“Don’t lose heart. This is a long campaign. We’ll have to throw you in his path again soon.”
“Did you do any sleuthing about his schedule?” Francesca asked.
“His friend the Duke of Warburton was there, and before he left he mentioned seeing Lord Dane at a prizefight tomorrow.”
“Excellent sleuthing. A public outing will be the perfect opportunity to needle Lord Dane.”
“I’ve only read about prizefights. Do young ladies attend such bloodthirsty events?”
Marta winked at her. “Pink Ladies do.”
Chapter Twelve
Gambling, prizefighting, horse racing, and other rough pursuits are unseemly for young ladies.
—Mrs. Oliver’s Rules for Young Ladies
“I adore a good prizefight!” enthused Miss Hodwell. “The brutal pageantry of it. The pugilists circling like wild beasts. So invigorating for the blood. I have my money on young Dodgson—the odds are three to one in his favor.”
“Dear Dodie, you mustn’t excite yourself. You’ll spoil your dinner.”
“But Eve, don’t you find it exciting?”
“I don’t see the appeal. Two enormous brutes stripped to the waist and exhibiting themselves for thousands of spectators.”
“Young Dodgson is no brute! He’s highly educated, most eloquent, and skilled in the science of pugilism, and he’s going to beat Tuckwell so completely that the match will be over in under thirty minutes, and he’ll win the hundred guineas!”
“Is she always this bloodthirsty?” Sandrine asked Francesca in a whisper.
“Miss Hodwell has a voracious appetite for sport and other socially sanctioned acts of violence.”
“It’s an indecent spectacle,” said Mrs. McGovern, sounding like Sandrine’s mother.
“No more indecent than a ball. The boxers wear flannel trousers, while young ladies expose nearly as much in ballrooms and are grasped about the neck and waist by a succession of gentlemen.”
“Dodie, don’t be silly.”
“It’s true!”
The prizefight was held on Crowley Heath near Copthorne. It was a beautiful day, and thousands of spectators, mostly men, were gathered around a large square of ground with stakes at each corner and ropes between.
The Pink Ladies had dressed Sandrine’s hair, chosen a rose-patterned gown for her to wear, and lent her a fetching straw bonnet trimmed with pink roses. Their efforts were not in vain. Gentlemen looked her up and down approvingly, and the few ladies present did the same.
“Everyone’s staring at you, Sandrine,” crowed Francesca. “They all want to know who our beautiful new friend is.”
Sandrine didn’t care about everyone. The only person she cared to make an impression upon was standing nearby, surrounded by his disreputable friends. His presence was a prickle along her spine, an awareness that permeated her entire body.
What would have happened yesterday on that desk if she hadn’t slipped away from his embrace? He was studiously ignoring her, that much was evident. He hadn’t even so much as glanced herway, and he stood with his back toward her, talking and laughing loudly with his friends.
But wasn’t purposely ignoring someone much the same as staring at them?
“Have you attended a boxing match before, Miss Oliver?” asked Miss Hodwell.
“Never. My mother wouldn’t allow such a thing.”
“Do you see those men standing by Dodgson and Tuckwell?” Miss Hodwell said. “Those are the knee man and the bottle man. The one will kneel with one knee up for the boxer to sit on between rounds, while the other will keep him provided with water to drink and maybe even peel him an orange for a rush of energy. I should like best to be a bottle man. Then, I’d be right in the action. I’d taste the blood and feel the sweat upon me.”
“Dodie,” Mrs. McGovern remonstrated, “sometimes I do wonder about your sanity.”
