Aunt Louisa stepped into her room and slowly closed the door. “What are you doing, Lucinda?” she whispered.
“I’m going to watch Mr. Thompson box. I’m going to talk to him if I can.”
“You can hardly go alone, dear. There’ll be hundreds of men, drinking liquor and in high spirits. It is far too dangerous for a young woman.”
Lucinda laced up her flat-heeled boots. “I will keep to the edge of the room and mind my own business. Mrs. Pendergast said a few women attend. They like to place bets, from what I understand. I will be one of them.”
“I shall send a note to Renaldo. He will escort you. I already told him that you may be asking this of him, and he said he would take you where you wanted to go.”
“No. We will not involve Mr. Delgado. As kind as his offer is, I’ll not ask him. It will only make matters worse between him and Papa. I’ve spoken to Laurent. His cousin has a carriage for hire. This cousin will take me and wait for me for however long I am there.”
“Laurent is sure?”
“He is. He says Michael is a large fellow and would see that I am safe, would even go inside with me, if I should feel it necessary.”
“You will knock on the wall between our dressing rooms the moment you are back.”
“I will, Aunt,” she said and kissed her on the cheek. “I promise.”
Louisa grabbed her hands and held them tight. “I am so dreadfully worried about you, Lucinda. I am so concerned that I seriously considered going to your father and telling him what I suspected of your plans.”
“You must do as you think best. But I am going to him. I fear that I’ll soon be forced to choose between him and Papa. I don’t know what has led me to this conclusion or why I’m willing to sacrifice my papa’s good opinion, and maybe his love, but I am.”
“You love him? This Mr. Thompson?”
“I’m not sure. I don’t know what to think. But I do know that he intrudes on my thoughts at the strangest moments during the day and the night. I’m not sure I wish to kiss any man other than him. Ever.”
“Then you must go. You must understand your feelings and if they are fleeting or if you think you will always feel the same. I wish I had been more courageous,” she said. “And you must, you absolutely must, be very careful. I love you, dear.”
“I love you too, Aunt. I will be very careful.”
Alexander and MacAvoy waited with Alexander’s father, Andrew, and his Uncle Nathan to enter the warehouse where James’s match would be held. The line was long and rowdy, some men holding bottles of whiskey in their hands, and some occasionally shouting, although it was impossible to know what they were saying.
A young man staggered toward Nathan and held his half-full bottle at arm’s length. “Want a drink, then, mate?” he said and hiccoughed.
“No. No, but thank you,” Nathan said.
Alexander laughed as the two older men were enveloped into a group of young men.
“Will they get their pockets picked?” Alexander asked.
“Doubt it. I know some of those boys. They just like to carouse,” MacAvoy said. “And we were never going to find four seats together anyway.”
“Dear Lord!” Alexander said. “Father just took a swig out of that bottle.”
“We’re next,” MacAvoy said as he nodded to the door of the warehouse. He pulled bills out of his trouser pockets, fumbling with the papers and dropping coins.
Alexander picked up the money. “Have you already been into those fellows’ gin?” he said with a laugh and looked up. “What’s the matter? You’re not looking well.”
MacAvoy blew out a breath. “I’m worried. It makes me sick thinking about James taking on Jackson without me in his corner. I’m not being proud or bragging, but I’m skilled at what I do for a boxer. Jackson is as good as James—and younger too. It’s going to be brutal, and if I know James, he’ll stay on his feet out of sheer stubbornness.”
“Elspeth will never forgive me if something happens to him,” Alexander said. “Is there anything you can do?”
“Not really, but I’d like to be in floor seats close to the ring. I’ll be able to see what’s going on.”
Alexander and MacAvoy shouldered their way inside and headed to the betting tables, both laying down cash and taking their chits. MacAvoy found two young men in the second row near James’s corner. He bodily picked them up and deposited them in a back row while Alexander eyed off anyone looking to try to take their seats.
“Have you seen your father and uncle?” MacAvoy asked.
“Over there. Uncle Nathan’s the one struggling to climb up to the tiered seating. Good Lord. Father’s pulling him up by his coat.”
“That’s what cheap gin does to you.”
The crowd quieted when Red Chambliss, the promoter, in his purple jacket and green plaid pants, stepped into the ring.
