in and tapped its smooth edge on Matthew’s cheek. “Are you going to take it off? Or would you rather I slice it off?”
It was unbelievable. Barely twenty minutes in these parts and he was being robbed for assisting a child. Fisting both hands, lest he jump and get sliced, Matthew offered in a low, even tone, “Put away the knife and we’ll talk.”
A full-knuckled fist slammed into his head. Matthew gasped in disbelief against the teetering impact.
The man casually tossed the blade to his other thick hand, announcing that the worst was yet to come. “I say what goes. Now take it off, lest the boy sees something he oughtn’t.”
Shifting his jaw, Matthew grudgingly unraveled the linen. He wasn’t stupid. Sliding it off, he wordlessly held it out.
The man snatched it away, wrapping it smugly around his own thick neck, and stepped back, tucking away his blade. “Next time, do as I say.”
As if he was going to wait for a next time. Knowing the blade was out of the game, Matthew gritted his teeth and jumped forward, throwing out a straight-faced punch.
The giant grabbed his fist in midair, causing Matthew’s arm to pop back from the swift contact of his large palm.
That gaze threatened. “You’re dead.” A blow hit Matthew’s skull, jaw, nose and eye in such rapid fire, his leather boots skidded against the pavement with each teeth-jarring wallop.
Matthew jumped forward again, viciously swinging back at the bastard, but only decked air as the giant dodged.
The boy beside them swung his own small fists in the air, stumbling left and right and shouted up at Matthew, “Come on! Pound the dickey dazzler. Pound him!”
A brick of an unexpected whack to his left eye not only made Matthew rear back, but made everything in sight fade to a hazy white. Jesus Christ. He caught himself against a lamppost, his bare hands sliding against the sun-warmed iron.
“Enough!” a man boomed, stilling the boy’s shouts.
No blows followed.
Drawing in shaky, ragged breaths, Matthew squinted to see past the sweltering pain pulsing through his face and skull.
A broad figure with long black hair tied in a queue, garbed in a patched great coat, held a pistol to the side of Matthew’s assailant’s head. “Give this respectable man his cravat, James,” the man casually offered in an educated New York accent that was laced with a bit of European sophistication. “And while you’re at it, give him your blade.”
The russet-haired oaf froze against the barrel of that pistol set against his head. His grubby hand patted and pulled out the blade, extending it and the cravat to Matthew.
Pushing away from the lamppost, Matthew tugged his morning coat back into place, trying to focus beyond the heaviness and blur that clouded his one eye. He reached out, his arm seemingly floating and slid the scrap of linen toward himself.
“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,