Forever a Lord (2 page)

CHAPTER ONE

To those, Sir…who would not mind Pugilism,
if Boxing was
not so shockingly
vulgar
—the
following work can
have no interest whatever.

—P. Egan,
Boxiana
(1823)

New York City—Gardner’s wharf
13th of June
1830, afternoon

O
VER
THE
COURSE
of a rough life filled to the brim with gambling, drinking,
swearing and boxing, Edward Coleman had taken residence in eleven different
parts of the city in an effort to avoid three things: the creditors, his wife
and his mother-in-law, who were all determined to bleed him dry.

Not having heard from any of them in too many years to count
made him wonder if perhaps he’d mastered the art of the moonlight flit a bit
more than he’d wanted. But then again, fate had never liked him all that much.
He didn’t even know
why
he was astounded at
glimpsing his mother-in-law pushing through the dust-ridden male masses just
beyond the milling fence at the match.

The woman had aged considerably since he’d last seen her, but
that bundled coif and pert little nose remained the same. A gaggle of young men
in grey wool caps, coats and trousers, whom he knew to be Jane’s brothers—and
my, how they’d grown—strategically wove through the packed boxing crowd behind
her.

Mrs. Walsh had only ever sought him out when she needed one of
two things: money or money. The United States government could make use of a
woman like that.

Coleman swung back toward the fence. “We should go.”

His friend, Matthew Joseph Milton, leaned toward him. “Go?”
Those dark brows rose a fraction, causing the worn, leather patch over his left
eye to shift. “What about your fight? You’re up next.”

“I know.” Coleman knotted his shoulder-length hair back with
the twine he’d yanked off his wrist. “But something came up. As such, I can’t
stay.”

“Something came up? Whilst we were standing here?”

“Yes and yes.”

Matthew lowered his stubbled chin. “I may have one eye, but
that doesn’t make me stupid. What is it? Are you in some sort of trouble?”

“No, I—” Blood sprayed from the ring past the fence, covering
the front of the only great coat he owned. Coleman hissed out an agitated breath
and scanned what remained of the fight. “Amateurs. They can’t even keep the
blood within the boundaries of the fence anymore.”

Matthew snorted. “You never do.” Still watching the fight,
Matthew froze. “That bastard is going down with my dime!” Matthew hooked a rigid
right fist.
“Feck!”

“I told you not to bet on him.”

The well-muscled youth, whose lacerated features had been
disfigured by the unrelenting blows of eighteen rounds, attempted to stagger up
off his knees, bloodstained trousers barely clinging to narrow hips. Another
bare-knuckled fist bounced off his sweat-soaked head as more blood splattered
from that nose and mouth toward the crowd. The youth collapsed onto the wood
boards laid out on the flattened sun-burned grass.

Several men groaned in disappointment, hitting the fence as the
youth was dragged off to the side.

Coleman glanced back again, gauging how much time he had. Mrs.
Walsh was still pushing through the crowd and didn’t appear to have noticed him.
Yet.

He propped up the collar on his great coat to better hide his
face and tossed out at Matthew, “I’ll see you tomorrow. If Stanley comes looking
for me, tell him I broke my hand.”

“Broke your—” Matthew caught his arm. “Coleman. We
need
money. Or we’re back to robbing shipments at the
docks for the next two weeks. Hell, I know our troop is called the Forty
Thieves, but do we really have to live up to our name?”

Coleman unhooked his arm from that hold. “If I stay, we’ll lose
whatever I take from my fight.”

“What do you mean? To who?”

A rolled newspaper bounced off the back of Coleman’s head.
“Thought you’d up and disappear on me, did you?”
a woman belted out from behind.

Coleman didn’t even bother shielding his head. He deserved it
for having ever married Jane. “To her,” he told Matthew.

Matthew swung toward the aggressor and shoved the rolled
newspaper back and away. “Where is your sense of refinement, woman? A paper is
meant to be read. Not mangled on the heads of others. Now put it away.”

Coleman grudgingly turned and eyed all nine Walsh boys gathered
at varying heights behind their elderly mother. Their wool caps were adjusted in
every possible direction but the one they were designed for.

Coleman hesitated. Each wore a black band on the arm of their
wool coats. His gaze jumped to his mother-in-law, whose plain gown had been
stitched of bombazine.

