A Substitute Wife for the Prizefighter: A Victorian Romance Read online

  For a moment, Benedict was so taken aback he could not speak. The idea of Lizzie Anderson flinging herself at a man was so ridiculous he almost laughed. She’d been mad for the reverend alright, but Lizzie Anderson was an old maid of the mitten-knitting variety, not the man-hungry type. He would swear an oath on it.

  He remembered the conflicted look on her face as she confronted the reverend. She’d been almost begging him with her eyes to give her a reason why he’d taken it. Any reason would have sufficed. She would gladly have swallowed any ridiculous lie he might have uttered, but the reverend had faltered when confronted with so many onlookers and turned craven. The shattered look on her face was still fresh in his mind’s eye. She’d had a hell of an awakening. “I thought you and she were much of the same age,” he said at last.

  Betsy pouted. “I’m an engaged woman,” she pointed out. “Lizzie’s never had so much as a gentleman caller in her life.”

  “You won’t be engaged much longer if you keep this up, my girl,” he said softly.

  Betsy gasped. “Benedict!”

  He narrowed his eyes. “You saw how those jackals turned on me. They were a hair’s breadth away from denouncing me at the table.”

  “No!”

  “If there was a conspiracy, very likely it would have been against me, not your precious reverend.”

  “How can you say so?” Betsy flung at him, her bosom heaving. She looked at her best animated, but at this very moment, he could not remember admiring her less. “After my parents received you into their home, despite your – ” she broke off with a dismayed gasp.

  “Record?” he suggested, striking a match and lighting his cigarillo before draping an arm over the back of the sofa. “Or do you mean my prize fighting?”

  Her chin rose. “Yes, despite both of those things.”

  He breathed out a curl of smoke from his lips. “Very magnanimous of them,” he agreed. “If I was honest and penniless, I doubt they would have felt the same way.”

  Her eyes filled with sudden tears. “You have no cause to say such a thing!”

  “Haven’t I?”

  “Oh, Benedict darling,” she cried and crossed the room to sink onto the sofa beside him. “Please don’t let this horrid evening come between us. We are to be married in four days’ time.” She placed a soft white hand on his sleeve, and he had to suppress the impulse to shrug it off. “This has been the worst evening of my life. Please don’t add to it now, by forcing a quarrel between us.”

  Before he could reply, a footfall in the doorway announced his prospective father-in-law’s arrival on the scene.

  “I trust I’m not interrupting,” Josiah Anderson said, clearing his throat. “But you must allow me to apologize for this dreadful evening’s entertainment, Mr. Toomes.”

  “Oh, dearest Papa,” Betsy said, rising and moving to his side. “It’s not your fault. No one could think so.” She slipped an arm through his and looked at Benedict meaningfully. “No apologies are needed between family.”

  Benedict contemplated the end of his cigarillo before rising to his feet. “I believe I’ll take my leave of you now,” he announced, to his betrothed’s consternation. He remained distant during their goodbyes. Mrs. Anderson did not appear; apparently, she was too busy taking her recalcitrant niece in hand. On the twenty-minute walk back to Winchester Street, Benedict wondered if she would succeed in brow-beating Lizzie into taking back her damning words. Thinking of that stubborn and principled damsel, he was surprised to find he had some doubt.

  He threw a penny to a beggar sat huddled on the corner and discarded the butt of his smoked cigar. On the surface, Lizzie Anderson would have little choice but to accede to her uncle and aunt’s wishes. From the confidences Betsy had poured in his ears, he knew Lizzie had been taken in by them at age four as an orphan. She was wholly dependent on her uncle’s goodwill and her aunt’s charity. They had always been loud in their assertions that she was a second daughter to them. He wondered how true this statement would prove, now the chips were down.

  On reaching the quiet, affluent street on which the tidy red-bricked villa he had purchased little more than a month ago stood, he paused. Betsy still believed him to reside in lodgings, but he had bought the house as a surprise, in anticipation of their impending marriage. He contemplated now the double fronted exterior and decorated gables. Buying it had been quite an achievement, a farewell to his former life. Contemplating its solid respectability now, he felt rather flat.

