“I think he did,” she whispered. “You said he was broken. You can’t hurt without loving something first.”
And she, mindless of the hurtshewas causing, had told Jacob she would have preferred to marry his brother. What a foolish, ridiculous statement. But he needed to know she had said it without considering him as a potential candidate for her hand.
She looked at Lady Bolton pleadingly. “I need to go to him. Please help me.”
* * *
Jacob wiped the sweat from his brow as he faced his opponent, a large man with fists like hams. His bottle man handed him some water, and he took a swig, not caring as the cold rivulets dribbled down his throat. All morning, he’d been trying to decipher Cecil’s papers until his head hurt, and he needed this opportunity to be someone else.
The scars on his back meant nothing. His reputation meant nothing. The men in the crowd were betting on Jacob, not Lord Sunderland. They believed he was one of them. Even the few gentlemen milling around seemed oblivious. There were few today, considering the match was being held in the lower rooms of a tavern, and the doors were being well guarded to ensure no magistrates found their way inside.
His entire body burned with excess energy that he had not been able to shake, and he rolled his shoulders a few times before approaching the line in the middle of the ring. This man was large enough to feel like a challenge, although truthfully Jacob hardly cared if he won or lost, so long as he could lose himself in the fight.
Jacob exhaled, finally finding the peace he had been searching for, and the match began.
* * *
The tavern was dark and smoky. Annabelle had never been inside such an establishment before, and she was unprepared for the dirty straw on the floor, the scent of cigar smoke that seemed to cling to everything, and the tang of unwashed bodies mingling with alcohol. Somewhere underneath the floorboards, a roar rose that shook the entire building.
“It’s not seemly for ladies to enter,” a man was telling Lady Bolton. Annabelle watched, half in amusement and half in awe as Lady Bolton narrowed her eyes at him.
“It is convenient, then, that I am a lady only in name,” she said, and stepped forward. Surprised, the man stepped back. “Do you think I fear a little blood? This is not the first boxing match I have attended, and I doubt it will be the last. Now, unless you wish to have every magistrate in the air discovering this little illegal match, allow me downstairs at once.”
The man faltered, evidently not accustomed to being spoken to in such a manner, and Lady Bolton brushed past him. Annabelle followed, staying close enough so she would not get lost.
They were akin to parrots among pigeons. The brightness of Lady Bolton’s maroon dress and Annabelle’s blue morning dress stood in stark contrast to the greys and browns of the working men’s suits. There were a few other gentlemen present, but even they were wearing more muted waistcoats. A far cry from the flamboyant colours she often saw while promenading or at social events. This was not a social event. The floor was sticky with spilt beer and men were jeering at the figures in the ring.
Ring was perhaps an optimistic term for the boxed rectangle in the centre of the room, featuring the two fighting men.
Annabelle paused to stare at the men in shock and horror. They fought with bare knuckles, shirtless, bruises already blooming on their ribs and stomachs. One man, a veritable giant, had his back to her, which meant she could see portions of the other man’s torso and the way his ridged muscles tensed and moved as he struck.
Blood splattered the ground as the large man’s nose crunched. The other man seemed to have got off lightly in comparison, although he was breathing hard and his bronzed skin was gleaming with sweat.
He looked up, and Annabelle’s stomach bottomed out. His eyes looked so much darker than she could ever remember them being, and his lip was bleeding, but his face was painfully familiar. For a moment, their eyes locked, and his opponent sank a fist into his stomach.
Annabelle gasped in shock at the raw violence of the blow. Jacob doubled over, and she stumbled forward a few steps as though she could personally shield him from attack. But already he was moving, not giving himself time to recover, dodging the other man’s next blow.
“Come,” Lady Bolton said, reappearing. “We’re not here to distract him.”
“When you said he would be boxing, I didn’t know you meantboxing.” Annabelle tried to get the shock of his dark eyes and the way the other man had struck him. “I thought you meant he would be attending the boxing.”
“He’s boxed as long as I’ve known him,” Lady Bolton said. “There’s always been a bit of darkness in him, and this is his favourite way of expressing it. Here, there are some chairs.” The current occupants moved out of the way for them to sit, and Annabelle sank into the rickety wooden chair, her head spinning. In the ring before her, Jacob knocked the larger man to the ground. A small bell rang.
How long would this last? Her stomach churned, but she forced herself to keep watching as the larger man picked himself up. A referee to one side had his gaze glued to his pocket watch. Jacob turned to look at her, something furious in his expression. There was no sign of the suave, charming man she had encountered in Society.
“He’s angry,” Lady Bolton noted cheerfully from beside her. “No doubt he will channel that into his fighting. He’s very good, you know.”
“Do you think he’ll be hurt?”
Lady Bolton shrugged. “Not unduly. Fear not—he has been doing this for years, and he’s never come to serious harm. A few bruises are nothing. I have a feeling he craves the pain.”
“I can’t bear to see him fight.” As the two men took their places again, Annabelle squeezed her eyes half shut, peering at them through her eyelashes.
“Watch,” Lady Bolton said, her tone gentle even as she tapped Annabelle’s arm with her fan. “You should know all the sides to the man you’re going to marry.”
Annabelle linked her hands too tightly in her lap. “I thought you knew—Jacob and I are not intending to marry. Our engagement is a sham.”
“Piddle.” Lady Bolton’s gaze never left Jacob, but there was something assessing in it. The next round began, just as terrifyingly, aggressively violent as before. “I have only seen him fight like this once before, and that was when I first met him. Shortly after Madeline.”