Someone had died. And he knew full well Mrs. Walsh had no
living husband or relatives.

His pulse drummed. “Mrs. Walsh. Jane didn’t…?”

Tears glazed those dark eyes. “Aye. She did.” Drawing thin lips
together, she set her aging chin. “Poured too much laudanum into her whiskey
barely a week ago. Never woke up. I wasn’t there when it happened, but that’s
what the coroner is sayin’. She was with a—” She wouldn’t meet his gaze. “She
was with a friend when it happened.”

Meaning a man. The very last of several hundred, no doubt. Not
that Coleman had been any more loyal. God bless poor Jane. She had her men and
he had his women and that was why it had fallen apart. Neither of them were
capable of monogamy.

Coleman shifted his jaw and looked away, knowing he should have
felt something in that moment. Anything. Remorse. Sadness. Bitterness. But the
truth was, he knew it was going to end like this. He had done everything to keep
Jane from mixing laudanum into her whiskey. But there were some things a man
couldn’t box.

Mrs. Walsh hesitated and added, “Someone told me you’d be
millin’ today. I don’t want to be a burden, but we need seven dollars to bury
her. I won’t have her dropped into a dirt hole.”

He swiped his face. He didn’t have seven dollars.

Matthew leaned in. “Coleman. What is this? Who is she talking
about?”

Coleman’s chest tightened. Christ. He had spent years crawling
away from a past he didn’t want to remember, and now, everyone was about to know
his business. Of course, if there was anyone he knew he could trust to know his
business, it was Matthew. Though only Matthew. “My wife,” he eventually
muttered. “She died.”

Matthew grabbed his coat. “What?
You’re
married?
”

“Yes. I am. Or rather…I was.” Eyeing his mother-in-law, who had
grown quiet, he sighed. “Mrs. Walsh. I can only offer five if I go in and fight.
The prize is for ten and I have others depending on me. Will that be
enough?”

She half nodded. “We can do without the wreath and flowers. And
I can dress her in one of her old gowns.” She brought her hands together,
fingering the newspaper she held. “There be another matter pertainin’ to
Jane.”

Coleman folded his arms over his chest to keep himself from
fidgeting. He had never learned how to say no to a woman. Not even when it came
to his damn mother-in-law. It was a curse. “What is it?”

That bundled grey-brown hair, which was sliding out from its
pins, bobbed as she unraveled the rolled newspaper. She took apart page after
page, tossing it to the ground. “Apparently she contacted these men before she
died. I can’t read it.” She fumbled to fold and refold a page and pointed at
what appeared to be an advertisement. “Heaven only knows why, but they came to
my door askin’ what she knew. I wasn’t able to answer. Maybe you can?”

“I doubt it. Jane and I haven’t spoken in years.” Coleman took
the newspaper and read it.

INFORMATION WANTED

A British boy by the name of Nathaniel James Atwood who
disappeared in the year 1800 under suspicious circumstance is being sought out
by his family. Information pertaining to his disappearance, his whereabouts or
his remains shall be well rewarded. Please send all inquiries to His Grace, the
Duke of Wentworth, or his son, Lord Yardley, who will both be residing at the
Adelphi Hotel on Broadway until further notice.

A pulsing knot seized his throat. He knew he should have never
told Jane spit.

Coleman crumpled the paper and tossed it at the ground. “I
don’t know. Maybe she wanted to dirk them for money. Did you ask her?”

“She was already dead.” A strangled sob escaped Mrs. Walsh. She
covered her mouth with a trembling hand, those features twisting.

He winced. He shouldn’t have said anything.

Every single Walsh boy now stared him down, their youthful
faces hardening to an age closer to his own. One of them flicked out a razor and
rounded his mother.

Matthew yanked both pistols from his leather belt and pointed
each muzzle. “Don’t make me go
click,
razor
boy.”

Mrs. Walsh popped out both arms, to shield her boys, who all
scrambled back.

Coleman dragged in a breath. “Put the pistols away, Milton.
He’s just a boy.”

Matthew grunted and shoved them back into his leather belt. “A
boy who ought to learn some manners.”

The crowd around them dinned.

Coleman heard his name being called.

