The Lady Hellion

by Joanna Shupe

  “I’ll stand as your second.”

  She eyed him carefully. “You will? Are you certain?” When he nodded, she asked, “How will you—?”

  “Never you mind. Allow me to worry about that.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  “Lords Reddington and Pryce,” Taylor announced.

  Quint said nothing as the earl and another man strode into his ballroom. Taylor bowed and withdrew.

  Reddington was handsome. Easy to see how all that masculine beauty would have turned a young girl’s eye. He had the classic aristocratic profile, chiseled jaw. Close-cropped, neat hair. Elegantly attired. He was, in short, everything Quint was not.

  The realization did not help Quint’s mood. The man had held Sophie’s heart in the palm of his hand and had thrown it away. The unbelievable fool.

  “Not sure why I’m here. Your note made little sense, Quint.” Reddington crossed his arms over his chest.

  “I am performing my duties as Sir Stephen’s second.”

  A crease formed on Reddington’s forehead. “Well, then you should speak to Pryce, here. Arrange it all.”

  Quint had no intention of fighting Reddington anywhere else. He may be well enough for closed carriage rides at night with Sophie, but a field at dawn was another matter altogether. “It’s arranged. Our side chooses swords. And we’ll be fighting now.”

  “Now?” he asked, brows shooting up.

  “Yes. Right now. Right here. With me.”

  That flustered the other man a bit. “This is highly irregular. It’s not the way it’s done.”

  “It is the way I do it, Reddington. I mean to have satisfaction and you’ll give it to me.”

  Reddington gave an uncomfortable chuckle. “We have no quarrel, Quint. I was attacked last evening without provocation. Sir Stephen accosted me for absolutely no reason. This should be handled on a field of honor.”

  “Let us consider this the ballroom of honor, then. And I mean to handle it now.” Quint got up and stalked to the table where two foils were positioned. He hefted one.

  “In place of Sir Stephen?”

  “Yes. I am acting in his stead.”

  “And what are those two doing here?” He pointed to Winchester and Colton, who hadn’t yet said a word.

  Quint took his weapon and walked to the middle of the floor. He held Reddington’s stare. “They are here to ensure I do not kill you.”

  Reddington drew himself up, squared his shoulders. “If you believe I’m afraid of you, you are wrong. Everyone is talking about you. They say you’re cracked.”

  “Then you shouldn’t have any problem besting me.”

  Reddington glanced at Pryce, jerked his head toward the table. “Who is Sir Stephen to you?” he asked Quint as his second went to examine the foil. The caps had been removed, making the swords deadly.

  “My cousin,” Quint answered.

  “The lad needs a strong hand, if you don’t mind my saying.”

  “I do mind, actually. Accept your weapon and I’ll prove how much.”

  Pryce brought the foil to Reddington, who then checked it over as well. “If you hoped I’d have a difficult time with swords,” he said, “I hate to disappoint you. I’ve been studying with a French master for years.”

  “Good. Perhaps I’ll break a sweat before I beat you.”

  Reddington’s eyes narrowed at that, a slight flush stealing over his cheeks. He thrust the foil at Pryce and stripped down to his shirt. Quint had already removed his outerwear, so he merely waited for Reddington to prepare.

  Colton stepped forward and marked off the starting distance. Quint and Reddington both took their spots, arms raised in position. “Allez!” Colton shouted and both men charged.

  When facing a new opponent, Quint assumed the defensive position to start. He liked to learn his opponent’s habits first, then counter them in order to win. Reddington had not lied about the training, but his movements were dramatic, wasteful. Smaller movements were always better, and Reddington’s style was too bold, his attacks handled with the grace of an elephant. He also did not try and change up his moves, as if unable to extrapolate from the ones he’d practiced. Quint soon spotted the patterns, knew what Reddington planned before the man executed it.

  After a few moments, Reddington grew impatient in the face of Quint’s calm. He lunged, aiming for Quint’s shoulder. But Reddington landed off balance, and when Quint flicked his blade, it caught Reddington on the forearm. The man hissed as blood streaked across his skin.

  That triggered Reddington’s anger and his movements turned even clumsier. Another flick and Quint slashed the top of Reddington’s thigh. Sensing he needed to reposition, Reddington fell back and that was when Quint attacked. The earl grunted, blood running from the two wounds, as he tried to defend himself.

  Within seconds, Quint slashed Reddington’s left pectoral, then the right. Twin spots of red bloomed on the man’s chest. Reddington retreated once more, but Quint followed. He didn’t let up, didn’t give Reddington a chance to recover, and with one twist of his wrist, Reddington’s foil slipped and clattered to the ground. Quint aimed the tip of his weapon at Reddington’s heart.

  “Quint, that’s enough,” Winchester said, now on his feet. Pryce and Colton were there as well. But Quint didn’t move. He leaned in. “Lady Sophia is friend to both my cousin and myself. Do not disrespect her again or you’ll suffer the consequences.”

