Page 30 of One Waltz with the Viscount

Sarah had remained quiet on the walk across the river and into Southwark. Lord Routledge’s story had been heavy with emotion and heartbreak, and she felt genuine empathy for him. She understood why he had told her about his disastrous first marriage—he didn’t know her all that well and wanted to ensure she knew there was no possibility that he would propose to her.

She had never expected a proposal and felt a little mortified that he had felt the need to tell her some of his most personal secrets. Closing her eyes for a moment, she pushed the embarrassment aside. It had been his choice to tell her, she hadn’t forced him.

Now she needed to forget about Lord Routledge—and how her stomach flipped when she looked at him—and focus on getting whatever information she could out of Mr Peterson.

‘We’re here,’ Lord Routledge said, gesturing to a nondescript door set, on a street that made up the maze of Southwark. From the way people spoke of the area south of the river, she had expected something much worse, but most of the people hurrying through the streets looked merely a little less wealthy than their counterparts north of the river.

As they approached, two men pushed through the door they were heading to, talking loudly and staggering a little on their feet.

‘You do not have to come inside if you do not wish to,’ Lord Routledge said, the hint of a frown on his face. ‘I can see if I can persuade Mr Peterson to step outside.’

‘No, I want to come in.’ She had no real interest in the boxing—the idea of two men punching each other for the satisfaction of the crowd didn’t promise to give her any sort of pleasure or enjoyment—but she wanted to have the best chance of speaking to Mr Peterson.

The door opened onto a dark corridor. To one side a man sat at a small table, looking up expectantly as they entered. He raised an eyebrow as Lord Routledge purchased two tickets, but said nothing, and once the money was paid the man motioned for them to continue further down the corridor.

Sarah would never have reached out for Lord Routledge’s arm on her own, priding herself on her independence and spirit, but she was thankful when he paused to ensure her hand was tucked into the crook of his arm.

‘Stay close, Miss Shepherd.’

At the end of the corridor there was another door to the left, which opened out onto a huge space. In the middle was a roped off area, around the edges of which there were some benches for people to sit on. But for now most were standing, crowded around the ring.

The atmosphere was jovial, the crowd loud. It was mainly men, although there were a few women dotted throughout, their dresses cut low enough for Sarah to wonder if they were here touting for customers.

‘Do you see him?’ Sarah asked, her eyes darting round the room, even though she had no idea what Mr Peterson looked like.

‘There,’ Lord Routledge said, eventually, pointing to the far corner where a group of men were gathered. ‘He looks like he may be in his cups.’

‘Do you think he will speak to us?’

‘I think the odds are better for us than we might have expected, as he is likely to be much more agreeable drunk than sober.’

They began to work their way through the crowd. On her own Sarah would have found it almost impossible to navigate the darkened room, but Lord Routledge’s size and air of importance meant people stepped aside.

After a couple of minutes they were almost there, but then there was a moment when the chatter in the room quietened a little followed by a deafening roar.

Sarah turned to the roped off area. By standing on tiptoe, she could see two men emerging into the ring. They were both tall and muscular, their torsos bare and glistening, and their expressions grim. The air grew thick with anticipation as the two men took to their corners, bending to listen to final pieces of advice from the men that accompanied them.

After a minute a fully clothed man stepped into the ring and announced the boxers. He hurried out again before there was a ding of a bell, and the two fighters started to circle one another.

As the first bout commenced Sarah found herself torn between fascination and repulsion. The sounds of fists meeting flesh echoed through the room, mingling with the cheers and jeers of the crowd. She winced every time a blow was landed, wanting to turn away but unable to stop looking, mesmerised. At first she thought the men were just lashing out, hitting as fast and hard as they could, but the longer she watched the more she could see the technique and training the two boxers must have had. They were light on their feet, darting backwards and forwards, taunting one another, trying to trick their opponent into making a misstep.

After a short time it became clear that one of the boxers was just slightly more talented than the other. He was fast, jabbing with his fists, landing heavy blows, but would then quickly pull back out of reach, so the other man only managed to land glancing blows.

There was a roar through the crowd as the first bout came to an end. Lord Routledge leaned down, speaking into her ear.

‘Now is our chance.’

He took hold of her hand and, for a moment, Sarah felt her heart beat faster in her chest, before she told herself he was only doing so to prevent her being swept away by the crowd. She hated the flare of desire she felt towards the man who had only half an hour earlier taken great pains to explain why he could never marry a woman like her.

Lord Routledge shouldered a path through the excited onlookers, and after a minute they were standing next to the group he had pointed out earlier. Close up it was clear these were gentlemen. Their clothes were of a higher quality than the other men that jostled around the boxing ring, and they would not have looked out of place in a ballroom or fancy dinner party, if they deigned to smarten themselves up a little. They were all terribly drunk, at present acting jovially, slapping each other on the back and making jokes, but it would not take much more alcohol to make them dangerous.

‘I will see if I can persuade Mr Peterson to step outside with us,’ Lord Routledge said, glancing at the ring. It would only be a few more seconds until the boxers started fighting again.

‘Maybe we should wait until this fight ends. He might be more likely to agree to come outside once the winner has been declared,’ she suggested.

‘You are right,’ Lord Routledge said, pausing. ‘Do you mind watching another bout?’

At that moment the second round began—a raucous cheer went through the crowd. Sarah glanced at the man she now knew to be Mr Peterson. There was a good chance he had once been friends with her father, that he probably knew his identity and his awful secret. Perhaps they had laughed together over a glass of whiskey at how her father had deceived an innocent vicar’s daughter into losing her virtue, and how he had abandoned her once he had taken his pleasure. She felt a wave of revulsion and quickly looked away.