It would be the easiest thing in the world.
So, she stayed where she was, one hand clutching the carriage wheel, her eyes wide as she took in a scene that would have made her Aunt Jarvis’s blood run cold.
* * * *
“It’s astounding, isn’t it, how much the human nose can bleed?”
Before his opponent could recover, Tom Belcher, hero of the Fancy, landed another blow to the man’s face with a second quick jab of his fist.
Crack!
Ciaran winced. Ah, there was the distinctive snap. No mistaking it. His own nose had been abused enough times he knew it when he heard it. “Broken nose.”
“What, is that all?” Sebastian Wroth, Lord Vale, pulled his hat from his head and drew his coat sleeve across his glistening brow. “With that much blood, you’d think the man’s head had been ripped from his neck.”
“I hope you don’t have a weak stomach, Vale. It’s about to get bloodier.” Ciaran jerked his chin toward the ring, where Belcher had just landed a third punishing blow to his challenger’s face—a big, strapping Scot named McEwan. “Belcher’s got him, but I’ll say this much for the Scot. The man knows how to take a blow.”
Vale nodded approvingly. “Seventeen rounds, and he’s still standing. Not every man who gets into the ring with Belcher can say the same. Shame we didn’t wager, Ramsey.”
Ciaran glanced around them. The bout would be over in another round or two, but the crowd at the Brighton Racetrack continued to swell. “Good Lord. Would you look at this pack of scoundrels, Vale? Every villain and blackguard within thirty miles of Brighton is here.”
“Here, foxed, and spoiling for a brawl.” Vale nodded at a group of seedy-looking fellows cursing and shoving at each other. “It’ll get ugly before it ends. The smell of blood always sets them off, and the Scot is oozing from every orifice.”
Ciaran didn’t have a chance to reply before the big, bloody Scot in the ring managed at last to land a fierce blow. Tom Belcher’s head snapped sideways. He swayed, then dropped to his knees in the dirt. The crowd howled with rage to see their favorite brought so low by a damned Scot, and it might have gotten ugly right then, but Belcher was able to rise for the next round, and the dark rumbling of the crowd turned again to enthusiastic cheers.
“Ah. That’s lucky. Brawl averted, at least for now.” Vale shoved his hat back onto his head, then dug into his coat and retrieved his pocket watch.
“It’s nearly three. Isn’t Lady Felicia expecting you back at the Abbey this evening?” Ciaran asked, referring to Vale’s country seat in Lewes. Vale lived there with his three younger sisters when he wasn’t running amok in London.
“She is, and I will be. Why don’t you come to London for the season, Ramsey? It could be good fun, and God knows you’ve nothing better to do. It might get you back in Felicia’s good graces.”
Ciaran snorted. “Nice of you to invite me to share your misery, Vale, but I’ll have to decline. I’m not in the market for a wife.”
Ciaran had coaxed Vale to join him in Brighton with promises of shameless dissipation and wicked debauchery. Lady Felicia, the eldest of Vale’s sisters, hadn’t been pleased to see her brother go. She’d extracted a promise from him to return within a week to begin preparations for her second London season. Vale had promised, and for all his frivolousness, no one could accuse him of being an undutiful brother.
No one could accuse Ciaran of it, either. Lachlan had used phrases like “refreshing change of scenery,” and “invigorating sea air” when he’d wheedled Ciaran into taking this trip, but Ciaran hadn’t been fooled.
There was nothing invigorating about spending a month in Brighton with Lady Chase, Lachlan’s sharp-tongued grandmother-in-law, and Lady Chase’s bosom friend, Lady Atherton. Even so, Ciaran hadn’t put up much of a fight. Not because he relished the idea of a month in Brighton with two cantankerous old ladies, but because Vale was right.
He didn’t have anything better to do.
“Belcher has him.” Vale nodded at the ring just as Belcher forced his fist into the Scot’s ribs. The crowd shouted with glee as the giant staggered backward and lost his footing. “It won’t last more than another round or two.”
“Just as well. Damn shame to ruin such a lovely afternoon with a riot.” Ciaran crossed his arms over his chest and ran a practiced eye over the crowd. Vale had the right of it. They were a rough lot. They surged closer to the ring with every blow, shoving and pummeling at each other to get a closer look. Nothing but a bloodthirsty mass of writhing rogues as far as the eye could see, except for—
Ciaran snapped to attention, his spine going rigid as he rose to his full height. A flash of something bright had caught his eye, and for a moment he’d thought it was…
Another flash of color, a familiar bright green satin, lining the hood of a lady’s dark gray cloak.
Ciaran blinked, stunned. Good Lord, itwas.
She’d pulled her hood low over her face. He couldn’t see much of her aside from a heart-shaped chin and a few stray tendrils of hair, but there was no mistaking it.
No mistakingher.
That stubborn mouth, and those coppery red curls…he’d only ever seen one lady with hair that color. It was the troublesome chit from the beach. The lass with a kick so vicious it could put a mule to shame.
Of course, it was her. Who else could it possibly be?
