Indulgence 2: One Glimpse (14 page)

Henry’s expression hardened, but even through the new anger Sam could still see that patronizing disappointment. “I know you’re angry with me, Sam, but you didn’t used to be like this. You used to be so—” Henry’s voice caught, and his gaze darted past Sam to the various men watching them. When he turned back, his voice was like granite. “I guess Richard was right. He told me I was wasting my time with you.”

“Richard,” Sam spat under his breath. “Oh, yes, another blessed one with everything. I can see what it finally took for someone to measure up to your standards. Wealth, title,
beauty
.” Sam could taste the sour bile of his own envy, but it only fueled him more. “And from what I hear from our shared friend Julian, Richard’s height is not the only thing about him that is above average. Enjoy.”

Henry’s eyes darkened with anger as he brought his hand down from the bag and shoved it into Sam’s shoulder. For a second, Sam felt the cold air of that cellar again, the sick shock when Henry had shoved him down and away. The humiliation.

Not again.

“Argh!” Sam regained his balance and flew at Henry, his fingers digging into hard flesh as he shoved him back. Henry raised his fists.

“Whoa!” someone shouted just before a pair of arms moved in front of Sam and pushed him back.

“Mind your own business, man,” Sam raged before he bothered to look up, and found himself looking into John’s confused bronze eyes. He was in his shirtsleeves, the neckline open to the top of his chest, and he still smelled of fresh linen and cologne. He must have just arrived.

“Sam.” Henry spoke gently, but it was obvious that he fought his own anger. “Let us not do this—”

“Coward!” Sam bellowed, then everything stopped.

John’s hands, which Sam realized were pressed against his shoulders, tightened. Sam looked up to see John staring at him in shocked disbelief. Murmurs from the other men in the room reached Sam’s ears in time for him to realize what he had just done.

“My God, man,” John whispered. “Why?”

Henry shook his head with a look of sad resignation. Sir Samuel had called Lord Brenleigh a coward to his face and in front of witnesses. There was only one acceptable response to such an insult, and the sheen building over Henry’s eyes told that he did not want to do it.

“I will stand as your second. If you wish it,” John said.

Sam’s stomach lurched, but he didn’t miss the strange look Henry directed at John. Of course Henry would be confused at John’s offer, since no one knew of any kind of friendship between them.

“Second?” came a calm yet booming voice. “I know nothing of seconds in the ring, gentlemen.”

Everyone turned to see a tall, dark-haired man with an imposing muscular physique walking toward them. It was none other than Jackson himself, the famous boxer and the undisputed ruler of his little domain.

“I’m afraid we were not discussing a sparring match, sir.” Henry wiped a hand over his mouth. “We will take our unfortunate business outside.”

“I see,” Jackson said. “If you do that, my lord, I’m afraid I’ll have to demand that both of you, your seconds, and anyone associated with this rubbish never sets foot in my gymnasium again.”

Sam stared at Jackson in confusion, as did everyone else within earshot.

“I make no secret about my opinion of duels,” he said, his rough tone echoing off the plain walls. “Pistols favor the lucky and blades are for slicing bread. If you have a quarrel with a man, you settle it with your fives.”

Sam tried to swallow, but his tongue had turned to parchment. Everyone was staring at him, including John. He still held Sam’s shoulders as if to keep him from flying at Henry. Sam was thankful for it, for he may have collapsed without the support.

“You suggest we spar, Mr. Jackson? In the ring?” Henry sounded uncertain.

Jackson made a curt nod, and several of the onlooking men scoffed.

“That shouldn’t take long,” someone in the crowd quipped. Another made some snide reference to David and Goliath.

“Well, gentlemen?” Jackson looked between Henry and Sam. “Settle this like men, or murder a fellow on some damp hill tomorrow morning?”

“That’s quite the description,” John muttered as he finally pulled his hands away. The loss of contact left Sam wanting to weep.

“Sam,” Henry whispered, standing close, “we don’t have to really do this. I promise I’ll delope.”

What?
Sam blinked as hot rage prickled his skin. “Delope?”

Henry’s smile was sad. “Unless you’ve changed your interests over the years, I’m guessing you still don’t care for shooting.”

