Edith Layton (7 page)

“That’s five parts, won’t wash,” the beefy man at the table said after much thought.

“They’re drowned in drink,” the Viscount Hazelton told Rafe, putting an arm round his tensed shoulders. “There’s no sense to it, Rafe. Save your pistol for true villainy.”

“Would you unman me?” the tall man asked with cold amusement. “I’m none the worse for a bottle of wine. Nor do I fear meeting my lord Dalton,” he jeered. “I spoke the truth as I heard it and I have no reason to disbelieve it. If he wishes to try to silence me for it—he may try.”

Rafe bowed. “I’m at your command, my lord Liar.”

The tall gentleman stiffened. He took a step closer to Rafe, saw his eyes, and stopped short. “The name is Dearborne,” he said instead. “Name the place and time—I’ll be there. Be sure to name the mortician too, because I intend to be thorough.”

“If you prefer to leave England in a box, it’s your
choice,” Rafe said as coldly. “Julian,” he asked his friend, “will you second me?”

The viscount looked miserable. “If I must, of course.”

“So,” Dearborne said triumphantly, “as
I’m
the one challenged—you all just heard him, didn’t you?—
I
choose the weapons. I prefer swords. Still care to meet me?”

Rafe gave a terse nod.

“Indeed?” Dearborne asked silkily. “I chose swords because skill’s more interesting than aim, and more difficult—
especially
for a fellow who almost lost his arm in the wars, as I heard you did.” He laughed. “And I’ve studied fencing with the great Angelo. Yes,” he gloated. “So. May I suggest you apologize to me now?”

“You may,” Rafe said. “If you’ve lost your mind. Tell me, who did you study with? Harry?”

Dearborne was taken aback. “Harry Angelo, yes. The greatest swordsman in England.”

“I think even he’d dispute that,” Rafe said. “His father was the best. I studied with him at Eton when I was a boy. He was an old man then, but there was none better. I polished up that training later with his son, Henry, Harry’s brother.”

Lord Dearborne’s high color, even reinforced by port as it was, began to fade.

“Yes,” Rafe went on, “and Henry was superintendent of sword exercise in the army. A fellow’s arm gets rusty if he don’t keep at it, so then I kept training with a friend of mine, Henry’s other brother, Edward. A professional soldier and the army’s
instructor of the sword. Demons with swords, every one of the Angelos,” he mused. “I fenced with Harry once too. His brothers could beat him hollow.”

“But your arm…” his friend Hazelton said anxiously.

“Yes, your arm,” Dearborne said with regained confidence. “Surely you have to take that into account.”

“Which arm?” Rafe asked. “I trained myself to use both.
So,”
he said mockingly, “arrange things with Hazelton here—or apologize. It’s up to you. Just admit you lied. As you usually do.”

Dearborne snarled; his fist shot out. Rafe shifted his weight, dodged the blow, and countered by catching Dearborne square on the chin with a fist. As the man’s head snapped back, Rafe followed it with his fist, hitting him in the nose. A quick blow to the stomach made Dearborne grunt; another sharp rap to the head made him stagger. One more hit to the chin put him down. And out.

Dearborne lay on the floor, groaning and bleeding copiously from his nose.

“That was for the lady in question,” Rafe said, straightening his sleeves, “and for an old friend, and others probably too numerous to mention.” He looked down at Dearborne. “Won’t waste good shot or dull a fine blade on you. Better be on the next ship out, though, or I’ll see to the finishing touches in some other way.” He stepped over Dearborne. “I’ll pay for cleaning the carpet,” Rafe told a spellbound waiter as he walked out of the dining room.

Hazelton strode alongside him. “He said he didn’t
want to use fists, then struck without warning. But you were ready for his treachery!” he said with admiration.

“I’m always ready for treachery,” Rafe said, grimacing.

“Have you hurt yourself?” his friend asked worriedly, noting Rafe’s pained expression as he tried to rotate his shoulder. “I thought you said you could use either arm.”

