London, 1818
Thick clouds darkened to shades of grey as they rolled
across the London sky. Beneath them, standing in the
middle of the Black Swan courtyard, Raphe Matthews drew
back his fist, his muscles bunching tightly together—just
long enough for him to assess the angle and speed with
which to release all that power. Instinct made it a brief
calculation. Less than a second, and then he sent his
fist flying.
The punch snapped his opponent’s face sideways, producing
a spray of spit and blood that painted the air with
specks of crimson. A cheer erupted from those who’d come
to witness the fight—a motley selection of hardened
individuals. This place was not for the weak or the
wealthy. It reeked of filth and the daily struggle to
survive. This was St. Giles, but it might as well have
been the bowels of hell for all the difference it made.
“Come on!” someone shouted.
Raphe’s other fist met a hard chest with a crunch. His
knuckles ached, the force of the punch vibrating through
him.
“Matthews, Matthews, Matthews…” The chant shook the air
while Raphe shifted his footing, regaining his balance
just in time to accept the blows that followed. He didn’t
mind, for it only revealed his opponent’s sudden
desperation.
Raising his fists to block the attack, Raphe bobbed to
the side, turning away, just out of reach. And yet, he
was close—so close he could smell the sweat on the other
man’s skin, see the fear that shone in his eyes, the
beads of moisture clinging to his hair that dripped onto
his brow.
More shouts flooded the air, drowning him in a cacophony
of unintelligible noise. The wave of encouragement
shifted, alerting him that support had changed—no longer
in his favor.
Forcing it into the background, Raphe focused on the man
he was meant to beat. Today his name was Calvin Butler.
Raphe launched himself forward, surrendering to the rage
and let the punches fly, beating back pain and anger
until Calvin Butler lay stretched out on the ground,
hands covering his face in surrender. A fleeting second
of silence passed, just long enough to be sure of the
outcome, and then the spectators sent up a roar in
response to Raphe’s victory.
Exhausted, he stumbled back, a light drizzle dampening
his skin. A coat was draped over his shoulders while
Butler was helped to his feet—a sorry sight, with his
blackened eye and swollen lip distorting an otherwise
handsome face.
Turning away, Raphe pushed his way in the direction of
the taproom. All he wanted right now was a drink.
Fast.
“Butler ain’t lookin’ too good,” Raphe’s friend, Benjamin
Thompson, said as he came up beside him. A couple of
inches shorter than Raphe, his green eyes were a handsome
compliment to his ginger hair and freckles. He was
without a doubt the kindest and most dependable person
Raphe knew, besides his own sisters. Together, they made
their way to the bar, where Ben promptly called for a
server. “Give us a couple o’ pints.”
Resting his elbows on the counter, Raphe grunted his
response to Ben’s question. “He knew what ‘e was in fer.”
Ben nodded. The beer arrived, and both men took a healthy
swig. “Ye could ‘ave been gentler, though. The man was
done. No need to keep beatin’ at him like that.”
Stilling, Raphe slid his gaze toward his friend. “I
couldn’t ‘elp it.” The rage had burned its way through
him, driving him forward and filling his mind with one
singular purpose: The need to win. “I don’t know ‘ow to
fight any other way.”
“I know,” Ben said softly.
No, you don’t. You have no bloody idea.
In this, he’d never been completely honest, not even with
Ben. “In any case, the blunt’s pretty good—lets me keep a
roof over me sisters’ heads.”
“Aye, an’ a decent one at that.”
Raphe couldn’t argue. He’d visited Ben’s home once—an
overcrowded single room that he shared with his parents
and five siblings. By comparison, Raphe and his sisters
lived like royalty. “Have ye ever thought of gettin’ out
of this place? Out of St. Giles?”
Ben shrugged his shoulders. “An’ go where?”
“Somewhere better. Christ, Ben, anywhere’s better than
this. Ye’re a likeable man. Ye could probably snatch up a
job at one of ‘em fancy ‘ouses in Mayfair.”
His friend snorted. “An’ ‘ave some nob lookin’ down on
me, demandin’ I polish ‘is boots—or worse, empty ‘is
chamber pot? I’d rather stay by the docks, thank ye very
much. At least there I can take some pride in me work.”
“Understood. But the pay there’s never goin’ to afford ye
with yer own home. Don’t ye wish to marry one day?”
“Sure. But there’s a limit to what I’m willing to do for
a bit of blunt, Raphe.” He took another sip of his beer.
“I’ll not lose me dignity by workin’ for a class o’
people I can’t abide, ‘nor by lowerin’ meself to doin’
demeanin’ work.”
The words speared Raphe to his soul, filling him with
shame. “I know,” he muttered with admiration. If only he
could be more like him, not wanting anything beyond what
life had tossed his way. Perhaps, if he didn’t have his
sisters to consider, he wouldn’t care so much.
“Ye fought well today, lad,” a man’s voice suddenly spoke
from directly behind him.
