Page 38

Twenty-Seven

Simon climbed between the ropes for what had better be the last bloody time.

The sounds of the crowd were near deafening, but it had long since stopped filling him with any sort of electric charge.

He fought now only because he had to, because Brody couldn’t let him go.

Although sometimes fortune smiled on him and he faced an opponent that he was more than happy to punch in the face. Rouse was one of them.

Rouse lived in Devil’s Acre now, but he’d once worked for Brody in Whitechapel not long after Brody had taken Simon and Mary in.

Rouse was filled with piss and vinegar and had a mean streak that made the workhouse supervisors seem tame.

Older than Simon, he had made a sport of terrorizing him and the other boys who’d been part of Brody’s underlings then.

Simon still had the cigarette burn scars on the back of his head, neck, and arms to prove it.

It had been the best day of his young life when Brody had finally cast Rouse out and he’d run to Devil’s Acre.

Rouse gave him an evil and bitter grin and said something that Simon couldn’t hear over the roar of the spectators.

It figured that this was the fight Brody wanted him to lose.

One final insult before Simon was gone for good.

Anger surged from his head to his fists to vibrate in his fingers.

He’d bloody well get a few good licks in before he let the bellend win.

Brody stepped to the edge of the risers, a god among the people who had come to see the fight, and some of them settled down as they watched him raise his arms for silence.

Not to be outdone, Purcell, Brody’s equivalent in Devil’s Acre, also stepped out from the crowd.

He hadn’t been allowed on the risers. Brody liked to keep his rivals in their place.

Brody tipped his hat to Purcell in a mockery of fair play.

“We’ve come here tonight to celebrate two great men, our very own Duke and his opponent.

” Several jeers and hisses followed that, and Brody held up his hand for quiet, though it only barely helped quell the din.

“Rouse. Rouse and I go back many years. No offense to you.” He pointed toward the man and Rouse spit toward the ropes.

Several men called out in dismay but Brody only laughed.

Simon paced his end of the ring, frustrated that this was taking so long.

Brody’s display of showmanship was almost as bad as that bloody dandy Carstone.

Brody droned on about this fight being years in the making and his cooperation with Purcell, but Simon didn’t hear much of it.

None of it mattered. This was his last night in the hellhole.

After—if he could walk immediately after the beating he was required to allow Rouse to inflict—he’d go to Daisy and take her out of here.

Fleetingly, he wondered if Dunn had managed to stop Eliza or if she’d even attempted to come.

“Watch out!” someone screamed. The yelled warning came a second before Rouse’s meaty fist impacted the side of Simon’s head.

The crowd didn’t like that. Simon fell back against the ropes, woozy and dizzy. The man from the crowd who had shouted was on the outside, propping him up. “The mug attacked while Brody was still talking. Cheat!” he yelled.

Simon recovered just in time to avoid another well-aimed punch that would have broken his nose.

He whirled, rolling himself down the ropes, and Rouse almost went flying through them.

The men nearest the ring yelled in protest at the underhanded move by Rouse, but it was no use.

The fight had started whether he was ready or not.

There would be no putting this bull back in his stall.

Good. The sooner they got this over with the better.

Simon spun again to avoid a thick fist and ducked, landing a blow to Rouse’s midsection.

He was rewarded with the man’s harsh exhale of air.

The man’s torso fell forward and Simon punched him in the jaw.

A spray of blood and saliva flew across the ring, much to the appreciation of the enthralled audience.

The energy that he thought he’d long stopped feeling surged through him.

It was cold and dark and hungry. It demanded to be fed.

It hungered for Rouse’s pain and blood. Simon was happy to oblige.

In those short moments when his fist met flesh, he was able to give Rouse the pain that ate him up inside.

The pain of not having Eliza. The pain of losing Mary.

The pain of knowing Daisy suffered because he wasn’t enough to get her out of here.

But most of all, as the welts and crimson drops of blood peppered Rouse’s body, it was payback for the hell his life had been when Rouse had worked for Brody.

“Back off!” the official screamed in his ear.

Simon realized he’d had Rouse against the corner, his back against the barrel outside the rope.

He released him immediately and stepped back to give the man a little time to catch his breath.

Simon needed to calm down. He was meant to lose this fight, no matter how much pleasure he derived from beating Rouse’s arse across the ring.

He smoothed his hand over his forehead, pushing back a lock of hair that had fallen loose of its binding. A quick glance at the crowd confirmed that most of them were on his side. They shouted encouragement, and he had to look away because he hated that he’d be letting them down. Fucking Brody.

Rouse was coming to his senses, and the official backed up, giving him space.

