Jack dipped his head to keep from banging it on the low beams inside the long room. Shapes lined up in rows on the floor. Coughing punctuated the silence, and the mutterings of drunkards sleeping off their latest trip to the bottom of a bottle. Someone hushed a fussing baby.

He glanced at Eva beside him. Her mouth pressed into a tight line as she took in the dim, stale room and the two dozen people using it as their home until daylight. In all her visits to the slums as a missionary, she probably hadn’t seen places like this one.

Beds was a nice way of saying a mound of moldy straw and a thin, tattered blanket crawling with lice.

“No bed,” Jack said. “I want to know where the fight is tonight.”

The old man eyed him suspiciously. “Don’t reckon what you’re talking about.”

Jack held up a shilling. “The fight,” he prompted.

“Abandoned slaughterhouse,” the old man answered quickly. “A half mile from here. Want me to point the way?”

“I know it.” Jack dropped the shilling into the man’s bony hand. He and Eva turned to leave.

“Sure you don’t want a bed for you and your lady?” the old man cackled. “Nice an’ comfy for the both of you.”

Jack didn’t answer, escorting Eva back up the stairs. He’d sooner carve a portrait of the queen into his chest with a dull knife than have Eva spend a night here.

Back on the street, he guided them through a maze of alleys toward the old slaughterhouse.

“Did you ever sleep at a place like that?” she asked quietly.

“After my ma died,” he said. “Me and Edith spent more than a few nights there, or wherever had a few beds open. Usually didn’t sleep well, on account of the rats biting on my fingers and toes.”

She visibly shuddered, but at least she didn’t give him any pitying looks or try to say something consoling.

An empty yard surrounded the old slaughterhouse, where the pens used to be. The wood that made up the pens had long since been scavenged. The slaughterhouse itself was a large brick building, parts of its roof caving in, with tall wide doors through which the condemned animals once had been driven. The business itself had shut down when Jack had been just a tyke, but some of the old-timers remembered the way the terrified cows used to bellow before they met the knife.

Now, the sounds of men’s rowdy voices echoed around the yard.

As Jack approached the building, he cast a wary look at Eva. He’d no doubt she could take care of herself, but he was leading her right into one of the roughest, meanest places he knew. At the first sign of trouble, he’d get her out of there.

“Stay close to me inside,” he warned. “And don’t say much. Your accent is a dead giveaway you ain’t from these parts.”

She nodded. Thank God she was sensible, and not one of those teacake-brained females who’d go charging into an unfamiliar, dangerous situation, convinced they had all the answers.

Jack pressed his last shilling into the hand of the dead-eyed bruiser guarding the door. The bloke squinted at Jack for a moment, trying to place him.

“Don’t I—”

“No,” Jack said, cutting him off. “And you don’t want to.”

The bruiser likely heard threats all the time, but after looking at Jack for a second longer, he realized that Jack could actually make good on them. He stepped aside and let Jack and Eva enter.

A wall of shouts met them as soon as they stepped inside. Outside it had been cold enough to leave a crust of frost on puddles, but inside was hotter than Satan’s own chamber pot, and smelled as good, too. The air stank of sweat, tobacco, and cheap whiskey. At least a hundred men crowded around a ring that had been scratched in the dirt.

Within the ring, two men faced off. They’d stripped down to the waist, and their bodies glistened with sweat and blood as they circled each other, fists upraised. The eye of one of the fighters had swollen shut. The other looked like he favored one leg. Probably he’d taken a hit there—low blows were counted just as much as any other.

Swollen Eye danced forward, fists at the ready. He bobbed to one side as Hobbled swung a left hook, then he jabbed at Hobbled’s bad leg. His opponent sank down onto one knee. Swollen Eye darted closer and plowed his fist into Hobble’s jaw, sending the other man sprawling onto his back. The crowd roared in approval.

“They don’t follow the Marquess of Queensbury’s rules,” Eva called to him above the racket.

“Only rule is that you have to stop punching a man when he blacks out,” he answered. “And no knives in the ring.”

That didn’t stop fighters from trying to smuggle in weapons. Jack’s hair covered the scar he had on his left temple, a souvenir from a piece of pig iron one of his opponents had gripped in his fist. But the bugger hadn’t held on to his advantage for long. After he’d been cut, Jack had knocked the sod to the ground and ground his boot heel onto his opponent’s wrist, until his fingers had spasmed open and Jack had kicked the pig iron away.

