Marlow's was the Olympus of clubs, with some families applying for generation after generation without success. It had taken Zachary three years to gain entrance. With his signature mixture of financial extortion, bribery and behind-the-scenes manipulations, he had managed to get himself admitted, not as a member, but as a permanent “guest” who might come and go whenever he pleased. There were too many aristocrats whose business affairs were entwined with his, men who would lose their fortunes if he began to play with market forces. He had also bought up the debts of a few foolhardy lords, and he had not hesitated to hold those debts over their heads like a whip.
Zachary had enjoyed presenting key members of Marlow's with the choice of losing everything or allowing a mongrel such as himself to patronize the club. Most of them had unwillingly voted to allow him guest status, but there was no mistaking their keen collective desire to be rid of him. He didn't care. He took perverse enjoyment in relaxing in one of the deep leather armchairs and rustling a newspaper before him as the other men did, and warming his feet at the great stone fireplace.
Tonight Zachary especially enjoyed inflicting his presence on the club. Even George Taylor wouldn't have been welcome here, he thought darkly. In fact, the Taylors had probably never thought to apply for Marlow's. Their blood, though blue, wasn't quite blue enough, and God knew they hadn't the money. But Zachary had managed it, even if he was only a “permanent guest” and not quite a member. And now that he had forcibly wedged himself into the upper strata of society, he had made it just a little easier for the next fellow to climb the ladder after him. It was what the aristocrats feared most, that their ranks would be invaded by arrivistes, that their fine lineages would someday no longer be enough to distinguish them.
As Zachary sat before the fireplace and moodily contemplated the dancing flames, a wolf pack of three young men approached him, two seating themselves in nearby chairs, one standing in an insolent posture with one hand braced on his hip. Zachary glanced at the one who stood next to him and suppressed a contemptuous sneer. The earl of Warrington was a self-important ass who hadn't much to recommend him except a distinguished lineage. Upon the recent death of his father, Warrington had inherited a fine title and name, two handsome estates and a mountain of debt, much of it incurred by his own youthful follies. Evidently the old earl had found it difficult to curtail his son's wild spending, much of it done to impress companions that were hardly worth the effort. Now the young Warrington had surrounded himself with friends who fawned and flatered him constantly, thereby increasing his sense of superiority.
“Warrington,” Zachary muttered, barely inclining his head. He acknowledged the other two, Turner and Enfield, without enthusiasm.
“Bronson,” the young earl said with deceptive friendliness, “what a pleasant surprise to find you here.” Warrington was a large, well-built man with a long, narrow face—clearly an aristocratic face, if not exactly a handsome one. He stood and moved with the physical confidence of a man who was proficient in athletics and sporting. “The club has not been graced with your presence for many weeks now,” he continued. “One assumes you have been kept very busy with the new, er…circumstances in your home.”
“To what circumstances are you referring?” Zachary asked softly, although he knew exactly in what direction the conversation was heading.
“Why, everyone in London knows of your new chère amie, the exquisite Lady Holland. May I compliment you on your remarkable—and rather surprising—show of good taste. Congratulations, my fortunate fellow.”
“No congratulations are in order,” Zachary said shortly. “There is no intimate relationship, nor will there be.”
Warrington raised his dark brows, as if he were confronted with an obvious falsehood. “The so-called lady is residing under your roof, Bronson. Do you take us all for fools?”
“Under the same roof as my mother and sister,” Zachary pointed out evenly, though inwardly his temper had exploded into cold, lethal flame. “To lend instruction and advice to the family.”
Warrington laughed nastily, revealing a set of long, uneven teeth. “Oh, I'm certain there is a great deal of ‘instructing’ going on. Concerning how a fine lady prefers to be bedded, perhaps?”
Warrington's companions chuckled at his lame wit.
