A Masquerade in the Moonlight(41)

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Thomas said quietly, lifting a hand to gently manipulate his lower jaw, just to make sure none of his teeth had been loosened. “So that’s how it’s done.” Lowering his head and raising his arms only slightly —his left in front of his cheek, his right only shoulder high and partially extended—he stepped forward, knees still flexed, his eyes narrowed as he closed in on his prey. “Hardly seems sporting to hit a man, and then turn tail and run,” he said, and watched as the earl smiled.

“Perhaps, Mr. Donovan,” the earl responded, barely breathing hard, for all his exertion. “But, you must admit, it is extremely effective. Perhaps I have overestimated your ability and could end by hurting you. Do you wish to cry off?”

“I don’t know,” Thomas answered affably, flatfootedly stalking Laleham as the man danced toward the corner. “Why don’t you stop being so gentlemanly and really hit me, so I can make up my mind. So far I’ve felt nothing more than the breeze as you skip by me.”

“As you wish, Mr. Donovan,” the earl countered civilly, and then the fight was on in earnest, neither bothering to pretend this was anything less than it was, a test of just who was the better man.

The two began to circle each other, the earl landing stinging hits on Thomas’s left forearm as he deftly blocked each blow, while Thomas tested the earl’s reflexes with a series of jabs with his right.

The earl, Thomas could see, still believed he was toying with him, setting him up for a mighty fall, both physically and in consequence. The man hated him, really hated him, and Thomas wished he wasn’t so completely at a loss as to why. But, for all the air of quiet menace be sensed from the earl, the man seemed impervious to the predictable mistakes in judgment born of temper, not reacting when Thomas got in an especially good hit or acting impulsively when Thomas grinned at him, deliberately trying to incite him to a rash move. The man was like a machine, cold, emotionless, impenetrable to outside influence. Like a printing press, he simply performed, over and over and over again, shooting out controlled jabs, feinting, advancing, retreating, advancing again.

But eventually, impressed as he was with the earl’s prowess, Thomas became bored. He might have seen but never have fought by “Brougham’s rules,” but he was an Irishman and an American, and he had mowed down his share of men in fights both fair and foul. He knew what to look for in an opponent’s style of fighting, and he had not been disappointed this time.

And now it was time to end it. He had observed a minor weakness in his adversary, a slight lowering of his left shoulder each time he was about to deliver a body blow. It would be so easy to anticipate that move and slide his own right hand overtop the earl’s left, to break through the man’s defenses. Especially if the man believed himself to be winning.

So thinking, Thomas allowed himself to be hit, and hit rather hard, the next three times the earl jabbed at him with his right. He even staggered slightly after the third flush hit, blinking his eyes furiously as if to attempt to clear the fuzziness from his brain.

As the crowd of men around the perimeter of the ring began to cheer on their countryman to what had to be a sure victory, and Dooley could be heard yelling “cross and jostle, Tommie. Don’t just stand there getting bashed—use some cross and jostle!” Thomas looked for his opening.

And there it was. After three more straight jabs, all deflected by Thomas’s left forearm, Lord Laleham’s left shoulder slipped down a notch.

Reaching from his heels, Thomas snapped his right arm out, the back of his clenched hand parallel with the high ceiling, and gloried in the thud of bone crushing against bone as his fist connected with the vulnerable spot just to the south of the earl’s left ear. He followed up on his right with a lung-emptying left to the earl’s midsection.

William Renfrew’s legs buckled and he landed facedown, the thump of his body hitting the floor echoing like thunder in the suddenly silent room.

Dooley, who had snatched up a towel from somewhere, rushed into the ring, draping the towel across Thomas’s shoulders, slapping him on the back as he looked to Sir Ralph. “Did you see that? Did you see that? Planted him a solid facer square on his bone box, that’s what he did, then knocked all the stuffing out of his breadbasket! Shoulda wagered a guinea or two on you with some of these fellas, Tommie, only I couldn’t be sure. That’ll teach me to doubt you. Fine piece of work, Tommie. Truly fine. Unless the earl’s dead, of course. That wouldn’t be friendly.”