at the thought of her alone, without any funds or support. I combed through my books earlier, trying to find where to take the money to write a bank draft. There is nothing. I will have to wait weeks for a few of the investments to cash in. I have thought about selling a few of our paintings and even silverware. I cannot allow her to disappear without any money.”
Worsley considered him.
“I will not take your money, so don’t bother offering.” It was a desperate situation, but he could not presume upon his friend’s kindness in such a great manner. The sum was a small fortune after all.
“Have you ever thought about the fighting pits?”
James frowned. “Your underground fighting pits?”
“Yes.”
He glanced upward where some patrons climbed the staircase to the second floor and strolled with excitement in their steps toward the fighting club. There they placed even greater wagers on men who participated in the brutal sport of bare-knuckle brawling while disguised patrons watched, smoking cigars and drinking brandy.
“Surely you jest.”
“Many lords of society take part in my matches. Surely you are familiar with the Earl of Maschelly. He won most of his fortune in the fighting pits. And he is not the only one.”
It seemed farfetched, but it was entirely possible. James was only seven and twenty and had spent the last few years working to restore his inheritance to surpass its former glory. Worsley’s gambling den was still considered one of the golden halls and in the caliber of Brooks, White’s, and The Cocoa Tree. However, it had also garnered a reputation of wicked profligacy like many clubs in Soho Square because of the fighting den. Many lords might have participated here in the highly illegal bare-knuckle fighting for money. “I have heard of him. I recall a rumor from a couple years or so ago that he took a lady there to the rings.”
“Yes, she is now his countess.”
“She fought someone?”
“She kicked a libertine in the balls.”
James chuckled. While he had heard about the couple, he had not personally met them. James looked again to the staircase. “What kind of fortunes are made there?”
“The purse tonight is fifteen thousand pounds.”
James choked on the next sip of his brandy. “What?”
“You heard me. I can slip you in to fight instead of Viscount Markham.”
James’s heart was pounding fiercely. If he could win this money for Poppy. “I have no experience.”
“Every gentleman can box. You were a soldier, and I know you were not an idle one. What have you to lose? The money is also paid out immediately. I want you to know the laws which govern pugilism are not observed here. It is primal fighting, raw, and gritty. Win by whatever it takes.”
And it was with that, James found himself an hour later in the ring stripped to the waist, thin leather strips that had been soaked in water or perhaps vinegar wrapped around his fists. He had practiced boxing from when he was a lad, but as Worsley had cautioned. This would be pure, brutal, barbaric fighting. For money. Bloody hell. He was really doing this. Glancing around the dimmed room, James noted the tables were less raucous, and only a handful of ladies or perhaps members of the demi-monde sat amongst the lords and gentlemen there. Smoke curled around the room, and footmen darted adroitly between the tables delivering drinks to the patrons betting on the fight's outcome.
James was not familiar with the man entering the ring, and the hush from the audience became almost respectful. The man’s body was muscled, more so than James’s, and the look in the man's eyes was almost feral.
The match started, and they danced around each other for several minutes before the man threw a punch. James’s head snapped back, and before he could recover, several powerful blows landed against his torso and on his chin. He fell to the ground with a resounding thud. The pain was alive inside his body. He vaguely heard a man counting, giving him time to stand.
James struggled to his feet, inhaling deep and breathing through the pain. He was not an idle hand. He was skilled in boxing, fencing, and pistols. This was just another burden to bear on his shoulders for the sake of those he loved, for he had already decided this was how he would repay Mr. Winters his money. One fight at a time. Even if it left him bloody and broken.
James sank into a place deep inside, burying