Her Prodigal Passion (38 page)

Paul walled off the tide of guilt and shame. A fixed fight was ungentlemanly in the extreme, yet what options did he have? This was fun and games for men like Traymore. Losing a few thousand pounds meant nothing to him but injured pride.

Charity's legacy and future were depending on Paul. She was his wife, the only woman he'd ever loved, and he would sacrifice anything to make things right for her.

Even his honor.

Even his … life.

His fingers closed around the belt that Charity had sewn for him. It was the current fashion for prizefighters to wear a colored scarf around the waist, and she had fashioned his in rich blue and gold stripes.
The colors of Apollo
, she'd said.

His chest throbbed. He had to make it back to her. He had to.

A sudden hush filtered into the cabin as if the air had been sucked out. A roar followed that shook the glass panes, and Paul looked out the window.

Jem Barnes had descended from his carriage. A showman, the prizefighter had emerged without his shirt, his huge, hirsute chest bared to the adoring hordes. He was a hulk of a man, over six feet tall and with at least three stone on Paul—all of that weight in muscle. Barnes raised his ham-sized fists, punching the air, and the throng went mad.

"He's all brute strength and no skill. You can take him, Fines," Traymore said.

It didn't matter what he
could
do; his hands were literally bound.

Paul's jaw clenched. "Let's do it, then," he said tersely.

Traymore opened the door to the blast of the crowd.

*****

The conveyance pulled to a halt. Heart pounding, Charity spotted the ring in the distance. She was too far away to make out the fighters' faces, but, squinting, she caught the splash of blue at the leaner man's waist.
Paul.
Her hands gripped the carriage door as she saw the Goliath towering over him. In the next instant, the giant brute charged Paul, picking him up and
tossing
him across the ring. Charity's lungs seized. The crowd cheered as Paul struggled to his feet.

"Why aren't we moving?" Charity cried.

Mrs. Stone opened the window. "What's happening, Jim?" she called up.

"Can't get any closer," the driver shouted back. "Too many carriages and people in the way."

"Perhaps if we wait a bit—Charity, what are you doing?" Mrs. Stone exclaimed.

Charity's borrowed Hessians touched the ground. "I'm going to find my husband."

"Being dressed like a gentleman only protects you from being accosted, not from being trampled." In the blink of an eye, the other—perfectly convincing as a blond Corinthian—joined her on the ground. The actress' voice dropped to a startlingly masculine octave. "The boys and I are going with you."

The "boys" referred to the trio of burly footmen who clambered down from the carriage to flank their mistress. Apparently, the three served as guards for the famous actress who'd faced her own riotous audiences. With their muscular frames, Charity had to admit that they would come in handy today.

"We'll lead the way, miss," one of the large men said.

Another of the footmen elbowed him. "Fat good 'er costume will do if you keep callin' 'er
miss
," he said. "It'll be
lad
or
sir
from 'ere on in."

Charity's hands went to her head and lip. Both the hat and moustache—compliments of Mrs. Stone—were in place.

"Let's go," she said urgently.

"Don't forget to disguise your voice," Mrs. Stone said.

Charity nodded, and the three footmen formed a protective triangle around her and Mrs. Stone. Together, they cut a swath through the thick crowd. Shouts and shoves greeted their progress, but the guards managed to keep a forward, if slow, momentum. Anxiety surged in Charity as the mob closed around her. Given her small stature, she couldn't see the stage, couldn't see anything beyond the sea of bodies. Overhead, the sun blazed; the stench of unwashed skin and pungent spirits assailed her. Perspiration trickled beneath her cravat, and dots floated before her eyes.

A hand closed around her arm. Mrs. Stone gave her a sharp look. "Can you do this?"

"Yes." Charity fought off crushing panic as they inched forward. "I must get to Paul."

"You're a strong woman, my dear, and should never be underestimated." Mrs. Stone paused. "You may not want to hear it, but in this you take after me."

The other was right—Charity
didn't
want to hear it.

"Uriah feared my strength, you know," the actress said in conversational tones. "He sought to douse my fire, and my greatest fear was that he'd try to do the same to you."

Then why did you abandon me?
Charity kept her mouth shut.

