Twenty
Rowden was actually enjoying himself. It had been a long time since he’d enjoyed a fight. Maybe it was because the German was a worthy opponent. He wouldn’t be easy to beat. Maybe it was because of the roar of the crowd or the purse waiting for him if he won.
But mostly it was because Modesty Brown was in the crowd watching him. He’d looked for her as soon as he’d stepped into the exhibition area. He glanced about for that beautiful red hair and that gold gown. It hadn’t taken long to find her. She was watching him, her stunning eyes fixed on his face. Her lips curved in a smile, but he saw the way they trembled. She was worried for him, and he gave her a cocky smile to let her know there was nothing to worry about. He intended to beat the German heartily. It wouldn’t be a quick fight. He’d have to wear his opponent down, but he could do it.
And then he’d be through with this business, and he’d...he’d what? He wanted to go to her, to kiss her, hold her, tell her what it meant to him to have her there for him. But he couldn’t do that. He’d told her good-bye before the match tonight, and that was the right decision.
In that moment, when she was smiling at him with hope and love in her face, it didn’t feel like the right decision. He needed her there. He needed her always.
Rowden had gone to his corner, and Chibale had told him to focus. Rowden had taken thoughts of Modesty and put them in another room in his mind, closing the door. He’d open it later. He’d figure out what to do with his churning emotions later. It wasn’t hard to concentrate on the fight. When a man like the German threw punches at him, it got Rowden’s attention. But he was aware he was putting on a show of sorts too. The more the crowd enjoyed themselves, the more money they would wager. So he dodged the German and ducked behind him, giving him a playful kick in the arse. It wasn’t illegal—not much was in these fights—but it did little except anger the German.
Anger worked in Rowden’s favor, though. The German threw harder punches and more of them, and Rowden had to work harder to avoid them. Still, if he had to guess, he’d say the German was breathing harder than he at the end of the first round when the two men went to their corners and Chibale handed Rowden the flask of water.
“Where’s Trogdon?” he asked, wiping his mouth. He could have used a knee to sit on for a moment. He would happily forego citrus fruit for the next five years.
Chibale looked uncomfortable, which was strange.
“What’s wrong?” Rowden asked.
“Nothing. Trogdon had to use the privy.”
“In the middle of my fight?” This was it. This really was the last straw. Trogdon had fluff for brains, but Rowden could forgive that because he was always there when Rowden needed him. But if he couldn’t even count on the manservant at a time like this, the man’s employment was at an end. “You can tell him, if he returns, he’d better look for another position,” Rowden said.
Chibale waved a hand. “Let’s not worry about that now. You have a fight to win.”
“Right.” Rowden squared his shoulders and moved his neck about to loosen it.
“Go out there and hit him hard,” Chibale said. “Nothing to worry about. Sterling must be with Miss Brown.”
The umpires shouted and Rowden moved back into the center of the arena. He ducked and swung, making contact with the German and for the first time, hearing him grunt. But something niggled at his brain. Chibale had said Nothing to worry about. Rowden had taken it to mean that he needn’t worry he would win the fight. But then why had Chibale added, Sterling must be with Miss Brown?
Why did it seem like Chibale was reassuring him that Aidan was with Modesty? Rowden hit again, punching the German in the face. That was the time he should have struck again, slamming the man in the chest when his head was thrown back and he was unprotected, but Rowden froze instead.
Aidan Sterling had promised to stay with Modesty and never let her out of his sight. It was the only reason Rowden had agreed to let her come to the mill because he’d known Notley would be there looking for a way to strike back at Rowden.
Rowden’s first impulse was to look for Modesty in the crowd, find her, and reassure himself she was safe. But that impulse would get him knocked out, and he’d be no good to anyone. The German was angry now and fighting back. He’d recovered and was advancing on Rowden, his face bloody and snarling. Rowden hadn’t given himself as much room as he would have liked to maneuver so he had little choice but to fight, rather than duck or feint. And so he fought. He took a glancing punch that left his ear ringing and delivered a hard dart to the German’s jaw. The German stumbled back and went to his knees. Instead of following up, as Chibale and the crowd urged, Rowden stepped back and looked up into the crowd.
Modesty was not in her seat.
Aidan was not in his seat.
The umpires called for corners, and Rowden marched to his. “What the devil is happening?” he demanded, pushing the offered water away. “Where is Modesty?”
“Trogdon went to find her,” Chibale said.
“Trogdon? Trogdon? The man can’t even find an orange. I’m going.”
