Lady Meets Her Match (16 page)

“Not…another…step.”

“At least keep yer voice down.” He looked over one shoulder and then the other. “It was Sharp Eddie. He stole yer necklace. I tried to get it back. That's why ye haven't seen me. I was chasin' him down.”

She searched his face but Nate was little more than a dark silhouette to her, with his lantern hanging low at his side. The lad wasn't winded at all. Did he jog through London's streets as a daily habit? The news of Eddie's thievery angered her, but the growing pain in her side needed rubbing and emotion was a luxury she couldn't afford right now.

“I don't understand.” She dug her fingers into the cramp, her lungs sucking down great gulps of air. “Aren't we going to see him? Demand he give it back?”

“Ye don't demand anything 'round here, miss,” he scoffed. “'Sides, Eddie sold yer baubles. Took off for the West Indies on the first tide out of here today.”

She slumped against the cold brick. Why did Nate give her hope she'd get the necklace back? Her eyes squeezed shut. Her sole means for her future, truly gone. For good.

“My plan wasn't to get yer necklace back, but to save yer shop.” Nate grabbed her arm, pulling her close. “C'mon. We're almost there.”

Where?

They trudged through the mud, but she was too dispirited to ask what he meant, her brain clogged with too many troubles. At least there was the comforting news that Nate wasn't a thief. He had tried to help her.

“We're here,” he said.

She looked up. Two ships' masts poked through layers of fog. They were in Billingsgate Wharf.

Her breath labored from their near run. “Why take me to the wharf at this late hour, Nate? I demand to know what this is all about.”

Her trust had found its limit. Nate let go of her arm, but he held his lantern high to light the way.

“About Eddie…we both talked about changing, trying to be honest men.” His profile pinched hard in the shadows. “But all the changing Eddie did was back to his old ways. Said honest work was too hard and paid too little.”

Claire pushed back her hood for a better look at him.

He swung around to face her, the familiar scowl present. “Ye've been good to me. I needed to make things right.”

“And your bruise?”

“Got it when I found him.” He gingerly touched the side of his swollen mouth. “Ye could call this our way of workin' out a difference of opinion. He won, but it gave me an idea.”

Nate pointed to double doors, a maw of an opening ready to swallow the heedless passerby. At this late hour on the wharves, nothing less than trouble would be found beyond those doors.

“That's where we're goin', miss.”

Of
course.
Her eyebrows shot high at the unsavory sight.

Candle lanterns lit ramshackle edifices, taverns by the revelry and aroma of bitter ale, and dark warehouses in other places. On the other side, the Thames held court, a flat, silent lady dirtied by time and use, yet London thrived through the ages on her brined appeal. Claire had never seen this much of London at this time of night, and the spirit of daring touched her. If all was lost, then at least she'd lived as she saw fit.

“Warehouses on Dark House Landing host bare-knuckle fights now and then,” he explained. “Tonight, our plan is to bet all yer money and mine. But don't worry. We'll win it back and lots more.”

“That's your plan?” she huffed. “
Gambling
on a fight?”

If he'd said this to her at the shop, she would never have set one foot outside her door. Her spirit of daring wasn't this bold.

“Nate Fincher, that's the worst idea I've ever heard. You want to wager what little money I have on a fight?” She stopped short, her arms clamped tight across her chest. “How can you be so sure we'll win on some sweaty brutes?”

He grinned. “I've an ace up my sleeve, miss. We'll win big.”

“Or lose big. Besides, I can't go in there.” She eyed the dark doors. “Proper women don't attend bare-knuckle fights, and they certainly don't wager on them.”

Nate heaved a deep sigh; he could be a patient tutor with a rather dull student.

“Ye're right…about proper women, I mean. They don't see bare-knuckle fights, but neither do they run down New Fish Street gawkin' at strumpets plyin' their trade.”

He gave her a shameless wink and smiled as big as his swollen lip allowed.

She gasped, her cheeks stinging hot. He'd seen her fascination with the doxy. Nate pushed back his coat and planted a fist at his hip, his smile fading.

“Ye know what else? Most proper women don't leave home to start an honest business all by themselves. Neither would they give a questionable lad from St. Giles proper employment.” Something bright flickered in his eyes. “But ye did. Ye're a brave one, miss, and that puts ye in a class all by yerself.”

