“No,” Bridget sighed, then met her friend’s eyes. “I am just upset… and worried. I am afraid that his continuous business with Duke Arlington will set Lord Hansen’s heart against me and I will lose him. While you were away, I kept readingthe newspaper articles and I—I feel like there is this hollow sensation in my chest.”
“Oh,” Ellie’s expression cleared. “Lord Hansen is not that sort, Ellie. He is not one to look at minor issues when the truth is clear. Unusual circumstances happen and these run-ins with the duke are clearly just that. He will see through those.”
Bridget’s shoulders slumped. “You must forgive me, Ellie. I have not been in this situation for so long, I am anxious and double-guessing myself every moment of it.”
Sighing, Ellie enveloped Bridget in a warm hug. “You will be fine, dearest. If it is to be, it will be, but do not push yourself so far that you risk breaking something precious. Look at it as a glass bauble in your hand, dear. If you drop it, it will shatter, and you do not want that, do you?”
“Certainly not,” Bridget replied while pulling away. “Thank you, Ellie, I shall remember that.”
“Pardon me, my ladies,” a footman announced with a bow. “The carriage has arrived for you, Lady Bridget.”
“Thank you,” Bridget said, smiling at both the footman and Ellie. “I will be back next week.”
“You are welcome anytime,” Eleanor smiled as Bridget headed to the door. “I wish you a safe journey home.”
Safe is one thing, but holding onto my sanity is another.
Ribald cheers and shouts around the boxing ring rose in a rush of heat and noise, that it slightly threw William off for a moment. It was a good thing that this opponent was down, half sprawled on the ground, reeling from the uppercut William had just delivered.
The second match of the Circuit Rounds was underway and William was set on making this a quick win. Blood was sprinkled and splattered around the ring, but as far as William could make out, most of it was not his. He had managed to land only a few hits, but the ones he did land were heavy ones, or so he could only assume because his damned mind was otherwise occupied.
Bridget.
He knew it was unwise and dangerous to lose concentration in a match that could lend him grievous harm. Especially here in the alley in the backstreets of London, inside a square of fraying rope around a makeshift ring.
If the men clamoring in the stands had seen where he had learned to box,Oxford, they would know this was no ring. The flickering light from the weak gas lamps did not help his concentration either.
The opponent today was a young man with a wiry frame—perhaps too wiry—with light brown hair and dark blue eyes. The man had scars all over his body and while it was not unusual for streetfighters or brawlers to be so marked, the abundance of them made William wonder.
Was he—
William lurched to the side, just missing an errant fist flying in his direction by a very thin hair. Damn this distraction!
His opponent grinned, blood oozing from his nose. He dragged his wrapped wrist under his flared nostrils and began setting up for another punch.
“That was a close one!” Someone screamed.
Another shouted, “Hit him, Masked Man! Take him down!”
William circled slowly around the ring, conjuring a plan of attack before his eyes. “Ready to concede?” he taunted his opponent, wiping sweat from his brows so he could see the man clearly. “You look ready to collapse.”
“Don’t worry about me,” the other man spat, lurching forward, and William barely missed a blow to his chest, which would have been most injurious to his overall health—and his purpose, while grabbing the rope. “Worry about yourself.”
Just about done with this charade, William darted toward his opponent and delivered a complex set of punches on already purpling spots while batting away retaliatory blows.
He felt no pleasure as his opponent collapsed to the ground, clutching at his chest, but the crowd erupted nevertheless. The man tried to stand but his knee buckled, and he hit the ground with the force of a heavy sack.
“Don’t try to move anymore, lad,” William exhaled. “It's best if you stay down and catch your breath.”
“With seven to three, the match goes to the Masked Marauder!” one of the umpires shouted.
After about a minute, the man finally stood and rubbed his heaving chest, then pinned William with unsettlingly familiar blue eyes. With a straining voice, he muttered. “You—you will see me again.”
“Hopefully not,” William huffed while ducking out of the ropes. “Get some rest lad, you’ll need it.”
Silas accosted him the moment he stepped out and tossed him a towel. “You survived another match and the takings for this one were about two thousand pounds.”
“I need to head home,” William grunted.
