A Masquerade in the Moonlight (15 page)

Sir Ralph turned to glance behind him, and then looked back to Thomas and inclined his head in the affirmative. “Say no more, Mr. Donovan. After all, you’re my guest here today. Excuse me, and I’ll see if the Earl of Laleham is agreeable. Although I must warn you, you have picked a most worthy adversary. The earl is known for his expertise, which is why he so seldom has a partner, save Jackson himself.”

Thomas nodded, then looked to Lord Mappleton, who alternately frowned and smiled, as if not sure how he should react now that Sir Ralph was not there to guide him.

“Mr. Donovan? William Renfrew, Earl of Laleham,” the silver-winged gentleman said a few moments later, extending his right hand as if extraordinarily pleased to meet Thomas. “Sir Ralph here tells me you’ve expressed an interest in sparring.”

Thomas refused to wince as the earl’s firm handclasp threatened to grind his bones into dust and only inclined his head politely. They were much of a height, he and the earl and, if anything, the earl’s shoulders were broader. “Your lordship,” he returned affably. “But I must warn you—I am not well versed in the rules.”

“I believe we’ll manage, sir,” Lord Laleham said, finally releasing Thomas’s hand, “and I promise to begin slowly, so that I do not overpower you. Do you have someone who will assist you, or shall I summon one of the servants?”

“A servant? Oh, no. I can’t say that I’m in the least comfortable issuing orders, your lordship. Perhaps my associate will agree to assist me.” Thomas looked about the room, quickly locating Dooley. “Paddy!” he called out cheerfully, so that Lord Mappleton clapped his hands over his ears. “Don’t just stand there with your fingers in your mouth. Come help me out of this coat.”

Thomas could see Dooley’s lips moving as he strode across the room to rejoin him, and he grinned, knowing he had just become the object of a few healthy Irish curses. Thomas went to meet him halfway, then turned his back to the Irishman and held out his arms, wordlessly signaling for Dooley to tug him free of the tight sleeves of his new frock coat.

“Well, would you look at you—cock of the walk, ordering me about. Keep this up, boyo, and I’ll soon give you a leveler myself,” Dooley whispered, taking hold of Thomas’s left sleeve and giving it a mighty tug. “That the one you’re going in the ring with?” he asked, jabbing his head in the direction of the earl. “Looks sound enough to give you a fair tussle. Why not Harewood? Why this fella?”

“Because that
fella
very much wants me to, Paddy. Because that’s why we were invited here today in the first place,” Thomas answered quietly, raising his chin so that Dooley could remove his neck cloth and unbutton his shirt. “He’s considered to be exceptionally good, and I am about to be punished for my upstart American ways.”

“He
wants
to? That’s no reason. You never do a thing
I
ask you to do, and you’re supposed to be my friend.” Dooley peeked around Thomas to look at the earl once more. “Taking a big bite, aren’t you? He’s got a good long reach, and strong pins under him. And don’t let those silver wings fool you, boyo. He looks like the spawn of Satan. You know what they say—the devil’s children have the devil’s luck.”

By the time Thomas had stripped to the waist and removed his shoes a small crowd had gathered around the outside of the ring, word of the earl’s upcoming bout having sped through the large room with remarkable speed. Thomas lifted his long arms high up and over his head, stretching his muscles as he rejoined Sir Ralph and the others, secretly pleased to see Lord Mappleton surveying his bared chest and well-muscled shoulders with what looked to be mingled awe and even some trepidation. And why shouldn’t he be impressed, Thomas decided. The Earl of Laleham wasn’t the only man in the world who stripped to advantage.

“Mr. Donovan?” the earl intoned expectantly, then bowed his head to enter the ring beneath the rope Sir Ralph had lifted to facilitate his entry. Once his lordship was through, Sir Ralph allowed the rope to snap back to its original position, leaving Thomas still outside it.

“Whenever you’re ready, your lordship,” Thomas said, bowing to the earl, who now stood in the center of the ring, his hands already drawn up into fists. “I may be an American, and not conversant with your rules, but I do consider myself a gentleman. Considering the disparity in our ages, I’ll do my best not to hurt you.”

“Oh, that’s good, boyo. Insult the man while you’re about it, why not,” Dooley commented as he stepped forward and lifted the rope, allowing Thomas to duck under it. “There’s an old saying I’ve done my best to remember since one otherwise forgettable night in Kilkenny. ‘A soft word never broke a tooth.’ Mayhap you should have learned it, for that fella looks like the sort who would take an eye out of his own head to take two of yours.”

