She was walking away. Gabe told himself that was good. It’s what he wanted. Clary and Sara and the baby needed to get to safety.
He hated that they’d come into this ugliness to find him. Hated that Clary had seen him here among the thugs and brutes. Hated pushing her away and causing more pain.
God, he’d missed her. A few hours apart, and he’d ached for her every damn minute.
He could smell her floral scent on his skin.
But other smells swarmed in. Scents that hadn’t changed after all these years. The sweat of a hundred bodies. Liquor spilled and guzzled as the audience gaped with eager eyes. Sawdust, gritty and pungent, beneath his boots.
The sounds were the same too. The shouts of the crowd, the dancing gait of his opponent’s shuffling feet, Gabe’s own blood rushing in his ears.
He’d never met his opponent before this night. The boy was too young, too fresh-faced to have spent much time in the ring.
There was a typical Rigg cruelness to it. As if the devil had thrown him a puppy to batter.
An angry puppy. The young man gnashed his teeth and glared at Gabe as they waited for the call to begin.
Gabe understood. These moments before the violence began were when a fighter stripped down. Peeling away thoughts of the woman he loved and the life he wanted. This was a time to bore down to basics and tear one’s opponent apart. Not with fists. Not yet. First, he took a man to pieces in his mind. The body before him didn’t have a name. There was no wife or family or lover watching from the sidelines. His opponent became an obstacle. A threat to his existence. A marauder who’d take everything if he could.
For Gabe, besting this young man who was slavering to rip him limb from limb, would be a ladder out of the chaos and muck.
Forever.
Rigg took over the bullhorn, rasping through the mouthpiece in a smoke-deep roar. “Do yer worst, boys. Who craves a bit o’ blood?”
The crowd let out an earsplitting cry of enthusiasm, begging for the coming blood sport.
Gabe’s opponent danced straight toward him, assessing his speed and movement, before stepping back. The young man was light on his feet, and Gabe guessed he outweighed the boy by several stone.
The first blow came at him fast. He ducked and feinted left. The boy was quick, but Gabe was quicker.
He was older too, and his body immediately reminded him of the fact. As he circled the boy, shifting and diving to avoid two more jabs, muscles pulled and stretched. Twinges of pain shot across his back, and his bruised temple began to throb.
“Hit me,” the boy demanded. “Do something, you bastard.” He was dancing about so eagerly that he was already breathless.
Gabe didn’t mind letting the kid tire himself out.
“Kill him!” someone shouted from the crowd.
Others joined in. “Bash ’im.”
“Do the rotter’s head in.”
“Blood! Blood!” The chant swept across the bystanders in a wave, more voices added until the word became a crescendo.
The boy obeyed and came at Gabe with a series of swift, hard left, right punches.
Gabe took one, ducked another. Then he miscalculated and caught a punch straight to his jaw. He stumbled back. The boy was far stronger than he looked.
Scrawny bastard.
Blood rushed over his tongue. Old impulses sparked. Fury tangled with fear. Hunger twisted with hate. Shifting on his toes, he lunged forward and delivered a low cut to the boy’s midriff. Stepping back, he waited for his opponent to shift and landed another punch to the lad’s clean-shaven cheek.
The boy stumbled, shaking off the daze of his strike. Dizziness. Spots of black. Bells ringing in his ears. Gabe knew exactly what he was feeling. He’d learned to fight after being beaten by bullies far better at brawling than he was.
The boy spit blood into the sawdust, slammed his gloved fists together, tucked his head, and came at Gabe like a wild bull. A daring move but worth every ounce of energy spent if it got one’s opponent off his feet.
Unfortunately for the lad, Gabe anticipated the blow. Planting his feet wide, he took the boy’s weight as all the air rushed from his lungs. But he was still standing, and that’s what mattered. He hooked an arm around the boy’s shoulders as their bodies crashed together.
When his opponent tried to retreat, Gabe held him in place and delivered one quick jab to his ribs.
The punch had virtually no effect. Twisting away, the boy straightened to his full height and slammed a quick blow to Gabe’s face.