Chibale grabbed him around the shoulders and made it seem as though he were imparting some important information. “Half of the men in this tent have money on you. You think they’ll let you leave? You have to finish this fight or be torn apart.”
“Modesty—”
“Trogdon is looking for her and Sterling. It’s the best I can do at the moment. I’m sure she’s with Sterling.”
The umpires called for the fight to begin, but Rowden didn’t move. “When did you notice her missing?”
“I didn’t. Trogdon did. He said she was leaving, and he was going after her.” Chibale took a step back. “Bloody hell. He’s coming.”
Rowden looked just in time to duck and avoid the punch. It was strong enough that he felt the breeze whip over his head. Since his head was down anyway, he plowed into the German’s solid chest, pushing him back and thrusting him against the ropes on the other side of the arena.
The crowd screamed for blood. Rowden was ready to give it. This fight was over, and he just needed to land the death blow.
* * *
MODESTY’S MIND RACED. She needed to get back to the tent, back to the mill. The one thing she had learned in all her years preaching in the rookeries of London was never to allow anyone to separate her from the crowd. The man with the knife had just done that, and now he pushed her into a group of three other men. The men laughed as she stumbled.
“Is this Payne’s woman?” one of them asked.
“That’s right. Get her to the wagon,” the man with the knife said.
Modesty backed up. “I’m returning to the tent. I won’t go with you.”
“Oh, yes you will.” He brandished the knife. “One way or another.”
Without warning, she turned and ran, but she only made it a few feet before she was caught and yanked back by the arm. The men were rougher now as they pushed her further away from the tent. One of them closed his hand over her mouth to keep her from calling out—not that anyone would have heard her. The crowd watching the fight was screaming and chanting. She hoped Rowden was winning.
She could imagine his smile when he won. He’d look for her, and she wouldn’t be there. She struggled, trying to slow down the men dragging her. “Where are you taking me?” she asked when her mouth slipped free of the man’s hold. She could see they were heading for the area of the field where conveyances had been left. Perhaps she’d be able to cry out to a coachman for help.
“Somewhere The Royal Payne in me arse will never find you.”
“Why?”
“Because he took something of mine.”
Modesty didn’t have a chance to ask what that might be before the hand clamped over her mouth again. She tried to struggle, but one of the men punched her lightly in the belly and she doubled over. It might not have been hard, but it was enough to startle the breath from her lungs. She was bending over to protect her body from further harm when she heard a familiar voice.
“Stop right there, gentlemen.”
Modesty looked up, thinking it must be Mr. Sterling. But it wasn’t Sterling standing in front of the men, blocking their way. It was...Trogdon?
“Move aside,” the man with the knife said. “This doesn’t concern you.”
“It concerns Mr. Payne,” Trogdon said, “and so it concerns me. Release the lady, Mr. Green. Put that knife away, Mr. Notley.”
No one moved. Modesty glanced from the man called Green to the leader, Notley. They seemed uncertain what to do, and uncertainty worked in her favor. With a mighty tug, she broke free of Green and plunged toward Trogdon. One of the other men caught her, and she fought as though her life depended on it.
Her life probably did depend on it.
She kicked and scratched and bit, and the man released her. Trogdon swooped in, caught her arm and pushed her ahead of him. “Run!” he instructed.
She tried, but her legs were tangled in her skirts, and she tripped and fell. She scrambled to her knees, her eyes closed as she waited for the rough hands to grasp her again, but instead she heard a loud thump.
“Ow! Hey!” one of the men called.
Trogdon moved beside her and pulled her to her feet. And then he handed her an orange. She stared at it and then him. He was holding a sack of them, and as she watched, he pulled one out and lobbed it at one of the men. He had excellent aim as he hit the fellow on the center of the forehead, sending him reeling back.
“Throw it!” Trogdon ordered, still backing up. Modesty threw. Her aim was not as good, and she missed.
“Good try, miss,” Trogdon said. “Could you scream for help, do you think?”
That she could do. She screamed as loudly as she could, while Trogdon threw another orange, hitting Notley in the center of the chest. The orange exploded, and Notley reeled back, dropping the knife. But he wasn’t incapacitated. It would take more than citrus fruit to accomplish that. He looked angry now as he lunged for them.
* * *
ROWDEN WAS AWARE HE was acting against all his training. He punched and pummeled and wore himself out in an all-out offensive against the German. The crowd was so loud he couldn’t even think. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Chibale yelling, probably telling him to focus and remember his training.