“I can,” Rafe said, wincing. “That doesn’t mean I should.”

When Rafe went out to dinner that night, he winced again. Not because of the pain in his arm. He saw the looks he was getting. Admiration. Awe. Even envy. He tried to concentrate on his cutlet.

“It’s the way of the world,” Hazelton laughed when he saw how Rafe hunched over his dinner plate, scowling at his blameless veal. “London’s buzzing. Dearborne’s off to the Continent with his nose in a sling and his name in the dirt. There’s not a man here who doesn’t applaud you for it. Scandal-mongering was one of Dearborne’s more endearing traits.”

“I wish they’d forget it,” Rafe said wholeheartedly. “The sooner they do, the sooner they’ll forget the reason for it.”

“They already have,” his friend said.

Rafe shook his head. Part of what had saved his life in the past was knowing when there’d be trouble
ahead. He felt it in his aching bones now. Not for the first time, he wished Drum were there. He’d never have to explain a thing to him, and they’d worked together against bad odds before. He had a sinking feeling the business wasn’t done.

Dinner passed easily enough. The looks Rafe got, the glad greetings from relative strangers, the way others came up to his table to greet him, the whispers in his wake, annoyed him. But they weren’t dangerous. What he overheard as he left the room was.

Two drunken bucks were waiting in the hall for their hats when they saw Rafe come to collect his. They’d gamed in the back room, and drunk even more than they’d gambled. Now they were weaving out of the club to look for better sport. They found it.

“I say!” one said loudly. “There’s Dalton. Can’t be another with that flaming head. He’s the ginger-top who took down ol’ Dearborne! Good show!”

“Good show? I s’pose.” the other sneered. “But futile, in my humble ’pinion. A fellow’s a fool to fight over a slut’s good name. She’ll only dip it in the dirt a’gain, mark my words. She must have been dicked in the nob as well as being a whore. Imagine…tryin’ to cut the beauteous Annabelle out! Took off her clothes, did she? Ho! The creature could have shucked down to her bones and she wouldn’t have a chance of showing up the fair Annabelle!”

Rafe’s head shot up.

His friend rolled his eyes. “Ignore them,” Hazelton said.

But Rafe had already stalked over to the pair. “I
would not repeat that,” he told them in a deadly soft voice. “One, it’s not true. Two, it makes me very angry to hear untruths.”

“Oh, goin’ to fight me too?” the heavier of the two asked with a smarmy smile. “Well, sorry, m’lord. I’m a better man than Dearborne in every way. If you want to test me, do it.” He started unbuttoning his jacket.

“Gentlemen,” Hazelton said, “this can be resolved in neater fashion at a later date.”

“Nothing neater than my right fist,” the man said as he flung off his jacket. He rolled up his sleeves and assumed a stance, two fists raised. “Let’s settle it here and now. Or do you need a day to get your courage up?”

“No need,” Rafe said with resignation. “I don’t want to brawl,” he said over his shoulder to his friend, “but I can’t let this go on. There’s already talk. Maybe this will put an end to it.” He put up his fists.

The other man made a feint toward him. Rafe danced back, but kept his eyes on him, measuring his face, his pose, his reach.

“I didn’t invite you to the waltz,” the man jeered.

Rafe nodded. Then his fist shot forward. The sound of it connecting with the man’s jaw was loud as a pistol shot. The sound the fellow made when he hit the marble floor was worse.

“I’ve just discovered something else,” Rafe told Hazelton through clenched teeth as he took his hat from a frozen faced footman. “A man can’t die of pain, no matter how he may want to. Damme,” he
said, as he tried to flex his shoulder, “I don’t know if I can survive this Season.”

“Or if any of the gossips will,” his friend sighed.

The coach rattled on down the long, rutted road to Shropshire. Brenna looked out the dusty window. Shadows were making the hedgerows turn purple and brown, the fields beyond them growing misty lavender with oncoming night.