  Was this what he wanted? To live surrounded on all sides by doctors, dentists, and solicitors? Perhaps there was a good reason he had not told his prospective bride of its purchase. Was it possible he was holding back, reluctant to commit to this new life? When, after walking out for only a month, she had vowed to stick by him during his incarceration, he had been filled with the conviction that pretty Betsy was the one for him. Since his release, however, it had been brought home to him on several occasions that he had been locked away for the majority of their courtship. There was little true sympathy of mind between them. Did that matter? He had not thought so, but now he was starting to wonder.

  Letting himself into the house, he struck a match and lit the lamp on the hall table. It illuminated the checkered floor tiling, and he turned and secured the front door with its stained-glass panels. Still the little voice whispered in his head, refusing to be quieted. Perhaps the price of respectability was too high if it meant being saddled with the likes of the Andersons. Had he shrugged off one troublesome family only to pick up another? Picking up the lamp, Benedict walked through to the parlor and poured himself a liberal dose of whisky. Of course, Betsy’s people would be teetotalers, he thought with a twist of his lips. He knocked back his whisky and grimaced.

  Quitting boxing before he reached thirty had always been his goal, and he was now twenty-nine. Going respectable, though? He wasn’t sure when that notion had taken root. Maybe it had been those two long years he had spent in the workhouse as a child. His expression tightened, as did his hand on the whisky glass. His brothers would never understand that part of his life, as they had never been subjected to the humiliation and privation of those years. As always, he slammed the door on recollection of those times before they could overwhelm him with a tide of bitterness.

  It had been almost eleven months since he had seen Frank and Jack, but he knew full well where he could find them should the need arise. It would be Easter this weekend, which meant the annual fairs would be starting up again and they would be travelling with the family boxing booth from April till November. He felt a strange pang in the vicinity of his chest when he thought of the red striped tent and the peeling sign proclaiming ‘The Toomes Brothers Boxing Saloon’.

  Easter meant they would be pitched at Greenwich Fair for three days, just as August meant Bartholomew Fair, October was Hull Fair, and November the Goose Fair in Nottingham. In between were a whole seven months of touring the smaller fairs throughout England. Of course, he had vowed he had served his last season taking on all comers and brawling between posts hammered into a field. His brothers had not believed him at the time. A third of the stall was still his, as neither one of them had jumped to buy him out. As for his youngest brother, Jack still hadn’t paid him back for lending him the brass to buy his own stake five years previously.

  He just hoped to God their father hadn’t rolled up and persuaded Frank to let him back into the family business. Ben’s lip curled. Frank was soft when it came to the old man. Pa would have another ‘wife’ in tow no doubt, and likely a few more grubby, miserable looking kids. It was always the same old story. Nothing ever changed where their old man was concerned, just the faces of those he dragged in his wake.

  Shedding his jacket, Benedict threw it over the newel post and made his way upstairs. As he unbuttoned his cuffs, he wondered wryly what his welcome would be if he were to pitch up at Greenwich without so much as a by your leave. He’d avoided the usual haunts since his release from jail and none of the Toomes
’ were letter-writers, even those of them that could write. Then, too, was the fact not one of them had a fixed abode. They tended to winter in lodging houses of varying degrees, depending on the plumpness of their pockets after touring the fairs.

  He could have found them, of course. If he’d wanted to, that is, but the fact was he didn’t. He’d burned his bridges with the boxing world after his arrest. He’d wanted distance and to go it alone, so he’d resolutely turned his back. He’d spent half his savings on this house and gotten engaged. Then he had started looking about him in earnest for some concern to invest the rest of his money in. But nothing had taken his fancy, from stocks and shares to shipping, diamond mines to ranches in South America, nothing really appealed.