Thomas arched one eyebrow as he looked at his friend and said quietly, “And mayhap I should be buying you a rocker once we’re home, so you can set with your mother-in-law beside the fire. You’re turning fearful, Paddy, like an old woman, if you think the day has come when any Englisher can best one of us in a fair fight.”

“Who said it was going to be fair?” Paddy fairly hissed. “I’ve been watching, boyo, and they don’t fight like anything I’ve seen above once before—dancing and prancing around like a hen on a hot skillet, their fists up at their eyes, bobbing and weaving their heads like pigeons strutting in the square. You can’t hit something that don’t stand still like a real man.”

Thomas looked to the ring thirty feet to his left to see that Paddy was right. The two men moving inside it were hopping about like fleas, their bared fists lifted high, flicking punches at each other, then hastily dancing away. He lifted a hand to stroke thumb and forefinger over his mustache, then smiled down at Dooley. “Look a little silly, now that I’m really watching, don’t they? Not to worry, Paddy. I’ve got a plan.”

”A plan, is it? Ain’t that wonderful. You have a head as well, boyo, but then so does a pin,” Dooley countered, stepping up on tiptoe to roughly massage Thomas’s shoulders for a few moments before giving him a mighty push toward the center of the ring. “Now go kill the bastard.”

With Dooley’s last words ringing in his ears, Thomas halted two feet in front of the earl and smiled. “According to my friend and assistant, Mr. Dooley, this is to be a civilized exercise, unlike anything I am accustomed to. I take it then there is to be no gouging of the eyes, tripping, or kicking a man while he’s down. What, then, are the rules?”

The earl likewise inclined his head and said, “We shall use Broughton’s rules, Mr. Donovan. Sir Ralph will umpire, stepping between us if necessary, and once a man is down the other participant is to stand aside until it is determined whether his opponent is able to rise. As we are gentlemen, and this is only friendly sparring, I suggest that we indulge in no more than three falls and not total annihilation of our opponent. Agreed? And I give you my word as a gentleman that I will not knowingly take advantage of your inexperience.”

“Sounds fine to me,” Dooley said from behind Thomas. “Falling is always easier than rising anyway. But don’t worry, your lordship. I’ll help you up every time Tommie here knocks you down.”

“Paddy, go away,” Thomas said, trying not to smile. “Your lordship? I appreciate your consideration, and thank you for it. Ready when you are.”

Sir Ralph stood back, then motioned with both arms for the earl and Thomas to commence boxing.

Thomas stood very still, his heart pounding with expectation, his fists waist high, his knees flexed as he watched to see what the earl would do.

The man didn’t disappoint him. The moment he was given the signal, William Renfrew leaned slightly backward, chin up and head erect, his elbows bent, his fists as high as his eyes, with his fingers toward his face and the backs of his hands presented to Thomas. He looked, Thomas decided, like some sort of unnaturally stiff statue.

But he didn’t, like a statue, remain motionless. Before Thomas could react, the earl stepped forward and shot out his right fist, landing a punishing punch squarely on Thomas’s jaw. Less than a blink later, his left hand connected with Thomas’s stomach. A moment after that, he was gone, having danced away to another area of the ring. If this was “friendly” sparring, Thomas knew he would hate to be on the other end of the earl’s fists when the man was really
trying
.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Thomas said quietly, lifting a hand to gently manipulate his lower jaw, just to make sure none of his teeth had been loosened. “So that’s how it’s done.” Lowering his head and raising his arms only slightly —his left in front of his cheek, his right only shoulder high and partially extended—he stepped forward, knees still flexed, his eyes narrowed as he closed in on his prey. “Hardly seems sporting to hit a man, and then turn tail and run,” he said, and watched as the earl smiled.

“Perhaps, Mr. Donovan,” the earl responded, barely breathing hard, for all his exertion. “But, you must admit, it is extremely effective. Perhaps I have overestimated your ability and could end by hurting you. Do you wish to cry off?”

“I don’t know,” Thomas answered affably, flatfootedly stalking Laleham as the man danced toward the corner. “Why don’t you stop being so gentlemanly and really hit me, so I can make up my mind. So far I’ve felt nothing more than the breeze as you skip by me.”

