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Lizzie nodded and carried on tugging away at the knotted string until she had eased all the snarls out.

7

Benedict only made it to the end of the field before he stopped with a muffled oath and swung back around again. After all, what’s done was done. He hadn’t been around last season, and things had moved on without him. What was the point in cutting up rough? Especially when he was planning on abandoning the family business for good at the end of the season.

It was good, he told himself, frowning ferociously, that Frank had some new ideas. He’d need them in the future when Benedict wasn’t there to carry them anymore. Jack was a feckless idiot, and Frank was too busy trying to juggle his roles as husband, older brother, and dutiful son to really be successful in any of his endeavors.

By the time Benedict had made his way back to the booth, the main red and black sign had been affixed to the tent and the yellow one had disappeared. Jack had sprung onto the pony’s back, and Frank was offering to hand Lizzie up into the cart.

“She’ll walk back with me,” Benedict said dismissively.

“We’ll see you this evening, then,” Frank persisted. “At supper.”

He shrugged a non-committal reply as Lizzie stepped back and the horse and cart trundled away. Jack gave him an ironic salute which he ignored, turning instead to Lizzie.

“We’ll walk back the roundabout way,” he said. “You can get your bearings that way.”

She looked surprised, but quickly fell in step alongside him. “I don’t understand. How does boxing for your living work?” she asked after a few moments silence. “Does the general public pay an admission fee to watch you fight?”

“Yes.” Feeling her eyes on him, he turned to look at her. “It’s a ha’penny entrance.”

“I see,” she said with a frown. “How many people do you suppose you could fit in your tent?”

“Forty,” he hazarded. “Maybe fifty.”

“And you and your brothers box each other for the entertainment of the crowd?” She frowned. “Do they not grow bored of watching the same matches? Do you have no other boxers on the roster for variety’s sake?”

He cast a glance at her. “We sometimes spar each other, but in general it’s volunteers from the crowd.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Usually someone in the audience fancies their chances.”

She gave an exclamation. “You mean, you box with visitors to the fair?” She sounded shocked.

“The fair moves around. We box with all comers; miners, colliers, navvies. We don’t discriminate.”

“It hardly seems sportsmanlike,” she pointed out primly. “If they have not had formal training in the art.”

A reluctant smile tugged at his lips. “The science,” he corrected her.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Some would say boxing’s a science rather than an art.”

She gazed at him. “Oh?” She sounded dubious but did not argue. Instead, she gazed at him frankly. “I cannot fathom why anyone should challenge you so foolishly.”

This time he could not prevent his smile. “You have to put yourself in their shoes,” he said after a moment’s pause. “They’re on a half day holiday and likely liquored up. Or maybe they’re a big fish in a small pond.”

“You mean,” she said slowly. “That they might believe themselves proficient in fisticuffs?”

“A man usually knows if he can hold his own in a fight.”

She shuddered. “It all sounds positively barbaric!”

“There’s a money prize to be taken into account too,” he pointed out. “If they can go three rounds with one of us, they win a pound.”

“A pound?” Lizzie echoed in shock. He said nothing. “That is a great deal of money. But what is a round?”