that . . . and had witnessed that firsthand—remembrances that would haunt him until he drew his last breath.
“I don’t know about any damned investigator,” Maynard said, but Hugh caught the determination in the other man’s tone, the one indicating he’d very much made up his mind about Dooley’s fate. “Perhaps a bit more time with me and Bragger might jog some of those forgotten details.”
A vicious grin brought Bragger’s lips up. “Allow me the honor.”
Hugh tensed his mouth. “I’ll see to the arena.”
With that, he started for the door, Dooley’s cries trailing after him. “Please, Savage. Tell them to spare me.”
Please, sir, spare me . . .
“No. No. Noooooo.” Dooley’s screams pierced through the slap of flesh against flesh. “Please. Pleaaaaaaase dooooooon’t.”
An ungodly screech trailed close behind as Hugh pulled the door shut behind him, leaving Dooley to his fate.
Chapter 3
THE LONDON INQUISITOR
Savage’s Fight Society remains a marvel and a mystery. The battles fought within those walls too uncouth, too uncivilized to ever write of. And yet, all society wishes to enter and learn for themselves . . . But only the smallest few are granted entry . . . to meet the legendary fighter, the Savage Gentleman . . .
M. Fairpoint
There were nineteen and a half steps.
It was a peculiar number, not even. Not complete. Just nineteen and a half stairs that led to the back of Savage’s on one side, and the business across the way—a bakery, now closed.
But then, everything about the building and its location was peculiar. The front, level with the street, gave the appearance that Savage’s Arena was only one floor. And yet, the moment one wandered close to the back of the building, the steps leading down below to an alley—and the two lower levels of Savage’s—were visible.
Lingering in the shadows of the rookeries in the dead of night, they were odd details to note, and yet they were also easier for Lila to focus on than the fact that she stood fifteen paces away from the arena owned and operated by London’s most ruthless fighter—Hugh Savage.
Shivering from the cold night, she burrowed deeper into her cloak. Since her hired hack had brought her here earlier that night, she’d been unable to bring herself ’round to facing Savage just yet, and she continued her study of the building.
Savage’s was hardly the manner of place to command notice. Neither, however, was the end-unit establishment run-down. Ivy clung to parts of the uneven brick facade. Hanging out front over a narrow entryway door was a crude wood sign with one word painted upon it: SAVAGE’S. The block-shaped letters had been done in a stark red, with crimson paint having dripped down. The apostrophe and lowercase s were smaller in size and added as if an afterthought. As if the proprietor sought no approval or validation as a reputable business.
Somewhere in the distance, a lone dog yapped. Those barks cut out and then gave way to a vicious growl, met by another, deeper one, as somewhere in the night, two animals waged a battle of their own.
I can do this . . .
This was not the first time she’d gone out in search of what she wanted. Why, almost two years ago, when she’d made a forcible effort to reenter the living, she’d sought out music lessons from the notorious madam and former performer Clara Winters. And not only had she proven she still had strength enough to venture into the world—even if it had been at night—she’d also rediscovered her love of music.
And in being here? What she stood to gain by visiting Hugh Savage represented something even greater—the ability to look after those she loved.
Each reminder sent strength back into her spine.
Yes, she could do this.
Why, Lila had survived the masses attempting to tear her apart. She wore the marks upon her body still from a crowd trampling over her as if she were as insignificant as a bug crawling upon the earth.
That reminder was at last what compelled her to move. Bypassing the front windows she’d peeked within earlier, she started for the steep stairway that led around the back of the three-tiered building. Lila gathered her brown skirts, held them slightly aloft, and began her descent.
One.
Two.
Three—four.
She fixed on counting each uneven step as a way of rechanneling her focus.
And with every rise and fall of her worn leather boots, the tension in Lila’s chest eased, and a lightness took its place. There was a buoyancy that lent a frenzied cadence to