A Masquerade in the Moonlight(40)
“Mr. Donovan?” the earl intoned expectantly, then bowed his head to enter the ring beneath the rope Sir Ralph had lifted to facilitate his entry. Once his lordship was through, Sir Ralph allowed the rope to snap back to its original position, leaving Thomas still outside it.
“Whenever you’re ready, your lordship,” Thomas said, bowing to the earl, who now stood in the center of the ring, his hands already drawn up into fists. “I may be an American, and not conversant with your rules, but I do consider myself a gentleman. Considering the disparity in our ages, I’ll do my best not to hurt you.”
“Oh, that’s good, boyo. Insult the man while you’re about it, why not,” Dooley commented as he stepped forward and lifted the rope, allowing Thomas to duck under it. “There’s an old saying I’ve done my best to remember since one otherwise forgettable night in Kilkenny. ‘A soft word never broke a tooth.’ Mayhap you should have learned it, for that fella looks like the sort who would take an eye out of his own head to take two of yours.”
Thomas arched one eyebrow as he looked at his friend and said quietly, “And mayhap I should be buying you a rocker once we’re home, so you can set with your mother-in-law beside the fire. You’re turning fearful, Paddy, like an old woman, if you think the day has come when any Englisher can best one of us in a fair fight.”
“Who said it was going to be fair?” Paddy fairly hissed. “I’ve been watching, boyo, and they don’t fight like anything I’ve seen above once before—dancing and prancing around like a hen on a hot skillet, their fists up at their eyes, bobbing and weaving their heads like pigeons strutting in the square. You can’t hit something that don’t stand still like a real man.”
Thomas looked to the ring thirty feet to his left to see that Paddy was right. The two men moving inside it were hopping about like fleas, their bared fists lifted high, flicking punches at each other, then hastily dancing away. He lifted a hand to stroke thumb and forefinger over his mustache, then smiled down at Dooley. “Look a little silly, now that I’m really watching, don’t they? Not to worry, Paddy. I’ve got a plan.”
”A plan, is it? Ain’t that wonderful. You have a head as well, boyo, but then so does a pin,” Dooley countered, stepping up on tiptoe to roughly massage Thomas’s shoulders for a few moments before giving him a mighty push toward the center of the ring. “Now go kill the bastard.”
With Dooley’s last words ringing in his ears, Thomas halted two feet in front of the earl and smiled. “According to my friend and assistant, Mr. Dooley, this is to be a civilized exercise, unlike anything I am accustomed to. I take it then there is to be no gouging of the eyes, tripping, or kicking a man while he’s down. What, then, are the rules?”
The earl likewise inclined his head and said, “We shall use Broughton’s rules, Mr. Donovan. Sir Ralph will umpire, stepping between us if necessary, and once a man is down the other participant is to stand aside until it is determined whether his opponent is able to rise. As we are gentlemen, and this is only friendly sparring, I suggest that we indulge in no more than three falls and not total annihilation of our opponent. Agreed? And I give you my word as a gentleman that I will not knowingly take advantage of your inexperience.”
“Sounds fine to me,” Dooley said from behind Thomas. “Falling is always easier than rising anyway. But don’t worry, your lordship. I’ll help you up every time Tommie here knocks you down.”
“Paddy, go away,” Thomas said, trying not to smile. “Your lordship? I appreciate your consideration, and thank you for it. Ready when you are.”
Sir Ralph stood back, then motioned with both arms for the earl and Thomas to commence boxing.
Thomas stood very still, his heart pounding with expectation, his fists waist high, his knees flexed as he watched to see what the earl would do.
The man didn’t disappoint him. The moment he was given the signal, William Renfrew leaned slightly backward, chin up and head erect, his elbows bent, his fists as high as his eyes, with his fingers toward his face and the backs of his hands presented to Thomas. He looked, Thomas decided, like some sort of unnaturally stiff statue.
But he didn’t, like a statue, remain motionless. Before Thomas could react, the earl stepped forward and shot out his right fist, landing a punishing punch squarely on Thomas’s jaw. Less than a blink later, his left hand connected with Thomas’s stomach. A moment after that, he was gone, having danced away to another area of the ring. If this was “friendly” sparring, Thomas knew he would hate to be on the other end of the earl’s fists when the man was really trying.