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Chapter Eight
Afew nights later, Ace checked in at his boxing club. His current obligations to the Duke of Clover meant fewer fights. Of course, he was being paid what was, to him, a small fortune for his bodyguard duties. But he figured he’d be wise not to let his boxing fans forget him entirely either.
The night was still early. Two brawny fellows were out in the ring, letting a sparse crowd see their talents. This was the time when unranked newcomers got a chance to fight. Some of the bettors liked to watch these matches, hoping to spot the next rising star.
Ace walked around the training rooms. Snapper didn’t seem to be around, but that was no surprise—Ace hadn’t sent word that he’d be coming to the ring tonight. A number of men were gloved, landing blows on punching bags.
The club’s owner, Johnny Shiemour—“That’sMisterShiemour to you, lad!”—sat behind a large oak table, reviewing the upcoming fight schedule with a well-dressed young buck. The toff was likely gambling away his last silk shirt. It was business as usual at the John Bull.
Ace wanted to take a look at that schedule, too. He’d decided he’d only do a couple of high-profile bouts this spring—just enough to keep him popular. He’d pick nights when Lady Josephine would not have scheduled engagements. Ace waited patiently, chatting up a couple of the boxers.
“Well, well. If it isn’t the elusive Mr. Smith,” boomed a voice from behind the oak table. “You’ve been neglecting us, boyo.”
Red-faced and coarse, Shiemour was known throughout London as a “hard man,” a man you would be wise not to cross. He had a gang of street thugs, most from the notorious Seven Dials neighborhood, who enforced his wishes. It was known he had the authorities in his pocket.
Shiemour had, to his credit, built the John Bull from nothing. Many boxers had achieved a measure of fame there, along with access to some of the richest prize purses in London. But Johnny Shiemour always took his cut of the winnings—sixty percent—and if there ever had been a man who objected to that, his corpse was no doubt resting at the bottom of the Thames.
It was known Johnny Shiemour didn’t like Ashton Smith, acting superior and speaking like a lord, as if he hadn’t himself been raised in the Rookeries! Still, Smith drew a big crowd and won his boxing matches. Johnny Shiemour was a practical man. It wasn’t necessary to like the people who made money for you.
The toff tried to turn away, his business with Shiemour concluded. Shiemour stopped him with some sharp remark, something about a duke.
The other man muttered something and Shiemour said, “That doesn’t help you much, my lord. Remember, there’s no entail.”
That word again. I keep hearing it, Ace noted to himself.I really should find out what it means.
But his thoughts were interrupted by Shiemour. “Get over here, lad, and tell me what you’ve been up to. Doing some job for the Duke of Clover, I hear.”
“Just this and that.” Ace did not trust Shiemour.
“Pay you well? The man has plenty of gilt, they say.”
“He gives me a fair wage.”
“Remember, sixty percent is mine, my boy.”
“No, it’s not. These are some family matters for His Grace that have naught to do with boxing.”
“And what do you have to offer anyone, Smith, other than your fists? I’m sure you haven’t been hired to teach the little nephew his Latin and Greek! Or the ladies their needlework!” There was laughter at this from some of the men standing around.
“Confidential matters,” Ace replied tersely.
“Oh, la di da!” said Shiemour. “Just remember, whatever you’re up to, I get my cut. After all, any work you do for His Grace is taking time away from your work for me.”
“Then I suggest you work it out directly with the Duke of Clover when he’s next here to watch a fight,” Ace responded haughtily. “I don’t care if he throws you a few coins, Shiemour, so long as it doesn’t come out of my pocket.”
Ace caught the look of pure hatred in Shiemour’s eyes as Shiemour turned and left the training room. Ace had disrespected Shiemour in front of his underlings—a bad move.Not a good enemy to have,he thought.I should look out for myself—Shiemour looks like he’d like to teach me a lesson, bring me down a notch or two.
* * *
Ace booked a couple of significant fights for later in the spring. He chatted with a few of the lads and left messages for Charley and Paddy that he had stopped by. Then he left for the rented room he called home.
The lesson from Shiemour came far more quickly than he had expected. He was just thinking,I might stop for a glass of ale somewhere,when without warning, he was knocked down from behind. He could not get up—it was like he was buried under a pile of bricks.
He tried mightily to defend himself, but there were four, maybe five of them.Shiemour’s thugs?He wondered. They beat him mercilessly—at least two had clubs; another wore brass knuckles. By the time they finished, he lay unconscious in a pool of blood.
“Take that, ye bloody bastard—a little callin’ card from your friend Mr. Shiemour!” yelled one of the thugs, kicking him a final time.
He had one final, irrelevant thought before everything blacked out.That toff who was talking to Shiemour tonight—it was Baron Roster, Josie’s uncle. I knew I recognized him from somewhere. Now I wonder why—?