  “Lady Sophia? This is all over a woman?” Confusion cleared and he smirked at Quint. “Oh, I see. Your cousin overheard how the lady and I are old friends, and he must be jealous. Well there’s more than enough to share—”

  With a sharp flick, Quint cut Reddington’s cheek. The man let out a howl of pain. “I am unarmed, you bloody whoreson!” he yelled, hand to his face.

  “Leave her alone,” Quint growled. “Do not breathe her name. If you do, I will”—he dropped the end of the foil to Reddington’s crotch—“turn you into a eunuch. Do we understand one another?”

  “You’re cracked,” Reddington whispered. “Everything they said is true.”

  “Do we understand one another?” Quint repeated, his voice a deep snarl, the tip of his foil pressing into the other man’s scrotum.

  “Yes! Yes. Fine. I shall stay away from her.” Reddington glanced wildly at the men surrounding them. “Get him off me before he goes even madder.”

  Colton pulled Quint away while Winchester removed the blade from his hand. Pryce had already gathered Reddington’s things and the two men scurried from the ballroom without a second glance.

  Still angry, Quint flung himself into a chair and proceeded to wipe his brow with his shirttail.

  Colton cleared his throat. “I feel as if I’m missing a crucial piece of this story. Who, precisely, is Sir Stephen? You’ve no cousin in London, Quint. You’ve no cousin anywhere that I know of.”

  “And what does this have to do with Lady Sophia?” Winchester asked.

  “Reddington was overheard besmirching Lady Sophia’s reputation last evening.”

  Silence descended as the two men absorbed this. “When are you just going to marry the girl?” Colton finally asked. “She said you haven’t yet asked her.”

  “I cannot marry her. I cannot marry anyone.” Not until he recovered, if ever.

  His two friends exchanged a look. “You were prepared to marry the Pepperton girl. And she was a nitwit,” Colton pointed out.

  “That was before.” Before the shooting. Before the fits. And he’d only proposed to Pepperton’s daughter to prove someone would want him, even if that someone wasn’t Sophie. Fortunately, the betrothal had ended in disaster. Alone. Better to be alone, he reminded himself.

  “Are you prepared to ruin Sophia, then?” Winchester frowned. “I won’t allow you to do it, Quint, and neither will Maggie. A lady’s reputation is absurdly fragile and you’re risking her ability to hold up her head in public. For what? To remain a bachelor?”

  He knew Winchester’s outrage stemmed fro
m the way society had treated his wife after her scandal. And yet... “You do not understand,” he muttered.

  “You are correct. I don’t,” Winchester snapped. “So make me understand, Quint. Because the second Julia and Maggie catch wind of what’s going on, you’ll likely find yourself in front of a parson—whether you want to be married or not.”

  “It’s obvious you care for her, Quint,” Colton said reasonably. “You’ve never dueled in your life—been staunchly against it, as long as I can recall—and here you are defending her honor at the risk of your own life. Not to mention Sophia would not proceed in this unless those feelings were reciprocated. So why not marry her?”

  Quint refused to tell them. He knew he should, that they would likely sympathize about his illness. But the words would not come. He’d rather they think him a blackguard than a bedlamite. “Sophie knows my position on the matter. We’ve come to an understanding of sorts.”

  A stunned silence descended, the air thick with disapproval.

  Finally, Winchester blew out a heavy sigh and shook his blond head. “I never thought I would say this, but you are a bloody disappointment, Quint. I expect better from you.”

  Quint struggled not to show how much that hurt as Winchester turned to Colton. “I’ll not wait any longer,” the earl said. “You and your wife can do what you must, but I’ll not stand by and watch both Sophie and Quint come to harm.” He tossed the foil to the ground in a furious crash and marched out of the ballroom.

  Sophie strolled about The Black Queen, trying to appear interested in the play when what she was really doing was waiting for a chance to speak with another one of the house girls. She’d already cornered one girl but she’d been too scared to talk to Sophie. Scared of what O’Shea might do if he found out. The same reaction that Molly had had the last time Sophie was here.

  She would not give up. All she needed to learn was whether Tolbert frequented this establishment, since at least one of the killer’s victims had worked here. Red, the errand boy she paid for information, thought he’d seen a man fitting Tolbert’s description last week but couldn’t be certain.

  Smoke, sweat, and desperation hung heavily in the air while sounds of gaming filled the room. Sophie hadn’t asked Quint to come with her tonight. He was improving, but she did not want to push him too much. After her run-in with Reddington last evening, he no doubt needed a break from the strain of these outings.

  And your heart needs a break as well.

  That little voice inside her head was starting to annoy her. She did not want to love Quint. It was foolish. Their affair was temporary, and he’d repeated his desire never to marry her. Was that what she deserved? A man who bedded her nightly but did not want to take her as a wife?

  Swallowing the sudden lump in her throat, she sat down at a pharo table. All the girls were busy, so she’d amuse herself with—

  “You. Come with me.” A beefy hand landed on her left shoulder.

  Though her insides quivered, she tried to think what a privileged gentleman might say. “No, thank you. I’ve got my eye on this table here for a spot of—”

  “I think you misunderstood,” the man said. “Boss wants t’ see you.”

  Damn and hell. She really hoped that meant the floor boss and not the boss boss. Because the boss boss would be James O’Shea, would it not?