The strike caught him off guard. Gabe ducked away, but the boy saw his confusion. Saw his advantage. And swung again. The next blow caught Gabe in the temple. The spot where Rigg’s thugs had bashed him thoroughly. The spot Clary had cleaned so tenderly.
The thought of her cleared his mind. Chased the pain from his body. He had a purpose in this ring. He needed to get through this bout, see this night to its end, and get her back in his life.
The boy came at him again, and Gabe caught him low. Midriff, ribs. Two quick jabs. Left, right. The boy bent from the pain. Gabe hooked his jaw and sent him back on his arse.
Sawdust burst up, and Gabe tasted the wood pulp on his tongue.
As the boy bounced up on his feet, baring his teeth at Gabe like a rabid dog, a murmur swept the crowd, rolling toward them like thunder. Louder. Shouts mixed with cries of outrage.
“Scarper!” someone shouted into the bullhorn, “The rozzers is ’ere.”
Bodies moved in snarled clusters, hats toppling, arms flailing as some got pushed out of the way to make room for others.
As the crowd thinned, Gabe spotted the detective he’d met at the Ten Bells. The man tipped his bowler Gabe’s way, then nudged his chin toward the edge of the yard.
Two burly coppers had clapped Rigg’s behemoths in irons. Rigg himself had been swarmed by four uniformed constables—one in front, one in back, a man on each side. The detective knew as soon as Gabe mentioned Rigg’s name that he’d stumbled on the biggest catch of his career.
Gabe realized his opponent was still standing beside him when the boy’s gloves thudded into the sawdust. “You can be done with him now,” he told the boy. “Rigg. Whatever he had on you, he doesn’t own you anymore.”
“All this just to snitch on ’im.” There was no recrimination in the boy’s tone. Just a thread of admiration. A grin lifted his bruised cheek as he watched a copper secure the irons around Rigg’s wrists. “Wot if someone worse comes along to replace ’im?”
“Could there be worse than Rigg?”
“Nah, you’re right. Ain’t nobody worse.”
“Do you have a job?”
The boy slapped a fist against the opposite palm.
Gabe side-eyed the boy. “A proper job, I mean.”
“Not sure I’m cut out for proper.”
At the boy’s age, Gabe didn’t think he could change either. But he’d taken the opportunity Leopold Ruthven offered in lieu of payment. “If you change your mind, I’ll give you a chance for honest work. Ruthven Publishing. Southampton Row. Come and find me.”
As he climbed from the ring, he stopped in his tracks and realized what he’d said. Mercy, those blows had turned him dotty. He couldn’t offer anyone a job. He didn’t even have employment of his own.
But he would. He was free now. He could wash himself clean of this life and pursue what he wanted most.
Clary. He scanned the crowd for her and felt a strange mix of regret and relief when he couldn’t find her. Perhaps, for once, she’d taken his advice and gotten herself and Sara to safety. Perhaps they’d gone to Fisk Academy. He’d go there as soon as he settled one last score.
Striding toward the cluster of constables, Gabe tossed his gloves away. He felt the rush of the fight ebbing. His pulse began to steady. His breath came in even bursts. And pain came on with a vengeance. There wasn’t a part of his body that didn’t ache.
Still, he squared his shoulders, stood up tall, and clenched his fists as he approached the circle of policeman surrounding Rigg. The H Division detective strode over and gave his constable a nod. The burly young man backed away and shot Gabe a grim look.
There was no cheroot in Rigg’s mouth now. No smirk under his grizzled mustache. Only hate burning in his black eyes. “Never knew you to be a rat, boy.”
“You never knew me at all.” Gabe lifted his arm, wound back, and planted a facer on Rigg’s nose.
The devil didn’t even wince. Blood gushed down over an evil, snaggletoothed smile.
“I’m done with you, old man.” Gabe turned and jerked a satisfied nod toward the detective.
He stumbled across the trodden grass. Fatigue and weariness set in. It was over. This part was done. Now the rest of his life could start.
A few stragglers remained, loitering around the yard. He bumped into one woman, who waggled a finger at him. “Terrible fight, son. Not enough blood.”
He moved past her and another feminine voice called out of the darkness. “Are you ready to hear my proposal now, Mr. King?”
Clary. He’d never been so happy to see anyone in his life. Nor so irritated that she remained among this raucous mess.