Pity. Patronizing pity was what Sam saw in those pleading blue eyes. Of course Henry would not wish to meet him tomorrow morning. It would be a bad mark on his honor to gun down someone so obviously inferior in skill, in rank, in every way. So the benevolent lord would delope. He would fire his pistol into the air rather than risk killing someone so incapable of matching him. And the entire ton would laugh for years.

Like hell.

“No,” Sam declared. “I will settle for the ring if you will.”

Henry’s cheeks paled, but if he had further objections he did not voice them. Instead, he nodded and headed toward the canvas-covered ring. The other men were already abandoning their exercise pursuits and jockeying for a good place to watch.

“What on earth is all this about?” John asked. His eyes were intense, and the expression on his face looked so much like concern, but Sam laughed bitterly. Why would John be concerned about him?

“Nothing of much relevance anymore,” Sam muttered. His heart was pounding and making him dizzy.

“If it’s of no relevance, why fight over it?”

Sam watched as Henry removed his shirt and an attendant began tying leather mitts onto his hands. Not too long ago, the sight of Henry’s defined muscles and perfect peach-hued skin would have sent Sam longing for what could have been, but now it left him cold with hate. The knowledge that men like Henry had everything with seemingly no effort, even the lucky blessing of physical beauty, made Sam want to rage for the unfairness of it. The envy was a sickness that, deep down, Sam knew was eating him alive.

He looked up and, seeing that John was still waiting for an answer, shrugged and said, “Why do men do anything? Because we’re stupid bastards, that’s why.” With that, he left John and headed toward another attendant who had a pair of mitts waiting for him.

SAM WAS ANGRY and Brenleigh was disappointed, that much John had seen right away. It did not take too much intelligence to see that whatever quarrel existed between the two men, it was Sam who had been the injured party. John had also watched their exchange long enough to know that Brenleigh had approached Sam on civil terms. Whatever had happened, Sam was in no mood to forgive.

John knew he should have minded his own business, but he had been unable to control his advance when Brenleigh lashed out and shoved Sam. A confounding wave of protectiveness had sent him flying to Sam’s side before he was sure what he would do there. For the last three days he had had his eyes open, expecting—hoping?—to encounter Sam everywhere.

“Gentlemen.” Jackson’s commanding voice pulled John’s attention to the ring. He stood to one side with the spectators. “You know my rules for conduct. I will not insult you by repeating them, but as this is a special match I will suggest some changes. One round, no breaks. Unconsciousness or failure to regain your feet in four seconds ends the match. Are we agreed?”

Brenleigh and Sam nodded. Both stood in the ring, shirtless and balancing on bare feet. Where Brenleigh was tall and lean, Sam was shorter and stocky. Sam’s physique lacked the thin-skinned definition of Brenleigh’s, but he was still obviously strong and healthy. Unfortunately, brute strength was only so useful in boxing.

“Damn fool,” the man next to John scoffed. “I think I would have chosen a dawn appointment rather than have my face rearranged.”

John glared at him. “Does Brenleigh have skill that you know of, then?”

“Skill?” The man laughed. “Don’t know about that, but just look at them. I say the earl isn’t going to need much skill to lay him out.”

John held back a nasty retort. His desire to defend Sam and take his side was immediate, despite knowing nothing of their quarrel. That was strange enough in itself. He made it a point to never take sides in ton squabbles.

There was no bell or call to action. The fight simply began. Sam threw the first punch, hard and angry, but Brenleigh shifted quickly to one side. Sam’s recovery left a perfect opening, but rather than strike at Sam’s exposed right Brenleigh moved back with his hands still in blocking position. The spectators let up whoops of laughter, which only seemed to increase Sam’s rage.

John gripped the canvas at the edge of the ring and watched as, it appeared, Brenleigh did everything he could to not actually participate in the fight. He danced around, shifted, and accepted glancing blows that still must have hurt like hell. It continued for some time, until both men’s nostrils flared with exertion and their skin glistened with sweat. The crowd found Brenleigh’s hands-off strategy amusing, laughing each time Brenleigh dodged a punch or forced Sam to come after him.

But Brenleigh was not laughing. Whatever game of restraint he was playing seemed to be wearing on him with each passing minute. Sam, so enraged his face and neck were red, made a left punch. Brenleigh moved to avoid it and ended up stepping into the path of Sam’s wide right hook. It caught Brenleigh just below the eye, snapping his head to the side and forcing him back.

