The Wild One (41 page)

"You can't leave me like this!" he all but
shouted. "Damn you, de Montforte,
we had an agreement
!"

"And I have a wife and daughter. I don't
want them ending up like Nails's family if something should happen
to me. I don't want my wife mourning me, nor my little girl growing
up without a papa." He picked up his hat and moved toward the door.
"Goodbye, Snelling."

Snelling shot to his feet and raced around
the table. "My, oh, my," he said, flinging all caution to the wind,
"I never thought that you, of all people, would turn out to be such
a lily-livered coward. You, a de Montforte!"

Lord Gareth paused, and Snelling was
reminded of how very tall and formidable this young man actually
was. How powerfully muscled he was beneath that loose shirt — and
how very foolish he himself was for provoking him so. He caught his
breath, fearing he was going to be the next person to feel Lord
Gareth's fist — but no, the Wild One had himself tightly under
control, no longer the impulsive hotspur he'd been that night at
Mrs. Bottomley's. "I would call you out for such a remark," the
younger man said evenly, with a cool smile that only made the
coming insult worse, "but I make it a practice to duel exclusively
with gentlemen — not those who aspire to be. Good evening,
Snelling."

"Wait!" Snelling tossed back his wine and
leaped over the sofa, desperate to reach the door before Lord
Gareth did. Gasping, he flattened his back against it and gazed up
at his fighter with panicked eyes. Lord Gareth merely stared right
through him and kept coming, and for a moment Snelling thought he
was simply going to pick him up and throw him out of the way.
"Listen," he said, grinning broadly and spreading his hands in
supplication. He knew he was begging, but he was desperate, unable
to help himself. "I've put a lot of money and time into promoting
this match between you two. I've given you a home, a livelihood,
and a name for yourself. And this is how you think to repay
me?"

"I don't owe you a damned thing, Snelling.
Now, stand aside."

"But —"

Lord Gareth simply reached around him, found
the latch, and pushed the door open. Snelling stumbled, nearly
fell. And now Lord Gareth was striding past him and down the hall,
his footfalls echoing off the walls and high ceiling.

"Wait!" Snelling cried, knowing he would
give ten years of his life to possess that elegant,
bred-in-the-bone grace; another ten for that cool, aristocratic
arrogance —

And everything he owned if only he could get
the young rakehell to fight tonight.

"Lord Gareth!"

The tall figure was almost into the foyer
now.

"
Lord Gareth!
What will it take for
me to get you to do this fight? A thousand pounds? Two thousand?
Name your price, Gareth, and if you win, you shall have it!"

His words reverberated through the hall.

The young man paused at the threshold of the
open door, looking out onto a hundred acres of wheat, rye and
barley, and some of the most fertile ground in Berkshire. Above his
head was Swanthorpe's gorgeous leaded fanlight; beneath that, the
de Montforte coat of arms, forever enshrined in the stone.

Lord Gareth's fair head tipped back as he,
too, looked up and saw his family's arms above the door. He stood
there for a moment, just gazing at that carving in the stone. And
then, very slowly, he turned. His face was perfectly calm, his gaze
almost triumphant.