“Sara’s fine,” she assured him. “She’s waiting for us at Fisk with Helen and the girls.”
He pivoted toward her and came closer. He longed to have her in his arms, but he could see the hesitation in her eyes. He’d hurt her. He had so much to make up for.
“About this proposal.” He stepped toward her and grazed his knuckles across her cheek. “If you’re going to mention your ladies’ magazine again—”
“Marry me.” The two words were far easier to get out than Clary imagined they’d be. They’d been bubbling inside her since she’d set out for Whitechapel with Sara.
Even when Gabe told her to go. Even while she watched him fight, the two words remained lodged inside in her heart, waiting to get out.
He stood dumbstruck and silent before her, mouth gaping, eyes wide, not a sound emerging from him. Then he finally choked out, “What did you say?”
“I asked you to marry me. Maybe I phrased it wrong,” she teased. “Gabriel, will you marry me? Please.”
“You needn’t do this out of desperation,” he finally said. “The fight is over. There won’t be anymore. I don’t need you to save me.”
“Perhaps I’m saving us both.”
“You’ve never wished to marry. You long for your independence.”
She couldn’t deny his claims, though she’d never been wholly averse to marriage. Only doubtful that anyone would come along to make her wish for such a commitment. Most of all, he was right about her desire for independence. She still craved the freedom to do as she wished, to pour her energy into worthy causes, to make a difference. But now she wanted Gabriel too.
“Do you intend to quash my independence, convince me my charities are foolish, and my politics are pointless?”
“I would never want to change you, Clary.” Earnestness filled his gaze, then a glint of mischief lit his expression. “I’m not sure I could if I tried.”
“No, you couldn’t. So you’ll have to accept that I love you. I know what I’m saying and what I want. And I should warn you, I never give up.”
He grinned at that.
“Will you?” she asked softly, because she needed him to say yes. She ached to know he wanted her. That he would commit his heart, his life, to her.
“Yes, love.” He wrapped his arms around her and lifted her off her toes for a kiss. A searching, hungry joining that left her breathless, almost making her forget where they were and how awful this night had been. When he set her back on her feet, he cupped her cheek against his palm and said, “But I can’t leave here yet.”
Panic swept in to steal all the bliss. “Why on earth not? Gabe, whatever money you wish to collect, we don’t need it. My dowry will give us a decent life for years to come.”
“It’s not the money.” He scanned behind her, gripped her shoulders, and turned her body so that she could see across the yard. “I came tonight to catch the spider in its web.” He pointed to a gathering of men at the far edge of the yard. “Those men are coppers. Undercover detectives.” His breath warm against her nape, he added, “I’ve told them everything about Rigg. What I did for him. About his schemes and associates. Where to find his vaults of stolen goods. Where the bodies are buried.”
Clary swiveled and pressed her hand against his chest. His heart beat hard but in a steady rhythm. “Will they charge you with anything?”
“No, but I’ve agreed to testify in court.” He smoothed a hand down her arm. “I’ll make enemies by ratting on Rigg. But I’ve agreed to help the Met catch all they can. They’ve asked to take a formal statement at Leman Street station tonight.”
“Then I’ll go with you.”
“No.”
Clary let out a shaky breath. “Is that your answer to my proposal?”
He pulled her into his arms, stroked a hand down her back, and lowered his mouth to hers. Clary kissed him hungrily. Hours apart had been far too long. When they were both breathless, he rested his head against her forehead.
“That is my answer.” He kissed her again. “I love you.” Another kiss, deeper, sweeter. “I want to be your husband.”
“Then take me to the station with you.” Her stubborn, determined chin jutted out, and he ducked his head and kissed her there too.
“No, love,” he whispered against her skin. “I may be the last man who deserves it, but you’ll have to trust me.” He kissed her again but too quickly. A taste when she craved more. Then he led toward the road in front of the Crossroads pub. “Go to Fisk and tell Sara all is well. I’ll come and join you when I’m done at the station. This will be over before you know it.”
“And then we can begin?”
“Yes. I cut my ties to all of this tonight. Nothing here can haunt us anymore.” He smiled. “Now we can pick up where we left off.”