Page 6 of The Lyon's Pretty Pugilist

Not that it was any of Nicolas’s business or that he gave a farthing, but if Griffendale wanted a fight instead of a theatrical show, he’d be a fool to choose Ruth the Jewel. Jabbing Josie was the intelligent choice.

Nicolas had to give Josie credit; despite dodging a punch to stare in his direction, she was one hell of a fighter. Confident. Strong. Precise. Hungry. However, she was clunky on her feet and could use some grace. Still, she was utterly captivating with a physique that was equal measure firm muscle and feminine curves. Sporting bountiful cleavage when her breasts were obviously bound was damn impressive. Just like the other women, the bodice of her loose gown had been pulled down, and she’d tied the sleeves around her trim waist. Unlike Ruth, she hadn’t presented her tit for all to see. If he had to guess, he’d say Jabbing Josie was quite modest.

She also had the thickest plait he’d ever seen. When her hair flowed free, it must have hung to her waist in soft waves.

“Jabbing Josie!” the crowd cheered as she pommeled Sweet Clementine in the breadbasket.

Clementine stumbled backward. Josie took advantage of her opponent being off balance, landing a flurry of hits to her midsection.

From beside him, Griffendale and Davenport jumped to their feetto cheer. Below him, the crowd standing around the stage went wild. Meanwhile, Josie continued to pummel Clementine.

Even from this distance, the red spatters on the women’s white chemises were visible. Finally, Clem toppled, her back against the ropes, her legs splayed in front of her. Blood oozed from her nose.

The crowd’s palpable enthusiasm energized Nicolas so that he leaped to his feet. For a moment, his gaze locked with Josie’s, but then she looked past him to stare at Griffendale. The heavily rouged Ruth was in the duke’s arms, hopping about as if celebrating Josie’s possible victory. Ruth could pretend all she wanted; Nicolas was not naive. There was no way that Ruth the Jewel was happy for Jabbing Josie. Ruth the thespian was all about being the center of attention.

Davenport clapped him on the back. “That chit is one hell of a fighter. Damn fine night for you to be here, Wentworth. Aren’t you happy you left that dreary home of yours?”

Happy?No.

Forced into temporary submission by a mysterious woman who was probably about to blackmail him? Yes.

Clementine’s attempt to rise was for naught. She was halfway to standing when her feet slipped out from under her. The crowd roared as the umpire grabbed Josie’s hand and lifted it high.

Instead of strutting the perimeter and celebrating her win, Josie dashed to the corner, climbed over the rope, and dropped into the audience.

“What in the devil is she doing?” Davenport asked. “Is she trying to get herself killed?”

If Nicolas were a betting man, he’d wager she was trying to get to Griffendale, and for some inexplicable reason, the notion stung like hell. However, since she was akin to a piece of grain in a crate of starving chickens, she would never reach him unharmed.

Why weren’t the referees, umpires, or her coach trying to help her?

Suddenly, Josie’s body appeared above the unruly mob. She was flat on her back, perched on the tips of foxed men’s fingers, and traveling toward him in a zigzagging line. He blinked, then squinted to ensure he wasn’t imagining the scene below him.

After careful regard, Nicolas made up his mind. If no one else was going to help her, he had to. Instead of weaving through the tables to reach the stairs, he leaped from the platform, colliding into the man below him.

“Bloody hell.” The bloke growled at Nicolas and wound up to throw a punch.

Nicolas easily caught his fist and pulled him off balance. The man crashed into another bloke. That bloke whirled and knocked his attacker in the opposite direction. Thereupon, at least two hundred bodies pushed and shoved each other in all directions.

Nicolas was frantically searching for Josie when she stepped in front of him and whacked his shoulder. Lord, help him, but he quite enjoyed her angry touch, and a bolt of heat shot to his groin.

Yes, he seriously needed help. Or physical exercise. Or a tup.

“Thanks a lot. Ye started a fight, ye bloody fool,” she said, elongating her vowels in a heavy East End accent.

Someone bumped into her. She whirled and planted her fist in the man’s face. At the same time, Nicolas ducked a punch coming from his side.

“I was trying to protect you,” he said.

Apparently, that was the wrong thing to say because she directed her snarl at him as she shoved another man backward. “I don’t need protection. Especially from a soft toff, like ye.”

At that moment, Nicolas spotted a large man charging toward them. He shot out his fist and clobbered him. “Why are we arguing at a time like this?” Someone leaped on his back and smashed him in the back of his head. “Shite,” he grumbled at the sting of the unexpected thwack.

“We wouldn’t be arguin’ if ye hadn’t stuck your bloody aristocratic nose in me business,” she said.

Nicolas was too busy trying to remove the man from his back to respond to her comment. She circled around him, probably to help his adversary knock him out. To his surprise, she pulled the man from Nicolas’s back. He turned just in time to see her kick the scrawny lad in the bollocks.

Feeling sympathy for the hunched-over man moaning in pain, Nicolas winced.