"I begged him to let me see you, but he refused. Threatened to poison you with lies about me if I tried to make contact and—"

"I don't want to talk about this," Charity said flatly. "Why aren't we moving any faster?"

Mrs. Stone sighed. "At any rate, I'm gratified that you came to me for help today."

"I had no choice," Charity shot back. "You were the only one I could go to."

"What about your bosom chum, that troublemaking blond chit ... your husband's sister?"

The other knew of her friendship with Percy?

Her surprise must have shown, for Mrs. Stone said, "As I've mentioned, I've been observing you from afar. Watching you grow and blossom. Wishing ... that I could be there."

The surrounding hubbub grew quiet compared to the havoc within Charity. She could hear the poignant regret in Mrs. Stone's words ... yet the other had no right to march back into her life and say such things! As they inched forward through the masses, her throat worked around words she wasn't ready to give.

Instead, she said, "Percy is expecting, and I'd never risk her well-being." Then she blurted, "She is
loyal
, you see, and even if she were as large as a house, she'd insist on accompanying me. She'd never abandon me in a time of need."

Pain rippled across Mrs. Stone's face, and Charity felt a shameful satisfaction.

"Rome wasn't built in a day." The actress gave a curt nod. "You should know that we're getting close to the ring."

Charity blinked. Standing on her toes, she craned her neck—and got a glimpse of Paul. Her heart slammed against her ribcage. Even from a few dozen yards away, she could see the blood: so
much
of it, scarlet streaks down his face and chest. He dodged a blow, disappearing from her line of vision. She jumped up and down, desperate for another look.

"Can you see Paul?" she cried. "Dear God, is he losing?"

"Your voice," Mrs. Stone hissed.

"Er, I mean, what in blazes is happening?" Charity said in her gruffest tone.

"Bloody Fines is gettin' killed, that's what's happening." The slurred voice belonged to the scruffy fellow a few paces to her right. Bleary-eyed and scowling, the man was clearly jug-bitten. "'Ad a month's wages on the cove, and there'll be trouble an' strife to greet me at 'ome all right. Married to a bloody 'arpy on the best o' days. Tonight? She'll tear my bloody 'ead off."

Panicked, Charity said, "How badly is Fines losing?"

"Bugger's down five rounds to eight. But the last three rounds, 'tis been a massacre. Barnes got 'im against the ropes an' punched the tickin' out o' 'im." The man took a swig from his flask, adding sourly, "Should've known better than to bet on the dark 'orse."

"Fines is a
winner
," Charity said fiercely.

"Bastard'll be lucky to make it out alive." The other belched. "Not that I give a damn, after what 'e's cost me."

Before Charity could snap back a rejoinder, a collective gasp filled the air.

"What happened?" she cried, just remembering to keep her tone low.

One of Mrs. Stone's footmen turned to look at her. "Fines just got knocked off 'is feet. 'E's got thirty seconds to make it to the scratch line or 'e's lost the match."

Fear paralyzed her.
Please God, don't let Paul be hurt ...

"Bastard just got up again!" A voice rang out from the crowd. "That's the lad! Fight's not over yet!"

"Can't we get any closer?" Charity shouted to the footman in front.

"Doin' our best, m—I mean, sir." Sweat dripped down the man's face. "Crowd's packed so thick there's 'ardly room to breathe, let alone move."

Charity searched wildly for any route to ringside. As her gaze swept the yards separating her from Paul, it latched upon a figure standing halfway between them. A man garbed in elegant, unrelieved black, surrounded by a circle of henchmen. Her teeth gnashed.

She grabbed the leading footman's arm, pointed to her target. "Get me over there!"

The guard nodded. Moments later, she reached Garrity.

His cold black gaze slitted when he recognized her. He waved his cutthroats aside. "Mrs. Fines," he said with disdain. "How unconventional you are today."

"And how dastardly
you
are," she snapped. "What did you do to Paul?"

"I don't know what you mean."

She detected the smugness in his tone. "You're forcing him to lose," she said with ferocity. "He's working off my father's debt by deliberately losing this fight—"

Garrity grabbed her by the arm, his gaze darting around them. "Continue talking that way," he hissed in an undertone, "and you'll have a riot on your hands. And, trust me, it'll be your husband's head they're after first."