  Clem Dabney, a fellow prizefighter he still spoke with, had tried to interest him in some ‘supper and song’ establishment with showgirls and liquor. Clem also thought they needed to invest their money now, before it ran through their fingers. They had seen too many examples of broken-down fighters who ended on the scrap heap, penniless, after squandering the money they’d made at the height of their fame. Benedict had been sorely tempted to throw his lot in with Clem who had a good business head on his shoulders, but he was glad now he hadn’t committed himself to some mad scheme on impulse. The last he’d heard, Clem had been looking at theatres, and God knows those places gobbled up money and could go bust in the wink of an eye.

  He’d been ripe for mischief, he realized now, on release from prison, or he never would have set his foot halfway into the parson’s trap. Betsy Anderson was pretty enough with her heart-shaped face and dimples, but if those same charms were already starting to pall on him, then what chance did a lifetime of marriage have of holding his attention? He looked about at the tasteful decor, the expensive wallpapers and carpeting as he made his way to the master bedroom. He felt almost as if he were seeing the place for the first time, like he’d been sleep-walking the past two months. What the hell had he been thinking?

  Setting the lamp down on his bedside table, Ben started undressing as he considered his options. He could sell this place easily enough. Property was never a bad investment, they said, so he would not allow himself to feel too much regret about purchasing it. He could speak to Edwards, his legal man, about putting the place back on the market. Or he could rent it out, or even do nothing at all and let the dust settle before making up his mind.

  By the time he climbed into bed and stretched out with his hands behind his head, he felt calmer. He’d find a way to extricate himself out of this mess, preferably without getting sued for breach of contract. He wouldn’t put it past Betsy’s grasping family to try and screw him out of every penny they could lay their hands on.

  Before the betrothal had been approved, he’d been obliged to meet with her father and his legal man to give assurances about his financial standing and fitness to take a wife. They had agreed on a sum Benedict should settle on her once they were married in the event of his death. He would need to put a stop to such proceedings on the morrow, he thought grimly. He would rise early and drop around to his man of business’ office on Chancery Lane first thing in the morning. Whatever happened, he now had no intention of marrying Betsy Anderson in four days’ time.

  3

  Lizzie stood on the doorstep, stunned, as the door was slammed in her face. Her last glimpse was of Aunt Hester’s thin lips, tightly pressed together as she slung the carpet bag containing all of Lizzie’s worldly possessions out onto the path beside her. Lizzie wasn’t sure how long she stood there, staring at the smart green paint of the door, the gleaming brass door knocker, and the etched numbers showing the numbers thirty-two, which had been her address and safe haven in the world for over twenty years.

  She wasn’t roused from her stupor until she heard the crunch of gravel on the path behind her. Turning blindly, she saw that it was Mr. Benedict Toomes and fell back a step. No doubt her aunt and uncle would allow Betsy’s fiancé admittance, even though they had turned out their niece. She bent down to retrieve her bag and hurried past him down the path, her cheeks flaming, refusing to meet those hateful, mocking eyes of his. She had her dignity left if nothing else.

  It wasn’t until she’d reached the end of the road and turned left that she realized she had absolutely no notion of where to go. The only friends she could call her own were also friends of her family and were moreover also members of Reverend Milson’s congregation. Her footsteps faltered as she realized the true horror of her situation. She had no one to turn to. Not even the mercy of the church. She had very little money and even less items of value that she could sell. She had nothing.

  Her fingers gripped the handles of her bag tighter with every step, and almost without conscious thought, she found her steps turning away from the shabby gentility of Pimlico and toward the slums of the East End, where she carried out her charitable work every Wednesday without fail.

  It was funny, but walking these streets alongside her aunt and cousin, carrying their covered work baskets, she had always felt secure in both her station and respectability. As if she were protected in some kind of bubble from the ragged inhabitants of the slums. Today it was quite a different matter. She clutched her bag and pulled her cloak tight about her as though trying to conceal herself from the stares of passersby.

  As the streets grew narrower and dirtier, she fancied the glances turned her way grew more curious and speculative. She was a lone female, quite unaccompanied and out of place. Except, she thought dully, her own circumstances were now just as straitened as their own, if only they knew it. The meanest beggar could scarcely be worse off, she thought blinking back tears.