Knowing his designated fight was set to begin, Coleman flexed
his hands and glanced toward the milling fence. A burly dark-haired man stepped
into the fenced arena and stripped. Throwing large bare hands into the air,
Vincent the Iron Fist, as he was known throughout the ward, yelled at the crowd
to cheer as the umpire repainted the fighting line with broken chalk.

It was time to spray blood and earn ten dollars.

Leaning in toward his mother-in-law, he squeezed her arm. “Stay
here.” Stripping his coat and yanking his linen shirt up over his head, Coleman
bundled them and tossed everything toward the only man he’d ever entrust his
clothes to: Matthew. “For God’s sake, don’t let her watch,” he said, gesturing
to Mrs. Walsh.

Matthew caught his clothes and slung them over his own
shoulder. “I’ll turn her the other way.”

“You do that.” Ducking beneath the crudely nailed planks that
divided the crowd from the fight, Coleman entered the grass-flattened area.

Hordes of men gathered closer to the fence, making the planks
sway.

“Fist the piss out of him, Vincent!” someone hollered. “He’s a
Brit!”

“Brit or no Brit,” another joined in, “I’ve got fifteen dollars
riding on him. You hear that, Coleman? Fifteen dollars.
So
don’t let me down!
”

It was pathetic knowing his name was only worth fifteen. But
then again, it was better than the half-dollar he was worth years ago.

Rising shouts filled the humid summer air as he stalked toward
the chalked line, the piercing heat of the sun pulsing from the sky against his
bare chest and face.

Massive shoulders and heavily scarred knuckles headed toward
the opposing chalked line. Vincent the Iron Fist brought two beefy fists up to
his unshaven round chin, widening his stance.

Widening his own stance, Coleman squared his bare shoulders and
snapped up both fists. Tightening his thumbs around his knuckles, he waited for
the umpire’s signal, his chest rising and falling in slow, even pumps.

Cheers and shouts rippled through the air.

The umpire lifted his hand and swung it down. “Set to!”

Vincent darted forward and whipped a fist at his head.

Coleman jumped away, boots skidding, and jumped back in,
determined to rip out every last thought of poor Jane. Gritting his teeth, he
rammed a shoulder-powered fist beneath those exposed ribs, hitting the expanse
of flesh with a crunching sting that jarred the swinging arm.

Coleman knew the son of a bitch was going down.

Staggering against the hit, Vincent stumbled back toward the
fence and onto the ground, chest pumping.

“To the line!”
The umpire pointed
to the chalked marking. “Half a minute to get to the line. One! Two! Three!
Four! Five! Six!”

Coleman jogged back over to the line, keeping both fists up.
“Come on, Vincent,” he called out as the umpire kept counting. “Get up. Give me
and the crowd a fight. You’re making us both look bad.”

Vincent set his jaw, scrambled up and jogged over to the line
before the last ten seconds.

The umpire raised a hand between them. “Round two, gents.
And…
set to!
”

Vincent darted forward and shot out an unexpected side sweep
that cracked into the side of Coleman’s head, causing him to stumble against the
searing blow. His focus wavered as a blur of hits assaulted his drifting senses.
Blood now tinged his mouth and dribbled from his nose as Coleman dodged and
blocked only those blows that were necessary in an effort to conserve
strength.

The sequence of knuckled fists quickened, cracking down onto
and into Coleman’s shoulders and arms.

Vincent grunted in an effort to keep the blows steady.

Leveling his breathing, Coleman systematically counted those
hard hits as they penetrated his muscle and bone, jarring him with pain. Between
ragged, staggering breaths, Coleman counted every swing, until he found the
pattern he’d been looking for. Five swings and a pause. Five swings and a pause.
The man was a hall clock.

Five brutal punches pummeled Coleman’s shoulders again. Darting
forward right at the pause, Coleman rammed a fist below that ear. The jarring of
his own muscled arm against the side of his opponent’s head announced that he’d
delivered the perfect hit: a blood vessel shot.

Vincent’s eyes bulged. He staggered, his swollen,
blood-slathered hands jumping up to shield his head.

Gritting his teeth, Coleman jumped in and hit the now-exposed
side until his knuckles were clenchingly numb. Belting out a riled roar he’d
been holding, knowing Jane had stupidly lost her last breath to laudanum, he
slammed a fist up and deep into Vincent’s lower ribs, trying to break them all
in half.