Jack watched the fight now. Swollen Eye took advantage of Hobbled’s prone position, crouching over him and raining blows. Hobbled could barely lift his arms to protect himself as blood spurted. The crowd continued to cheer.

He glanced at Eva. The sight of blood was common here, and between that and the heat, he half expected her to look faint. Instead, she watched the fight with a frown of concentration. He should’ve known that the sight of two men pummeling each other into paste wouldn’t upset her.

Looking back to the ring, he noticed something. “The idiot’s lowering his guard,” he muttered to himself.

Swollen Eye, confident in his victory, dropped his hands to taunt his opponent. Hobbled managed to raise up just enough to throw a right jab. It crashed into Swollen Eye’s face. With a groan heard above the shouting, Swollen Eye toppled backward into the dirt. He didn’t move. Not even when three men scurried into the ring and slapped his face as they shouted at him.

Hobbled staggered to his feet. He waited as the three men continued to slap and yell at the downed fighter. Eventually, one of the men glanced over and shook his head. Hobbled grinned, showing big gaps in his teeth, and raised his hands in victory.

The throng watching the match bellowed its approval. As Swollen Eye’s limp body was dragged off by his friends, Hobbled limped around the ring, accepting the crowd’s tribute.

Hell, he remembered that. The flood of sound and praise that would wash over him as he stood with his arms lifted, spattered with the blood of his opponents. The spectators would roar at him, and he’d roar back. A bloodstained champion.

He caught Eva watching him. Saw the understanding in her eyes. For as long as a match lasted, he’d been a god. Something more than another piece of slum trash.

“You miss it,” she said.

“Not the bruises and broken bones, I don’t.” But they both knew that wasn’t the truth. “Come on, the next fight’s about to start and I want to find Charlie before then.”

She followed in his wake as he shoved through the crowd, clearing a path for her. “And Charlie is…?”

“Old friend of mine,” he said over his shoulder. “Bookmaker.”

“It’s only legal to gamble at racetracks.”

He threw her a dry look. “Because everything else here’s strictly aboveboard.”

A corner of her mouth turned up. “Right.”

“But Charlie’s more than a bookmaker. If there’s something you want or need, anything at all, Charlie can get it for you.”

As he pushed through the mob, he saw more than a few blokes give Eva the eye. She’d kept the hood of her cloak up, but women always snared attention at fights. Aside from her, only a handful of females were scattered through the crowd, and most of them looked like the sort who charged for their company.

Jack glared down anyone who gave Eva more than a passing look. Just let one of the bastards try anything. He hadn’t had a decent fight in a long while.

No one tried anything.

At one edge of the building, men gathered, shaking handfuls of money at someone standing in the middle of the circle. A voice rose up above the crowd. “It’s six to one for O’Connell. Twelve to one he knocks Arkley out in the first five rounds. What’ll it be, lads?”

There’d be no getting to Charlie until all the bets had been placed. Men surged forward, ready to have their wagers written down. This went on until someone beat a pipe against a metal bucket, signaling that the fight was about to start. The crowd around the bookmaker thinned as the spectators all turned toward the ring.

The bookmaker stood there, writing in a battered notebook and holding a huge fistful of banknotes. Even though she was dressed in a skirt, she also wore a shirtwaist, tie, and a man’s waistcoat. Her dark hair had been tucked up into a bowler hat, and she held a cigar between her teeth.

“Betting’s closed,” the bookmaker said as Jack stepped closer.

“What’re the odds you’ve got the clap?” Jack asked.

Her mouth dropped open as she looked up, and her cigar fell to the ground. “Diamond Jack!”

“Hello, Charlie,” he said.


CHAPTER TWELVE

“This is Charlie?” Eva demanded. She hated the shrill note in her voice, as if she were some melodrama heroine, but, damn it, Jack had caught her by surprise. She had to wonder if he’d done it on purpose, just to see her look shocked. No doubt her eyes were round as oranges and her mouth hung open.

“Charlotte Linton,” the bookmaker said with a cheerful grin, “but everyone round these parts calls me Charlie.” She appeared to be somewhere in her late thirties, possessing a sharp-edged attractiveness both at odds with and in perfect harmony with her rough surroundings.