“This match will go until one of the men is knocked out or doesn’t make it back to the scratch, marked right here in the very center of the ring. No head butting, no spiked shoes, and no hitting a downed man at a Chambliss match. A round ends when a man’s knee touches the floor, or he gets caught up in the ropes. Them corner men can carry him to his corner, and he’s got thirty seconds, then I ring the bell, and he’s got to get hisself to the scratch in eight seconds. We follow the London Prize Ring Rules,” Chambliss said to hooting and hollering. “Except the ones we don’t want to follow!”
The crowd roared when Jackson entered the warehouse. MacAvoy and Alexander stood with the rest of the men to see him as he made his way to the ring.
“Impressive specimen,” Alexander shouted over the roar of the crowd.
“I saw him fight in New York a few months ago. Other than James, he’s the best fighter I’ve ever seen.”
The throng turned in their seats, and the noise increased three-fold. James Thompson had entered, and MacAvoy and Alexander were yelling and whistling along with the rest of the crowd. James was completely focused on his opponent, his eyes never leaving Jackson as he walked down an aisle created by shouting men, waving their hats and pumping their fists. His skin glistened in the glow of the gas lamps, his hair pushed back from his head, and the sash around his waist swaying as he walked. He went to the ring’s stake closest to his corner and tied the strip of red-and-black plaid silk to the post.
“Both men have tied their colors! To your corners!” Chambliss shouted.
Thompson walked briskly to the man holding a jar of water beside Billy Pettigrew and took a drink. He turned with a flourish, making the crowd shout their approval, and stalked to the scratch, meeting Jackson in the middle of the ring. Chambliss rang a bell, and James threw a powerful punch into the chin of his opponent. But Jackson did not hesitate in his reply, knocking James back with punches to his midsection.
“You will wait here for me, Michael?” Lucinda asked the tall, heavy-set man helping her from the carriage near the warehouse where James was to fight. She’d been concerned she’d have to supply an address, but Laurent had assured her that Michael would know where the fight would be held. Every man in the city knew where the fight would be held, according to her butler.
“I’ll be right here, miss. Unless you’ll allow me to escort you inside. These matches attract a rowdy crowd.”
“No. But thank you, Michael. If I’m uncomfortable, I’ll come back out and get you.”
“Just come out the door and wave my way. I’ll keep an eye out for you. The whole thing shouldn’t have you inside more than an hour.”
“They fight for an hour?” she asked.
“No. But the fellow that runs these matches, Chambliss, he likes to build up the crowd to get them betting and liking the entertainment enough to come back. Usually, the fight itself only lasts but a quarter of an hour, but with Thompson fighting, sometimes it’s over in minutes!”
“He is that good?”
“His fists fly so fast you can barely see them. It’s a sight, miss, a real sight.”
Lucinda held her bag against her waist and walked to the entrance of the warehouse. She’d dressed in dark blue, a plain dress with the same color satin belt, a dark blue cloak—the only one she had without a fur collar—and a small hat covering her coiled blond hair with dark netting attached in the front, which she pulled down as she approached a huge man at the door.
“Fight’s gonna be done soon, miss. You sure you want in? There be no returning any gate money.”
Lucinda paid what he asked for and entered the room. It was like nothing she’d ever seen before, and she was glad she was dressed as she was, hoping to blend into the throng of men ahead of her. The room was warm and smelled of liquor and sweat; the noise was overwhelming and the crowd chaotic. She inched her way through men who were not paying any attention to her in the least. In fact, even when shouting and guzzling from a bottle, they pulled on the brims of their hats and caps as she maneuvered toward the ring. She could hear the sounds of flesh cracking against flesh and smell the sawdust, but she still could not see the fighting.
Lucinda tapped on a man’s shoulder, hemmed in as she was on all sides by the surging crowd, and waited until he glanced at her. As he turned, she slipped in front of him and found herself at the end of long rows of benches. She looked up just in time to see James take a cruel blow from his opponent, sending blood and sweat from his mouth raining on the men in the front row. James returned the punches to the other man, drawing blood over his eye. The violence took her breath away. But there was something else that she could not draw her eyes from. It was James Thompson’s bare chest, flexing as his fist flew at his opponent, his arms thick with roped, bulging muscle. His hands had blood on them, and she did not know if it was from the other man’s nose or cuts on his knuckles. She glanced across the ring and saw MacAvoy pointing at her and nudging Alexander Pendergast beside him.
