A Masquerade in the Moonlight(36)
Less than ten minutes had passed since Dooley had greeted him at the door.
“Gentleman Jackson’s is a boxing saloon, Paddy. I’ve heard all about the place. For a fee, any gentleman of ability can step into the ring with the retired English champion for the honor of having his nose broken by the great man. They also square off with each other, which I admit must be a treat to watch. Do you suppose Harewood will challenge me to a bout?”
“Not if he has half a brain in his head, but I doubt even a full brain would stop an Englishman from believing he could wipe your Irish mug all over the floor,” Dooley said, grinning as he held out a bottle-green frock coat once Thomas had succeeded in pulling on hose and a freshly pressed pair of buff-colored breeches, his shirttails neatly tucked inside before he closed the buttons against his flat belly. “Wear the pumps. You’ll not be wanting your boots, boyo, if you’re going to have to step into the ring, for I’m not going to act the valet in the middle of Bond Street.”
“Who says I’m going to mill anybody down, not that the thought doesn’t serve to brighten my day? And you’re getting fairly full of yourself, aren’t you, Paddy?” Thomas teased, searching through a pile of clothes and papers lying on the desk in hopes of locating his hat. “Anyone would think I’d asked for your assistance. I’m fully grown and capable of looking after myself, thank you.”
“Your hat is in the other room, hanging from a candelabra, your cane propped on the floor beside it,” Dooley told him, heading out of the bedroom they had been sharing since coming to London three weeks earlier. “Now, come on, boyo—we’ve got our country’s business to attend to and, if we’re lucky, an Englishman or two to bash.”
It took almost a full half hour for the rented hack to take them through the early afternoon traffic from Piccadilly to Bond Street, and Thomas passed the time munching on a meat pie he had purchased from a hawker just outside the hotel, so that he was refreshed, if thirsty, when he and Dooley walked into Gentleman Jackson’s Boxing Saloon and asked for Sir Ralph Harewood.
“The gentlemen’s party is awaiting them upstairs,” the liveried servant said, bowing, and then ushered them toward the staircase with a wave of his hand.
Dooley looked back at the liveried servant before he and Thomas climbed the stairs two at a time, and remarked, “Bunch of nonsense, Tommie. Bowing servants, great hulking chandeliers, Chinese wallpapers. It’s embarrassing, that’s what it is. Ah—this is more like it! A place like this—full of fists aching for a hit—I’ve died and the sweet angels have lifted me up to heaven’s gate.”
Thomas stopped at the head of the stairs and grinned in agreement. They were faced with a most enormous room filled with roped-off rings and painted squares marking areas on the sawdust-strewn wood floor. Sawdust was good. It meant the gentlemen were expected not only to hit each other, but to bleed as well. He felt his palms itch, aching for the friendly opportunity to beat one of his fellowman’s two ears into one.
Everywhere Thomas looked gentlemen, some stripped to their waists, some still dressed for the street and standing by idly, drinks in their hands, were immersed in performing or observing the manly sport of boxing as it was practiced in London.
In Philadelphia the scene would have been very different. Mills took place out-of-doors, for one thing, and the rules weren’t quite so stringent. But spilled blood was still red, and a fist was still a man’s best weapon. How different could it all be?
The room, Thomas noticed, was as bright as it was big, for there were floor-to-ceiling windows lining two walls, and dust motes danced in the sunlight pouring in through those uncurtained windows.
The noise level was delightfully high, the air smelled of sawdust and sweat, and there wasn’t a lady to be seen—which was as it should be, for females did nothing but muck up what they couldn’t understand, crying and fainting at the sight of a little blood. Although he thought Marguerite might appreciate the scene.
No nuances here though, either, such as Thomas had faced in society, had just encountered with Marguerite. No saying one thing and meaning another. No foolery. Just fists and jaws—and backslaps and drinks once it was over. No hard feelings. No recriminations. This was a man’s world, a man’s kingdom, and Thomas immediately felt at home.
“There’s Sir Ralph,” Dooley said, breaking into Thomas’s thoughts as he gestured to a small knot of men standing to the right of one of the rings. “He’s over there with Mappleton and some bloke I don’t recognize. Now there’s Death, boyo—and I didn’t even have to send you for him.”