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Chapter Four
Ace Smith, the rising star of the John Bull Pugilism Society, had an important match that night. But he was not mentally prepared for the fight, and that troubled him. In his experience, focus was everything. You won or lost inside your head, before you ever entered the ring.
His mind was not on the match, but on a girl. One with soft curves, wavy light brown hair and flashing hazel eyes. He had never faced this barrier to concentration before. It worried him that it would put him off his game.
Oh, he had had girls before. He knew himself to be a relatively good-looking fellow, with his share of charm. Since his late boyhood, there had always been some lass or other who wanted to hang onto his arm.
He was not sure he trusted women, though. His own mother had died a miserable, bitter drunk, without a pleasant word to say to him. He had tried to be a good son to her, even as a young boy—bringing her the gin and laudanum she craved, and getting his little brother, Ted, out of the way when she was meeting up with men.
Neither prostitution nor drunkenness fazed Ace much. He had grown up in the Rookeries, after all, and it was a way of life. He didn’t judge people for how they managed to survive.
But could she not have been even just a little kind to him? There were other mothers in the Rookeries who walked the streets to earn a living, other mothers who lay down at night wrapped around drink or drugs to forget the day’s horrors—yet they clearly loved their filthy, screaming little offspring.
Ace’s mother almost seemed to hate him. Some said he looked a lot like his father—perhaps that was why. His father had been a lord. Ace even knew the fellow’s name, although he had never met him.
It was the old story. Apparently, that nobleman had taken quite a fancy to a young barmaid back when she was very inexperienced and innocent, back when she still had her striking good looks. He planted false dreams in her head of all he would do for her. He also planted a babe in her belly. Then he was gone, leaving her to work the streets for a living. No wonder, then, that she hated her baby son, the cause of her downfall.
So what does all of this have to do with Josie Johnson? Why did her undisguised passion for me make me so angry, make me say such ugly things to her? Most men would be delighted!
Because it made me frightened for her. I thought—Iknew—she was different from other girls. Special. Loyal and true.
It had frightened him that a girl of such beauty, inside and out, might nonetheless turn out like his mother, and he might be the cause.
He had waited outside Madame Vallencourt’s shop every day for over a week now. She never came out. Was she ill? Had she—God forbid—harmed herself in some way? Where was she?
Shaking these thoughts from himself, he turned and walked away, his destination the headquarters of the John Bull Pugilism Society. He had a match to focus on tonight.
* * *
Ace won the fight, of course, but it was a closer thing than usual. His opponent was a bruiser of a fellow, aptly named Johnny Brutus. Ace had to tire him out, dancing in and out of his reach, before finally being able to lay a punch on him that laid the big man out.
Ace’s trainer, Billy Snapper, came and ministered to him after the match, toweling him down and rubbing his shoulders with oil.
“You had some big backers tonight, lad,” said Snapper, a swarthy, hardened old fellow who had spent his life at the fights. “A lot of coin changed hands thanks to you.”
“I hope the prize pot reflects that,” Ace said cynically.
“Oh, it will, it will. You’re gettin’ ever so popular. Like one o’ them Society girls, ‘best in Season.’” Snapper chuckled to himself. He liked his little jokes.
“Speakin’ o’ Society, one toff asked for you by name. The Duke o’ Clover. Heard o’ him?”
“Good God. He’s said to be one of the three richest men in England.
“If I could get him as a sponsor—”
“Well, ‘e wants to meet with you. Tonight. At ‘is club, ‘if Mr. Smith can spare the time,’ says ‘Is Grace. Well, lad? Can ye spare the time?”
“I think I can manage it,” Ace said with a smirk. “Get me cleaned up and presentable, Snapper, there’s a good man.”
“Startin’ to sound like a toff yerself already,” said Snapper darkly.
* * *
So Ace duly presented himself that night at The Wanderer’s Club, one of the most exclusive gentlemen’s clubs in London. He asked for His Grace the Duke of Clover. While the old attendant left him alone, presumably to ask whether His Grace wished to receive this vagabond, Ace took a look around.
Everything was polished to a dull, soothing gleam: mahogany leather, brass finishings and crystal lamps. Old portraits hung on walls, capturing men of prior generations in powdered wigs and military uniforms. All was hushed and decorous. Ace loved every inch of it.
“His Grace will see you,” said the attendant, interrupting Ace’s thoughts. The old fellow sounded surprised. “Follow me, if you will.”
