Page 3 of Coming for the Champion
“Excuse me, Mr Milson, Bennington’s carriage is here for you.”
“Thank you, Clarkson.” He rose from behind his desk. “I’m sorry Lawndry, I have a meeting to attend.”
Lawndry stood too. “I’m here if you need it.”
“Thank you. I do appreciate your support.” He shook Lawndry’s hand, a familiar gesture with someone so far above him in society, and yet it was proper given their long friendship. He grabbed his coat, using it to hide the tremor in his hand—big movements tended to be easier for him—and followed Lawndry out of his office.
Bennington’s carriage was as sumptuous as expected from an Earl, and the slow journey through London traffic to The King’s Book Club passed in relative comfort. Malcolm followed the butler, Heider, up the stairs to Mr Mardin’s office. He’d been a member of his club for years and this was only his second invitation to the second floor where the owner lived and worked—the first being only a few weeks ago when Bennington had proposed the match and he’d tried to decline—and here he was again. Invited because they needed something from him. Damnation, it felt good to be needed. It was a rare thing nowadays and it spread in his chest, warm like the power he used to have when putting on the mantle of The Colossus; the good old days when crowds used to cheer his name. Adoration. What a dangerous and addictive thought.
“Tea?” Heider asked after he sat on the chaise lounge. The delicate green velvet piece of furniture didn’t look sturdy enough to hold him.
“No thank you.” He didn’t drink tea in front of other people. “When is he expected?”
“Soon.” The butler left the room and Malcolm waited. The owner, Mr Mardin, was the nephew of the previous owner and he’d only been here a year or so. He reminded Malcolm of a particular type of fan who came to matches with an enthusiastic energy, while Lord Bennington was more reserved, seated behind Mardin’s desk while Mardin perched on the corner of it. Eventually, long after Malcolm had exhausted dull conversation about the weather—cold—and the state of London’s roads—busy—the door opened again.
In walked The Long Laird.
He’d never met The Long Laird, had never been to one of his fights. He didn’t attend that sort of thing anymore because when he used to attend, after his retirement, too many people wanted a piece of him, sometimes literally cutting holes in his clothes to keep as a memento. It wasn’t safe to be so crowded and overwhelmed, so he stayed away.
But he read all the stories about every fight written up in the newssheets; he couldn’t help it. Consequently, he knew everything that had ever been written about The Long Laird. He knew about his reach, his height, his commanding presence in the ring, how light on his feet he was for a tall man.
Reality was different. More. He didn’t expect the man to be so handsome. The Long Laird was everything that had been written about him and ... so much more. Soft brown hair, unkempt in a fashionable way. Light brown eyes that saw too much and a set of freckles which chased over his pale skin across a nose that might have been straight once but had been broken too many times. Malcolm’s gaze was drawn to the scaron the corner of The Long Laird’s upper lip; from the fight with Ardberg. Malcolm wanted to touch it. Hell and damnation.
Instead, he stood up and approached him as he might an opponent in the ring, almost circling each other. And then someone cleared their throat, and the spell was broken.
Malcolm gave The Long Laird a hard stare. “You said—” That he’d never fight again.
The Long Laird stopped him from finishing that sentence. “It wasn’t a lie.”
“And now?” Why didn’t the boxer want Mardin and Bennington to know that he’d said he’d never fight again?
“It is still true.”
“Yet ... Here we are.”
“I’m sure we can come to an arrangement.” The Long Laird didn’t glance at the other two men, just held Malcolm’s hard gaze, and suddenly Malcolm wondered what Bennington and Mardin were holding over The Long Laird’s head. There had to be a reason why he was here, pretending that he’d do this, while talking around the topic to Malcolm and never committing to anything.
“Yes,” Lord Bennington said. “The arrangement is that the two of you will box.”
“It’ll be the greatest match in history. Two unbeaten champions meet for the first time! We’ll raise a substantial amount of money for the Duke St Orphanage and other charitable organisations. We will give people a Christmas to remember!” Mardin’s certainty caused The Long Laird to frown. Oh, he really didn’t want to fight, so why were they both here? All of Malcolm’s life experience and instincts screamed at him not to trust this white man who couldn’t speak the truth. It said a lot for Malcolm’s state of ennui about his own life that he couldn’t help but be intrigued.
“When are you planning for this match to take place?” It wasn’t a yes and maybe he could buy both him and The Long Laird some time.
“We would need to organise everything and tell the newssheets so we can get a crowd.”
“And I would need time to get fit. At least a month.” He hadn’t been in a ring for fifteen years.
“We will spar together tomorrow and then we will let you know a program.” The Long Laird’s certainty did nothing for Malcolm’s state of unease. And curiosity. He probably should not be curious about one handsome man and this impossible situation...
Chapter 3
Rory couldn’t believe he was in the same room as his idol. The Colossus wasn’t as old as he’d been expecting with very short black hair and a dusting of grey at his temples. His dark skin was smooth and when the newssheets had talked about his breadth, they hadn’t been exaggerating. The man was so broad through the shoulders that he’d have a much longer reach than a rival might expect from his height.
“Tomorrow?” The Colossus asked.
“Why wait? We have a match to prepare for.” Not that he intended to take part, and he had no idea how he was going to weasel out of this one without help from The Colossus.
“Indeed. You should begin now. It’s only mid-afternoon. My carriage can take you wherever you need to do your preparations.” Bennington dismissed them both with the certainty that came with his social position. The general agreement from Bennington and Mardin was a little irritating, but he tried to remember that Bennington had been useful in squiring him around town in the last week. He’d met several people who had the means to invest in his coal mines. Now he only needed to work out how to broach the topic. He’d discovered that asking people for money was a delicate matter and the peerage tended to scratch each other’s backs while being wary of a Scottish Laird. He was a fucking foreigner, in their eyes, so he didn’t exactly blame them, but it sure was frustrating. Frustrating enough to want to spar with The Colossus? It might help release some of this pent-up energy skipping through his veins.
