A Respectable Female by Maggie MacKeever

Author:Maggie MacKeever [MacKeever, Maggie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Regency Romance Novella
Publisher: Belgrave House
Published: 2014-02-09T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eleven

Randy Roddy Kilpatrick scowled at his companion. “You cobbled it, you bottle-head. You had her and you let her go.”

“Couldn’t help but let her go!” protested Hector. “The she-devil attacked me with a basalt bust.”

“Corkbrain.” Before Roddy could comment further on his companion’s mental capabilities, or lack thereof, the crowd around them roared as one of the boxers came into view. Roddy elbowed his way closer to the roped-off ring eight feet square where Tom Trotter and the Blacksmith would each attempt to give the other his bastings. He had wagered all his blunt on the outcome of this prize fight.

The day was fine and sunny. Not a dark cloud marred the sky. More than a thousand people, along with their gigs and curricles and carts, were packed in a circle around the ring. Pickpockets and straw-heeled damsels and petty criminals worked their way through the throng. Vendors of various substances shouted to make themselves heard above the din. All ranks of society rubbed shoulders at ringside, from the noble patrons who arranged the prizefights to the thugs who fixed matches and occasionally broke uncooperative bones.

Bare-knuckle boxing was illegal. Bouts often took place well away from Town. A few days prior to a match, the word went out from the London boxing clubs. This being a prudent time to be absent from London, Roddy and Hector had immediately set out for Bath.

Odds favored the Blacksmith, a giant of a man who had never lost a fight. So convinced was the Blacksmith of his superiority that he had placed an advertisement in the public papers daring any boxer to meet him for a five hundred guinea purse. His challenger, Tom Trotter, was a man of science who bewildered his opponents by bobbing about and throwing unexpected blows, his preferred target the face.

Bare-knuckle blows could cause horrific facial injuries. A misplaced punch could fracture the fist that dealt it, with crippling results.

Still smarting from having been called a spoil-all — what had Roddy expected him to do, shoot the she-devil? — Hector followed his friend through the crowd. He was as fond as any man of a good bout: pugilists, stripped to the waist, chopping at each other, dislodging teeth, flattening noses, tearing eyes from their sockets, while blood poured on the grass.

Fond as any man, or woman. A young whore caught Hector’s eye. She was a trifle chicken-breasted, and definitely wide in the bough, but Hector wasn’t a particular sort of fellow. He winked and earned a saucy glance. Maybe after Roddy’s man had won — Roddy had assured Hector it was a Sure Thing; Tom Trotter had no more chance of besting the Blacksmith than a cat of surviving in hell without claws — and they had received their winnings, he would invite the saucy strumpet to dance the feather-bed jig.

Hector joined Roddy at ringside. Excitement hung heavy in the air. Heads turned as the Blacksmith strutted forward. Would he be able to make good his boast that he could beat any fighter in the land?

The Blacksmith swaggered into the ring, sucking on an orange.

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