has more important things to do than conspire with ladies to play tricks on his son."
His smile turned thoughtful. "Are you throwing down the gauntlet, Miss Boyce? I'll gladly take it."
Wrong, very wrong, that the prospect should send a thrill through her. "No," she said, with more force than perhaps was necessary. "I simply wish to express that—that these pranks of yours are the most childish things I can imagine."
"Then your imagination wants exercise, darling." More softly, he added, "Perhaps I'll be the one to provide it."
She had no doubt he could do an admirable job of it. The thought disconcerted her; she blew out a breath to dispel it. "Or perhaps I will simply take it on a stroll through the park." Dropping him a mocking curtsy, she exited into the hall.
Chapter Five
Pain, like music, had its own rhythms. Piano: the glancing tap of a fist off the jaw. Stacatto: knuckles, jabbing one-two-one-two into the flesh of a muscular gut. Forte: the blow that took James in the nose and sent him stumbling backward in a spray of blood.
Hands smacked into his back, halting his retreat. The support kept him from stepping over the chalk line. There were few rules in this dark, smoke-filled place, but crossing the chalk would disqualify him. The crowd did not want that. There was nothing more popular in this pan of town than the chance to see an English lordling get beaten to pulp by a man from home.
James's ears were ringing. He shook his head, and his teeth seemed to rattle in his gums. His opponent was a strapping Irishman, fresh from Cork, renowned for his ability to lay men flat—occasionally snapping a neck in the process. As James had ducked down the stairs into the ginnery, the proprietor had taken his arm and pulled him aside. "Go home," he'd said. "Not tonight, m'lord. I can't have a nob beat to death in me place. I'd be transported faster'n you could spit."
News of a worthy opponent had cheered James. In the quiet, well-appointed clubs of Maiden-lane, Queensbury rules prevailed; one might as well be boxing puppies. Here in the East End, where the only law was to avoid murder, he generally had an unfair advantage: a lifetime of steady meals and good medicine put him hands and stones over the competition. But this Irishman, judged from across the room, looked tall and thick, able to crush rocks with his palms. At any rate, there were worse ways to die than by a broken neck. One could rot slowly, locked away in a sanitarium in the country—or be smothered to death by feudal obligations.
A fiver had soothed the proprietor's worries. The crowd had yelled its approval.
Two rounds gone by now, and no murder yet. James was growing bored. The Irishman relied too heavily on his size. He had no speed, and his right hook left his flank exposed. Perhaps he was a late bloomer? As the man pulled away from his cohorts, his meaty fist delivered a very promising smack into the palm of his other hand. "C'mon, your lordship," he sneered, and crooked a beckoning finger. "Taste a little Irish justice."
James smiled and shoved away from the helping hands. Every muscle in his body was warm, glowing. A feint to the left, a jab to the right. A paw caught him in the belly; the breath wheezed out of him. The Irishman took advantage. A crescendo of pain: the bones in his face might break under this sweet hammer of fists. Fortissimo: the singing of agony in his blood.
But it did not suffice. It never sufficed, did it? The pain was not loud enough; it could not envelop him and it did not silence his thoughts. The basic flaw remained apparent, even as he swallowed blood. He could come here and play all he liked. He could walk the meanest street at midnight, unarmed, inviting all comers. He could throw himself down the stairs, but the architecture of his body conspired against him. He had fists like hams, didn't he. He had height, and muscle, and training. It would never be the same. He had defenses, and she hadn't. He would never forget
His smile turned thoughtful. "Are you throwing down the gauntlet, Miss Boyce? I'll gladly take it."
Wrong, very wrong, that the prospect should send a thrill through her. "No," she said, with more force than perhaps was necessary. "I simply wish to express that—that these pranks of yours are the most childish things I can imagine."
"Then your imagination wants exercise, darling." More softly, he added, "Perhaps I'll be the one to provide it."
She had no doubt he could do an admirable job of it. The thought disconcerted her; she blew out a breath to dispel it. "Or perhaps I will simply take it on a stroll through the park." Dropping him a mocking curtsy, she exited into the hall.
Chapter Five
Pain, like music, had its own rhythms. Piano: the glancing tap of a fist off the jaw. Stacatto: knuckles, jabbing one-two-one-two into the flesh of a muscular gut. Forte: the blow that took James in the nose and sent him stumbling backward in a spray of blood.
Hands smacked into his back, halting his retreat. The support kept him from stepping over the chalk line. There were few rules in this dark, smoke-filled place, but crossing the chalk would disqualify him. The crowd did not want that. There was nothing more popular in this pan of town than the chance to see an English lordling get beaten to pulp by a man from home.
James's ears were ringing. He shook his head, and his teeth seemed to rattle in his gums. His opponent was a strapping Irishman, fresh from Cork, renowned for his ability to lay men flat—occasionally snapping a neck in the process. As James had ducked down the stairs into the ginnery, the proprietor had taken his arm and pulled him aside. "Go home," he'd said. "Not tonight, m'lord. I can't have a nob beat to death in me place. I'd be transported faster'n you could spit."
News of a worthy opponent had cheered James. In the quiet, well-appointed clubs of Maiden-lane, Queensbury rules prevailed; one might as well be boxing puppies. Here in the East End, where the only law was to avoid murder, he generally had an unfair advantage: a lifetime of steady meals and good medicine put him hands and stones over the competition. But this Irishman, judged from across the room, looked tall and thick, able to crush rocks with his palms. At any rate, there were worse ways to die than by a broken neck. One could rot slowly, locked away in a sanitarium in the country—or be smothered to death by feudal obligations.
A fiver had soothed the proprietor's worries. The crowd had yelled its approval.
Two rounds gone by now, and no murder yet. James was growing bored. The Irishman relied too heavily on his size. He had no speed, and his right hook left his flank exposed. Perhaps he was a late bloomer? As the man pulled away from his cohorts, his meaty fist delivered a very promising smack into the palm of his other hand. "C'mon, your lordship," he sneered, and crooked a beckoning finger. "Taste a little Irish justice."
James smiled and shoved away from the helping hands. Every muscle in his body was warm, glowing. A feint to the left, a jab to the right. A paw caught him in the belly; the breath wheezed out of him. The Irishman took advantage. A crescendo of pain: the bones in his face might break under this sweet hammer of fists. Fortissimo: the singing of agony in his blood.
But it did not suffice. It never sufficed, did it? The pain was not loud enough; it could not envelop him and it did not silence his thoughts. The basic flaw remained apparent, even as he swallowed blood. He could come here and play all he liked. He could walk the meanest street at midnight, unarmed, inviting all comers. He could throw himself down the stairs, but the architecture of his body conspired against him. He had fists like hams, didn't he. He had height, and muscle, and training. It would never be the same. He had defenses, and she hadn't. He would never forget
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