“Is that Miss Vermeal?” MacAvoy said and pointed.
“Good God! It is her! What is she doing here? We’ve got to get to her and escort her out of here. This is not a place for a woman.”
“Like your wife?”
“At least Elspeth had the good sense to wear pants and hide her hair.” Alexander stood. “I’ll go for her.”
MacAvoy pulled him back down to his seat. “Look at her, damn it!”
Lucinda Vermeal had stepped in front of the first row of the seated men, pardoning herself in the narrow space between them and the edge of the ring as the men pulled in their feet or stood, her arm and skirts brushing the ropes on the other side.
“If James catches sight of her, the match is over,” MacAvoy said. “What’s your clock saying?”
“Eighteen minutes. They’ve been fighting eighteen minutes,” Alexander said and tucked his watch back in his pocket. “Without a bell.”
“James is getting winded,” MacAvoy said and screamed at Billy Pettigrew. “Tell him to take a knee!”
Miss Vermeal slipped behind the cornerman and made her way to them. Alexander took her outstretched hand and seated her beside MacAvoy. He knelt in the aisle close to her.
“What are you doing here, Miss Vermeal?” MacAvoy asked. “You’d best not let James see you here.”
“It could be dangerous, Miss Vermeal,” Alexander said. “Why don’t you let me see you home?”
“There’s no chance that Mr. Thompson could see me, MacAvoy. Both of his eyes are nearly swollen shut,” she said. She was perched on the edge of the bench, her back straight, holding a little silk bag on her lap in gloved hands.
“He can see, miss.”
“I was told these matches rarely last more than fifteen minutes. How long has this one been going on?” she asked.
Alexander pulled out his watch. “Twenty-two minutes.”
The crowd quieted as the match drug on, making the sounds of fists hitting soft flesh magnified and making Lucinda feel nauseous. Both men were slowing down, in her opinion, and MacAvoy and Mr. Pendergast leaned in to talk to each other in front of her. She was pressed up to MacAvoy’s side, and Mr. Pendergast’s arm was against her hip.
“Trade places with me,” MacAvoy finally said to Mr. Pendergast just as James took a swing at Jackson and missed completely, his opponent leaning out of the way and grabbing the rope. Jackson’s knee barely grazed the floor, but a large man in a dreadfully colored suit who seemed to be in charge rang a bell. He must be the Chambliss fellow that Michael had mentioned. A young man ran into the ring at the sound of the bell and walked James back to the corner.
“Thirty seconds!” Chambliss shouted.
MacAvoy grabbed the man’s shoulder. “Change in corner men, Chambliss.”
An older man helping James’s opponent shouted his displeasure.
“Shit on you, Bergman! I run the match. You can change corner men in my fights.”
Men were exchanging money all around her, and she looked at Mr. Pendergast, who had moved her in on the bench and sat down on the end. He pulled her tight against him.
“What is going on? Is the fight over?”
“No. The fight isn’t over. MacAvoy is going to run James’s corner and maybe try and talk some sense into him.”
James’s chest was heaving with each breath, and his arms hung at his sides. MacAvoy pulled something from his mouth and another man held a jar of water to it. MacAvoy shoved the bloody thing back in his mouth and held James’s head still, speaking to him, their foreheads touching. James straightened, rolled his neck, and turned back to the ring when the bell rang.
Both men seemed to benefit from the few moments away from the ring, but both began to slow down quickly. MacAvoy was shouting for James to take a knee as Mr. Pendergast looked at his watch.
“Twenty-six minutes,” he said.
James landed a punch to the other man’s stomach that doubled him over. Jackson, she’d heard the name over and again and knew it must be James’s opponent, came up swinging while James’s arms hung by his sides, surely trying to catch his breath. She heard the crunch of bone and watched as James’s head snapped back. He dropped to his knees and the bell rang.
MacAvoy picked him up and carried James to his corner, grabbing a length of toweling to wipe his face. Mr. Pendergast stood beside her, cupped his hands around his mouth, and shouted, “Thirty minutes.”
MacAvoy held James’s limp face in his hands while the other man gave him water. She could hear MacAvoy screaming at James. “Take a knee before you’re hurt worse.”
