Now, though, when he saw himself, shirtless and clad in leather breeches and boots with his hands wrapped in white strips, he didn’t know which persona he preferred.
“Arlington,” Silas strode into the room. “It is nearly time. Are you ready?”
Pulling away from the mirror, he reached for the leather hood with the eyeholes cut out, and tugged it over his head, and tied it. “I’m ready.”
“Remember the strategy,” Silas said. “They’re starting you off with a brawler and not a real boxer but beware, Brooks is flashy but still a brute, so you remember to keep your guard up. He will pander to the crowd before delivering—”
“Uppercuts, I know,” William nodded. “It's his signature move.”
“He’s rung more than a few bells with that uppercut,” Silas added. “When he goes high, don’t go low, because that second hook will come out of nowhere to clock you in the sternum.”
“I’m aware.” William felt his heartbeat increase. “Let’s begin. I am eager to finish this battle before round five.”
“Well, power to you on that,” Silas grunted. “Just get through it alive, man.”
Though the match had not yet begun, the roar of the rabble was already deafening as he left the room and headed out into the night air. The mob on a corner off James Street in Covent Garden was larger than any he'd seen at his previous fights.
It was the best location as the Bow Street chaps hardly bothered with Covent Garden, deeming it a place unworthy of their attention as Spitalfields, Whitechapel, and other slums in Greater London.
Four stakes roped off the eight-foot square where the match would be held, and surrounding the ring were men, bet-takers with boxes of money and books open, pens flying. Beyond them, men—holding bottles of Blue Ruin and rum—were spreading as far as the eye could see.
“Move yer asses!” Silas hollered, his cockney accent loud and snapping. “The champion is coming through! Move!”
With practiced precision, he avoided the grubby hands grabbing at him and ducked under ropes to stand inside the ring. With the time handed to him, he took stock of the ring, the crowd, and the line of dark carriages in the far-off and sucked in a breath.
The Masked Marauder had no enemies that would try to assassinate him.
The Duke of Arlington did.
“The challenger approaches!” Someone else screamed out and like Moses standing in front of the Red Sea, the crowd parted for Brooks to come through.
The man was a beast; over six feet tall and with at least four stones of burly muscles over William. Before he entered thering, Brooks raised his ham-sized fists, punching the air, and the crowd erupted in cheers and screams.
“All show, no substance,” William muttered.
Brawlers did not know the same technique wrestlers did, they were really the bottom of the pole when it came to prizefighting, and they employed brute force more than any strategy.
There was strategy in the punches, strategy in his breathing and footwork, and most importantly, strategy in knowing how to draw out a match and when to end it.
“Look at this mongrel!” Brooks shouted. “Before the night is done, I will have him collared and leashed.”
Resisting from rolling his eyes, William rested his arms on the ropes, flexing his tightly bound fingers, and assessed where best to land his blows. He noticed Brooks flexing shoulder, as if there was a tense knot there, and how his left ankle had a small limp. Was the man injured?
“Any reply, Masked Man?” Brooks guffawed.
William looked up. “The only dog I see here is you. You will be groveling by the end.”
He's all brute strength and no skill. You can take him.
Growling, Brooks jumped into the ring, cracking his knuckles and approaching William. “At the end, you will have my foot on the back of your head. I’ll rip that mask off yer face and show everyone who you truly are.”
“We’ll see about that,” William flexed his shoulder, then gave Silas the eyes. “Start the match—” then he looked at Brooks, “—and may the best brute win.”
“Black and blue does not look good on you,” Andrew said as he handed William a congratulatory glass of whiskey before sitting in the other armchair. “At least it’s not on your face.”
“That would be a tragedy.” William pressed the cold crystal to the side of his face while he flexed his smarting shoulder. It was the one firm blow Brooks had laid on him with those ham-fists before William had unleashed his timed plan to take the man down. “Have I told you, I have insured my face?”
With Brooks being such a lummox, he had little versatility or agility, and William stayed light on his feet, ducking blows and landing his own in at the man’s weak points. It was not looked down upon to fight dirty in this arena and William used Barnes’s disadvantages to his advantage.
