Guilty Series (45 page)

“Twins,” Dylan corrected. “And it was not in a bawdy-house, but a bathhouse. Bagnio, Sir Robert, not seraglio.”

“Moore, you must admit that you have been a bit dull this season,” Lord Damon pointed out. “Not one scrape to your name. Is it not time for you to do something outrageous?”

“Does tonight suit you?” Dylan asked as a waiter set a bottle of his favorite brandy and a glass on the table before him. “I am amenable to the most outrageous adventures you can dream of,” he went on, pouring out a generous measure of the liquor. “Particularly if it involves a pretty bawd or two.” And virtuous women could go to the devil, he thought, lifting his glass and swallowing the brandy in one draught.

“So what shall we do, gentlemen?” Hammond asked. “Go slumming in Seven Dials, or perhaps Dylan and I should fence atop the rail on Westminster Bridge.”

Dylan refilled his glass and opened his mouth to concur with both suggestions, but Sir Robert spoke before he could do so.

“I say, there's Sir George Plowright. Yesterday, Givens tried to break his record, but only lasted eight minutes. Plowright is still the pugilistic champion at Gentleman Jackson's. Three years now, he's had the title.”

“Fencing requires far more skill than boxing,” Damon declared, earning himself toasts from both Hammond and Dylan.

“I'm not good at either one,” Robert said gloomily.

Dylan leaned over and gave him an affectionate swipe across the head. “You're a young one,” he reminded him, “scarce two and twenty. Give yourself a few years, and you'll surpass us all.”

Sir George came swaggering by, his massive frame sheathed in a set of the gaudiest evening clothes imaginable. He was as well known for his colorful dress as he was for his boxing prowess.

“I believe he has surpassed himself tonight,” Dylan commented, observing the subject of their conversation in the mirror on the wall behind Damon's head as Sir George and his companion, Lord Burham, sat down nearby. “A pink waistcoat and a bright blue coat? Ye gods.”

“Shame the devil,” Hammond said with a chuckle, “that a strutting peacock in pink-and-blue striped trousers and a pink waistcoat should weigh fifteen stone and be the undisputed champion of boxing in all Westminster.”

“Bit of an irony, what?” Sir Robert added. “Anyone would think to look at him he favors the boys.”

Dylan chuckled. “No, my young friend. There's nothing so queer as that about Sir George. He has quite a different problem.”

Robert glanced at Sir George, then back at the men seated with him, his eyes wide with curiosity. “What problem?”

Lord Damon was the one who chose to explain. “The demireps say he's a bit quick with his trigger,” he said, striving for a straight face. “He cannot seem to get his pistol in the correct position before he fires it.”

Comprehension dawned in the younger man's eyes, and he began to laugh. “Dash it, you're having me on.”

The others shook their heads, and all four men began to laugh at once, so heartily that the subject of their conversation raised his voice to be heard over them.

“Burham, I say, it is a disgrace that Moore refuses to box. Can you imagine? I begin to think his reputation for daring is a great hoax.”

Dylan met the other man's gaze in the mirror and lifted his glass, smiling. He said nothing.

“This is the man everyone thinks so brave.” Sir George waved a hand in Dylan's direction, his voice becoming louder. “And why? Because he lives a degenerate life? Is that to be so admired?”

“Have a care, Moore,” Sir Robert murmured. “He is baiting you on purpose. And in public, too.”

Dylan took another swallow of brandy without taking his gaze from the beau in the mirror. “It's understandable,” he assured the younger man. “Sir George and I are none too fond.”

“The idiot challenged Moore at swords a few years ago,” Lord Damon explained. “Of course, he was slashed to pieces. He still hopes to have his revenge by persuading Moore to box.”

“Or by having me ostracized from society,” Dylan added. “Preferably both.”

“A life,” Sir George continued, his voice growing louder, “of ridiculous displays, grandiose gestures, and defiance of moral principles. Yet people tolerate it because he is said to be so gifted with music. Is that acceptable? I say no.”