But Rowden didn’t have time to wear the German out. He needed to knock him out and find Modesty. But the German, who’d seemed initially taken off guard at Rowden’s attack, recovered and punched back. Rowden grunted as one punch landed on his shoulder. Pain exploded, and he gritted his teeth and fought to stay on his feet. The German punched again, but Rowden ducked and launched his own offensive into the other man’s breadbox. He was out of breath and dizzy by the time he shuffled away, and the German was still on his feet, and still lumbering toward him.
For the second time that night, Rowden wanted to run. He wanted away from this fight, away from these people. He needed to find Modesty. But he knew Chibale was right. The crowd wouldn’t let him leave until one of the men in the arena lay unconscious.
Rowden threw another punch, and it landed ineffectually off the German’s temple. And still the blond man came for him. Rowden moved around so he was facing the side where Modesty and Aidan had been sitting. Where the devil was Aidan? Rowden’s only consolation was that Aidan was with Modesty. Aidan had been a thief who’d lived some of his life on the streets. He could take care of himself and Modesty.
He ducked another punch then jolted out of shock. He ducked under the German’s arm and ran to the other side of the ropes. Aidan had just stumbled into the tent, his temple bleeding. “Where is she?” he yelled. But Aidan couldn’t hear him over the dozens of men already shouting.
Too late, Rowden realized they shouted a warning at him. The German landed a punch in his side, and Rowden crumpled but stayed on his feet. Holding onto the ropes for support, he managed to right himself just as the German struck again. Rowden managed to avoid the worst of it, but the blow glanced off his jaw and the pain was like a hot iron placed on his skin. He tasted blood, spat, and looked up to see the German coming for him again.
“Fuck,” he said through blood and spittle. He was about to lose.
* * *
NOTLEY WAS STILL COMING for them, even as Trogdon threw another orange. This one hit Notley’s shoulder and barely slowed him down. He looked angry. Very angry.
“Uh oh,” Trogdon said.
Modesty glanced at him. “What’s uh oh?”
“No more oranges.” He grasped her wrist. “Now we run.”
He started away, and Modesty tried to keep up. For a lazy man, he was remarkably fast. He pulled her with him as they finally reached the carriages and wagons the Fancy had taken to the mill. Trogdon darted between them and pulled her along, slowing now to listen for pursuit.
“They’re coming,” Modesty whispered.
“Here.” Trogdon pulled her close to a large carriage wheel and scrambled underneath. “Come on!” he hissed.
Modesty silently apologized to Madame Renauld as she followed. Under the carriage, her elbows sinking in mud, she glanced at Trogdon. He had a smear of mud on his face, but he didn’t look frightened. “There you are. Safe as the Bank of England,” he said.
Modesty would have liked a bit more security. “Where are the coachmen and the grooms?”
He jerked his head toward the glow of fires, just now lighting up the darkening evening sky. “Playing dice or cards,” he whispered. “Too far away to hear us.”
“Where are they?” one of Notley’s men asked, and Modesty tensed. Trogdon put a finger to his lips, as though she needed to be reminded.
“They’re here somewhere,” Notley said. “You take that side, and I’ll take this one. Look under the vehicles too.”
Modesty pressed her lips together and held her breath as a pair of boots came into view.
* * *
ROWDEN DUCKED JUST in time to avoid the dart. He was aware he was retreating and ducking and basically using nothing Mostyn or Chibale or even his own experience had taught him.
He’d planned to wear the German down and then knock him out. No time for that now. Modesty needed him. He ducked again and ran to the far corner of the area, even as the boos and jeers of the crowd followed him.
The German lurched toward him, and Rowden used those extra seconds to channel all of his anger and fear and panic into a tight, black ball. He could imagine it swirling together as he compressed it and pushed it out and into his hands, his arms, his muscles.
His pain was in that swirling sphere. The pain of losing Mary and now the fear of losing Modesty. He would not lose Modesty. He would not lose Modesty.
The sphere seemed to grow as the German came closer, and with a roar, Rowden launched himself. The German paused for just a moment, his brow lowered in confusion, and Rowden struck, landing a hard punch to his face and then another.
He tried to punch again, but he was drained of strength.
This was it then. He’d lost.
Except that the German didn’t come for him. The German very slowly fell back and down, making the floor bounce as he fell unconscious.
Rowden didn’t even wait for the count. He staggered to the ropes and climbed out. Chibale was at his side, yelling for the crowd to move, to part. The men did so, looking from Rowden to the downed German in confusion.
