AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Matilda was astounded to view a blush of colour rise in Mr Tomkins’ cheeks. “I got lucky, ’tis all. But, aye, never had a day like it. Me. Tonks Tomkins. Champion.” He shook his head. “I were a street orphan, Miss Griffin, never thought I’d see me twentieth year, but though I never knew me letters, I could scrap me way outta anything.”
“Congratulations, Mr Tomkins. And now you own this fine establishment.”
“I do indeed, but me wins were nothing compared to our Seth ’ere. And yer should’ve seen him last year, parading before the Prince Regent and all them flash nobs that arrived after Waterloo; then there’s dukes bickering over his club membership like doxies after a sailor. He’s done right rum good, Miss Griffin.”
Matilda tilted her glance to her employer, who fidgeted from foot to foot. “How impressive, Mr Tomkins, he’s never said. And which particular championships did our Mr Hawkins win?”
“Well 1811 were his big ’un. Fred the Footman – on accounts he were a footman, see – versus Seth the–”
“I don’t believe Miss Griffin wishes to know all this.” Mr Hawkins folded his arms in front of his waistcoat and appeared most stern.
She gazed from one to the other. “I do. I really do.”
“He dinnae like his moniker, lass,” Mr Finlay explained. “His first sponsor named him and it kind o’stuck.”
Matilda waited with bated breath. What could it be?
“Seth the Smasher?” she guessed all of a sudden.
“No.”
“Scuffler Seth?”
“Nope.”
“Seth the Stallion?”
Mr Finlay chuckled for some reason. So obviously not.
“Seth the…Stupendous?” She was quite enjoying this. “Or Seth the–”
“Scholar,” Mr Hawkins interjected, obviously having had enough of her guesses. “My sponsor caught me reading before a bout.” He unfolded his arms and grabbed his ale with a grouch. “And that was that.”
“Another theatre print?” Matilda questioned rather tartly.
He tipped his tankard. “Exactly so, Miss Griffin. Exactly so.”
“At one time,”slurred his swaying governess, “I thought pugilism quite savage, but I’d be most interested to attend a contest now…” She hiccupped. “Purely for studious endeavour, you understand.”
Seth frowned. They never should have allowed her that third tankard, but she’d insisted that a spree of Madeira wine with a friend had caused no ill-effects of any kind, so what could be the harm in Porter Ale to a hardened drinker such as herself?
Miss Griffin was as hardened as a waxen ballerina in hell.
Kian tapped his fingers upon the table. “Well, me and Seth are off to a prizefight the day after next.”
Hell and damnation.Kian had a loose trap tonight.
“Really?” she said, swiping her pink tongue over that froth-coated top lip. “Do you suppose I could–”
“No,” pre-empted Seth, shifting in his seat. “Women do not go to fights.”
“Untrue,” countered Kian beneath his breath.
“Ladies do not go to fights,” Seth amended.
“We could hide her beneath a cloak and muffler, a wee lass like this.”
“She’d look like a nefarious footpad on the prowl.”
