The Bareknuckle Groom - Holly Bush Page 0,70

reply as soon as he can.”

“Right away, miss.”

James lay on the floor of the dressing room in the warehouse where the fight would take place. Chambliss had changed the venue, smelling the chance to sell twice as many tickets as he usually did. It was a large empty space where a ring had been built and seating had just been completed, if his ears did not deceive him that the workmen were packing their tools. He closed his eyes, letting the sounds around him drift away, allowing his shoulders and legs to relax against the cool stones. He concentrated on clearing his mind, focusing on the visions behind his eyes. Of Lucinda as she looked up at him as he made love to her. He breathed deeply and slowly, calming his mind, freeing his thoughts from everything but his performance in the ring and who it was ultimately for. He loved her and he’d told her. If he died, if he was not right in the head after the fight, at least she would know.

But he also let his mind picture the grueling exercises, the pain, how he’d pushed his body past his own endurance. He was ready. Jackson was a formidable opponent, but he was prepared to stay on his feet and go the distance. It was all for her in any case.

MacAvoy opened the door. “It’s time, James.”

She paced from one end of her parlor to the other, occasionally stopping to sit down and try and convince herself to glance at a fashion sheet or read a few pages of a book. But she could not do it. Laurent had confirmed that his cousin Michael would pick her up tonight in time to see the entire bout. She did not want to arrive late or have to fight her way through crowds, although she might have to.

Brandleford opened the door to the drawing room just then. “Mr. Vermeal has arrived.”

“Oh,” she said, wondering how she would get her father out the door before Michael showed up.

“Come along, Lucinda,” Henri Vermeal said from the doorway. “Laurent’s cousin is outside with that rickety contraption he calls a carriage.”

“Papa?”

“Yes, Daughter. I will not allow you to go alone. I am coming with you. Where is your cape?”

“Chambliss has a full house tonight,” MacAvoy said to Alexander. They were waiting for the rest of the crowd to file in, as Chambliss had agreed to close the doors once all the ticket holders were inside. It would have been too dangerous if standing spectators were allowed in. Chambliss would be shouting through a speaking trumpet when announcing the fighters and still might not be heard at the back of the crowd.

“My father put five hundred dollars on James tonight,” Alexander said.

MacAvoy looked at him. “That’s a hefty sum.”

“You don’t think he’s going to win?”

“I absolutely think he’s going to win. It will be even at first, but Jackson is going to wear down before James. I guarantee it.”

“Can’t guarantee an outcome. One lucky punch . . .” Alexander began.

“He’s going to win.”

Alexander smiled up at MacAvoy. “You’re absolutely right. He’s going to win.”

Chambliss went to the center of the ring to make his announcements, and the crowd quieted, as he encouraged late comers to place additional bets. MacAvoy and Alexander crouched down at their corner. Seating had been built farther away from the ring than was Chambliss’s usual, leaving a ten-foot-wide space between the ropes and the first row of spectators.

“The rematch of the century begins tonight,” Chambliss shouted through the horn as he turned in a circle, and the crowd surged to their feet.

“First, our challenger, Johnny Jackson!”

The crowd cheered wildly as Jackson came toward his corner through the gap between the elevated stands. He tied his colors at his corner, and Chambliss waited until the room quieted.

“And now, the man you’ve all been waiting for, our Philadelphia champion, none other than James Thompson!”

MacAvoy and Alexander jumped to their feet, cheering and whistling. James was staring straight ahead at the face of his opponent, without even seeming to hear the deafening roar of the crowd. He rolled his neck once and bent to step between the ropes. He held a piece of fabric, kissed it once, and tied it to the corner stake.

“That doesn’t look like the Thompson plaid,” Alexander shouted to MacAvoy.

“No, it doesn’t. It looks like something from some woman’s fancy nightie.”

“Lingerie?” Alexander asked and then scanned the crowd behind him. “There, MacAvoy. She’s here, and she’s looking like she