She glanced into the corner of the dim coach. Her brother lay back against the leather squabs. She knew he wasn’t sleeping. She’d seen him shift his long frame a few too many times in the past half hour. “We have to stop now,” she said.

He opened his eyes. “I feel fine. Let’s go on.”

She couldn’t make out his expression, but she couldn’t hear the usual rich, deep timbre in his voice either.

“No,” she said firmly. “You may have the constitution of an ox, my dear, but I don’t. My teeth are half rattled out of my mouth. My kidneys have made the acquaintance of my lights and liver—they’re all a jumble now. And I’d give several fortunes—if I had them—to use the convenience a lady may not mention. Please, may we stop for the night now?”

He chuckled, low. “Witch,” he said fondly, “you know I can’t resist that. I doubt you’re even weary, or that you have to use that…convenience. Still, yes, of course, tell the coachmen we’ll stop.”

When the coach pulled up into an inn yard a few
miles down the road, he held her hand to help her out. As she emerged from the coach, Eric saw her face clear in the lantern light. “You
are
tired,” he said, instantly remorseful, “Forgive me, I wasn’t thinking.”

“No need for forgiveness,” she answered. “You were right, I’m not really weary. The thing is, I
was
thinking. And not good thoughts. Lud! I made a mess of matters, didn’t I?” Her eyes, dark as the coming night, sought his. “Do you think I can ever go back?”

He pressed her hand. “It’ll be forgotten in a day,” he told her softly. “London never has more than seven-day wonders.”

But she’d never forget Lord Raphael Dalton, Brenna thought sadly. Because she’d been trying to do just that, without success. Not in seven days, or even years, perhaps. He stuck in her mind, in all his red-haired glory. She couldn’t shake him loose; she’d tried for days now. Such a fine, forthright, upright man, a good man, brave and honest, and such men were so few and far between. Few in London, none perhaps where she was going. She’d soon be so far from him, and was getting further away in time and distance every hour she went on. Because when those seven days were up, Rafe would be wed, or as good as, wouldn’t he? And she was going home now.
Much that mattered
. He hadn’t seen her even when she was there.

“Yes, it’ll be over soon and the incident forgotten by one and all,” she told her brother, mustering a smile. “You’re right, of course.”

“I wish I were wrong this time,” he said, examining her face.

She bowed her head. He knew her too well.

R
afe’s scowl could have curdled milk, but he stood still and suffering as he let his new butler tie his neckcloth for him. There was nothing else he could do, after all. His right arm was in a sling. He grimaced when the butler stepped back and he had a look at himself in the mirror.

He tore his eyes from his own reflection and saw the butler’s nervous face. “Nothing you’ve done.” Good job, actually,” he said. His eyes returned to the glass. It
was
a good job. His cravat was perfection, he was shaved smooth, and his hair was tamed. His fashionable tight-fitted jacket hung right, even with the sling.

But even the application of a leech hadn’t improved his face much. The swelling over his left eye had gone down some, but the skin was still discolored. He raised his head. And the long bruise on
his jawbone still looked terrible, though the purple had faded to green…

“An application of some maquillage, my lord?” the butler offered tentatively, seeing the direction of his gaze. “An application of a simple cosmetic paste? My last employer suffered from a bad complexion. It did wonders for him, smoothing his skin and hiding defects. You haven’t got the same problem, of course—but tonight? A dab here or there, perhaps?”

“So I can look healthy as a poxy whore? No, thank you. But thank you,” Rafe added hastily. “You’ve done wonders, best that can be done. But I won’t paint. A man can’t brawl and come out looking like a poet. It will have to do.”

He touched his jaw. That bruise had come from the incident in the alley outside Watier’s after he’d heard what that idiot lordling at the faro table had said about Brenna Ford. The eye had been given to him by the fool at Gentleman Jackson’s who’d been telling a filthy joke about her. He’d given back two for one in each case, though, he thought with little satisfaction. The sling was the price he paid for each victory. The arm wasn’t as ready to protect as he was.

