“Before you arrived, Glory was telling us about ’er fellow.” Vera pinned a curly brown wig over Glory’s netted hair. “Giving excuses for why she hasn’t asked if ’e likes ’er.”
“I wasn’t making excuses,” Glory protested. “Mr. Chen might end our friendship if I tell him I want something more.”
“Or he might give you something more.” Fiona’s smile turned sly. “From Livy’s description of him when you caught him training, he has rather a lot to give.”
Glory shot Livy a look.
“What? While I have eyes only for Hadleigh, I am not blind.” Livy ruined her attempt at virtuousness by giggling. “I didn’t know a man could have that many muscles.”
“Mr. Chen’s muscles are beside the point,” Glory said primly.
“Silly girl, that is the point,” Fi said. “Physical attraction is part and parcel of falling in love. There is naught to be embarrassed about.”
“All right, I do find Mr. Chen excessively attractive,” Glory said with a sigh. “But how do I get him to see me that way?”
“That’s easy, dear.” Reaching over, Livy patted her arm. “Just be yourself.”
At the tannery, Glory observed the crowd milling around the cage. She recognized some of the gentlemen…which was no surprise. Upper-class men were known to seek thrills in rookeries and slums, trying to cure their ennui with doses of sordidness and danger. Scott was providing his audience with exactly what they wanted.
Scantily clad light-skirts were serving “punch” that was stronger than anything Glory had ever tasted. The mere fumes from her cup made her woozy. Most of the guests looked soused, and some tittered at the sight of Scott’s armed cutthroats planted throughout the room. The guards were likely more for theatrics than to prevent any real danger—the louche blue-blooded audience hardly posed a threat—but they did make the Angels’ plan a bit trickier to carry out.
Where there’s a will, there’s a way, Glory thought with determination.
She passed a pair of gentlemen toasting each other.
“Been looking forward to this fight all week, sirrah,” one said in a slurred voice. “Nothing like a fight without rules to stir the blood, eh?”
“Watching beasts battle in a cage for their survival is delightfully primitive,” his companion drawled, grabbing the derriere of a passing whore. “Well worth the cost of admission, I daresay.”
The despicable blackguards. Anger smoldered beneath Glory’s breastbone. Imagine finding such a cruel sport entertaining. Well, no dogs will suffer tonight…not if I can help it.
In the pockets of her frock coat were a pair of silver flasks. The flasks were in fact devices that emitted a dense and powerful grey smoke when lit. Livy and Fi carried the smoking devices as well. The plan was simple. When the dogs were released into the cage, the Angels would set off the devices. As the crowd panicked and ran for the doors, they would rescue Sir Barkley and as many of the other dogs as possible. Mr. Devlin had a wagon waiting nearby, ready to make a quick escape.
Livy and Fi’s husbands were here to assist. As was Wei.
Glory discreetly scanned the audience. Three rows of benches had been arranged on each side of the cage, and Wei had secured a seat in one of the front rows. Sporting fake sideburns and a mustache, he was dressed like a prosperous merchant, his striped waistcoat complete with shiny fobs. Through the metal bars, his gaze met hers, and his poise bolstered her confidence.
The ringing of a bell signaled that the fight was about to begin. As planned, each Angel positioned herself on a different side of the cage, and Glory chose a seat in the section adjacent to Wei’s. With simmering anticipation, she watched Bryant climb onto the small platform next to the cage. Tonight, Scott’s lieutenant cut a flashy figure in a scarlet jacket with brass buttons.
“Welcome, gents,” he announced. “Are ye ready to see some fighting?”
The throng stomped their feet and whistled their approval.
“We ain’t talking about polite sparring,” Bryant went on. “What you’ll be witnessing ’ere tonight will be bare-knuckled and no-holds-barred, a true test of the will to survive!”
The cheering became deafening even as Glory furrowed her brow.
Bare-knuckled? That’s an odd way of describing dogfighting.
“The fight will be to the finish. Only one man will be leaving the cage tonight on ’is own two feet.”
Man? What man? What is going on—
“Without further ado, ’elp me to welcome the prevailing champion…the one, the only, the Wolf!”
The audience surged to their feet, and Glory followed suit. Sure enough, it was Wulfric Scott who came charging into the cage. His silver-brown mane loose and flowing, the leader of the Fancy strutted around the perimeter of the bars, flexing his arms to thunderous cheers. He wore a loose white shirt that was unbuttoned to show the heavy muscles of his chest.
“And his opponent for the eve: the Bulgarian Bear…Ivan Petrov!”