Bristling, Raphe set down his beer on the counter and
turned to face his handler, whose attire—a purple velvet
jacket and matching top hat—lent an air of flamboyance
unmatched by anyone else. And yet, in spite of the fine
attire, there was nothing cultured about this man, a
scoundrel who’d gained his wealth through illicit deals
and by taking advantage of others. His origins were
questionable, but rumor had it he’d killed more than once
in pursuit of power. Raphe didn’t know what to believe.
All he knew was that in spite of his own prejudices,
crime in St. Giles had decreased since Carlton Guthrie’s
arrival eighteen years earlier. Or so he’d been told.
“Mr. Guthrie. Good to see ye.” A blatant lie, if ever
there was one.
Guthrie’s moustache twitched. “Likewise.” He sounded
jovial, but only a fool would mistake that for kindness.
Least of all when his henchman, a scarred boulder of a
Scotsman by the name of McNeil, stood at his right
shoulder. Guthrie nodded toward Ben, who returned the
salutation.
“Come. Share a drink with me,” Guthrie said, addressing
Raphe. “We’ve much to discuss, you ‘n I.”
“And Thompson?” Raphe asked, not wanting to abandon his
friend.
“I’m sure he’ll be willin’ to wait for ye till ye get
back.” Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a gold
coin and dropped it in front of Ben. “For yer trouble.
What I ‘ave to say to Matthews ‘ere doesn’t concern ye.
Understand?”
Raphe glared at Guthrie for a moment before looking at
Ben. “I’m sorry. I—”
“No worries,” Ben said, pocketing the coin that would
keep his family fed for the next few days. “I’ll see ye
tomorrow at work, aye?”
Nodding, Raphe watched him go.
“Well?” Guthrie’s voice drew Raphe’s attention back to
him. “’Ow about that drink then?”
Eyeing first Guthrie and then McNeil, Raphe gave a curt
nod. “By all means.”
Guthrie’s eyes sparkled. “Excellent.” His lips stretched
into a smile. “Follow me.” Turning away, he led Raphe
through the taproom, where tobacco smoke mingled with the
smell of roasting meat and beer. Dice rolled across one
table in a game of Hazard. A hand touched his thigh,
inappropriately stroking upward until he pushed it away.
“No’ in the mood, Luv?” the woman to whom it belonged
asked. She was sitting down, her legs spread across the
lap of a man who was busily burying his face between her
half-exposed breasts.
Pitying the life she’d been dealt, he told her gently,
“I’ve not the time.”
“La’er then?” she called as he strode away, not answering
her question. Blessedly, his sisters had managed to avoid
such a fate.
“’Ave a seat,” Guthrie said moments later as they stepped
inside a private room at the end of a hallway. It was
sparsely furnished, with just a plain wooden table and
four chairs. On top of the table stood a pitcher and a
couple of mugs. “Some ale for me champion?” Guthrie
asked, indicating the pitcher.
Grabbing a chair, Raphe dropped down onto it and poured
himself a drink, while Guthrie claimed the other chair
with more finesse. “Will ye ‘ave some?” Raphe asked,
indicating the same pitcher.
Guthrie beamed. “Don’t mind if I do.” He waited for Raphe
to pour before reaching for the mug and raising it. “To
yer victory today.”
“To me victory,” Raphe muttered, downing the bitter
resentment he felt with a brew to match.
“I’ve ‘igh ‘opes for ye,” Guthrie said, tapping a finger
against his nose. “Unbeaten for the fifteenth time.
That’s unprecedented, tha’ is.”
Raphe saw the spark that lit his eyes, like the promise
of treasure or some such thing. “Wha’ do ye want,
Guthrie?”
“So cynical, Matthews.” Guthrie’s upper lip drew up,
revealing an uneven row of yellow-stained teeth. “Must a
man always want some’in? Can’t ‘e simply enjoy a drink
wi’ an old friend?”
Old friend?
Hardly.
“Not when ‘e’s got ‘im by the bollocks.”
Guthrie’s mouth tightened, his eyes darkening just enough
to offer a glimpse of his true nature. “Is tha’ ‘ow ye
see our relationship, laddy?”
His demeaning tone made Raphe’s muscles flex. He glanced
at McNeil, who stood by the door, running his thumb along
the edge of a wicked blade, and was instantly reminded of
the punishment he’d suffered the one time when he’d been
foolish enough to try and thwart Guthrie’s wishes.
Shoulders tensing, Raphe returned his gaze to the man who
owned him. “’Ow else should I see it? I’m yer puppet,
ain’t I?”
Guthrie nodded. “Aye, but ye’re me favorite one. Which is
why I’d like to offer ye a deal.”
Raphe stiffened. “What sor’ of deal?”
“The sor’ that could set ye free, laddy.”
A tempting notion, but surely too good to be true. Still,
he couldn’t help but ask. “What do ye have in mind?”
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