Page 62 of The Grand Mistletoe Assembly
Max considered himself an honorable man. He was. Prided himself on how well he treated his ma, his sisters. But when he heardbutterout of Miss Ruby Jackson’s mouth, all he could do was picture her without her frock, covered in it. He almost walked into a column.
“Ladies’ lounge is marked there with the potted palms,” he directed.
“Don’t forget, Mister …?” She watched him expectantly, all shame erased.
“Vaughn. Maximillian Vaughn.” Did he have any spit left? Why was his mouth so dry?
“Mister Maximillian Vaughn. With a name like that, you must have some coin. I’m a safe bet. Bring your paper.” Then Ruby Jackson—who knocked out Nanny Gent—who went two hours in her bout with Ann Fielding—winkedat him before striding into the ladies’ lounge.
Max drifted over to the servants’ stair in a daze. Ruby Jackson had winked at him. Told him to make wagers. He’d find a way to get the whole bloody world to risk coin on her.
CHAPTER 2
TWO WEEKS LATER
Bess Abbott grabbed Ruby’s face and held it firm. “You keep focused, you hear me?”
“I’m focused,” Ruby insisted.
“Yer eyes are darting about the room like flies in chicken shite. Pay. Attention.” Her trainer straightened and scrutinized her adopted daughter Violet, who wasn’t fighting tonight. “Oi! Wot you getting up to?”
Ruby took advantage of Bess’s distraction and scanned the crowdagain. She could see the Fancy coming together off in a corner. Even though they tried to dress down, their ragged clothes were too well cared for to pass as common. But Ruby was searching for Maximillian Vaughn. She’d said his name every night since the Grand Mistletoe Assembly. She’d repeated it so often that the other day, Violet had looked up from her porridge and asked Bess who Maximillian Vaughn was. Ruby kept her head down, successfully hiding both her embarrassment and knowledge when Bess admitted she had no idea.
Of course, at the ball, Maximillian Vaughn had been wearing his footman’s white powdered wig, and Ruby didn’t know exactly what he might look like out of uniform, except he was very tall. Was Mr. Pearler the sort to bring his footmen in livery? Not many did so anymore, but that didn’t mean it never happened.
Unable to spot him, Ruby gave up and stretched her arms in front of her and then in back, loosening up her shoulders. She cracked her neck from side to side and thought about her breathing, steadying herself against any nerves she might have in meeting Bruising Peg in the ring. It wasn’t much to fight for—two guineas to the winner and a pint of gin—but it was more for the chance to say she’d won. To show off her quick footwork and strong uppercuts. To prove that after all that unlucky business early in her life, Ruby could come out on top. She could work hard and win. Even if she worried she’d say something wrong to Bess one day and they wouldn’t let her stay in their house anymore. Even if Violet suddenly decided she hated Ruby, at least there was this she could hang on to—she could fight, and she could win.
* * *
“I can’t tellyou who, sir,” Max insisted to Baron Stone as they descended into the basement. “But the odds are very good.”
“You don’t make real money betting on small stakes.” Stone pursed his lips and let out an annoyed breath. “But if it’s a sure thing, and you’re betting your own money, I’m willing to listen.”
Max grinned at Roger, who kept his distance. They were lumped together, both hired at the same time, both the same height, both second footmen. But after Max’s clumsy hands at the Mistletoe Assembly, Roger didn’t want anything to do with him. If the Pearlers sacked Max, they might sack Roger too, and Stone might not have the blunt to hire both of them.
“I brought every spare coin I have.” Max patted the internal pocket of his own waistcoat. Not wearing livery made it feel less like work and more like he was out on his own; like he was a sort of up-and-coming gentleman who had easy money and free time. When, as a second footman, he had neither.
The room was crowded, and the children’s fights were already underway. Two rail-thin boys, all elbows and sharp shoulder blades, swung wildly at each other, not even bothering to check if their fists connected—less technique and more street fight. There were always boys like that. He’d been one himself. But he knew quick enough that he wasn’t much for hurting others. Even in the ring, where they were supposed to.
Stone dove through the crowd, not bothering to wait for Roger or Max to clear the way for him. They hustled behind him, jostling away any probable cutpurses, until they arrived at the safety of the Fancy in the far corner of the room. Max recognized many of the members—regular watchers of the fights. Mostly they spoke to each other, backs turned to the rest of the room, footmen guarding their pockets or placing their bets.
Stone put his hand on Max’s arm. “Let’s hear more about your so-called tip.” He hailed Lord Andrepont, who was speaking with a crowd of a few noteworthy men, including Corinthian John.
Max kept a straight face, knowing that Stone had picked the one group of people who would support Max’s claim that betting Ruby Jackson versus Bruising Peg was a sure win. They elbowed past the merchants, who never bet on anything but the main bout. As working men, they weren’t truly a part of the Fancy, but they were wealthy and had footmen, so they stood nearby, hoping to be welcomed into their fold.
The women of the Fancy, who didn’t care to discuss the Sweet Science, stood closer to the wall. Most often they were the aristocrats’ mistresses—women who couldn’t necessarily go to a public event like the opera, often because they were in the performances—and the sweaty, crowded rooms gave them a chance to be seen with their sponsor of the moment. Behind them hovered the men who had more money than Croesus and more power than Zeus. These were the men who ran the British Empire. And these were the men who had sentenced Max’s drunken father to transportation.
While Max should get on his knees to thank them for pushing his father off to the other side of the world, that kind of power made him nervous. Among that group, fighters and former fighters hobnobbed. They were broader than the bluebloods by at least half, their professions writ across their features, in some cases crippling their bodies. Max wondered if that would happen to Ruby. He gazed past the ring where the scrawny boys bled and windmilled their arms, to the back of the room where that night’s fighters typically gathered. He could make out her dark hair, braided and pinned away for safety.
His stomach flipped. Would she remember him? Or would she be mad at him for cutting her time at the party short, ruining her dress, and making a fool of her? He winced. Talking to her was a terrible idea.
Stone returned to Max’s side, purse in hand. “The Ruby Jackson bet is considered all but a certainty in that corner. Let’s see if your information proves correct.”
“Shall I put it all on her, or would you like to bet on particular rounds?” Max asked, already knowing Stone’s habits.
“Half on the end outcome. Who knows if she’ll go three rounds or ten? Let’s keep the other half in reserve, just in case.”
“Of course, sir.” Max took the purse. Even at half the amount, that was still a good return. Max gave Roger a cheeky grin, then waded into the crowd to find the umpire. The boys were almost done, and after they finally gave it up, Ruby would be next. Max needed to get the bets placed before the match to get the best return.
