Charlie.”
“And this Charlie resides here?”
Marco shrugged. “Don’t know if Charlie lives here, but she does work here.”
“Charlie is a she?” Mrs. Parrish sucked in a breath. “You’re taking me to a brothel?”
“God, no. I’m taking you to an underground bare-knuckle brawling match.”
* * *
“I thought you were jesting,” Mrs. Parrish shouted above the din, “when you mentioned the brawl.”
“I never joke about boxing,” he yelled back. “It’s a beautiful, ancient art.”
The boxer in the makeshift ring took a punch straight to his nose, sending blood spraying in an arc that spattered on the shirts and jackets of the nearest bystanders. The match itself was held in a former slaughterhouse, huge holes in the walls and ceiling, and the massive space teemed with sweaty, shouting men—and a few women—all of them there to bet on the fates of burly, cold-eyed brawlers. The scent of coppery blood and rank sweat hung thickly in the air.
“I can see the aesthetic majesty,” Mrs. Parrish muttered.
He scanned her face beneath the hood of her cloak. She was pale, and looked a little ill. Despite this, her wide eyes seemed to try to take everything in at once.
Desmond pushed through the crowd to join Marco and Mrs. Parrish. His black hair was plastered to his spice-hued skin, and he looked cross. “Where the hell is this Charlie?”
“Working,” Marco answered. “But she’ll join us just as soon as she collects after the match.”
The crowd roared as one of the bruisers went down hard, and four blokes were required to drag the unconscious fighter out of the ring. Men clustered in a group as money changed hands, all of them gathered around one central figure that wasn’t quite visible amid the chaos. Finally, the bettors dispersed, revealing Charlie at the center of the madness, pocketing a huge wad of cash.
As they stood waiting, a red-faced man staggered toward Marco. Ah, hell.
“You,” the man slurred, pointing a finger at Marco.
“Me,” he answered.
“You were the bloke that done took my kids away,” the bloke snarled.
“Seeing as how you beat them every morning and night,” Marco answered, “I didn’t think you’d miss them very much.” The three children in question had been placed in an orphanage, and were later adopted by a childless couple in Greenwich. Last Marco had heard, the eldest son was apprenticed to a printer.
“How’m I supposed to get any money if my kids ain’t working?”
“I suggest getting a job.”
When the bloke swung at Marco, he was prepared, taking a short sidestep and avoiding the blow. The bully stumbled forward, and Marco kicked the back of his knees, sending the bloke sprawling to the dirt. But the fool didn’t stay down. He lurched to his feet and threw another punch. Marco struck fast, a direct hit to the bully’s jaw.
The man sank to the ground, bloody and unconscious.
Marco shook out his fist. He caught Mrs. Parrish’s stunned look, and only stared coolly back. A moment later, Charlie caught sight of Marco and gave a small wave, then crossed through the throng. The crowd parted for Charlie, her natural authority like a ship’s prow, cutting through the waves of humanity.
Recovering herself, Mrs. Parrish said under her breath, “Now I feel especially dowdy.”
“Ah, don’t compare yourself to Charlie,” Marco answered. “There’s no one like her.”
The woman in question stopped in front of them. She tipped back her bowler hat and plucked the stub of a cigar from her mouth, then planted her hands on her hips. In all of Marco’s travels, he’d never encountered a woman—a person— as singular as the bookmaker. She seemed somewhere in her early forties, though she wore her age with a triumphant glow of beauty, defiant in her lack of youth. Charlie favored shirtwaists and well-tailored waistcoats, as well as the finest in neckcloths. Though she wore masculine trappings on her top half, she preferred
“And this Charlie resides here?”
Marco shrugged. “Don’t know if Charlie lives here, but she does work here.”
“Charlie is a she?” Mrs. Parrish sucked in a breath. “You’re taking me to a brothel?”
“God, no. I’m taking you to an underground bare-knuckle brawling match.”
* * *
“I thought you were jesting,” Mrs. Parrish shouted above the din, “when you mentioned the brawl.”
“I never joke about boxing,” he yelled back. “It’s a beautiful, ancient art.”
The boxer in the makeshift ring took a punch straight to his nose, sending blood spraying in an arc that spattered on the shirts and jackets of the nearest bystanders. The match itself was held in a former slaughterhouse, huge holes in the walls and ceiling, and the massive space teemed with sweaty, shouting men—and a few women—all of them there to bet on the fates of burly, cold-eyed brawlers. The scent of coppery blood and rank sweat hung thickly in the air.
“I can see the aesthetic majesty,” Mrs. Parrish muttered.
He scanned her face beneath the hood of her cloak. She was pale, and looked a little ill. Despite this, her wide eyes seemed to try to take everything in at once.
Desmond pushed through the crowd to join Marco and Mrs. Parrish. His black hair was plastered to his spice-hued skin, and he looked cross. “Where the hell is this Charlie?”
“Working,” Marco answered. “But she’ll join us just as soon as she collects after the match.”
The crowd roared as one of the bruisers went down hard, and four blokes were required to drag the unconscious fighter out of the ring. Men clustered in a group as money changed hands, all of them gathered around one central figure that wasn’t quite visible amid the chaos. Finally, the bettors dispersed, revealing Charlie at the center of the madness, pocketing a huge wad of cash.
As they stood waiting, a red-faced man staggered toward Marco. Ah, hell.
“You,” the man slurred, pointing a finger at Marco.
“Me,” he answered.
“You were the bloke that done took my kids away,” the bloke snarled.
“Seeing as how you beat them every morning and night,” Marco answered, “I didn’t think you’d miss them very much.” The three children in question had been placed in an orphanage, and were later adopted by a childless couple in Greenwich. Last Marco had heard, the eldest son was apprenticed to a printer.
“How’m I supposed to get any money if my kids ain’t working?”
“I suggest getting a job.”
When the bloke swung at Marco, he was prepared, taking a short sidestep and avoiding the blow. The bully stumbled forward, and Marco kicked the back of his knees, sending the bloke sprawling to the dirt. But the fool didn’t stay down. He lurched to his feet and threw another punch. Marco struck fast, a direct hit to the bully’s jaw.
The man sank to the ground, bloody and unconscious.
Marco shook out his fist. He caught Mrs. Parrish’s stunned look, and only stared coolly back. A moment later, Charlie caught sight of Marco and gave a small wave, then crossed through the throng. The crowd parted for Charlie, her natural authority like a ship’s prow, cutting through the waves of humanity.
Recovering herself, Mrs. Parrish said under her breath, “Now I feel especially dowdy.”
“Ah, don’t compare yourself to Charlie,” Marco answered. “There’s no one like her.”
The woman in question stopped in front of them. She tipped back her bowler hat and plucked the stub of a cigar from her mouth, then planted her hands on her hips. In all of Marco’s travels, he’d never encountered a woman—a person— as singular as the bookmaker. She seemed somewhere in her early forties, though she wore her age with a triumphant glow of beauty, defiant in her lack of youth. Charlie favored shirtwaists and well-tailored waistcoats, as well as the finest in neckcloths. Though she wore masculine trappings on her top half, she preferred
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