A Sapphire Season by Lynn Morris

Author:Lynn Morris
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: FaithWords
Published: 2015-08-11T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter Thirteen

Three young bucks strutted down Bond Street, stepping gallantly aside to allow the ladies and their maids to pass. The street was not at all crowded, however, as it was the unearthly early hour of nine o’clock in the morning.

Sir Giles Knyvet was nattily dressed in a well-cut dark blue tailcoat, fawn-colored breeches and top boots. Lewin was, as always, dressed in his manly regimentals. Harry Smythe was as finely tailored as Giles, with an olive-green coat, tight pantaloons, and Hessian boots. Both Lewin and Harry carried small portmanteaux. “Gentleman” John Jackson, whose nickname suited him in all ways, had decreed that any man who boxed in his saloon would wear knee breeches, stockings, and plain soft cotton pumps. “I’ll not have fool dandies stamping around the ring in buckskins and boots, like a backstreet brawl,” he had said.

Harry said, “I’m feeling vigorous this morning in spite of a late night at the Daffy Club. Would anyone care to make a small wager on our bout?”

Lewin said, “Giles never gambles because he thinks it’s a weakness, and I never gamble because I have good sense and no money. Sorry, old fellow.”

“No matter,” Harry said cheerfully. “I’m going to enjoy my victory all the same.”

“Swaggering young pup, ain’t he?” Giles observed to Lewin.

Gentleman Jackson’s saloon was strictly a sportsman’s domain, but it had a spare elegance. One long, low room was designated for training pugilists, a second room was for fencing and the ancient art of stick fighting, which young dandies gleefully did with their walking sticks. Both rooms had highly polished oak floors, kept scrupulously clean. The walls were decorated with prints of famous bouts, portraits of well-known pugilists, and diagrams explaining the science of boxing.

Since his long-ago rough-and-tumble days with Lewin, Giles had never cared for boxing, although he was actually a formidable opponent, for when he did indulge, he hit hard and accurately and was very quick. But over the years he had come to much prefer fencing. However, he did admire Jackson, who had almost single-handedly elevated pugilism not only to an exacting science, but to an art. Giles had frequented the saloon often this Season, partly because Lewin was such an enthusiastic competitor, but also because Giles had come to enjoy exercising with the weights that were standard training equipment for Jackson’s students.

They came into the boxing room and were surprised to see a large crowd already gathered and sitting in the chairs that the saloon provided for observers. Normally two or three gentlemen might be sparring with partners, with other gentlemen exercising. Today, however, only two men were boxing on the floor: Lord Southam and Gentleman John Jackson himself. Jackson was not as tall as Lord Southam, but he was fully as muscular. Always, when Jackson sparred, the other men left the floor entirely to him in order to observe his genius.

Giles, Lewin, and Harry took seats in the back row of chairs, as that was all that was available. The crowd of

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