He took the cloth that the Carver’s boy held out and pressed it against his right knuckles without looking at the damage. The room was loud around him, men recalibrating their wagers and constructing fresh opinions, and he moved through it without stopping, toward the stairs and the tavern above.
The air upstairs was colder, and the smell was less odiferous. He located a table in the far corner, away from the fire and the largest concentration of noise, dropped into the chair, and signaled for whatever they had that was not ale.
They brought brandy, a decanter of the cheaper variety, poured by a barman who set it down without ceremony and disappeared before Anthony could form an opinion about the quality of the service. He turned the glass once in his hand, watching the amber catch the lamplight, and then drank.
Outside the narrow window above his shoulder, London went about its business: a dray cart, a pair of arguing men, and the distant clatter of a night-soil wagon.
He stared at the brandy and did not think about anything in particular, which was the specific goal he was pursuing.
But it was not, if he was being honest with himself, going especially well.
He had not thought about the walk to the carriage last night. He had not thought about the chilly March air and the way it had moved through the garnet silk on her body, and she had simply stood there breathing it in, as though cold night air in an unfashionable street was something to be grateful for. He had not thought about the comfortable quiet between them.
He had not thought about any of that at all. He was very committed to this position.
He poured himself another measure and drank it with the same purposeful economy.
“Well,” said Gideon pleasantly, pulling out the chair across from him and sitting down with the unhurried ease of a man who had planned this and found the execution satisfactory. “There you are.”
Anthony sighed once, doing his best to rein in his exasperation. “How long have you been here?”
“Oh, long enough.” Gideon settled back, folded his hands on the table, and regarded Anthony with the open, guileless attention he deployed when he was being most methodical. “I caught the last two minutes of the third round. It was very instructive.”
Anthony rolled his eyes. “Instructive how?”
“You broke his guard with a right cross, then followed with the lefttwice, which was once more than necessary.” Gideon’s head tilted. “You were not trying to win the round, were you?”
Anthony took a swig of the brandy, not deigning the question important enough to give an answer.
“Well, good evening to you, good sir,” Gideon continued, as though this had been a normal greeting. He signaled for a glass without looking away. “You look terrible, incidentally.”
“Charming as always, Gideon.”
“The knuckles in particular.” Gideon nodded toward Anthony’s right hand, which was resting on the table and had begun, now that the heat of the ring had cleared, to register its objections with some specificity. “Have you had those seen to?”
“Not yet.”
“Mm.” A glass finally arrived, and Gideon poured without ceremony, pushed it to one side, and looked Anthony right in the face. “I have a question for you.”
Anthony knew, at once, that this was a question his friend had been turning over in his mind for at least a few weeks. “You always have a question for me.”
“I have several questions for you, as a general matter. Tonight, I have one in particular.” He picked up his own glass and turnedit toward the lamplight once. “When did you pick up boxing again?”
Anthony sighed and leaned back in his seat. “I’ve always boxed.”
“Socially. At Gentleman Jackson’s, three mornings a week, where the clientele is respectable, and the risk of genuine injury is calculated and managed.” Gideon paused. “Not here. Not in an unlicensed ring, against men whose primary motivation appears to be doing you harm.” Another pause. “I did ask around. The gentleman you fought last Tuesday left with a cracked rib.”
“He gave as good as he received.”
“He did not.” Gideon’s voice was entirely without accusation. It was simply the level, accurate tone of a man giving a report. “That is rather my point.” He set his glass down. “You are not, to the best of my observation, a man of particular penance. You do not flagellate yourself for sport…and you find guilt inefficient.” His eyes were steady. “So, I find myself curious as to what, exactly, you are attempting to hit hard enough to stop thinking about.”
Anthony reached for the decanter and refilled his glass with a slow, considered movement, and he watched the brandy settle before he drank. He knew he was stalling for time, but the brandy was the only thing in the room that was asking nothing of him in return.
“Am I required to account for my leisure activities to you now, Gideon?”
“No.” His friend’s tone was unchanged. “You are not required to account for anything. You never are. You have made rather a discipline of that.” His friend considered him for a moment. “I merely note that the last time you resumed this habit with this particular frequency was directly after your father’s funeral, when you broke three men’s noses over the course of a fortnight and refused to discuss the matter with anyone.”
“That was different,” Anthony said.