Simon meant to turn back and goad him into punching him, but his gaze caught on the one face he hadn’t expected to see.

Amazingly, impossibly, Eliza stared out at him.

He couldn’t see her completely, only her precious face peeking out between the shoulders of the men in front of her, but it was her. Dunn was standing beside her.

“Why are ye here?” he shouted to her. His voice didn’t carry, but Dunn knew what he asked. The man shrugged and looked away.

Eliza smiled at him, her angel face full of love and encouragement. Dear God, keep her safe , he prayed. He didn’t have time to consider her longer because Rouse pushed off the ropes and barreled toward him. Simon lunged away from the man’s left hook.

They exchanged blows for the next several minutes, Simon retreating when appropriate to make it seem as if Rouse could get the better of him.

The truth was that Rouse wasn’t the man he’d once been.

Gin and opium had left their marks on him.

He was more sluggish and less measured than Simon remembered.

While still formidable, as evidenced by the bruised ribs Simon knew he would sport in the morning, Rouse’s fight was more brute strength than cunning.

He counted on his every punch doing significant damage rather than his own defenses.

It was a pity Simon would be forced to lose to him. Simon took a punch to his gut and doubled over. He used the opportunity to glance toward Brody, who gave him a subtle nod. It was time to end the fight.

Simon charged Rouse, putting his shoulder low and knocking his opponent back toward the ropes.

It would be his last move. Rouse would charge him and redouble his efforts, and this time Simon would fall to the ground.

Knowing Rouse, the man would hop onto him dealing blow after blow until the official pulled him off.

But that isn’t what happened.

Rouse caught himself on the ropes and lumbered his way across the ring, appearing groggy and sluggish, which made no sense.

With the exception of the first punch he’d landed that night, Simon’s fists had been restricted to the man’s torso, not his head.

He hadn’t been trying to maim him, only taking out his frustration on his meaty midsection.

Rouse let out an inhuman-sounding yell and rushed forward, his shoulder catching Simon in his chest. Rouse probably outweighed him by a stone, but he was shorter, which meant he was broader.

The blow hurt but it didn’t knock Simon off his feet.

He absorbed the man’s speed and held them both upright.

Rouse’s feet seemed unable to hold him up.

“What the devil’s wrong with ye?” Simon half shouted.

“Fuck off,” Rouse smirked, blood tinting his teeth pink. Then he fell forward, half-bent as if Simon had hit him, but it was a fiction. Simon had merely been holding him up.

Frustrated, Simon punched his arm. “What are ye doing?”

Rouse fell to the ground and spat out blood that Simon was certain he’d manufactured somehow.

His teeth might have cut the inside of his jaw when Simon had punched him, but that puddle was too much blood for the simple injury.

The man had worsened it. He must have worried it with his teeth.

The official ran over to check Rouse, who was now making a performance out of seizing and groaning as if in the worst pain of his life.

Simon knew it was a performance because when the official looked over to Purcell for guidance, Rouse flashed him a knowing look.

Jesus Christ . Rouse was throwing the fight!

The crowd all but knew it was over. No one thought Rouse would be getting up to try again. Massive cheers went up through the warehouse, even though Simon’s win wasn’t official yet.

“Get up!” Simon demanded. Reaching around the official, he grasped Rouse’s arm. “You’re not hurt.”

“Get off me!” Rouse shouted. He grinned for a split second.

The bastard had lost on purpose. Just as quickly, his expression changed and he managed to look half out of his mind when the official’s attention came back to them. Simon wondered how much Rouse had won for his trouble.

“Can you fight?” the man asked Rouse. He kept asking and Rouse wouldn’t answer. He groaned and pretended to be injured.

Simon backed away from the scene, hoping that it might miraculously change. That Rouse might not actually be intending to throw the fight. He looked up and his eyes caught Brody, who had gone pale with shock. He’d lose a fortune if Rouse didn’t get on his feet.

How much money had Simon cost him?

Simon looked for Eliza in the crowd. She stood there cheering with the rest, not yet understanding what had happened.

Simon had won when he was supposed to lose.

Brody rigged the fight so that he could win big with Simon’s loss.

Since he’d lost the big payout, he wouldn’t let Simon be free now. In fact, he’d kill him.

Dunn knew. Simon had shared the plan with him, the only one he’d shared it with.

Time slowed. Even the sound of his heart beating in his ears had a curious echo, slow and steady.

As he watched, Dunn leaned down and spoke to Eliza, his lips next to her ear.

The excitement on her face distorted, transforming to stillness.

The sort of quiet expectation that accompanied the dawning of loss.

That terrible knowledge that preceded the sensation of pain after a horrific accident.

She met his gaze and they both knew. He was a dead man.