The crowd’s swell of screams didn’t drown out the unspoken innuendo in his offer.
The Devil was handsome in a dangerous way. Aside from the constant aura of a man itching for a fight around his person, his smile was straight, his nose and hair likewise. A few weeks ago, she may have been tempted by such an offer for adventure. But that was before she’d met the Devil’s fairer and gentler reflection.
“Thank you.” She donned her cap and tucked her curls beneath its brim. Having learned what she needed, lingering here would be unwise. “But we’d both find I am not suitable for your usual clientele.”
Hearing her polite refusal, he shook his head. “A pity. You’re wrong, of course. All kinds find sport here.” He jerked his chin in the direction of the Ring. “Even the most refined have the blood of the Devil in them.”
Camille followed his gaze, taking note of a new pair of fighters in the Ring. The one with his back to them laid into his opponent with brutal fists.
The crowd’s shouts of approval seemed to drive the fighter wild. His fist connected with his opponent’s cheek, once, twice, until blood rained on the unfortunate individuals who viewed closest to the mat.
It was a savage display, one that Camille struggled to turn away from, especially when a nagging feeling kept her focus on the man attacking.
Blood dripping down his face, the man turned and Camille recognized familiar light eyes bright with fervor and a parish pick-axe identical to the nose on the face of her nightmares.
She gasped and lurched towards the stage at where Hamish, the Duke of Camine—her half-brother—continued to strike his opponent over and over, even though the other man had lost consciousness.
Gut wrenching, she watched in horror and elation at seeing his twisted face. That anger, that blind rage was like nothing she’d seen. No, she’d seen its match once, on that horrible night.
Two men strained to pull Hamish back from the man on the floor until a third came and hauled him from the Ring.
Was that truly Hamish?
“Magnificent,” Lucien said behind her, having stood and descended the steps without a sound.
She jumped at his towering form, blotting out the entire staircase behind and her view of the one-way mirror overhead; a carriage was an apt description. “You think a man beating another near to death is something to praise?” Men really were idiots.
He noted her disdain with a grin. “Violence has always plagued a man’s spirit. Here at least, men can settle their differences in an honorable bout of strength and not with pride-filled boasts or unreliable guns. Though…” He glanced at where Hamish had been dragged out of the Ring and into the fighter’s quarters out of view. “That one there has hate in his veins.”
“Hate?” Was that what she’d seen on his face? Her heart pounded raggedly against her chest. There’d been blood all over him. She hadn’t a mind to verify if it all belonged to his opponent.
“Like a rabid dog.” Lucien sighed, as if disappointed. “Won’t be able to bring him back for a while. Crowds love the spectacle of a bloody gentleman, but death matches are murder on long-standing schedules.”
Camille didn’t acknowledge his joke. There was nothing funny about the rage or violence she’d seen. Madam’s exacting punishments were cold, passionless. Judging by the constant rumors around the Underground, Lucien himself was an indifferent fighter, never engaging in fights over petty arguments and never needing more than a single blow to winone. Even Markus, the most hotheaded of the three leaders, left his personal vendettas to Syd or one of the other Merry Men, to keep punishments clean and fair.
What would drive a man to such merciless lengths? Would Hamish have stopped of his own volition before he’d killed the other man?
“You should go before the crowd gets restless for another bout.” Lucien rolled his shoulders as if he were in fact the restless one. He nodded towards a break in the crowd and offered a brief word of concern, and there was a Scottish tilt to his words she hadn’t noticed before.
“Careful on your way home, foal. Madness be spreading the streets.”
“Madness.”The word haunted her as she retraced her steps up into the pub and out into the night. The heaviness in the air now had a name and a purpose.
“Madness.”
Perhaps the man at Hamish’s mercy had given a personal affront. No one could harbor such ugliness for someone they barely knew. But an insult wasn’t an excuse for such behavior.
Had that really been the man who’d come to the Pony months ago to offer her a life of comfort? The same man who relentlessly shoved grocers and physicians her way to assuage a misplaced sense of guilt and responsibility? Why would he come to the Underground, a vile place of brutal and beast-like sport?
Before, she’d never questioned the extent a man’s rage could take. Men of all stations fell from grace with secret vices of drink and violence. But she knew not all men were bad. One gentleman proved there was goodness despite her best efforts to assign flaws to his actions.
Camille drew her coat around her and prayed for a familial relation she’d never wanted, a peculiar protective nature taking hold.
“Madness.”
It must have been catching, for Camille doubted that which her own eyes had seen and that which her brain would never forget.
No matter how many times she saw her brother’s face, twisted in a sneer of ugly emotion so much like their father’s, it was not Hamish.