Charity swallowed but stood her ground. "Why are you doing this?"

"You've heard the expression
an eye for eye
? He took what was mine."

"You don't even know me. You couldn't possibly care that I married someone else!"

"I don't give a damn about you," Garrity said icily, "but about the fact that Fines had the audacity to steal from under my nose. I never forget a wrong."

"I was never yours to begin with. Release Paul from this devil's bargain!"

"What's done can't be undone," Garrity said.

"We'll see about that," Charity said.

She prodded one of Mrs. Stone's footmen. "Hoist me up."

The fellow blinked. In the next heartbeat, she was seated upon his massive shoulders. From this height, she witnessed Barnes' fist slamming into Paul's jaw. Pain splintered her chest as Paul sagged against the ropes, his face battered and bleeding, one eye swollen shut. The audience stomped and jeered.

Desperation gave her strength. In a gruff voice, she declared, "Apollo Fines is going to win!"

Boos and raucous calls greeted her.

"Get off the sauce!"

"Cove doesn't stand a chance. In fact, 'e can barely stand at all!"

"Who'll put their money where their mouth is?" she shouted back. "Who'll take my wager? I've got quid that says Fines takes the match!"

A murmur spread through the crowd. She knew what they were thinking—a lordlet plump in the pockets but thin in the attic. A pigeon ripe for the plucking. A few yards from the ring, a hand shot up in the air, waving a betting ledger.

A bookmaker.

"Let the lad pass!" he shouted. "Get him over here!"

The audience, obviously wanting to see a pompous greenling get his just desserts, parted to allow her passage. But they blocked the footmen and Mrs. Stone, who called out, "Be careful!"

Charity jerked her chin and wriggled through the space between the bodies.

Have to get to Paul ... almost there ...

Hands grabbed her just before she reached the ring.

The bookmaker was short and fat, his waistcoat bulging at the seams. His might have been an avuncular air had he not been flanked by brutish cutthroats and an assistant whose job seemed to be to function as a desk. The latter was bent over, an open book on his back and a pot of ink in one of his outstretched hands.

The bookmaker held a quill over the page.

"What is the amount you wish to wager, sir?" he said silkily.

"Er, six thousand pounds," Charity said in her best male voice.

The man didn't blink. "Be very certain: once a bet is recorded, there's no going back." A drop of ink dripped from the tip of his pen and splattered onto the page. "And I'll require the full amount now."

Her gaze darted to the ring. The fighters were resting between rounds, and she could see the sweaty, quivering muscles of Paul's back as he sat on his knee man's leg. Suddenly, he bent over, retching.

Withdrawing the packet of banknotes, she shoved it at the bookmaker.

"I'm certain," she said.

The bookmaker took his time counting the notes before scribbling in his ledger. "Odds are twelve to one if you win." The corners of his mouth curled as he held out the quill. "Sign here."

She committed herself to the line.

Receipt in hand, she plunged forward. She squeezed between bodies and pushed her way through to the ring. Just as she neared Paul's corner, hands grabbed her.

"No closer," the guard said.

Desperately, she watched as Paul remained with his head between his knees. Was it too late? Could he get his strength back?

"Paul," she shouted frantically.

He didn't turn.

She gave up any pretense of sounding like a male. Raising her voice, she cried, "Paul, it's me, Charity! You have to win, do you hear me? Our future is riding on it!"

FORTY-SIX

Paul's entire universe was made of pain. His head pounded, and he couldn't see through his left eye, which was swollen shut. His guts continued to spasm, even after he'd puked them up. All of this was the consequence of allowing himself to be used as a human punching bag. He gargled some water, tried to eat the slice of orange Fogg held to his mouth. The fruit's acid scorched his cut lip.

And damn, if he wasn't hearing things on top of it all. He could have sworn ...

"Paul, it's Charity! Behind you! Look at me!"

He bolted upright. Staggered to his feet. Spinning around, he saw ... the blow to his stomach was worse than any Barnes had delivered.

"What are you doing here?" he yelled.

"I came to see you win!" his wife shouted back. She was struggling, held back by one of the guards hired to protect the ring.

The sight of a man's hands on her sent a fresh sizzle through Paul's blood. He started forward, a growl in his throat. It took both Fogg and Stickley to restrain him.