The crowd groaned its disappointment even as John clenched his fists and muttered a “Yes” under his breath. But Sam’s triumph did not last. Brenleigh recovered from the hit and lashed out with a right fist to Sam’s ribs. Sam cried out, first in pain and then in fuming anger as he swung at Brenleigh again, this time catching him in the shoulder. Brenleigh’s bizarre detachment was gone. He dealt Sam a swift blow to the jaw, causing him to stumble back and flail against the limp rope surrounding the ring.

For a moment, Brenleigh reached out as if he meant to help Sam from falling over the ropes. John wondered if anyone else noticed it, or the look of genuine distress on Brenleigh’s face, but it was once again short-lived. Sam regained his balance and, taking advantage of Brenleigh’s drop in guard, dealt a hard blow to his midsection.

“Argh!” Brenleigh groaned and doubled over, shoving Sam away. As he straightened his back, Sam came in with a strike aimed square at Brenleigh’s nose, but it never met its goal. Brenleigh was faster and his reach longer, allowing him to connect a swift left hook to Sam’s jaw. It was followed immediately by a resounding punch to his right temple.

No!
John clawed his fingers into the canvas mat as Sam went down. He landed on his side with one hand braced below him, a spray of blood falling from his lips. He tried to regain his feet, but swayed and stumbled back down with a whimper.

“Already?” Someone in the crowd laughed, and the others added their jeering agreement.

John wanted to leap in, pull Sam to his feet, and tell him that he could do it, that he wasn’t out yet. He wanted to smash his fist into the faces of the heckling bastards next to him.

Brenleigh stood back, watching Sam with a strangely blank look on his face. Sam tried to regain his feet again, and almost made it before his bloody lips parted on a gasp and he fell to his other side. His eyes rolled in his head, and John thought he would be sick.

The crowd let up a mix of disappointed groans and derisive hoots as Jackson tossed a towel into the ring.

“That is four seconds, Sir Samuel. It’s done.” Jackson, who was still standing on the floor with the rest of the spectators, turned to Brenleigh. “My lord, are you satisfied?”

Brenleigh nodded, then stepped forward and extended his gloved hand down to Sam. Sam growled and slapped it away.

“Ho! Unsporting!” The men voiced their disapproval in jeers.

John clenched his jaw to keep from responding and instead continued to watch the two men in the ring. He doubted anyone else was paying attention anymore, but he saw the two men’s eyes meet. Sam’s expression was a twisted mix of rage and hurt, but there was no mistaking the words his lips formed, even if John could not hear them.

I hate you.

Brenleigh stood frozen as Sam stumbled out of the ring, his face down like he was trying to hide. A nervous attendant approached him long enough to untie one of the mitts, then leaped back as Sam barreled past him, untying the other mitt himself and throwing it to the floor.

Several men crowded around Brenleigh, laughing and giving their congratulations on the victory. No one approached Sam.

Leave it alone, John. It doesn’t concern you.

But no one followed Sam. Of all the men gathering around Brenleigh, smiling and giving their meaningless opinions on what had happened, not one man went after Sam to even see if he was all right.

John headed down the short hallway and paused at the door to the dressing room Jackson provided to his club members. The sounds of curses, stomping feet, and the scuff of furniture being shoved around gave him some idea of what he would find.

The room was divided by rows of tall wardrobes and shelves, with various chairs scattered throughout. Two chairs nearest the door lay on their sides. The banging from the farthest row stopped, only to be replaced by the unmistakable sound of sobbing.

Leave.

John picked up both chairs and righted them. As he approached the last row of wardrobes, he hesitated. Sam interrupted his sobs with a blistering string of curses, following by the distinct sound of a fist slamming into wood.

“Don’t do that,” John said as he stepped into the aisle.

Sam scowled in his direction, but the hateful look vanished almost immediately. He turned away, hiding his face.

“You,” Sam said as he released a watery, sarcastic laugh. “Of course it would have to you, of all people.”

“Me?” John said, but he knew what Sam meant. The last person he would want seeing him, beaten and humiliated, would be some deviant. John turned to leave.