“As you wish, Mr. Donovan,” the earl countered civilly, and then the fight was on in earnest, neither bothering to pretend this was anything less than it was, a test of just who was the better man.

The two began to circle each other, the earl landing stinging hits on Thomas’s left forearm as he deftly blocked each blow, while Thomas tested the earl’s reflexes with a series of jabs with his right.

The earl, Thomas could see, still believed he was toying with him, setting him up for a mighty fall, both physically and in consequence. The man hated him, really hated him, and Thomas wished he wasn’t so completely at a loss as to why. But, for all the air of quiet menace be sensed from the earl, the man seemed impervious to the predictable mistakes in judgment born of temper, not reacting when Thomas got in an especially good hit or acting impulsively when Thomas grinned at him, deliberately trying to incite him to a rash move. The man was like a machine, cold, emotionless, impenetrable to outside influence. Like a printing press, he simply performed, over and over and over again, shooting out controlled jabs, feinting, advancing, retreating, advancing again.

But eventually, impressed as he was with the earl’s prowess, Thomas became bored. He might have seen but never have fought by “Brougham’s rules,” but he was an Irishman and an American, and he had mowed down his share of men in fights both fair and foul. He knew what to look for in an opponent’s style of fighting, and he had not been disappointed this time.

And now it was time to end it. He had observed a minor weakness in his adversary, a slight lowering of his left shoulder each time he was about to deliver a body blow. It would be so easy to anticipate that move and slide his own right hand overtop the earl’s left, to break through the man’s defenses. Especially if the man believed himself to be winning.

So thinking, Thomas allowed himself to be hit, and hit rather hard, the next three times the earl jabbed at him with his right. He even staggered slightly after the third flush hit, blinking his eyes furiously as if to attempt to clear the fuzziness from his brain.

As the crowd of men around the perimeter of the ring began to cheer on their countryman to what had to be a sure victory, and Dooley could be heard yelling “cross and jostle, Tommie. Don’t just stand there getting bashed—use some cross and jostle!” Thomas looked for his opening.

And there it was. After three more straight jabs, all deflected by Thomas’s left forearm, Lord Laleham’s left shoulder slipped down a notch.

Reaching from his heels, Thomas snapped his right arm out, the back of his clenched hand parallel with the high ceiling, and gloried in the thud of bone crushing against bone as his fist connected with the vulnerable spot just to the south of the earl’s left ear. He followed up on his right with a lung-emptying left to the earl’s midsection.

William Renfrew’s legs buckled and he landed facedown, the thump of his body hitting the floor echoing like thunder in the suddenly silent room.

Dooley, who had snatched up a towel from somewhere, rushed into the ring, draping the towel across Thomas’s shoulders, slapping him on the back as he looked to Sir Ralph. “Did you see that? Did you see that? Planted him a solid facer square on his bone box, that’s what he did, then knocked all the stuffing out of his breadbasket! Shoulda wagered a guinea or two on you with some of these fellas, Tommie, only I couldn’t be sure. That’ll teach me to doubt you. Fine piece of work, Tommie. Truly fine. Unless the earl’s dead, of course. That wouldn’t be friendly.”

Thomas took a deep breath and looked around the room to see Lord Mappleton was biting on his knuckle as if in fear and that many of the gentlemen who had been watching were melting away from the ring, going quietly, as if they didn’t want anyone to remember they had been witness to the earl’s defeat. Sir Ralph, he saw, was on his knees beside William Renfrew, whom he had turned over onto his back and was now fanning him with a towel.

“A bucket of cold water would do it faster, Harewood, if you’d dare such a thing,” Thomas told Sir Ralph quietly, seeing that the earl’s limbs were beginning to move, so that he knew he hadn’t done the man any permanent harm. As a matter of fact, he was beginning to realize he may have done
himself
some dangerous disservice—and not just to his right hand, which was beginning to pain him like the very devil. “Well, I must be going, as I have just this moment remembered a pressing engagement with a jeweler further up Bond Street. It’s always a good thing, don’t you know, to thrill a lady with a bauble or two when you’re courting her. Please thank Lord Laleham for me when he wakes, and tell him I’d be pleased to buy him a drink next time I see him. I believe his instructions were very educational. I may even attempt this again one day soon. Yes, yes, very educational. Thank you all for inviting me. Well, ta-ta. Paddy—my clothes, if you please.”