry, Miss Jenny. No disrespect meant for Mr. Whattling.”

“Do not doubt him, Fiching. Everything I have read, everything Mr. Jackson explained to me, tells me that he is doing everything right. He will triumph. It is only a matter of time.”

Even as she finished her sentence, Kevin’s arms flashed through the man’s guard, first right then left, in quick succession. Mr. Safton staggered and went down on one knee. A cry went up, and the seconds hurried into the square. Two drew the fellow away to the left. Nigel and Giles hurried to pull Kevin away to the right.

She did not have time to relax. The break lasted only half a minute before the two were once again in the center, squared off against each other. The dancing continued, but Mr. Safton was being more careful this time. She gasped as his fist connected with Kevin’s nose, and Kevin fell. She hadn’t realized she’d jerked forward on the seat until Fiching grasped her coat and pulled her back.

The seconds separated them again. Kevin perched on Giles knee while Nigel squeezed an orange into his mouth. Mr. Safton pushed the fruit he was offered away.

“Arrogant toad,” Jenny muttered, trying to calm herself. Fiching grunted in agreement.

A half minute later they returned to the square. Thus it continued round after round, until Jenny could barely stand it. Sometimes Kevin managed to knock his opponent off his feet. More often it was Mr. Safton who made the hit.

Jenny took the opera glasses from Fiching during the eighteenth round. As she had feared, Kevin’s lip was bleeding, his left eye was beginning to swell, and sweat glistened on his chest. An ugly bruise darkened the underside of his left ribs. She bit her lip and lowered the glasses, almost afraid to watch any longer. All she could do was send up a prayer for his safety.

 

–

 

Down on the square, Kevin wasn’t sure how much longer he could last. “No more,” he gasped, pushing away the orange Nigel offered him. “And no more of this either. I’ve got to finish him.”

“Quite right,” Nigel agreed, waving a towel back and forth in front of him to help cool him. “Safton has the staying power of a Percheron. You’ve got to end this, and quickly.”

Kevin nodded, reaching for the water bottle. He guzzled down the tepid liquid and let it splash his face. It stung against his bruised eye and cut lip. Squinting with his right eye, he saw Giles watching him, round face puckered with concern.

“Buck up, my lad,” he joked. “Haven’t you told me how I can get myself out of any scrape?”

Giles managed a weak smile. “Yes, I have been known to say that. He just seems so intent on beating you, Kev. And beating you up in the process.”

Kevin glanced across the square to where Safton was refusing to sit on his kneeman. He strutted about his side of the square instead, glowering over at Kevin and his friends. The look had all the force of a panther stalking its prey. Kevin stood to return to the center.

“Had enough?” Safton sneered when they had taken up their places. “Will you give it up, or do I have to put you down like your brother?”

The bile rose in Kevin’s throat, but he raised his fists and began to circle, forcing himself to concentrate. He would not let Safton bait him. Robbie’s death in the boxing square had been a tragic accident, just as everyone kept telling him. He had never been able to prove any wrong-doing on Safton’s part. Losing his temper now would only put him farther into Safton’s power. No doubt that was why the man kept mentioning Robbie, hoping to madden Kevin beyond reason.

The Snake watched him now, circling. Frustration followed each step. Beyond the square, one of the doxies whistled at him. Safton smiled.

“When we’re done here, Whattling,” he called across the square, “I hope you’ll give my regards to Miss Welch. Then again, perhaps you won’t be in any condition to do so. I suppose I’ll just have to comfort the lady myself.”

The words settled like a hot coal in his stomach. Kevin took a deep breath, kept his gaze on Safton. He squinted his eyes and hunkered lower.

Safton’s smile widened, as if he knew he’d scored. “Of course, she doesn’t seem the type to enjoy comforting. But then, perhaps she just hasn’t met the right man yet.”

