Page 5 of On the Ropes of Scandal (With Love in Their Corner #3)

Cranleigh, Surrey

D uncan frowned as he surveyed the large clearing of grass where the bout would take place.

How long would it be for this sport to cease being illegal and for boxers to compete in a ready-made ring instead of a wildflower meadow that, more often than not, held a handful of cows?

Since bare-knuckle boxing, especially for profit, was illegal within the bounds of London proper, most bouts took place outside the limits in the country.

The sites were often farm fields, or clearings—even better—for sometimes thousands of spectators would assemble.

Were there thousands this evening? He glanced at the growing crowd of spectators as it swelled.

Not necessarily, but there were certainly hundreds.

Of course his name didn’t bring in the numbers like Lewis did, but he was still a Stapleton, damn it.

Didn’t that mean something? Shaking his head, he watched as the assembling crowds formed a circle around the roped off section of the meadows that would serve as the boxing ring.

And though he’d done this countless times, his nerves crawled beneath his skin.

The question was why. It wasn’t as if this was his first time fighting.

Perhaps it was because he was without the support of his brothers.

The damned bounders. Every time they came out to fight, Duncan had been there to take wagers and hype the crowd in a Stapleton’s favor, but when it came to him being in the ring?

Where were they? Weak, from being domesticated, that’s where, had no thoughts of their own, and their spines must have dissolved as soon as those vows had been spoken.

Damned women who changed them.

Well, they could both piss off. When he won the prize purse today, he’d keep the proceeds to fund his own damned life. Still, he blew out a breath as he shoved the fingers of one hand through his longish hair.

Excitement buzzed through his insides to mix with the anxiety.

Since it had only taken a couple of hours to travel from London to the area where the bout was being held, he’d felt no travel fatigue, which was good.

A tired fighter was a doomed fighter. When a youth sauntered over to him, he tamped down on the urge to show his annoyance.

It wasn’t the boy’s fault Duncan’s brothers were arseholes.

“Young Thomas, I presume?” he asked as he raked his gaze up and down the young man’s form.

He’d sent his driver back to London with the caveat that he intended to stay in an inn within the area, for he fully expected to win, and that meant he would curry favor with the village beauties.

Having a willing bedmate would be just the thing to help him celebrate, then he would return to London and brag to his brothers.

“Aye. One of the judges for this event told me you were in need of a knee man or at the least a water boy. Will I do?” Probably not more than fifteen, the boy was tall and gangly, as if he didn’t know what to do with his long limbs quite yet.

His mop of sandy-blond hair had a mind of its own, and in the soft breeze, the short locks went every which way, but his mossy eyes were bright and his grin ready.

“You absolutely will.” Hell, he’d served the same purpose for Lewis when his older brother had first started his bare-knuckle boxing career. “How much do you know about boxing bouts?”

“I know enough.” He drummed his fingers against his thigh. “Attend ’em when I can if they come to Cranleigh. Saw the earl fight a couple of years ago here in this field.”

“Ah.” That must have been Lewis, since their father had been dead nigh onto three years. “You’ll do.”

“Good enough.” The boy nodded. “As long as you let me sell some of Miss Bidwell’s pastries in the lulls.

She asked me to help her bakery this evening too.

And I welcome the bit of coin just now. Going up to London tomorrow to visit my brother for a week.

He’s taking me to a counting house to see if I’ll be fit to work there next spring. ”

“Interesting.” At this point, Duncan didn’t care what the young man’s aspirations in life were.

Clearly, he, himself, wasn’t important enough to have anyone’s full attention…

even that of a knee man or essentially a water boy.

“Do whatever you need.” If luck were with him, perhaps he could put down his opponent quickly.

The young man nodded. “If you don’t mind me saying, Mr. Stapleton—”

“Lord Frampton,” Duncan felt the need to correct him. It meant nothing, of course, but that was who he was.

“Er, right.” Young Thomas nodded. “Lord Frampton. If you don’t mind me saying, you seem green about the gills. I thought you Stapletons were used to bouts.”

“We are, of course, but there’s something about this one that has my guts in knots.

” As he spoke, he watched a couple of men—sponsors of the event if their expertly tailored suits were any indication—walk the meadow between the ropes.

One of the men checked the sturdiness of the posts that had been driven into the ground that secured the ropes of the ring.

