Delilah Marvelle - Forever a Lady

“Take the blade,” the man with the pistol ordered.

Matthew didn’t want the blade, but he also didn’t want to argue with a man holding a pistol. In his opinion, they were all mad. He blinked, trying to refocus. Though he could see where the men stood in proximity to him, an eerie dense shadow lingered, making him feel as if he were seeing the world on an angle. Matthew took the blade.

Pressing the pistol harder against his assailant’s temple, the man gritted out, “If you touch either of them again, James, we go knuckle to knuckle over at the docks until one of us is dead. Now, brass off.”

James darted, shoving past others, and disappeared.

The man jerked toward the child. “Away with you, Ronan. And for God’s sake, stay out of trouble.”

The boy hesitated. Meeting Matthew’s gaze, he grinned crookedly, his brown eyes brightening. “I owe you a quarter.” Still grinning, he swung away and thudded down the street in those oversized boots.

Matthew huffed out a breath in exasperation. At least he got the boy to smile, because he doubted he’d ever see that quarter again.

Lowering the pistol and methodically uncocking it, the man before him adjusted his billowing great coat. Piercing ice-blue eyes held his. “Where the hell did you learn how to mill? At a female boarding school?”

Matthew self-consciously stuffed the cravat into his coat pocket, his hand trembling at the realization that the dense shadow in his eye remained. “Where I come from, boxing isn’t really a requirement.” He fingered the wooden handle of the blade still weighing his hand. “I appreciate your assistance.”

“I’m certain you do.” The man waved the pistol toward Matthew’s embroidered vest. “Nice waistcoat. Sell it. Because fancy won’t matter for shite when you’re in a grave, and I’m telling you right now, it’s only a matter of time before you get robbed of it. Now, go. Off with you.”

Matthew hesitated, sensing this man wasn’t like the rest of these rumpots. He held out a quick hand. The one that wasn’t holding the blade. “The name is Matthew Joseph Milton.”

The man shoved his pistol into the leather belt attached to his hips. “I didn’t ask for your name. I told you to go.”

Matthew still held it out. “I’m trying to be friendly.”

“I don’t do friendly, and in case you haven’t noticed, no one else here does, either.”

Matthew awkwardly dropped his hand to his side. “Is there anything I can do for you? Given what you just did for me? I insist.”

“You insist?” That dark brow lifted. “Well. I could use a meal and whiskey, seeing I’m between matches.”

“Done.” Matthew paused. “Matches? You box?”

The man shrugged. “Bare-knuckle prizefighting.” He patted the leather belt and pistol. “This isn’t me being lazy. It ensures I don’t injure myself during training. An injury means I don’t box. And if I don’t box, I don’t eat.”

“Ah. Isn’t bare-knuckle prizefighting...illegal?”

The man stared him down. “I’ll have you know the bastards who publicly go about condemning my fights are usually the same ones merrily throwing big money at it. I’ve already had three politicians and two marshals try to buy me out for a win. So, no. It isn’t illegal. Not whilst they’re doing it.”

Knowing a professional boxer in these parts would be a good thing. A very good thing. “And what is your name, sir?”

The man shifted his stubbled jaw. “I have several names. Which one do you want?”

How nice. It appeared this man was involved in all sorts of illegal activities. “Give me the one that I won’t get arrested for knowing.”

“Coleman. Edward Coleman. Not to be confused with the other Edward Coleman running about these parts, who by the by, is murder waiting to happen. Stay away from that imp of Satan.”

“Uh...I will. Thank you.”

Coleman pointed at him. “I suggest you learn the rules of the ward. Especially given that you appear to be a do-gooder. ’Tis simple really—don’t overdress, and always carry a weapon.”

“I will heed that.” Matthew held out the blade weighing his hand. “Except the weapon bit. Here. I’m not about to—”

Grabbing his wrist, Coleman yanked it forcefully upward, jerking the sharp tip of that steel toward Matthew’s face.

Matthew froze, his gaze snapping to those ice-blue eyes.

The smell of leather penetrated the air between them.

Coleman smirked and let the blade playfully scrape the skin on the curve of Matthew’s chin. “You ought to keep it. You never know when you’ll need it to slice...vegetables.” He released his hold, allowing Matthew to lower the dagger. “I’ll teach you how to use a blade, how to box and do a few other fancy things in exchange for meals.”

Matthew self-consciously tightened his grip on the blade. “I know how to use a blade. One simply points and—”

Coleman jumped toward him. With a quick hard hit to the wrist and a jab and twist, the blade clanged to the pavement. Coleman kicked the blade away with his whitened leather boot and eyed him. “Lessons for food.”

Food wasn’t going to be all that useful if he was dead. “Agreed.”

* * *

ONE MOMENT MATTHEW WAS silently and miserably eating cold, mucky stew at a splinter-infested table with his father and Coleman, and the next, the left side of his world edged into piercing darkness.

Matthew’s spoon slid from his fingers and clattered past the table, dropping against the uneven wooden floorboards. Oh, God. His throat tightened as he blinked rapidly, glancing about in disbelief. His peripheral was...gone. Black!

His father lowered his wooden spoon. “What is it?”

Coleman ceased eating midchew.

“I can’t see.” Matthew scrambled out of his chair and stumbled. He fell back against the doorless cupboard behind him with a thud. “I can’t see from my left eye!” He scanned the small, barren tenement, only able to make out the uneven plastered walls to his right.

His father jumped toward him. “Matthew, look at me.” Grabbing his shoulders, his father firmly angled him closer. “Are you certain? That eye is still swollen.”

Matthew placed trembling fingertips against it. He could feel his fingers grazing and touching the lashes of his open eye, but dearest God, he couldn’t see them. “Everything to the left is black. Why? Why is it...” He dragged in uneven breaths, unable to say anything more. Nor could he think.

Coleman slowly rose to his booted feet. “Christ. It’s from the blows.”

Matthew turned his head to better see Coleman. “What do you mean, it’s from the blows? That doesn’t make any sense. How can a few—”

“I’ve seen it in boxing, Milton. One man I knew took so many hits in one match, he went blind within a week.”

Matthew’s breaths now came in gasps. It had been a week.

Shaking his head, Coleman grabbed his great coat from the back of the chair. “I’m hunting that prick down.”

Despite his panic of being half-blind, Matthew choked out, “Hunting him down isn’t going to change anything.”

“This isn’t about changing anything.” Coleman stalked toward him. “It’s about sending a message on what is and isn’t acceptable.”

His father pushed and guided Matthew toward the door. “If this is what you say it is, Coleman, the first thing we need is a surgeon. Now!”

“There is one over on Hudson.” Coleman wedged past them and yanked open the paneled door leading to the corridor. “Though, I really don’t know what the man will be able to do.”

* * *

THE LAST OF THEIR MONEY was gone. And so was the vision in Matthew’s left eye. He fingered the leather patch that had been tied over his unseeing eye by the surgeon who had pronounced it permanently blind. The surgeon agreed with Coleman, stating that the blows he’d sustained had something to do with it, which meant he, Matthew Joseph Milton, was going to be a one-eyed, poverty-stricken freak for the rest of his days.