  “’Old up, darlin’,” a hoarse voice said nearby, almost making her scream. Before she could react, a meaty hand had taken firm hold of her forearm. “You must be lost, I reckon, sweet little dove like yourself.”

  Lizzie looked up from the hairy hand to find a rough-hewn man with a purple complexion leering down at her. “Release me at once!” she demanded, her outrage filling her with courage.

  “Now don’t you take on so, I only wants to be friends, see,” he responded with horrid familiarity, and Lizzie got a blast of alcohol fumes as he lowered his face to peer inside her bonnet.

  “Get off me!” she yelled shrilly, attempting to wrench her arm back. When this did not work, she swung her carpet bag in the direction of his head and landed a heavy whack to the side of his face. Evidently, Aunt Hester had not confiscated the large leather-bound bible they had given her for her last birthday. If she was not mistaken, that was what caused the loud thump when it connected with his temple.

  Her assailant bellowed with rage and swung his other fist in her direction. Even as she flinched back and attempted to put her carpet bag between herself and the blow, someone else entered the fray. There was a blur of black, Lizzie’s arm was released, and she staggered back with a cry. Setting out a flailing hand, she steadied herself against the railing as she heard a procession of muffled blows and pained grunts. Pausing only to straighten her bonnet, she turned back to find her assailant rolling on the cobbles, groaning.

  Lizzie gasped and whipped around to behold the man stood behind her. Her heart pounded loudly as he lowered his fists. “Mr. Toomes!” she uttered in blank astonishment. “What on earth are you doing here?”

  “I followed you, Miss Anderson,” he replied coolly. “All the way from Sitwell Place. Not that you noticed,” he added witheringly. “It’s a dangerous place to be oblivious to your surroundings. This bastard has been tailing you for the last two street lengths.” He illustrated his point by setting a booted foot on the wretched man’s shoulder and shoving at him. The fellow rolled into a defensive huddle.

  Lizzie was far too flustered to object to his coarse language; however, she could not allow the insult to her self-awareness to stand. “Evidently, he did not notice you following me either,” she pointed out tartly. “And these surroundings must be his natural habitat,” she concluded with a faint note of tri
umph.

  He narrowed his eyes at her retort. “What the hell are you doing here, Lizzie? This is not the sort of neighborhood a gently-reared woman should be traipsing about unaccompanied.”

  Lizzie! She was so shocked by his calling her by her Christian name that she regarded him open-mouthed for a moment before flushing with chagrin. Was she no longer to be afforded any respect now her circumstances had changed? She swallowed, then lifted her chin. “I – that is, I have an acquaintance that lives nearby,” she admitted.

  He snorted and lifted a skeptical eyebrow. “What acquaintance?” he asked as if it was his perfect right to interrogate her.

  Lizzie drew an indignant breath to let him have a piece of her mind before remembering that he had just saved her from a common street attacker. Swallowing her sharp retort, she answered, “Mrs. Louisa Napp,” instead. “She lives just around that corner in lodgings on the second floor.”

  He followed the direction she pointed with his eyes, though he looked frankly suspicious. “And just how is it that you have acquaintance in the East End?”

  “I visit her every Wednesday,” Lizzie flung at him in some defiance.

  His frown cleared. “Oh,” he said dryly. “Good works.” She bristled at his tone but made no reply. “You’re hardly in a position now to give her charity,” he pointed out, rather cruelly to Lizzie’s mind.

  “I was hoping she might be able to point me in the direction of employment,” Lizzie admitted with as much dignity as she could muster. “Mrs. Napp sews shirts to be sold on commercially. I have a neat hand at the needle myself and – ”

  “You mean she sells to a slophouse?” Benedict cut in dryly. “It’s backbreaking labor and they barely make ends meet. Why else do you think she needs the aid of your church?”

  Lizzie was uncomfortably aware he spoke nothing but the truth, but what other option did she have? “Mrs. Napp accepts apprentices and trains them up in her trade,” she said, thinking of the young girls who were sat around pale and pinched as they stitched up the garment pieces in Mrs. Napp’s chambers.