He had a more serious engagement with John Stiles still to come. It had been arranged after he heard the filthy thing Stiles had said about Brenna. But Rafe doubted that fatal dawn would ever come. Last he heard, Stiles was making hasty plans for a long sea voyage.

But there were dozens of other tongues wagging in London, and all about the same thing—Brenna Ford, the scheming wench who had stripped to her
skin and tried to entrap him in marriage to spite Annabelle. And that was the nicer version of the rumor. He didn’t know how the story had got out or how it had reached such proportions. Worst of all, they had her name.

Rafe stalked from the room, avoiding the mirror. He was tired of looking at his bruises. It didn’t matter. He had worse ones on his conscience. He’d prowled the house half the day, and most of the night, pacing and thinking, trying to find a solution. He couldn’t challenge all London. But he couldn’t let it go on.

He was halfway down the stair when he heard voices at his front door. So, Stiles hadn’t fled after all. He’d sent his second to arrange matters. Rafe took the stairs quickly, his teeth clenched tight. The only question was whether to wait until his arm was fully healed or try to get the thing over with quickly. Stiles was a fair shot, after all, and—

“Drum!”
Rafe said, coming to a halt at the bottom of the stair when he saw who was standing in his front hall.

“Himself,” Drum acknowledged. “So the rumors I heard were true,” he said with interest, noting the sling and then studying his friend’s battered face.

“What rumors? By God, forget that, what are you doing here!”

“Good to see you too,” Drum said, stripping off his gloves. “Yes, thank you, I
would
like a brandy and a chair by the fireside after my hard travels. No, no, don’t get yourself into a taking, only joking—but I would like that, you know.”

“It’s yours,” Rafe said, leading him to the study. “Tell me what you’re doing here in your own sweet time.”

“Thank you,” Drum said, accepting the glass of liquor Rafe quickly poured from a decanter.

He settled himself in a chair by the hearth and raised his glass to Rafe. “Ah! The spirit to put the spirit back in a man,” he sighed after a sip. “I’ve been riding hard.” He saw Rafe’s expression and gave him a crooked smile. “Not
that
hard, no, not all the way from Italy. Well, the long and short is, I never got there. I didn’t get lost, except in the diversions Old Hightower had to offer at his place in France. You remember his house isn’t far from the coast. He still lives in grand style and loves to keep the place well stocked with company and good food, and it’s still always open to wandering Englishmen. It was so comfortable there I decided to stay awhile before moving on.”

He took another sip and grimaced. It wasn’t because of the liquor. “Then our old friend Dearborne arrived,” he said, “and I heard rumors about you. I came back to see if they were true. If only half of them were, it occurred to me that you might need my advice and counsel—not to mention,” he added, looking at Rafe’s arm in a sling, “a good right hand.”

Rafe nodded. “What did Dearborne say?”

“What I’ve heard the rest of London saying since I got back this morning. Only he was saying it more colorfully. He’ll have difficulty saying it in future, though. I broke his jaw.”

“Really?” Rafe asked, diverted.

“Yes, inevitable after I told him what I’d do if he didn’t stop his tongue himself. He showed steel—a dagger—when my back was turned to him. Turns out he’s ambidextrous. It’s fitting that a two-faced man would be, don’t you think? Poetic, almost.”

“Careful,” Rafe said with a smile. “You know I am too.”

“Only because you practiced long and hard when you got that arm of yours shattered,” Drum said blandly. “It never came naturally to you. It does to him. The lucky thing is that he’s not half as fast as he thinks he is with either hand. Be that as it may, Rafe—what the devil is going on? Is it true?” he asked, looking at his friend seriously. “I mean, the talk about the wench who showed her all to your lady and tried to stake a claim on you? And what are you trying to do? Make war against half the males in England? Because if it’s true, there’s nothing you can do.”