James shook his head and turned out of MacAvoy’s embrace when the bell rang, lurching to the center of the ring. His opponent did not look much better. MacAvoy hurried in front of their row of benches until he caught Chambliss by the arm. She could not hear what he was saying, but she sensed MacAvoy’s panic. She knew he would not be in such a state unless he was very worried for his friend’s health. She touched Mr. Pendergast’s arm.
“What is happening?”
“I think MacAvoy is trying to talk Chambliss into calling the fight a draw.”
“A draw?”
“No winner, but no loser either. He’s got to get James out of that ring.”
She looked back at the fighters as Chambliss made his way to the other corner. James was still swinging, barely on his feet, sweat dripping from his hair when he shook his head as if trying to clear his thoughts. She felt tears burn at the back of her eyes. She couldn’t take much more of this torture!
James swung his arm, barely touching Jackson’s chin but whirling the man in a circle as James’s knees buckled. Both men went down as Chambliss rang the bell and shouted, “Draw! All bets hold until the rematch!”
“A rematch?” Lucinda said but then focused on MacAvoy kneeling beside James, tapping his cheek and calling his name.
She stood then, shaking free of Mr. Pendergast’s hand on her elbow, pushing her way through the men crowding the ring. She bent down and stepped through the ropes, dragging her skirts behind her, nearly tripping on her petticoats. She dropped to her knees beside James.
MacAvoy was shaking his shoulders lightly and pressing a cloth to a long cut over his eye, trying to stem the flow of blood. James coughed and started to choke, but his eyes still did not open. MacAvoy reached into his mouth and pulled out a large bloody wad of fabric and then rolled him on his side.
“If he vomits, I don’t want him choking on it if he hasn’t woken up.”
“How long? How long until he wakes up?”
He shook his head. “Don’t know. I don’t know if he can hear me.”
“Perhaps he can hear me,” Lucinda said and looked down at him, so still and bloody. She leaned over his ear. “James. James, it’s Lucinda. You must wake up now. We must get your injuries tended, and we can’t do it here. James? Do you hear me?”
She grabbed his hand and realized his little finger was dangling unnaturally. She took a deep breath and gripped the rest of his hand in both of hers. “James. Won’t you please open your eyes?” She kissed his knuckles, dirty and bleeding, and realized she was trembling.
James coughed and then spit onto the floor. “Must be dreaming,” he mumbled.
MacAvoy heaved a breath and wiped his eyes. “Why’s that, you stubborn man?”
“Heard . . . Lucinda.”
“You did,” she cried and leaned over him. “You must never do anything this foolish ever again. Do you hear me? I will not stand for it.”
His eyes fluttered. “Must be dreaming.”
MacAvoy stood and motioned to Mr. Pendergast and his father. He looked at the son. “You and I are going to carry him out of here. I don’t think he can walk. We’re going to cross our hands and make a seat. Your father and your uncle are going to have to get him up and in our arms.”
Mr. Pendergast helped her to her feet and then turned to their task. James moaned as the elder Pendergasts pulled him up by his arms.
“Pettigrew!” MacAvoy shouted. “Where’s his coat?”
The man shrugged and hurried to the door. Lucinda pulled her cloak from her shoulders and wrapped it around James’s body. The two men picked him up under his arms and moved him back toward where Mr. Pendergast and MacAvoy knelt and crossed their hands.
The two men got to their feet with James between them and Mr. Pendergast’s father at James’s back, holding him in place. She turned when the other man, Mr. Pendergast’s uncle, put his hand on her elbow.
“Miss Vermeal, take my coat,” he said, working to shrug out of his.
“No. No, thank you,” she said, glancing at the men making slow progress out of the ring where Chambliss’s men had let loose the ropes.
“Then at least take my arm. How did you arrive?”
“I have a reliable man waiting for me with a carriage, Mr. Pendergast.”
“I was just getting ready to come inside for you, miss,” Michael said to Lucinda as she stepped out the door.
“I’m fine, Michael. Thank you so much for waiting for me. I don’t wish to go home just yet, though. I’d like to go to the Thompson home.” She looked at Mr. Pendergast. “What is his address? Do you know it?”
“Number 75 Locust Street,” he said after some hesitation.
“I know the area, miss,” Michael said and helped her climb into the carriage. He pulled a blanket out from under the seat and handed it to her.