Margaret Moore - Regency - Rogues and Runaways

“Move your feet, Buckthorne, damn you, or by God, I’ll cut ‘em off!” Thompson shouted at the bigger man, swinging his blunted blade at the young man’s ankles. “Damn it, what the deuce d’you think you’re about, my lord? This isn’t a tea party. Lunge, man, lunge! Strike, by God, or go find a whore to play pat-a-cake with.”

The earl, who must be the fourth Earl of Buckthorne, and who was already notorious for his gambling losses, made an effort, but his feint was no more than the brush of a fly to the young man opposite him. He easily twisted the blade away, then lunged, pressing the buttoned tip of the foil into the earl’s padded chest.

“So now, my lord, you’d be dead,” Thompson declared. “It’s kill or be killed on the battlefield—and the victors get the spoils, the loot, the women and anything else they can find. Think about that, my lord, eh?”

The earl pushed away his opponent’s foil with his gauntleted hand. “I am a gentleman, Thompson, not a common soldier,” he sneered, the words slightly muffled beneath his mask. His head moved up and down as he surveyed his opponent from head to toe. “Or a merchant’s son.”

That was a mistake, as Drury and half a dozen of the other spectators could have told him.

Thompson had Buckthorne by the padding in an instant, lifting the thickset young man until his toes barely brushed the sawdust-covered floor. “Think your noble blood’s gonna save you, do you? Your blood’s the same as his, you dolt, or mine or any man’s. You’d have done better to save your money and not buy your commission. Men like you have killed more English soldiers than the Frogs and Huns combined. Money and blood don’t make Gerrard a better swordsman than you—practice does.”

Pausing to draw breath, Thompson’s glare swept around the room, until he spotted Drury.

With a shout of greeting and the agility of a man half his age, he dropped the earl and hurried over to the barrister.

“Good afternoon, Thompson,” Drury said to his friend and former teacher as the earl staggered and tried to regain his balance. “I thought I’d come along and have a little fun.”

“I beg your pardon,” the earl’s opponent said, removing his mask and revealing an eager, youthful face, curling fair hair, bright blue eyes and a mouth grinning with delight. “Are you Sir Douglas Drury, the barrister?”

“I am.”

“By Jove, the Court Cat himself!” the young man exclaimed, his grin growing even wider. “I can’t tell you what an honor it is to meet you!”

“Then don’t.”

Paying no more heed to the young man, who must be about twenty, Drury turned to Thompson. “Are you up to a challenge? I’m feeling the need for some martial exercise today.”

Thompson barked a laugh. “Arrogant devil,” he genially replied. “Giving me another chance to take you down a peg or two, eh?”

“We’ll see about that.” Drury cocked a brow at the fair young man, who continued to gaze at him with gaping fascination. “Have you never been informed that it’s impolite to stare, Mr. Gerrard?”

“I’m sorry, s-sir,” he stammered, blushing. “But you’re Sir Douglas Drury!”

“I never cease to be amazed by the number of people who assume I don’t know who I am. Perhaps I should wear a placard,” Drury remarked as he started to unbutton his coat, a feat he could manage, albeit with some difficulty, thanks to the large buttons.

“Sergeant Thompson says you’re the best swordsman he ever taught,” Gerrard declared.

“Such flattery will make me blush,” Drury replied before sliding a glance at Thompson. “The best you’ve ever taught, eh?”

The former soldier puffed out his broad chest. “You are. Not as good as me, mind, but good—for a gentleman.”

“If I didn’t know you better, Thompson, I’d say you were making a joke.”

“No joke, Sir Douglas. You’re good, but Gerrard here could probably give you a run for your money.”

“Oh, no, I couldn’t!” the merchant’s son protested, even as a gleam of excitement lit his blue eyes. “Don’t even suggest it, Sergeant.”

“Too late,” Drury said. “I’m willing if you are.”

Gerrard shifted his weight and his gaze went to Drury’s hands. He was so focused on those crooked fingers, he didn’t see the slight narrowing of Drury’s eyes before he spoke. “Have no fear that you’ll be accused of taking advantage of a cripple, Mr. Gerrard. My hands may not be pretty, but they are fully functional.”

As Miss Bergerine could attest.

Drury clenched his jaw, angry that he couldn’t keep Juliette Bergerine out of his thoughts even here. Or at his club, or in his chambers.

“Go on, Gerrard,” prompted the earl. He’d removed his mask and padded jacket, which obviously also operated as a corset for his bulging stomach, now more prominently displayed. He had the countenance of a man who would go to fat in a few more years, and likely already drank to excess. “See if you can beat him. I’ll stand you drinks at White’s if you can.”

“I shall stand you drinks at Boodle’s if I lose,” Drury proposed.

“If we’re going to wager,” Gerrard said, “I’d rather it be for something better.”

“Such as?” Drury inquired, expecting him to name a sum of money.

“An introduction to your cousin.”

Drury went absolutely still. Those watching couldn’t even be sure if he was breathing as he regarded Gerrard with that cold stare.

“I wasn’t aware it had become common knowledge that my cousin is in London,” he said in a tone that made some of the younger men think they were hearing the voice of doom itself.

“Is it supposed to be a secret?” Gerrard replied with an innocence that was either real or expertly feigned.

Give him a few minutes with the man in the witness box, Drury thought, and he’d know for sure.

“My sister heard it from her dressmaker,” Gerrard explained.

Damn Madame de Malanche. He’d suspected she wouldn’t be able to resist spreading that piece of news, but he’d hoped it would take more time before the lie became common gossip.

Despite his annoyance, Drury kept his feelings from his face as he peeled off his coat and tossed it onto a rack of buttoned foils nearby.

“It’s no secret,” he said, rolling back his cuffs as best he could with his stiff fingers. “I sometimes forget the speed with which gossip can travel in the city.”

“Is it a wager then?” Gerrard challenged.

Drury undid his cravat and tossed it on top of his coat.

“Very well. And if you lose?”

“Whatever you like.”

Cocky young bastard . “Very well. I may ask you for a favor someday. Nothing illegal or dangerous, but one never knows when one can use the assistance of a man of skill and intelligence capable of defending himself. Do we have a wager then, Mr. Gerrard?”

A very determined gleam came to the younger man’s eyes. “Indeed.” He pushed his mask over his face and saluted with his sword. “ En garde as soon as you’re ready, Sir Douglas.”

“I’m ready now,” Drury said, spinning on his heel and pulling one of the foils from the rack with surprising speed.

Gerrard stumbled back as Drury, unpadded and unprotected, saluted with the buttoned sword. He and Thompson had worked for hours to find a way for him to hold a sword after he’d come home, and while it looked strange, his grip was firm, and he had no need to worry that he would drop his weapon.

Gerrard recovered quickly and took his stance.

The merchant’s son had probably never dueled, or fought for anything more important than drinks and bragging rights. Drury wondered if he realized he was facing a man who had killed without compunction or remorse. Who had pushed his blade into flesh and blood, and been glad to do it.