"Very well then, Snelling," he said. "I want
Swanthorpe Manor."

~~~~

Snelling was in need of a stiff drink after
Lord Gareth left. His heart was still pounding, though shaky relief
was already beginning to spread through his veins. He poured
himself a shot of brandy and sank back into the sofa. Thank God
he'd found a way to get the lad to do the fight, after all. For a
harrowing moment there he'd thought all was lost.

Very well then, Snelling ... I want
Swanthorpe Manor.

Snelling cursed out loud as he recalled Lord
Gareth's words. That wasn't all the arrogant young nob had wanted.
He wanted his friend Lord Brookhampton to be his second for the
fight instead of Woodford. He wanted Snelling to give Nails's widow
enough money to allow her to live comfortably for the remainder of
her life. And, not content to trust Snelling's word, he wanted
Brookhampton to witness the impromptu agreement the two of them
made regarding the terms of the match.

"Otherwise, I'm not fighting."

Bloody hell.
Snelling had just poured
himself another shot when Sanderson, his butler, announced that he
had a visitor.

"Woodford!" He smiled in relief. "Where the
hell
have you been?"

"It's de Montforte."

Snelling's smile vanished. "Shut the
door."

Wordlessly, Woodford went back and pushed it
closed. He glanced nervously around, then pulled up a chair
opposite Snelling. "He's on to us."

"What are you talking about?"

For an answer, Woodford reached into his
coat pocket and pulled out a sheet of folded vellum. "Creedon the
gardener caught Tom Houghton trying to take this to the Duke of
Blackheath late last night." He tossed the note onto the table
before his employer. "The idiot just brought it to me now. I
thought you'd better see it immediately."

Snelling hurriedly read, his face going
purple with rage. "Damn that de Montforte for a clever, sneaking
rogue!" he snarled, crumpling up the vellum that, had it actually
reached the powerful Duke of Blackheath, would've had Snelling
swinging from the nearest tree, so damning were the words. He shook
the thing in Woodford's face. "He knows everything, damn his
eyes!"

"Yes, I figured he was on to us when Osgood,
the chemist, mentioned he'd been snooping around and asking rather
strange questions, so I paid Creedon to keep an eye on him. When
Creedon saw him ask Tom Houghton to carry this note for him, he
knew something was up. He followed the lad, bashed him over the
head, and took the saddlebags — which contained the letter."

"Why the hell did it take him so long to get
the letter back to us?"

"There was also a flask of gin in the
saddlebags."

"Bloody
hell
."

Woodford put both hands on the table, shot a
nervous glance over his shoulder, and leaned close. "What are we
going to do, Jon?"

Snelling held the damning letter over a
candle, watching as it dissolved into a black, writhing curl.
"Well, it's obvious, isn't it?" He flicked the ash from his
fingers. "Lord Gareth knows too much. He must be dealt with —
before he can tell Blackheath everything he knows. Christ, if that
happens, I'm a dead man."

Woodford drew himself up. "Fine. I'll go
take care of him now. Did you say he's gone into town to find
Brookhampton? I'll just waylay him as he's coming back through the
Meadow, stick a knife in his back, and toss him into the Thames
—"

"No, no, that won't do at all. I've sunk
enough money into de Montforte; I'm not going to waste it all by
throwing him into the damned river." He rose and poured himself
another drink, his jaw working furiously as he sloshed the liquid
around his mouth and swallowed. He turned to Woodford, his eyes
blazing. "No, Woodford, we've made a staggering amount of money off
of him ... but that will be
nothing
compared to what you and
I are going to make off of him tonight."

"And how are we going to do that? He's on to
us. He'll be expecting us to drug the Scot so that he'll win yet
again, and then all he'll have to do is denounce us right there in
front of everyone —"

"Don't be a pillock, Woodford. I am not
going to drug the Scot. I didn't wager all my money on the Butcher
just to see him lose."

Woodford raised a heavy brow.

"Lord Gareth is English," Snelling
continued, "and I can tell you right now, every Englishman at that
fight tonight is going to back him — no matter
how
big the
Scot is, no matter how likely it is he'll make pulp of our young
Wild One by the end of the first round. We're talking about
national loyalty here."

Woodford, all ears, rubbed his jaw and
listened.

"Everyone will be betting on Lord Gareth,"
Snelling said, his eyes gleaming. "But
my
money — every
penny I own — is on the Scot. And do you know why?
Because Lord
Gareth is going to lose tonight.
"

Woodford shook his head. "Really, Jon, if
you think he's stupid enough to drink anything you offer him before
the fight, you've got another thing com-"

"I don't need him to drink anything,
Woodford. Have you actually
seen
the Scot fight?" He gave a