“Not as large as the crowd if Lewis—the earl—was fighting.” His confidence wavered.

“I’d rather be working the crowd.” Why he felt the need to admit that to a stranger, he’d never know.

“That don’t matter, none,” Young Thomas said. “A few hundred people here on a Sunday evening, when men should be home getting ready for roast dinners.” He shrugged. “Should be a decent fight though.”

“I’m sure you’re right. A fight’s a fight.” Of course, he hoped he won the prize purse. “Do you know who my opponent is?” That was usually his job to discover for his brothers.

Young Thomas shrugged. “No one’s said.”

“Well, now’s a good time to find out while plying the crowd with your pastries.”

“Understood, Lord Frampton. Be back in a few shakes.”

Shakes of what, Duncan couldn’t say, and didn’t care to know.

While the young man loped off, he heaved a sigh, rested a hand on a post in the ground, and closed his eyes.

He concentrated on regulating his breathing, for the annoyance at not having his brothers there in support made his chest tight and hot.

They had always been a team. And now he’d been thrown to the wolves to preferably fend for himself in the ring?

Well, they could bloody well buggar off. I don’t need them.

“Lord Frampton?”

He startled at the sound of Young Thomas’ voice and popped his eyes open. “Is it time already?” Once more, his nerves crawled.

“Not yet, but I found out who your opponent is. A Mr. Sanders from London. A Black man who works as a blacksmith, and is quite muscular.”

“I see.” It seemed luck wouldn’t shine on him this afternoon. He ducked beneath the ropes and went into the ring. “Come on, Young Thomas. The match will begin in half an hour. I need to do some warmup stretches and wrap my hands.”

“Right.” Poor Young Thomas nodded, though it was obvious he had no idea what Duncan meant.

As they went beneath the ropes and headed to the corner that had been assigned to him, the energy from the gathered crowd buzzed in Duncan’s ears and filled his chest with confidence.

He knew his skill level, and he knew what he was capable of.

It didn’t matter what his opponent looked like, he was a Stapleton, damn it, and he’d make a good showing.

“I might not be a boxer, my lord, but if I were you, I’d concentrate on the upcoming fight. The other man’s a beat,” Young Thomas warned. The sound of his voice brought Duncan out of his thoughts. “One slap of that hand will see you dead.”

“I hardly think so, but don’t fret. I’m preparing for the bout in my head.” A hint of censure rang in his tone.

“No offense meant.” The youth frowned as he poked about a wooden water bucket with a ladle inside. “It’s just that you’re too fancy looking to take a beating out there.”

“I might not be hulking, but I’m no slouch at boxing.” Truth be told, Duncan would need to use every scrap of his strength to get through to the end as he sent a curious glance to the other side of the roped off section where his opponent readied himself.

“Mr. Sanders has been in fisticuffs for a few years,” the young man continued, apparently oblivious to Duncan’s mood.

“And I’ve been in it my whole life. My experience versus his form will make it a fair fight.

” Duncan shook his head to clear his thoughts.

“Help me get ready for the bout.” He stripped to the waist and handed his clothes to Young Thomas.

Then he toed off his boots and tugged off his socks, throwing the items into the corner assigned to him.

The coolness of the grass beneath the soles of his feet made him feel more connected to the moment…

as well as the memories of the past when he’d learned how to fight from his father.

“By the by, your responsibility as my knee man is to look after my mindset, wellbeing, and water intake, and you’ll also offer me a knee like a footstool so I can rest between rounds.

” As he spoke, he performed a series of quick stretches to warm up his upper body muscles.

“Whatever you need, Lord Frampton,” the young man said with a nod.

“Good.” Duncan wound strips of linen about his hands, which would help to cushion the blows, and if he was fortunate, prevent broken or badly busted knuckles. When he was finished, Young Thomas tied off the ends. “I’m ready.”

“All to the good, my lord.” He glanced at the opposite side of the makeshift ring where Duncan’s opponent was getting ready as well. “Sanders is a large man, yes, but you look like you’ll have more upper body strength, and you’re smaller, so you’ll be quicker.”

Duncan nodded. “Decent observation. Nicely done, Thomas.”

The young man grinned. “Thank you.”

A shrill whistle blast pierced the air and scattered Duncan’s thoughts.

He blew out a breath. “Wish me luck.”