Forever a Lord

When Iron Fist didn’t rise, he knew he’d won.

The umpire pointed at Coleman. “Here be the champion of this here quarter! The next and last quarter is set to begin with new opponents in fifteen minutes. So place your bets, gents!”

Coleman sometimes felt like he was cattle. No one ever even announced his name when he won. But that was street fighting for you. It was about money and blood. Nothing more.

In a blur of shouts and the waving of hats in the dust-ridden summer heat, Coleman dropped his arms, spit out the acrid blood that had gathered in his mouth and staggered over to the side fence where his earnings waited. Stanley, who always assisted Coleman in coordinating his street fights at fifty cents a piece, tsked, his unkempt whiskers shifting against his round face. “Why the hell do you keep doin’ these measly dollar street fights? You’re not gettin’ any younger, you know. In fact, most boxers your age are not only retired but dead.”

“I appreciate the confidence, Stanley.”

“You need to cease runnin’ out on the investors I bring and take on bigger fights over on Staten Island, is what. Because it’s breakin’ you. And it’s breakin’ me. I can’t make a livin’ at fifty cents a fight.”

“If you don’t like the money I bring, walk. Because I’m not about to take on an investor. Every one I’ve met is nothing more than a money-licking asshole looking to own me.” Coleman could feel the welts on his body swelling, stretching his pulsing skin. He refocused. “I want my ten. Now.”

Stanley grumbled something and held out the tin bucket. A tied sack, filled with coins, waited. “Ten. And I booked another street fight for you in two weeks. You can pay me then.”

“Good. I appreciate it.” Coleman reached into the bucket and yanked out the muslin sack. Shifting the weight of the coins in his swollen hand, he jogged back toward the fence.

He ducked beneath the planks and rejoined the crowd. Leaning toward Mrs. Walsh, he grabbed her bare hand and set the muslin sack into it. Goodbye, Jane. I’m sorry it ended like this for you. “Take all of it. Buy her the wreath and the flowers and a new gown and keep whatever is left for yourself and the boys.”

She glanced up. “You loved her. Didn’t you?”

Coleman said nothing. He didn’t want to lie to her. Because he’d never loved Jane. He’d learned to help women like Jane get out of stupid situations, yes, and enjoyed having sex with said women he got out of stupid situations, yes, but love? He’d never known it or felt it. Nor did he want to. Love was a messy business that not only fucked with a man’s head, but made a man do things he shouldn’t.

Mrs. Walsh grabbed hold of him and yanked him close. “Come to the funeral.”

He flinched against the touch that seared his bruised body. Unlatching her arms, he stepped back and shook his head. “I really don’t want to see her in a casket.”

“I understand.” She patted the small sack of coins. “May God bless.” She nodded and moved into the crowd.

The Walsh boys lowered their gazes and disappeared after their mother, one by one.

Coleman blankly stared after them, knowing it would be the last time he’d ever see them now that Jane was gone.

Matthew rounded him and held out his linen shirt. “I’ve known you for eight years, Coleman. Eight. Why the hell didn’t you tell me you were married?”

Coleman grabbed the shirt and pulled the cool linen over his sweaty, blood-ridden body, wincing against the movements. “Because it wasn’t much of a marriage. It was more like me helping a girl out of a situation and keeping her legally out of other people’s hands.”

Matthew held out the rest of his clothing, which Coleman also grabbed and put on. “I’m still sorry to hear she passed.”

Coleman shrugged. “It was only a matter of time. She was overly wild and consumed laudanum and whiskey like water.” He perused the trash-strewn ground. Finding the advertisement he’d earlier tossed, he swiped up the balled newspaper and shoved it into his pocket. For later.

Three hefty men, including a tall, well-muscled negro in a frayed linen shirt and wool trousers, suddenly pressed in on him and Matthew.

Coleman’s brows went up, realizing it was Smock, Andrews and Kerner—members of their group, the Forty Thieves. “You missed the fight.” Coleman thumbed toward the milling fence and smirked. “Although Vincent’s blood is still on the ground. Feel free to look around.”