Her balance wavered under the light shining from his face. How could he say something so, so heart bursting about her? She served coffee and made pastries, yet she could have been Joan of Arc by the admiration in his eyes.

“Ye've come with me this far tonight, why not finish?” he coaxed softly.

Fog brushed Nate's shoulders, swirling around him as though he'd emerged from a magician's smoky tent. He nodded at the open doors, his mouth quirking.

“C'mon. Don't ye want to see?”

She looked again at the warehouse; a distant clamor spilled from the open doors. Yes, no proper young woman left home alone to strike out on her own and start a business. Many of her friends were married, and some still waited for the chance. None conceived of a different life for themselves.

She'd come this far. Why stop now?

“You're a good one, Nate Fincher.” Claire slipped her arm through his.

But he didn't budge, instead he eyed her hair, strands of which had blown wildly about on their race to Billingsgate.

“Keep yer hair and face covered. It's part of my plan.” His voice was firm and serious.

Her thick, flaxen hair was a rarity and caused her trouble from unwanted male attentions too often. She did as Nate bade her, tucking her hair behind her shoulder. Then she pulled her hood far forward, shrouding her features.

Her gait lightened at the prospect of seeing the forbidden: a bare-knuckle fight.

Once inside the warehouse, the building, dead from the outside, came alive. They walked into a wall of dank air mixed with a sweet aroma and one of fresh-cut wood. Nate guided her through a central path, past stacks of wooden crates and half-constructed barrels, closer to the light and noise. She tipped her nose high, sniffing the air.

“Ye're smellin' sugar. There's a big refinery in here.” He pointed to the partially formed barrels. “An' half this warehouse is a cooperage.”

Not a soul was in sight save a tabby cat curled on a high stack of crates. The resident mouser twitched his orange tail, his slanted eyes watching the latecomers. On the other end of the warehouse, the bedlam could have raised the roof. Lights shined behind a concealing wall of crates and barrels. Heads and fists bobbed above the wooden barrier's line.

So much was going on, she almost missed the old man slouching on a crate.

Nate dropped his voice. “Stay quiet. And remember, keep yer face an' hair hidden.”

A small man with a peg leg scratched notes on a ledger, but he snapped the book shut and stood up to block their path when Nate approached.

“Well, if it isn't Mis-ter Fincher.” He nudged his tricorne back with his thumb and glanced at Claire covered in her cloak. “And ye brought yerself a friend, I see.”

“Mr. Watson.” Nate reached inside his coat. “We're here to see the Swede take on the Bruiser. I want to place a bet.”

“Well now, ye're fine to catch the Swede and the Bruiser, they're at it now with one round left. But ye're a wee bit late to place a bet, lad.” Mr. Watson's lips pressed together, exaggerating his dismay. “The book closed when the first bout started.”

“C'mon, Watson. Ye can just as easily open the book.” Nate motioned to Claire. “I promised the lady fine entertainment. The thrill of a grand bet. Ye wouldn't want to disappoint her.”

Watson's rheumy stare shot to Claire and back at Nate. Begrimed hands scratched whiskers peppered with black and gray.

“Well, now, if ye make it worth me while…”

From his inside pocket, Nate pulled out the two coin bags in one hand and a gold guinea in the other. He held the guinea between his middle finger and forefinger.

Claire breathed in sharply. The guinea had to be the same coin Mr. Ryland had given Nate earlier this week. He was ready to separate himself from it on this mad scheme to help her.

“Is a pretty guinea worth openin' yer book?” Nate asked, luring the old man like a street hawker.

Watson swiped his forehead, squinting hard at the coin.

“Place yer bet, Mr. Fincher. Anything ye want.”

Nate set the gold piece in Mr. Watson's grimy, outstretched palm. Claire watched Nate dump his coins and all of hers on a barrel top, and the old bet taker flicked beckoning fingers at a ruffian the size of an outbuilding. The giant must've been behind some crates, but he lumbered forward and plunked a smaller chest on the same barrel. His colorless stare roved over them before he started counting the coins.

“Now about your bet.” Mr. Watson opened his ledger, his lead stick tapping the page. “What'll it be, lad?”