little laugh. "There's no way in a million years Lord Gareth will
ever beat him. He's good, but not
that
good." Snelling stood
up, hatred and fury radiating from him like gas from a flame. "Oh
no, Woodford, this time, his opponent will not be drugged.
This
time, our Wild One is going to get the stuffing knocked
out of him."

Woodford raised a brow.

"You see, Woodford, it's not just my fortune
that's at stake here, but also Swanthorpe. I had to offer it up
just to get Lord Gareth to fight tonight. If he wins, it's his; so
he
has
to lose, do you understand me?" Snelling's fist came
down hard on the table. "
He has to lose!
And just to make
sure that he never,
ever
opens his mouth and tells what he
knows, I think we'd better offer the Butcher a hefty financial
incentive for doing something a little special tonight ..."

"And that is?"

"Not just knocking Lord Gareth out — but
killing
him."

Chapter 33

Abingdon hadn't seen such excitement since
the previous autumn's Michaelmas fair. Crowds thronged the roads
leading into the town. Fancy carriages bumped hubs with farmer's
carts. People hung out the windows that overlooked the street,
cheering Gareth as he and Perry, encircled by the Den of Debauchery
members and flanked by Snelling and Woodford, made their way up
Bridge Street. Patriotism was high. The red-and-white cross of St.
George flew from windows, draped shop fronts, and was carried on
great banners by crowds of shouting, reveling supporters who sent
up a roaring
huzzah!
as they caught sight of their English
champion. Gareth refused to think that he might not be worthy of
their ardent loyalty. There was no room in his head right now for
self-doubt — nor that heartbreaking scene not twenty minutes past,
when, after getting ready for the match, he'd come downstairs to
find Juliet silently packing her trunk, tears running down her
set-in-stone face...

It seemed unreal. It could not be happening
to him. She could not be leaving him, not when everything had been
so good between them, not when she'd just told him she loved him,
not when he was risking everything he had — his health, his
reputation, his life — to win Swanthorpe back for his family and
provide a home for the two people he loved most in this world.
Damn it, I
need
you Juliet! Please — oh, God, please —
come to your senses; please have faith in me; please, please,
please be at the house when I get back.
And as the butterflies
began to beat against his stomach, he realized he was not afraid of
facing or losing to the Butcher.

He was afraid of losing his wife.

His dear wife, whom he loved more than life
itself.

"By God, Gareth, all the outrageous things
you've done before are nothing compared to this!" Audlett shouted
over the din, rousing Gareth from his thoughts. "Talk about
daredevil stunts!"

"I'm not sure I can call it a stunt," Gareth
called back, ducking as a bundle of red roses came arcing down on
them from above. Looking up, he saw several pretty maids leaning
from the windows of a coaching inn, waving frantically and blowing
kisses to him. He bent down, picked up the roses before they could
be trampled, and drew one out; then, with a grin he didn't feel, he
tossed the bundle back up to the girls, eliciting a chorus of
excited squealing.

Cokeham was yelling, trying to be heard over
the crowd. "If Perry's going to be your second, then who's going to
be your bottle-holder, Gareth?"

Gareth threw a surreptitious glance at
Snelling, walking several paces away. "It doesn't matter who holds
my ale, as long as it's fiercely guarded. Who's got it,
anyhow?"

Chilcot was there, close to Gareth's side.
"I do!"

"Right. Don't you dare let that out of your
sight, d'you understand?"

Chilcot gave his brainless grin and saluted.
"Aye, cap'n!"

"'Sdeath," Gareth muttered beneath his
breath, wondering if perhaps he should have given that task to
Cokeham instead.

They fought their way up Bridge Street. Rose
petals of every color — pink, red, white, and cream — came drifting
down from the windows above, and Snelling's shouts of "Get back!
Clear away there!" were lost in the din. Just ahead and already
decorated with banners, the County Hall, where the fight would take
place, rose high above a sea of what had to be a thousand people,
all shouting, cheering, and milling about in anticipation; Stert,
Bridge, and the High Streets were clogged from pavement to pavement
with incoming spectators, horses, barking dogs, and vehicles of
every description. Realization of just what he was about to do
suddenly hit Gareth, bringing on the first involuntary prickling of
nerves.

He thought of all the other times in his
life he'd been on show — from the time he'd pretended to have
drowned at Lady Brookhampton's to the time he'd gathered just about
everyone in Ravenscombe to watch him jump Crusader over a human
pyramid. He thought of all the reckless, exhibitionist things he
had ever done and told himself that this wasn't going to be any
different.