“It’s not true,” Rafe said, running his good hand through his cropped hair. “She’s no wench. Nor did she do that. Her name’s Brenna Ford—she’s Eric Ford’s sister.”

“I knew who she was. But she didn’t do it?” Drum asked, his glass paused halfway to his lips.

“No. She’s every bit as sound as Eric is. She’s younger than he is, but very mature in her manner. Charming—intelligent too. A sensible woman, a calm, steady, respectable female who has no blame in this.” Rafe rose and began pacing. He began telling Drum the story, and frowned, because it seemed even worse as he told it.

“I know I was a fool,” Rafe said with frustrated
rage, “but I forgot I needed a chaperon if I was going to invite a young woman to stay here. But I didn’t think of Eric’s sister in that way, and neither did she act that way toward me.”

“‘That way’?” Drum asked bemusedly.

“As a woman.” Rafe shook his head. “Which she is, no matter how I thought of her. Damme, but as you know too well, I wasn’t thinking of anything but Annabelle. The whole thing happened because of that. The Fords had done some hard traveling, so the day after they got here, I let them alone to rest and recuperate. Meanwhile I took Annabelle and her mama to tea. Nothing would do but the mama come see this place. Well, seems she’s considering me,” he said, unable to keep the pride from his voice. “I left them at the door while I stabled my team. They raised the door knocker. Bren—I mean, Brenna Ford—thought it was me.”

Drum’s eyebrow went up at how easily Rafe had used the woman’s pet name.

“Thinking I was locked out, she opened the door,” Rafe said.

“Bad, but not lethal,” Drum commented, sipping his whiskey, watching Rafe carefully.

“Lethal,” Rafe sighed. “She’d just taken a bath. She was dressed!” he said quickly as Drum’s azure eyes went wide. “But only in her brother’s dressing gown. It was crimson. With dragons on it,” he added darkly. “Her hair was down, and wet. It’s long, and very black, exotic looking. And she smelled of bath salts and jasmine.”

“Interesting,” Drum said, “but worse, yes.”

“I offered for her, of course.”

“Annabelle?”

“No, Bren,” Rafe said.

“Of course,” Drum said casually, but his eyes were very wide now.

“She refused. Several times. Said it would blow over. They went home. But now all London’s filthying her name.”

“So what’s to do?”

“I think—and believe me, Drum, I’ve been thinking of little else—but I really think I have to go to the Fords and see how it’s affecting them.”

“She may be right, it may blow over,” Drum mused.

“Yes. For me. Especially if I keep courting Annabelle. But maybe not for Bren and Eric. I’ve done what I can, aside from protecting her name by main force. I’ve tried to shine up mine too. I hired on enough servants to service a castle. I don’t go anywhere your maiden aunt wouldn’t have tea. But the gossip keeps spreading. I can weather it—rumor has it that I’m the wronged party, after all. But what about her? They’re proud as the devil, the pair of them. I had to fight to get them to let me call a physician for Eric, and there he was, white as the sheet on the bed he was lying on. You’d never believe how sick he looked. And still, I had to insist.

“So I know they’d never tell me if they were social lepers by now,” Rafe said in frustration. “No, I have no choice. I have to see how the wind is blowing in Shropshire myself.
If
the slander hasn’t reached that far,
if
it does blow over before it gets there, then I’ll
come right back and resume my courtship of Annabelle. That’s going well,” he added with pleased amazement. “If not?” He shrugged, his face going suddenly blank. “I’ll bite the bullet and wed Eric’s sister. She’s a good sort, Drum. She doesn’t deserve this.”

“Nor do you,” Drum said thoughtfully. “Well, it’s a better plan than continuing to pound every male in Town into the ground, or at least all who have the story—and that’s all of them. I’ll go with you, if I may?”

“I’d like that. Thank you. Tomorrow? Or do you want time to rest?”

“Oh, it’s far too diverting. Tomorrow, of course.”

“I just have to write a note to Annabelle. We were to go to Vauxhall Saturday,” Rafe said.