Aidan met him at the tent’s exit. “It was Notley,” he said, blood covering half his face. “He ambushed me. I think he has Miss Brown.”
* * *
THE BOOTS MOVED ON, but just as Modesty started to breathe again, they paused. Then a hand came into view and then knees and finally the face of Notley. “Found you,” he said.
Trogdon threw a clump of mud at Notley and scrambled out the back. Modesty followed, but her skirts were heavy now, and Notley caught her arm.
“I have them!” he called. Modesty heard the sound of footsteps coming. Trogdon ran at Notley and tried to free Modesty, but Notley only held on tighter. The tug-of-war on her arm left her crying out in pain. Green and another man ran around a wagon and tackled Trogdon, sending him back down into the mud. Modesty tried to wrest free of Notley’s hold, and even though her sleeve ripped, Notley held on to her.
“Let me go!” she yelled. “Help!”
“Modesty!” The voice was far away, but she knew it.
“Rowden!”
Notley cursed and released her so suddenly she fell to her knees beside Trogdon. The men beating him looked up at Notley’s expletive and all three of them tried to place Rowden’s voice.
“Rowden! I’m here!” she called.
“This way,” Notley yelled.
“No, this way!” Green said. In the end, it didn’t matter because Rowden came around one corner of a coach and Mr. Okoro and Mr. Sterling came around the other. Rowden grabbed Notley, shoved him to his knees as though he were a doll, and looked about.
“I have her, sir,” Trogdon said, waving from the mud. “She is safe.”
Rowden’s green gaze found hers, and she gave him a little wave. He stared at her then Trogdon. Finally, he looked away. “Chibale, fetch a magistrate. I must have seen at least three watching the mill.”
“I’ll be right back.” Mr. Okoro took off, while Mr. Sterling shook his head at Notley’s two accomplices.
“Stay right there,” he said, “Or I’ll want to know which one of you did this to me and repay you twofold.”
Modesty stood and tried to swipe mud off her dress. She reached down to help Trogdon up, and they both went to stand beside Rowden, who was still holding Notley in a painful grip between his neck and shoulder.
“What the devil happened?” Rowden asked.
Modesty could feel the urge to laugh, and she knew it was shock and hysteria. She pushed it down and looked at the manservant. “Trogdon saved me.”
“Tell me the truth,” Rowden said.
“He saved me!” she said, laughing. She had to press a hand to her mouth to keep the laugh from turning into tears. The dirt on her skin brought her back to reality. “He threw oranges at them and stopped them from taking me.”
Rowden looked at Mr. Sterling. “We’d better fetch a doctor.”
“I’m fine,” she said. “He really did throw oranges. See?” She pointed to the orange stain on Notley’s shirt. It was difficult to see as night was falling. Then she looked at Trogdon. “Where did you get oranges? I thought you couldn’t find any.”
Trogdon gave her a sheepish look then glanced at Rowden, who looked back at him expectantly. “Mr. Payne doesn’t care for oranges. I purchased them in case I couldn’t find lemons and limes.”
“What?” Rowden asked, sounding dumbstruck. In the distance Modesty could hear voices heading toward them. Thank God the magistrate was almost there. She didn’t think her wobbly legs would hold her much longer.
“I grabbed the bag when I saw Miss Brown leave the tent with that one.” He pointed to Notley. “I had a feeling I might need them.”
“That you might need oranges?” Rowden demanded.
Trogdon gave a small shrug. “You do seem to always need them, sir. They must be good for something.”
The magistrate and a group of men converged on the party, and Modesty was pushed out of the way. Vaguely, she heard Notley yelling and Mr. Sterling arguing, and she thought she might just sit down on the ground for a moment and catch her breath.
Rowden caught her, picking her up as though she were a child and cradling her in his arms. “Looks like you’ve spent enough time in the mud. Let’s go back to Battle’s Peak.”
She gave him a weak smile. He was still bare to the waist, and she liked being pressed against his chest, though she was probably smearing mud all over him. “Did you win?” she asked.
He looked down at her, clearly confused. And then his features cleared. “Ah. The mill. Yes, I won.”
“Oh, good. I didn’t want to be the reason he beat you a second time.”
Rowden pulled her closer. “I’ll lose a hundred mills if it means I can hold you,” he said, and he carried her to Sterling’s coach. And then, after what seemed like hours and a thousand questions, the five of them—Rowden, Modesty, Mr. Okoro, Mr. Sterling, and even Trogdon—left the exhibition grounds behind.