Page 97 of Juliet's Touch

Chapter thirty

Flickeringsconcescastshadowsover the purple walls and illuminated the ring that sat along the far wall. People packed into the basement, the overflow lining the steep stairwell. Some waved blunt while calling to the men who collected wagers. Others held mugs of ale. Some fisted both. Everyone emanated buzzing enthusiasm.

Now that Juliet had adjusted to the stifling air and the foul scent, she didn’t mind being jostled about. Breathless with anticipation, she held Emily’s hand and leaned close to yell into her ear, “’Tis so exciting.”

“And sooo illegal,” Emily jested, bouncing on her toes. Obviously, she was as excited as Juliet. Who would have ever guessed that they would attend an illegal mill in the city?

Alexander inclined his chin toward a few conspicuous females and said something that the clamoring crowd drowned out.

“What?” Emily yelled.

“I said that I asked around, and those are some of the lady pugilists,” Alexander repeated.

“But they are so lovely,” Emily yelled.

To Juliet’s surprise, the lady boxers were beautiful, and they didn’t resemble men like she’d assumed. Formidable women like them didn’t have to put up with men like Charles Riley, she supposed. Seconds later, she berated herself for her prickle of envy. Everyone had burdens to carry. Besides, there was nothing keeping her from learning to punch. Preposterous perhaps, but she was feeling rather adventurous these days.

The noise level increased as the people around her clapped and hooted. Wanting to know what had caused the ruckus, Juliet stood on her tiptoes so she could see over the sea of bodies.

A stocky man of middling years stood in the center of the ring, holding a speaking trumpet to his mouth. “Welcome, ladies and gentlemen. Are you ready for the fight of all fights?” he asked in a singsongy voice.

The volume in the room increased until it sounded as if a herd of cattle was stomping on the floor while ramming their heads into the walls.

“That is the ring master,” Alexander explained to her and Emily. He’d been providing them with mini lessons since they arrived.

“I can’t see anything.” Emily stuck out her bottom lip. “I hate being short.”

As tall as Juliet was, she still had to perch on the balls of her feet and stretch her torso to track Eric as he followed the men who were carving a path through the crowd. One of the men lifted the top rope. Eric ducked beneath it, then climbed into the ring.

The ringmaster held one hand high, eventually quieting the crowd. “In this corner, we have Whitechapel’s undefeated champion, The Stone,” he announced into his horn.

“Roll like The Stone,” the crowd chanted as Eric removed his shirt and sauntered around the ring.

Juliet squealed. “Roll like The Stone,” she sang out. “That’s my fiancé. We are getting married in two days,” she told an exceptionally rowdy man who’d been cheering with such unbridled enthusiasm that he kept bumping into Lord Chesterhill. Although the marquess seemed too feeble for this chaos, he handled their neighbor’s frenetic movements with good humor. His countenance even glowed like that of a healthy man ten years younger.

“Roll like The Stone,” Lord Chesterhill yelled as he clapped.

“And in this corner, we have the man with the deadliest fists in London, Knockout Ned,” the ringmaster announced.

The man who climbed into the ring was not as tall or lean as Eric, but he had to outweigh him by a couple of stones. He also appeared to be a few years older, and his nose was quite smushed.

“Knockout Ned,” a few people in the crowd yelled.

Ned took off his shirt, contracted his muscles, and prowled the perimeter of the ring, making mean, growly faces. Was it too much for Juliet to hope that he’d earned his name because he got knocked out a lot instead of the other way around?

Since Lord Chesterhill, Alexander, and Emily were all jeering at Knockout Ned, Juliet joined them. She quickly realized that only a passionless nob would want to be a genteel lady when hissing and booing with joyful fervor was the alternative.

The ringmaster motioned for Eric and Ned to join him in the center of the ring. Since Juliet didn’t know much about boxing, she concentrated on the man’s amplified explanation.

“Irish fighting style. No kicking, biting, or weapons are permitted. The round is over when someone goes down. The downed fighter has ten seconds to get back onto his feet, or the fight is over. Thirty seconds between rounds. I’ll call the fight if I think either of your lives is in danger. Here at The Purple Rabbit,we don’t want our fighters dyin’. Do you both agree to these terms?”

Lives in danger? Fighters dying? Surely not. This ringmaster was just being theatrical. Wasn’t he?

The competitors nodded.

“The mill will begin in a few moments,” the announcer said.

The men strutted to opposite corners. Juliet watched with fascination as Eric’s coach double-checked his hand wraps and then held Eric’s chin, looked into his eyes, and said something. A boy who couldn’t have been more than thirteen held a cup beneath Eric’s nose. Eric chugged, then wiped foam from his lips.