Page 49 of A Bride By Morning
Mr. Callihan’s regard was astute. Her previous assessment had been wrong—he did not have eyes like a bullet, but like the sharpest blade. They pierced through her as if she were crafted of the most delicate paper. “Now I’m wondering what the hell he was thinking, wedding a woman who will scour so far into a man’s past that she might as well be digging her own grave.”
Lydia’s smile faded. Was that what she was doing by wanting to stay with Gabriel? Excavating her own grave? “You have quite a cynical view of romance and matrimony, Mr. Callihan.”
Mr. Callihan lifted a shoulder. “Men in my position often do.”
“I thought it might be a result of your upbringing. I notice you have a subtle accent. Is it Irish?”
He straightened, a sound escaping him. “You really can’t help but dig, can you?”
“No.” She picked up her tea again. “But my view of romance is not so cynical. How much did you lose in your bet?”
“Ten pounds.”
“Then let that be a lesson to you, Mr. Callihan. Never gamble against a tenacious woman.”
21
Gabriel dressed in the attire of a dockworker and met Wentworth in a hired hack at the precise meeting time. The other man had donned equally threadbare garments with a hat angled low over his brow, covering his pale blond hair.
“Any word from your men?” Gabriel asked as the conveyance lurched forward and began its journey through the London streets. Home Office agents had been tasked with surveilling the fight’s location before Gabriel and Wentworth’s arrival.
“They confirmed the intel,” Wentworth said, gazing out the window as the hack rounded into the East End. “Tonight’s fight is being held at a warehouse in Spitalfields. Our informant said one of the competitors was a man known simply as the Russian.”
“What else did your informant say?”
Wentworth lifted a shoulder. “That the Russian won his last three fights and more than one brawl has broken out over the betting. It seems some London pride has been bruised.”
“It’s not Medvedev,” Gabriel said, confident in his knowledge of the Syndicate Leader. “He would never put himself in the ring unless he was guaranteed to win. Any vulnerability was something he could ill afford.”
Wentworth dipped his head in agreement. “Then we’ll use this man to find Medvedev’s location and interrogate him about the sharpshooter at Meadowcroft.” He rapped on the roof with his fist. “We’ll get off here.”
After Wentworth paid the driver, he and Gabriel walked the remaining distance to the warehouse. At the end of the street, the hazy glow of the flickering gaslights illuminated the other spectators who were permitted admission at the door.
Wentworth passed Gabriel a coin. “For your entrance.”
Gabriel peered down at the token, a slim piece about the size of a sovereign with etchings he couldn’t make out in the dark street. “Where did you get this?”
Wentworth gave a slight smile. “I have more resources available to me than most,” he said easily. “Including you.” The spymaster knocked on the warehouse door, and the panel slid open. “Do you know where I might find the butcher?” Wentworth asked, his accent shifting to a perfect imitation of a Spitalfields local.
The door opened, and the massive man guarding the entry gestured with his fingers. “Coins.”
Both men flashed their coins, and the guard examined them. Then, with a quick gesture, he motioned them to enter. “Down the stairs,” the guard said.
The warehouse was dark and appeared vacant; it might have been a repository for a nearby tavern or utilized to hide smuggled goods. The only indication of its purpose tonight was the clamor that emanated beneath their feet. Wentworth and Gabriel felt their way along the wall until they reached a stone staircase that descended to the below-ground fighting ring. Torches flickered along the walls to help navigate their path to the cacophony of noise.
The shouting intensified as Wentworth and Gabriel progressed farther beneath the streets of the East End. As they rounded the last bend, Wentworth and Gabriel faced an unruly crowd as dense as fire smoke. The heat of the below-ground room smashed into Gabriel with the force of a blunt instrument. Worse: the sudden, foul stench of sweat and body odor assaulted his senses, churning his stomach until he swallowed back a heave. People pressed together, hollering both encouragements and profanities in the direction of the makeshift ring in the middle of the room, where two shirtless men fought in a violent, bloody bare-knuckle brawl.
Gabriel wasn’t familiar with London’s underground fighting rings, but he frequented the ones in Moscow. Those brawls in Lyubertsy had crafted him into a weapon. It was there that he’d first understood that he would forge his new identity in blood. Fighting became a release. Pain was a punishment.
He had learned new lessons.
One of the men in the ring knocked the other out with a hard impact that sent blood flying.
“Get up!” Someone in the crowd near Gabriel roared. “Don’tlet that fuckin’ bastard win!”
Gabriel’s attention fixated on the victor—a man with a body of pure muscle who towered over his opponent. Gabriel hadn’t seen Vladimir since he’d departed from Moscow, but Medvedev’s second-in-command had been on Gabriel’s death list. Vladimir fled after rumors of Medvedev’s murder spread; he knew how to disappear in Moscow’s streets. It would have taken Gabriel too much time to search for him—time he couldn’t spare after his father and brother were killed in the rail accident.
Vladimir had been Gabriel’s rival within the Syndicate. He was distrustful by nature, governed by petty jealousies. As Gabriel rose within the organization’s ranks, Vladimir’s position became threatened. They’d frequently battled for supremacy—and Gabriel had to do terrible things to prove himself loyal enough to join Medvedev’s inner circle.
