Page 31 of One Waltz with the Viscount

Initially, the second boxing match followed in much the same vein as the first, but after a particularly daring feint and punch from the more quick-footed of the fighters, his opponent reeled for a moment. The crowd reacted, shouting loudly for their favourite, calling encouragement or cursing depending on who they were supporting.

The younger man followed up his attack with a blow that snapped his opponent’s head back. As if the world had slowed, the man took a staggering few steps back, reeled around and then collapsed to the floor.

An almighty roar erupted in the room and the crowd surged forwards, sensing the boxing match was over.

‘Will he recover?’ Sarah asked, peering in horror at the blood seeping from the head of the man laying prostrate on the ground.

‘I hope so, although it is not guaranteed,’ Lord Routledge said, watching as the victor stepped over his unconscious foe, raising his arms like a conquering king. ‘Come, let us see whether Mr Peterson backed the winner. If he is in a good mood it may make our job easier.’

They turned back to the group of gentlemen and Lord Routledge stepped amongst them, greeting them by name. There were lots of hearty slaps on the back and slurred jokes before Lord Routledge singled Mr Peterson out.

He was a short, rotund man, with thinning hair and a sweaty face. His cheeks were rosy from the warmth of the room and his eyes had a glazed, unfocussed look about them.

‘Might I have a word outside, Peterson?’ Lord Routledge said.

‘Not before he pays his debts,’ another of the men said, shouldering his way in between the two men.

‘You’ll get your money, Greenacre,’ Mr Peterson slurred, but made no move to reach for his coin purse.

‘You see I do. Everyone knows you’re the tightest man in England.’

‘Steady on,’ a third man said, although he looked as though he was enjoying the exchange immensely.

‘Our business will only take a couple of minutes. You will be back inside ready for the next match,’ Lord Routledge said, taking Mr Peterson firmly by the arm.

‘Business? What business?’ Mr Peterson said, trying to focus on Lord Routledge but failing, his eyes crossing before he blinked and settled on looking over his shoulder instead. Mr Peterson’s gaze settled on Sarah and she thought there was a flicker of recognition in his eyes. She wondered if he was remembering Selina. She and her sister shared certain features. Although Selina was considered the fairer of the two, in a dim light it would be easy to mistake one for the other.

‘Private business,’ Lord Routledge said, a little more firmly.

To her relief Mr Peterson murmured his agreement and Greenacre stepped aside, allowing his friend to walk away. Sarah followed quickly down the corridor, glad when they slipped out of the door into the fresh air of the street. She took a few deep breaths and then gagged. There wasn’t the strong scent of sweat and unwashed bodies out here, but the streets of Southwark weren’t exactly fragrant.

‘You’re a pretty little thing,’ Mr Peterson said, turning to Sarah. ‘I feel like we’ve met before. Is she your mistress, Routledge?’

She shuddered as the inebriated man’s eyes swept over her body, taking an involuntary step back.

‘This is Miss Shepherd, a friend of mine.’

‘If that’s what you young people call it these days. I’d like Miss Shepherd to be my friend.’

Sarah saw a muscle twitch next to Lord Routledge’s eye, but he managed to keep control of himself.

‘A couple of weeks ago a young woman approached you, asking what you knew about her father.’

‘Ah yes, that is where I know you from,’ Mr Peterson said, a hint of disappointment in his tone.

‘It was my sister.’

‘I remember,’ Mr Peterson said, although his words were a little slurred. ‘Pretty girl like you. Brazenly approached me in the street, then got offended when I assumed she was a whore.’

‘What did she ask you?’ Sarah pressed, fighting to ignore his offensive suggestion about her beloved sister. It was crucial that they got the answers they needed from this man.

Mr Peterson considered for a moment, then he stilled, seeming to regain control of himself a little. ‘She was going on about her father and how I was mentioned in some letter. I didn’t pay much attention.’

‘Did you tell her anything? Did you tell her who her father was?’

‘Good lord, no. She was just some chit off the street.’

Sarah felt a swell of anger but pushed it down. Shouting at the man would not achieve anything—it would only give him cause to mock her and walk away.