Zachary remained in his chair, appearing relaxed in spite of the burst of icy rage in his chest. He was making yet another unwelcome discovery: that any slight upon Lady Holland Taylor was sufficient to make him want to commit murder. He had known when he and Holly had signed their infernal contract of employment that there would be rumors. Even Holly had recognized the certain damage to her reputation. At the time, the idea had not bothered Zachary very much—he had been too intent on getting what he wanted. Now, however, it bothered him exceedingly. He felt little flames exploding behind his eyeballs.
“Retract the comment,” he said softly. “And add an apology, while you're at it.”
Warrington smiled, clearly pleased that his arrow had hit its mark. “And if I don't?”
“I'll beat it out of you,” Zachary replied in deadly earnest.
“A boxing match? Excellent idea.” There was no doubt that it was what Warrington had wanted all along. “If I best you, you'll give me your word that you'll leave the club immediately and never enter the place again. And if you emerge the victor, I'll come forth with a retraction and apology.”
“And one more thing,” Zachary said, staring at the top button of Warrington's finely tailored coat. All the buttons on the garment were large and gold, engraved with the family insignia. However, the top one was adorned with a large, sparkling white diamond that appeared to be at least two carats in weight. “If I win, I'll take that diamond button as well.”
“What?” Warrington wore a perplexed expression. “Deuced strange request. What the devil do you want that for?”
“Call it a memento,” Zachary replied.
The earl shook his head, as if he suspected he was dealing with a madman. “Very well. Shall we make arrangements for the morning?”
“No.” Zachary had no intention of allowing the coxcomb and his cronies to publicize the event all over London, or to cast further aspersions on Lady Holly's honor. The matter would be resolved expediently. He stood and flexed his hands with anticipation. “We'll do it now. In the club cellar.”
Warrington seemed momentarily perturbed by Zachary's cold, deliberate manner. “I can't do it right now without any sort of preparation. There's a difference between a properly arranged match and a common street brawl—not that you would understand such distinctions.”
Suddenly Zachary smiled. “I understand that you want to make a show of your boxing skills and dispatch my arse from the club once and for all. You have your chance, Warrington. But it will happen here and now, or else we'll declare a forfeit.”
“No forfeit,” Warrington retorted. “I'll come to scratch whenever and wherever you desire.” He turned to one of his companions. “Enfield, will you stand as my second?”
His friend nodded at once, clearly pleased to have been asked.
Warrington glanced at his other companion. “Turner, I suppose that means you'll have to stand for Bronson.”
Turner, a pudgy, round-faced fellow with overlong reddish brown locks that straggled to his shoulders, frowned and folded his short arms across his chest. It was apparent that performing the duties of a second for Bronson—remaining in the corner of the rope ring to encourage and assist him—was none too appealing for Turner.
Bronson threw him a jeering smile. “Don't trouble yourself, milord,” he muttered. “I have no need of a second.”
To all their surprise, a new voice entered the conversation. “I'll serve as your second, Bronson, if I may.”
Zachary stared in the direction of the dry, cultured voice, and saw a man seated in a corner chair. Setting aside the fresh-pressed edition of the Times, the man stood and approached him. The newcomer was tall and lean and blond, looking the way arist
ocrats were supposed to look but somehow never did. Zachary studied him thoughtfully, having never seen him at Marlow's before. With his cool gray eyes, wheat-blond hair and perfectly sculpted features, he was handsome—princely, even. His selfcontained air and the watchful intelligence of his expression brought the image of a golden hawk to mind.
“Vardon, Lord Ravenhill,” the man said, extending his hand.
Zachary shook his hand, discovering the man had a hard, solid grasp. The sound of the name triggered something in the back of his mind. Ravenhill, Ravenhill…the name Holly had spoken just a few hours ago in her drugged reminiscences of George. Ravenhill was the name of George Taylor's closest friend, a man so trusted and valued that he had been present during the last hours of George's life. Was this the same man? Why would he volunteer as Zachary's second for a fistfight? And what did Ravenhill think of the fact that George's beloved wife was now employed by a commoner like himself? Zachary stared into the man's remote silvery-gray eyes, but could discern not a single emotion.