The room was silent now, tense and waiting. Still speaking as if to Burham, Sir George went on, “Moore's life is of debauchery and excess, a contemptible mode in this Age of Reform.” He turned and looked around the whole room. “Is it a harmless thing to kiss young ladies at public balls? To live openly with actresses and keep company with prostitutes? I call it whoredom.”

Dylan stiffened, his fingers curling around his glass, wondering if word had gotten out about Grace. And what of Isabel? He didn't care about his own reputation, was rather proud of it, in fact. But if Dylan heard one disparaging word about either Grace or his daughter, he'd have Sir George's head.

He turned in his chair, putting on his most mocking smile. “Why Sir George, do you intend to become a clergyman, that you speak so?”

“You appear to need an excess of feminine companionship, sir. You live in Cock Alley.”

“How would you know?” Dylan countered at once. “From what I hear, you cannot manage to enter the gates, much less live there.”

His words caused a ripple of shocked laughter to echo through the room. As if struck by a sudden thought, Dylan added, “To be so afflicted, yet have the name Plowright. Most unfortunate.”

The laughter got louder, and Sir George's face flushed dark red.

“No need to look so distressed, dear fellow,” Dylan went on. “I have heard there are certain herbs one can take to assist one's…er…endurance.”

Sir George took a predictable step forward, then stopped, his hands curled into fists at his sides.

Dylan saw the gesture, and stirred in his chair. He felt Hammond tug at his coat.

“Moore,” he cautioned in a low voice, “this is piffle, not worth fighting about. Let it go.”

Dylan didn't want to let it go. He was spoiling for this, especially tonight, and so was Sir George. He looked over at Hammond. “I don't believe I will,” he said pleasantly.

The viscount placed his hands on the edge of the table and moved them as if playing piano. He shook his head.

Dylan let out his breath in a hiss of exasperation. Hammond was being sensible for once. He turned once again to Sir George, and with regret, he began to disengage. “I fence, and you box, Sir George. We are both Corinthians of different sport and, like all men, we enjoy the company of women. Pray, do not make a row of it.”

Sir George stepped closer to his table, tapping his ivory walking stick on the carpet in three thumps. “You call yourself a Corinthian? You are nothing of the kind. You refuse time and again to engage in the true sport of honorable gentlemen, no matter the provocation. I am offended by your claim to be among Corinthians when you lack the bravery to prove it. You are no gentleman, Moore. In fact, you are a coward.”

That was enough for a duel, but he'd settle for a fight. Dylan slammed his glass down, shoved back his chair, and rose. “By God, sir, you go too far!” he shouted as he faced Sir George. “I will not be called a coward by any man, especially not by a strutting pink peacock!”

He started forward, as did his challenger, but cooler heads intervened. Hammond rose and wrapped his arms around Dylan's shoulders to hold him back. Burham grabbed Sir George by the arm. They attempted to put a safer distance between the two men, but it was not going to work.

Dylan shook off the restraining arms wrapped around his shoulders. “I will not suffer this insult, Hammond,” he said over his shoulder. “Plowright's craved this fight for years. This time, he shall have his way. And by fisticuffs, too, if that is what he wants.”

Sir George gave him a smile of triumph. “When and where?”

“Moore!” Hammond caught his arm and turned him around. “Don't be stupid. You haven't boxed since Cambridge, and even then, never seriously. Think of your hands, man!”

Dylan yanked away again. “Would you allow any man to publicly denounce you a coward?” He looked at Sir Robert and Lord Damon. “Would you?”

None of them answered, and Dylan went on, “What is the record time with this pettifogging prick?”

They still said nothing.

He turned and glanced around. “Any man here,” he shouted out, “tell me what the record is for standing against Sir George Plowright in a match.”

“Twenty-one minutes, four seconds without going down for the count,” someone shouted back to him.

“Easily done.” Dylan looked at Sir George and gestured toward the doors. “Shall we?”

The other man raised his eyebrows. “Now? In the street? How like you, Moore.”

“The mews then, if the street will not suit your refined sensibilities. I'll not stand with this insufferable accusation against me one moment longer. What's the matter, Sir George?” he added as the other man hesitated. “Are you afraid your pretty ruffled shirt will get a bit of horse dung on it?”