“Ten to one the Bruiser's out fer the count. Doesn't finish the fight.”

Watson choked into his balled fist.

“Ye're expectin' the Bruiser to fall?” he argued. “He's favored to win three to one. And ye're bettin' those kinds of odds?” The old man wheezed a sickly chuckle and wrote the bet down. “But as ye say, lad. As ye say. A pleasure doin' business with ye.”

Mr. Watson bent over the coin-strewn barrel, poking a knobby finger through the silver. There was a lull in the noise on the other side of crates stacked high, and the bet taker cocked his ear at the stirrings.

“Last round's about to start.” The old man gleefully tipped his hat at Claire. “Best get to it.”

Nate grabbed her elbow, rushing her to the commotion ahead. “Looks like we don't have much time.”

They went around the barrier of crates and barrels, finding rough necks and macaronies elbow to elbow around a wide makeshift ring. She couldn't see much beyond the backs of the raucous audience. There had to be at least a hundred people there. Nate pushed for a particular point in the crowd.

A man stood above the crowd, his feet braced wide on a barrel. He waved a battered tricorne through the air.

“Last round!” he shouted and tossed the hat into the ring.

The crowd's noise swelled. Candle lanterns gave light to the dark and dingy warehouse. The stamped earth was as hard as any stone floor, with sawdust crunching underfoot. Nate gripped her arm, positioning her away from the yelling, cheering crowd. He surged partway into the mass of bodies and rose on tiptoe for a better look.

When he came back, he issued his odd requirement again. “Keep yer hood on, and at the right second, ye'll see everything.”

Everyone milled close, fists pumping the air and shouting at the ring. She covered her nose, affronted by heady whiffs of men in need of soap and water. A few women were scattered in the mix, some grizzled, time worn, and toothless. A pair of young, velvet-cloaked ladies in confection-colored silks were among the revelers.

Heavy cosmetics painted their faces white with red, Cupid's bow lips. Padded coiffures pulled a foot high off their foreheads in dramatic fashion. Those towering piles of hair touched when they leaned close to gossip about the goings-on inside the ring.

Nate spoke against her hood near her ear. “Those ladies,
Incognitas
…high-priced strumpets.” And then he started to pull her close into the crowd, saying above the fray, “It's time.”

“Nate, I'm not sure this is to my liking.” She braced a hand on a barrel.

Her head and shoulders flinched at the barrage of horrible noises, the coarse crowd and their awful odors merged wrongly on this late-night adventure.

“Ye've come this far,” he coaxed. “Just a few more steps.”

Her grip on the barrel eased. She'd look and then slip to the back of the crowd.

Nate pushed through a bellowing mass, one arm up high to shield her against the fists and elbows striking wildly. Bodies bumped and squished. At the rope, he eased around behind her, but she stared agog at the sneers and spittle of the scrawny man beside her.

“C'mon, Sven, give it to him good!” he yelled. “Bellows to mend, man. Bellows to mend.”

The Incognitas jabbed the space in front of them, their painted mouths snarling. And then she looked into the ring where two brutish men had stripped off their shirts and now fought a primitive battle for dominance.

Sweaty
brutes
indeed.

Two Titans maneuvered on large bare feet, the hair on their legs springing dark from well-formed calves. One man wore buckskin-colored breeches, the pewter buttons on the side of his knees gleaming like great bolts fastening his legs together. The other man wore plain, brown homespun with no such fine buttons. Both men were equal with fists cocked high, trying to slam the other with vicious swipes.

For the second time in one night, Claire gawked. Her jaw unhinged at the play of muscles, great slabs of them, shifting under glistening skin. Raw power roused, displaying itself in human form. Both men's arms were the size of hefty iron hammers, and their limbs looked just as hard and strong as hunks of shaped metal.

She touched her skirts, needing something tactile. Her blood raced…at once repulsed and excited. Her lashes lowered; her ogling eyes needed to keep this a secret.

The men, giants come down to earth, punched and bashed. Their fists knocked air when the other jerked sideways to avoid the hit. The fighter with his back to her clubbed his foe on the chin. A spray of blood and sweat spurted off his head, but the monster of a man kept going.