“Why offer to stand for me?” Zachary asked, fascinated despite himself.
“My reasons are my own.”
Studying him for a moment longer, Zachary gave a short nod. “Fine, then. Let's go.”
Heads turned and papers rustled quietly as the members of Marlow's watched the odd procession. Realizing that some sort of altercation was about to take place, several men rose and followed as the fighters went toward the cellar stairs at the back of the club. As they descended the dark, narrow steps, Zachary caught snatches of the whispered conversation between Warrington and his companions ahead of them.
“I think you're a fool for taking on…bloody huge bastard…” Turner muttered.
“…knows nothing of technique or discipline…just a street animal,” came Warrington's sneering reply.
Zachary smiled with dark amusement. Perhaps Warrington had a great deal of technique and discipline. Perhaps he had undergone years of pugilistic training. That all amounted to nothing, compared to the experience Zachary had gained by standing on a street corner and taking on all comers. How many days and nights had he fought for every shilling he could get, knowing that his own mother and sister would have no food or bed to sleep in if he was defeated? Fighting had never been entertainment to him…It was survival…it was his way of life. And to Warrington it was merely a sport.
“Don't underestimate him,” came Ravenhill's quiet voice behind him, as if Zachary's thoughts were somehow transparent to him. “Warrington's got a blistering right, and more speed than you might expect. I fought him a few times at Oxford and always got the stuffing knocked out of me.”
They reached the cellar, which was cool, dimly lit and musty. The dirt floor was slightly damp, and the stone walls were green and slick. Endless rows of wine shelves filled half the cellar, but there was still enough room for the business at hand.
As Zachary and Warrington removed their coats and shirts, the seconds walked off the measurements of the ring and drew two furrows, one foot apart, in the center of the area. Ravenhill spoke briskly, outlining the terms of the match. “London Prize Ring Rules, each round to last until some part of a man's body touches the ground. At the end of each round, each man returns to his corner, rests for thirty seconds, and in eight seconds comes back to toe the mark again. Voluntarily dropping to a knee will result in forfeit.” He glanced from Zachary's set face to Warrington's determined one. “Have I forgotten anything, gentlemen?”
“Yes,” Warrington said, staring at Zachary accusingly, as if expecting him to cheat. “No headlocks.”
Ravenhill replied before Zachary had a chance. “Headlocks are perfectly legal, my lord.”
“That's all right,” Zachary said evenly, yanking off his cravat. “I won't do headlocks if he doesn't want them.” He knew what Warrington feared: that he might capture his head in an unbreakable hold and smash every bone in his face.
“A gentlemanly concession, Mr. Bronson,” Ravenhill remarked, seeming to understand how it annoyed Warrington to hear the word “gentlemanly” applied to his opponent. “Very well, then, no headlocks.” He extended his arms to receive Zachary's shirt, coat, waistcoat and cravat, folded the garments as deftly as a valet and set them on a wine shelf.
As the two bare-chested men turned to confront each other, Zachary saw Warrington's eyes widen with patent dismay.
“Christ,” Warrington said, unable to restrain the exclamation, “have a look at him—he's a damned ape.”
Zachary had been long accustomed to such comments. He knew what his body looked like, his torso rippled with muscle, scarred in some places, his arms bulging, his neck seventeen inches around and his chest thickly carpeted with black hair. It was a body meant for fighting, or for hard labor in fields and factories. Warrington, by contrast, had a lean but lanky form, with unmarked skin and trim muscles displayed by a nearly hairless chest.
Ravenhill smiled for the first time, revealing a flash of even white teeth. “I believe they used to call Bronson the ‘Butcher,’” he informed Warrington, then turned to Zachary with an inquiring arch of his brow. “Isn't that correct?”
In no mood to share his humor, Zachary nodded shortly.