“Now it is, then. In the mews.” Sir George bowed and walked away.

“I shall mark the lines,” Burham said with a sigh and turned to follow his companion out of the club.

The moment they were gone, the silence ceased, and talk began to buzz all around the room. Odds were laid and bets were made. Brooks's was the club of deep gamblers, after all.

“Moore, don't do this,” Lord Damon advised. “You could damage your hands.”

Dylan did not reply. He shrugged out of his coat and began to undo the buttons of his waistcoat. He'd only come out for diversion, but this was far more than that. It was a matter of honor. Besides, his blood was surging through his body like thunder rolling, and he wanted the storm to break. He didn't mind breaking it over Sir George Plowright's head. He tore off his gray-and-black jacquard waistcoat and his cravat, then unbuttoned his shirt as his friends continued their attempts to talk him out of this course.

“Think, man,” Hammond pleaded. “It means nothing. No one here but Sir George would ever brand you a coward, and everyone knows he's been itching for this ever since you thrashed him with a blade. The fellow's drunk, to boot.”

“Is he? Good, for I'm sober as a parson.” Dylan pulled his shirt over his head. “That gives me an advantage, I think.”

“I doubt it, but if you are determined to do this, at least use practice gloves.”

“Hammond, don't be tiresome,” Dylan admonished. Seizing his narrow cravat from the table, he caught back his hair and knotted the silk. “No man uses practice gloves unless he is practicing. Will you act as second?”

Hammond lifted his hands in a hopeless gesture. “Of course. Do you remember the rules?”

“You'd best remind me quick.” Dylan started for the door, and Hammond walked beside him, outlining Broughton's Rules. Sir Robert and Lord Damon followed them.

All the other men in the club followed them out of Brooks's, into St. James' Street, and around the corner to the mews behind. Word must have gotten across the street, for men were also coming out of White's to watch the fight. They reached the mews, where space had been cleared in the stable yard and Sir George, Burham, and a few men of their acquaintance were gathered, waiting for Dylan.

“Moore, don't!” someone cried, a voice he recognized, and he turned around, easily catching sight of the Duke of Tremore, who was tall enough to stand several inches above the other men in the crowd. His old friend was trying to wave him off, but he pretended not to see. He turned back around and walked to the wobbly square of chalk powder that marked the dirt in the center of the stable yard.

He faced Sir George. The other man had also stripped down, but only to his shirt. His sleeves were rolled back. True gentlemen, Dylan supposed, didn't bare their lily white chests to the fresh air.

It had been years since he'd fought with his fists. Words of training from Cambridge about the rudiments of proper boxing went through his head, and he remembered to tuck his thumbs. Just in time, too, for his first opportunity to strike came the moment the two men chosen to umpire lowered their arms and stepped back. Sir George was still waving to some of his friends when Dylan struck, landing a hard blow that snapped the other man's head sideways and sent jarring ripples of pain through his own arm.

Christ, he'd forgotten how much boxing hurt. He ducked Sir George's attempt at an answering blow, then he landed a second punch, this one to his opponent's thorax.

After that, however, his victories were few. When Sir George knocked him off his feet, Hammond tried to make him stay down. “Let it go, Moore,” he said as the umpire counted. “Let it go.”

“Damned if I will! I'll have at least twenty-one minutes and five seconds with this cock of the walk.” He jumped to his feet, the umpires and seconds moved back, and the fight continued.

Plowright's fist came soaring toward his cheek, and he ducked, then struck upward with his own fist as he straightened, landing a blow to the chin that sent the current boxing champion staggering sideways. But Sir George got his revenge only a moment later in a series of punches to Dylan's head that made the whine pierce his brain in a series of shrill, ear-splitting whistles. With each blow, he felt as if his skull were splitting apart like a melon.

He lashed back, landing six hard, quick blows of his own across the other man's ribs, and he had the satisfaction of hearing a crack that sounded like a twig snapping.

His satisfaction didn't last. A moment later, Sir George laid him out for the second time. He heard one of the chosen umpires begin to count again, and he heard Tremore's hoarse voice shouting somewhere to his left.

“Hammond, for God's sake! You're his second. Haul him off!”