Drum looked up at the sound of his friend’s voice. He’d seen Rafe suffering too many times during the long years he’d known him. He seldom saw it so naked in his face.

“Just as well I miss that appointment,” Rafe said curtly, seeing the quick sympathy spring to his friend’s eyes. He ran a hand along his jaw. “My face looks like sausage. Feels like it too. It’ll be healed by the time we get to Tidbury, though. Lord! Tidbury instead of Vauxhall Gardens,” he said with wonder. “Trying to mend a wrong done to a respectable female instead of wooing the fairest one in England. Life’s full of surprises.”

He frowned. “I’ll go write that note to Annabelle now so it can be delivered first thing. We’ll leave at
dawn,” he said, and turned on his heel, leaving Drum to his thoughts by the fireside.

Annabelle flung down the note the footman delivered to her. She’d felt the blood drain from her face as she’d read it. Her mama snatched it up and read it quickly.

“Dalton’s gone? On ‘sudden urgent matters?’ Where?” her mama asked.

“Oh, who cares? That puts paid to
his
pretensions,” Annabelle said too airily, turning aside as though to catch sight of her reflection in the mirror, but keeping her eyes down so her mama couldn’t see into them. “I certainly won’t cancel our plans just because of my lord Dalton, thank you very much. I told everyone I was going to Vauxhall Saturday evening, and go I shall. I can get Williams, or Mr. Oaks, or Lord Carling, to take me instead.”

“Of course you can, my dear,” her mama said. “And any number of other gentlemen besides. I’m sure he didn’t mean any insult. He’s mad for you. It must be urgent family matters or some such.”

“Maybe,” Annabelle said. “It had better be,” she murmured. She turned a sunny face back to her mother. “Nevertheless, I’ll send a note straight back telling him not to bother visiting me again when he returns. He’ll know leaving a lady in the lurch isn’t done. At least, not
this
lady. I can’t smile and pretend it doesn’t matter, Mama. It does. What will he think of me if I accept a broken appointment as though I was afraid to make a fuss in case he wouldn’t make
one with me again? Oh, don’t worry. If I choose, I can mend matters. I’ve done it before, haven’t I?” she asked on a laugh that broke, startling her.

She cleared her throat. “I don’t know that I
will
forgive him again. We’ll see. But who shall we get to replace him?” she asked gaily, as though it didn’t matter. “Oaks has a way with a jest, but Carling is
such
a good dancer.”

Her mother gave opinions on each suitor. Annabelle hardly listened. There was a lump in her chest and a weight on her heart. It wasn’t that she’d decided on Dalton, but she’d been considering him seriously, if only because he’d made her aware of herself again. His attentions were more than flattering; they’d become necessary to her good opinion of herself. Now this? It was only the intimation of trouble. But she was no stranger to trouble.

She was the most beautiful girl in London—or so everyone said. She was called an Incomparable. She wasn’t stupid or shallow either. She was educated, accomplished. She wasn’t just an ornament. She
felt
things, she thought, fighting tears. Other women her age who cared less and had less had nonetheless married long since, some happily. So why was she so unlucky in her choice of men?

The one man she’d wanted, the one she was sure would be her heart’s mate, had never seriously looked beyond her face or tried to read her heart. Everyone had said their marriage was inevitable, given they were so well matched, old neighbors and easy friends, and he was always so kind to her. But
he hadn’t desired her for his wife. Every other man she’d ever met had.

She never thought she’d settle for less than the perfection Damon Ryder had seemed to be. But she’d unbent enough to consider Rafe Dalton. He was smitten, persistent. But with an occasional edge that made him more interesting than her other suitors. Cursed by his hair, his blunt features and manner, he was altogether inferior to her Damon. But precisely because of that, she knew he’d be eternally grateful to her for marrying him. It made perfect sense. It made her feel powerful and safe. Surely he’d be the last man on earth to hurt her. And yet, now
he
toyed with her affections? How
dare
he?