The fellow was too confident. Kevin lowered his guard quickly to wipe the sweat from his stinging eyes. It was all an act. One lucky punch, and the man would never go near Jenny again. All he had to do was keep his wits about him. He had to stop himself from merely reacting. He had to think.

Safton swung, and Kevin danced back out of reach. But he was tired, and he stumbled. Safton leaped the distance, swinging hard. Once again his fist connected with Kevin’s jaw, and Kevin swayed on his feet as the light dimmed.

“Time!” Giles shouted, and Nigel rushed in before Safton could close. Grinning, Safton allowed his seconds to lead him to his side of the square. Nigel carefully wiped the sweat from Kevin’s brow with the towel, and Giles mumbled something about ending it.

“I’m all right,” Kevin said, waving them away. He stood and stretched, making a show of it. Safton wanted him rattled. Well, when they returned to the square, perhaps Kevin would grant his wish. That ought to help open his guard a bit. Ignoring The Snake’s taunting grin from across the square, he allowed his gaze to sweep the crowd, taking in the wide eyes, the cheering mouths. He glanced at Lord Hastings’s coach across the way, which he had spotted when they came in, and wondered how the old man was enjoying the show. It was quite a spectacle if the footman with the opera glasses on the other coach was any indication.

He froze and stared, recognizing Fiching immediately. Jenny’s coach was unremarkable, but he thought he remembered it from the night he had escorted her to Almack’s. Was she inside, watching?

The footman must have noticed him staring, for the fellow lowered the glasses and ducked behind Fiching. The top hat tumbled off her light brown hair, and she hastily slapped it back on again.

“What was she thinking?” he muttered. But Safton had taken up his place in the center, and Kevin had no choice but to join him.

“So, she couldn’t resist, could she?” Safton jeered, jabbing at him.

Kevin stepped aside easily, trying in vain to calm himself.

“I saw you looking at the coach,” Safton taunted. “She’s inside, isn’t she? That’s a bluestocking for you. They enjoy studying. I have quite a few tricks to teach her, I assure you. And I intend to enjoy every minute of it.”

“Save your breath,” Kevin snapped. He wanted nothing more than to knock that satisfied smile off the man’s face, but he had to watch for his moment. “Nothing you can say will change the fact that I’m going to beat you.”

“Are you?” Safton lunged. Kevin tried to dodge, but Safton caught his arm, pinning him in place. As he turned to bring up his other arm in defense, Safton smashed him in the face. Pain shot through him. The day darkened again, and he felt his knees buckling.

Not now. Keep your wits about you. This is your opening. Think!

Safton twisted the arm up over Kevin’s head and leered down at him, other hand poised to strike again.

“I’ve ruined you, Whattling. Are you ready to face that yet? I’ve ruined you, your brother, and now I’m going to ruin your Miss Welch. When I’m through with her, there won’t be a man in England who will want her, even with her great fortune. And there’s nothing you can do about it.”

He’d left himself wide open. Suddenly the day brightened, and, with a mad yell, Kevin swung his left arm upward. He put into it every ounce of strength he had left, every bit of frustration over Robbie’s death, all the shame from his mounting debts, every fear for Jenny’s safety. He smashed his doubled fist into Safton’s jaw and watched as the man dropped his arm and tumbled over backward to smack his head on the ground and lay still. There was one second of silence, and then the crowd erupted with cheers.

He couldn’t seem to move off his knees as people swarmed around him. Nigel appeared on one side and Giles on the other, and somehow he was standing again. He thought he saw Gentleman Jackson beaming at the side of the square. Others crowded around, patting his back, shaking his hand. Someone shoved a tankard into his hand, and he swallowed the burning liquid down. Someone thrust a willing wench into his arms, and his bruised lip protested as she covered it with kisses. Her devotion nearly flattened him, but Nigel and Giles stepped in again, disengaging her and helping him through his well-wishers to the waiting carriage. It was all a bumble of noise and color, and he had passed out before he hit the squabs.