“My reasons are my own.”
Studying him for a moment longer, Zachary gave a short nod. “Fine, then. Let's go.”
Heads turned and papers rustled quietly as the members of Marlow's watched the odd procession. Realizing that some sort of altercation was about to take place, several men rose and followed as the fighters went toward the cellar stairs at the back of the club. As they descended the dark, narrow steps, Zachary caught snatches of the whispered conversation between Warrington and his companions ahead of them.
“I think you're a fool for taking on…bloody huge bastard…” Turner muttered.
“…knows nothing of technique or discipline…just a street animal,” came Warrington's sneering reply.
Zachary smiled with dark amusement. Perhaps Warrington had a great deal of technique and discipline. Perhaps he had undergone years of pugilistic training. That all amounted to nothing, compared to the experience Zachary had gained by standing on a street corner and taking on all comers. How many days and nights had he fought for every shilling he could get, knowing that his own mother and sister would have no food or bed to sleep in if he was defeated? Fighting had never been entertainment to him…It was survival…it was his way of life. And to Warrington it was merely a sport.
“Don't underestimate him,” came Ravenhill's quiet voice behind him, as if Zachary's thoughts were somehow transparent to him. “Warrington's got a blistering right, and more speed than you might expect. I fought him a few times at Oxford and always got the stuffing knocked out of me.”
They reached the cellar, which was cool, dimly lit and musty. The dirt floor was slightly damp, and the stone walls were green and slick. Endless rows of wine shelves filled half the cellar, but there was still enough room for the business at hand.
As Zachary and Warrington removed their coats and shirts, the seconds walked off the measurements of the ring and drew two furrows, one foot apart, in the center of the area. Ravenhill spoke briskly, outlining the terms of the match. “London Prize Ring Rules, each round to last until some part of a man's body touches the ground. At the end of each round, each man returns to his corner, rests for thirty seconds, and in eight seconds comes back to toe the mark again. Voluntarily dropping to a knee will result in forfeit.” He glanced from Zachary's set face to Warrington's determined one. “Have I forgotten anything, gentlemen?”
“Yes,” Warrington said, staring at Zachary accusingly, as if expecting him to cheat. “No headlocks.”
Ravenhill replied before Zachary had a chance. “Headlocks are perfectly legal, my lord.”
“That's all right,” Zachary said evenly, yanking off his cravat. “I won't do headlocks if he doesn't want them.” He knew what Warrington feared: that he might capture his head in an unbreakable hold and smash every bone in his face.
“A gentlemanly concession, Mr. Bronson,” Ravenhill remarked, seeming to understand how it annoyed Warrington to hear the word “gentlemanly” applied to his opponent. “Very well, then, no headlocks.” He extended his arms to receive Zachary's shirt, coat, waistcoat and cravat, folded the garments as deftly as a valet and set them on a wine shelf.
As the two bare-chested men turned to confront each other, Zachary saw Warrington's eyes widen with patent dismay.
“Christ,” Warrington said, unable to restrain the exclamation, “have a look at him—he's a damned ape.”
Zachary had been long accustomed to such comments. He knew what his body looked like, his torso rippled with muscle, scarred in some places, his arms bulging, his neck seventeen inches around and his chest thickly carpeted with black hair. It was a body meant for fighting, or for hard labor in fields and factories. Warrington, by contrast, had a lean but lanky form, with unmarked skin and trim muscles displayed by a nearly hairless chest.
Ravenhill smiled for the first time, revealing a flash of even white teeth. “I believe they used to call Bronson the ‘Butcher,’” he informed Warrington, then turned to Zachary with an inquiring arch of his brow. “Isn't that correct?”
In no mood to share his humor, Zachary nodded shortly.
Ravenhill's attention returned to Warrington, and he spoke more soberly. “I might be able to persuade Mr. Bronson to abandon the fight, my lord, if you'll agree right now to retract your comment about Lady Holland.”
Warrington shook his head with a sneer. “I'll offer no respect to a lady abiding under his roof.”
Ravenhill sent a glance of cold encouragement to Zachary. It appeared that any insult to Holly offended him nearly as much as it did Zachary. As Ravenhill passed him on the way to the corner, he muttered something between his teeth. “Take his damned head off, Bronson.”
Quietly Zachary went to the mark and waited for Warrington to do the same. They faced each other and adopted the traditional fighter's stance, left leg forward, left arm in front, elbow bent, knuckles at eye level.
Warrington opened the fight with a stinging left jab and circled to the left, while Zachary immediately gave ground. Soon Warrington unloaded more left jabs, followed by a right uppercut. Although the right failed to connect, Warrington's companions began to whoop with jubilation, clearly excited by his aggressiveness. Zachary allowed Warrington to set the pace, merely retreating and defending himself while Warrington unleashed a series of body shots. The blows hit solidly on Zachary's ribs, but it was the kind of pain he had long been impervious to, after years of bludgeoning and pounding. In return, he delivered only a series of light jabs designed to irritate, and test his opponent's range.
Finally, when Warrington's sweating face was adorned with a triumphant smirk and Turner and Enfield were cheering lustily in premature victory, Zachary threw a three-shot combination followed by a hard right cross that caught Warrington squarely in the eye.
Warrington staggered backward, clearly stunned by the power and speed of the blows. The men were instantly silenced as Warrington's legs buckled and he fell to his knees, before scrambling to rise again.
“End of the round,” came Ravenhill's call, and Zachary went to his corner. He was beginning to sweat from exertion, and he brushed his hand impatiently at the wet locks of hair that fell over his forehead. “Here,” Ravenhill said, giving him a clean wine towel, and Zachary blotted his face.
Warrington retreated to his own corner, while Enfield wiped his face and offered advice.
“Don't toy with him for long,” Ravenhill murmured, smiling, although his gray eyes remained cool. “There's no need to drag this business out, Bronson.”
Zachary handed back the towel. “What makes you think I'm toying with him?”
“It's clear the fight is yours to finish whenever you choose. But be a gentleman about it. Make your point succinctly and have done with it.”