Ravenhill's attention returned to Warrington, and he spoke more soberly. “I might be able to persuade Mr. Bronson to abandon the fight, my lord, if you'll agree right now to retract your comment about Lady Holland.”
Warrington shook his head with a sneer. “I'll offer no respect to a lady abiding under his roof.”
Ravenhill sent a glance of cold encouragement to Zachary. It appeared that any insult to Holly offended him nearly as much as it did Zachary. As Ravenhill passed him on the way to the corner, he muttered something between his teeth. “Take his damned head off, Bronson.”
Quietly Zachary went to the mark and waited for Warrington to do the same. They faced each other and adopted the traditional fighter's stance, left leg forward, left arm in front, elbow bent, knuckles at eye level.
Warrington opened the fight with a stinging left jab and circled to the left, while Zachary immediately gave ground. Soon Warrington unloaded more left jabs, followed by a right uppercut. Although the right failed to connect, Warrington's companions began to whoop with jubilation, clearly excited by his aggressiveness. Zachary allowed Warrington to set the pace, merely retreating and defending himself while Warrington unleashed a series of body shots. The blows hit solidly on Zachary's ribs, but it was the kind of pain he had long been impervious to, after years of bludgeoning and pounding. In return, he delivered only a series of light jabs designed to irritate, and test his opponent's range.
Finally, when Warrington's sweating face was adorned with a triumphant smirk and Turner and Enfield were cheering lustily in premature victory, Zachary threw a three-shot combination followed by a hard right cross that caught Warrington squarely in the eye.
Warrington staggered backward, clearly stunned by the power and speed of the blows. The men were instantly silenced as Warrington's legs buckled and he fell to his knees, before scrambling to rise again.
“End of the round,” came Ravenhill's call, and Zachary went to his corner. He was beginning to sweat from exertion, and he brushed his hand impatiently at the wet locks of hair that fell over his forehead. “Here,” Ravenhill said, giving him a clean wine towel, and Zachary blotted his face.
Warrington retreated to his own corner, while Enfield wiped his face and offered advice.
“Don't toy with him for long,” Ravenhill murmured, smiling, although his gray eyes remained cool. “There's no need to drag this business out, Bronson.”
Zachary handed back the towel. “What makes you think I'm toying with him?”
“It's clear the fight is yours to finish whenever you choose. But be a gentleman about it. Make your point succinctly and have done with it.”
Thirty seconds had passed, and Zachary returned to the center mark for the next round. It annoyed him that Ravenhill saw through him so easily. He had indeed been
planning to prolong the fight, taunting and humiliating Warrington with his superior prowess. He had intended to give the spoiled aristocrat a lengthy, painful thrashing that turned every inch of him black and blue. Instead, Ravenhill wanted him to end the fight soon and allow Warrington to walk away with a bit of pride left. Zachary knew that the recommendation was indeed the gentlemanly thing to do. But it aggravated him sorely. He didn't want to be a gentleman; he wanted to be merciless and strip away every modicum of Warrington's vanity.
Warrington came at him with renewed vigor, planting his feet and delivering three right-hand uppercuts that caught Zachary on the chin and snapped his head back. Zachary followed with two hard rib shots and a whiplike left hook to the head. The blasting blow rocked Warrington back on his heels, and he did a quick two-step to stay on his feet. Retreating, circling, Zachary waited until the other man approached once more, and they traded blows until Zachary landed a powerful straight left to the jaw. Dazed, Warrington fell to the floor and cursed as he tried to lurch to his feet.
Enfield called for the end of the round, and both opponents retreated to their corners.
Zachary swabbed at his face with the damp wine towel. He was going to be sore on the morrow—Warrington had blackened his left eye and bruised the right side of his chin. Warrington was not a bad fighter, actually. One had to give him credit for being busy in the ring, not to mention determined. However, Zachary not only outmatched him in power but was far more experienced, delivering fewer but infinitely more effective blows.