Smock swiped a hand across his black, unshaven face. “We’re not here for the fight.”

Everyone grew quiet.

Oh, no.

Matthew quickly leaned in. “Jesus. Is someone dead?”

Andrews scrubbed his oily head with a dirt-crusted hand. “Nah. But it ain’t good, either.”

Kerner’s bearded face remained stoic.

Coleman stared them down and bit out, “Does someone want to tell me what the hell is going on? Or are we going to stand here like bricks and play charades?”

Kerner’s bushy brows rose to his shaggy hairline. “Apparently, two girls went missing from the local orphanage. There’s been grumblings in the ward as to what happened. We’re talking prostitution. Sister Catherine called on me this morning and is terrified knowing the rumors are true. These missing girls are barely eight.”

Coleman hissed out a breath. The amount of sick bastards in this world taking advantage of children made him want to break rib cages all day long. He was damn well glad he wasn’t the only one putting up fists. The sole reason he and Matthew had created the Forty Thieves was to clean up the rancid aspects of the slums they all lived in. The trouble was, there was too much to clean and very little money to clean it with. “I say we get the boys together and decide who can resolve this mess best. Milton? When and where?”

Matthew pointed at Coleman. “Anthony Street. In three hours. The usual place. Someone has to know something. Maybe we can buy a few tongues. Though God knows with what. Informants these days only want money. Kerner, Smock, Andrews, come with me. We need to get our hands on twenty dollars. Coleman? Clean yourself up. Your face and nose need tending.” Matthew rounded into the crowd with the boys following suit and disappeared.

A humid wind blew in from the wharf, feathering Coleman’s pulsing skin. He made his way back to the milling fence and stood there, amidst the dust and shouts, staring at nothing in particular.

He probably shouldn’t have given Mrs. Walsh all ten dollars. Informants were anything but cheap and expected at least a dollar apiece.

Coleman momentarily closed his eyes, knowing what needed to be done. All that mattered was doing right by those girls and the countless others like them, and giving them the chance he never got when he was their age.

Reopening his eyes, Coleman slowly pulled out the crumpled advertisement from his wool coat pocket and stared at the words well rewarded. He didn’t know who the hell this Duke of Wentworth and Lord Yardley were or why they were looking for Nathaniel after almost thirty fucking years, but he did know one thing. He would swallow what had once been and use these men to get as much money as he could, to set him and the Forty Thieves up to help anyone in a similar predicament to these girls.

Everything in life came at a price. And knowing there were children whose very lives depended on whatever he and Matthew could buy, it was a price he was more than willing to pay.

CHAPTER TWO

Distinction of rank is of little importance when an offense has been given, and in the impulse of the moment, a Prince has forgot his royalty, by turning out to box.

—P. Egan, Boxiana (1823)

The Adelphi Hotel

Evening

LEANING AGAINST THE silk embroidered wall of the hotel lobby, Coleman scanned the polished marble floors and rubbed his scabbed hands together.

“Sir?” a hotel footman called out, holding out a white gloved hand. “Could you please not lean against the wall? It’s silk and damages easily.”

Coleman shifted his jaw and pushed away from the wall. Although he’d scrubbed with soap and shaved around every scab from his last fight, his patched wool clothing lent to a dirtiness no soap could touch. He was used to it, but sometimes, just sometimes, it still agitated the hell out of him when others treated him like some thug. He was a boxer. Not a thug. There was a difference.

Quick, echoing steps drew his attention.

An older, dashing gentleman with silver, tonic-sleeked hair jogged into the foyer of the hotel, dressed in expensive black evening attire from leather boot to broad shoulder, save a white silk waistcoat, snowy linen shirt and a perfectly knotted linen cravat.

Skidding in beside that older gent was a good-looking man of no more than thirty, whose raven hair had also been swept back with tonic. A black band hugged the upper biceps of his well-tailored coat.

Apparently, everyone was in mourning these days.