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Benedict’s lip curled. “I don’t give a damn who she is,” he said in a hard voice. A crowd had started to form around them now, so transferring his grasp from Lizzie’s waist to her wrist, he tugged her behind him down to the front.

“I was perfectly well where I was,” Lizzie attempted to protest. Looking around, she saw Daphne looking after her with an aggrieved look on her face. Frank appeared to be placating her. Lizzie would miss the commentary of the gentleman in the waistcoat she thought, looking about in vain to spot him.

“You were about to be slung out,” Benedict growled at her. “Stand here,” he said depositing her in the front row between two men who looked her up and down in surprise. “If anyone says anything, tell them you’re with me,” he said with a menacing look which had both men quickly facing front again. He stepped back over the rope before she could think of a reply to this.

Lizzie stood glassy eyed through the next two fights, neither of which lasted as long as the first. The crowd seemed even noisier as the morning wore on, and the man stood to her right was smoking a particularly noxious cigar which caused her eyes to water and a tickle in the back of her throat.

When the third man proved unable to get back to his feet, Lizzie went off in a coughing paroxysm and missed Frank’s closing speech altogether as she groped for her handkerchief and wiped her streaming eyes. By the time she had recovered herself, Benedict was stood before her. He thrust his shirt and vest into her arms and started wiping a wet cloth over face and shoulders.

“Have you no towel?” Lizzie asked, raising her voice above the babble of the dispersing crowd. As though in answer to her words, Frank Toomes appeared beside them with one and a heavy frown. He handed the towel wordlessly to Lizzie, and unsure what else to do, she started dabbing at Benedict’s neck with it.

“Finished him off a bit fast, didn’t you?” Frank asked resting his hands on his hips. “What was the rush?”

Feeling his eyes on her, Lizzie looked up. Frank looked away.

Benedict shrugged. “You put them in the wrong order.”

“No, I didn’t,” Frank disagreed. “You just didn’t want to oblige for some reason.”

Benedict lowered his cloth and eyed his brother sardonically. “I was the one trading punches, not you. I say the third was weakest.”

Frank snorted. “You could have drawn it out, Ben. You should have. You know well enough how the game’s played.”

Benedict ignored him, angling his head so Lizzie could reach his wet hair. She rubbed his hair vigorously with the towel, and Frank clicked his tongue but otherwise grew quiet.

Jack came hurrying over, brandishing his book. “Not bad takings,” he said cheerfully and slapped his brother on the back. “That was a strong finish, Ben. I reckon you’ve improved, if anything.”

Frank snorted but was otherwise ignored as Benedict shrugged into his long-sleeved vest and then his shirt.

“I’ll see you at two,” Frank called after them, as Lizzie found herself towed in the direction of the exit.

“What time is it now?” Lizzie asked as they emerged from the tent into a patch of bright sunlight despite the chill in the air.

“About half past twelve. What’s that cloak you’ve got on?” Benedict asked critically.

Lizzie flushed. “It’s your grandmother’s,” she explained.

He stopped in his tracks and reached over to tug back the hood, revealing the red and gold scarf. “Take it off.”

“It’s too cold to go without a cloak,” Lizzie objected.

“I’m not talking about the cloak.”

Catching his meaning, she reached up for the headscarf, but he was already before her, unknotting and tugging it free from her hair. “That’s better,” he pronounced.

“Give it to me,” Lizzie held out her hand. “I’ll tuck it in my pocket so I don’t lose it.”

He handed the headscarf over but narrowed his eyes. “Do I want to know what you’ve been up to this morning?” he asked.

Lizzie considered this. “Attempting to find my place?” she ventured.

This seemed to give him pause. After a moment, he reached for her hand again. “Well, it’s not in the boxing tent,” he said roughly, pulling her alongside him. “I know that much.”

She could not help but be grateful at this pronouncement. “Where are we heading now?”

“For some refreshment,” he answered shortly, but she saw they had eschewed the rowdy Adam and Eve altogether.

Instead, they made for a tea and bun tent called Mother Grimley’s. Lizzie sank into her seat with a sigh of relief. “I would love a cup of tea,” she admitted as a girl came bounding over in an apron.