  “Excuse me,” she murmured to the men at the table, who all watched Sir Stephen with a mix of fascination and horror.

  The man waiting for her was huge, a solid mound of muscle. A brick wall with legs. His face was scarred and showing evidence of too many brawls. She could try to outrun him, but she doubted she’d get very far. “Lead on, then,” she said with a bravado she definitely did not feel.

  They traveled the floor, weaving through patrons, tables, dealers, and croupiers. Sophie’s dread grew with each step. Where were they going? Who wanted to see her and, more importantly, why? Quint had told her not to return to The Black Queen and she hadn’t listened. Heavens, if they killed her, Quint was going to relish telling her I told you so.

  Oh, excellent. Now she wasn’t making any sense at all.

  Another man stepped aside, allowing them to enter a door in the back. There was a set of stairs and Sophie had little choice but continue up. Her heart pounded, mouth as dry as a desert, as they wound through a series of corridors. Finally, he stopped and threw the latch, pushed open a door.

  A group of men sat inside. Some were playing cards at a round table on one side of the room and a few more were leaning against the wall, watching. A large, rough-looking man sat behind a large desk. He waved her in. “Come, have a seat, Sir Stephen.” A few snickers at that and a rough hand at her shoulder pushed her farther into the room. “I am O’Shea, but I suspect you already knew that. Won’t you sit?”

  Clearing her throat, she sank into the chair. “While we have not had the pleasure of being introduced, I certainly know your name.”

  “Do ya not love how fine the quality speaks, boys?” he said with a chuckle, his brogue thick. “We don’t stand on ceremony here, sir. You can drop the act.”

  Sophie blinked. What act, exactly, was he referring to? Sweat trickled between her shoulder blades. “I’ll try and remember, Mr. O’Shea.”

  “Just O’Shea’ll do. Would you care for a drink, Sir Stephen?”

  Her eyes darted about the room. They all watched her carefully, as if this were some sort of test. But she’d been drinking spirits regularly since she began her charade as Sir Stephen. She could handle a drink or two. “Yes. Thank you.”

  More snickers from the men in the room, but she paid them no attention as O’Shea pulled a bottle of light brown liquid from a drawer. Sophie relaxed. Whisky would not be a problem.

  “Tell me,” O’Shea said, pouring two small glasses. “What were you speaking with my girl about earlier?”

  “Procuring her services for the evening,” she lied easily. “Is that not what the girls are for?”

  “Usually. Yet you didn’t take her to a room, I noticed.” He handed her a glass of spirits. “Sláinte.”

  He threw his back and waited for Sir Stephen to do the same. Sophie tossed a good portion of the spirits in her mouth and then instantly regretted her haste. It tasted . . . terrible. But she was afraid to spit it out. She forced it down her throat, shuddering as the fire hit her stomach. “Gah,” she exhaled when her lungs were able to function.

  O’Shea and the other men all broke out into guffaws. “That’s how I reacted when I first had it, too. You’ll get used to it.” He motioned at her hand, commanding her to finish the glass.

  Bracing herself, Sophie threw the rest down her throat, swallowing quickly. She couldn’t breathe for a long moment. O’Shea was smiling at her. “More?”

  “No, thank you,” she wheezed.

  “I insist,” he said, his smile all crooked teeth as he poured another.

  With a shaking hand, she accepted the glass and tossed it back. This one went down easier, though it made her eyes water.

  “Now,” O’Shea said, “tell me what you were really wantin’ with my girls.”

  Her head started to swim. She felt relaxed. Loose. “I am looking for a man named Lord Tolbert. Does he frequent here?”

  He rocked back in his chair, his piercing dark gaze trying to see through her. “You’re askin’ a lot of questions of my girls. I don’t like it, especially when I don’t know the reasons. And when you’re talkin’ to ’em, it’s clear you’re not fuckin’ ’em. Which means they aren’t makin’ me money.”

  The room had taken on a fuzzy glow. “How did you know?” She nearly bit her tongue. Why had she asked a ridiculous question?

  “Because I know you’re not who you say you are.” He threw back the rest of his whisky, saluted her with the empty glass. “Lady Sophia.”

  Sophie froze, her breath catching.

  “I know everything that happens in my clubs, your ladyship. Now, if you were really wantin’ to find Lord Tolbert, you’d
put on one of your fine silk dresses and call on him in your fancy part of town. Which makes me wonder why you’re in my part of town, dressed in trousers, askin’ questions.”

  No doubt it was due to the spirits, but Sophie wasn’t nearly as worried as she should have been. “He might’ve hurt a friend of mine. I wanted to see if he’s hurt anyone else.”

  “Is that so? And who might this friend be?”

  “You do not know her.”

  He pursed his lips and scratched his jaw. “Does this have anything to do with the girls pulled out of the river?”

  Shock registered before she had a chance to hide it. “No,” she lied.

  His look said he’d read her fib easily. He sat forward, his expression harder than rock. She could see the ruthless killer just beneath the surface. “You need to understand, your ladyship,” he started, “that bad things happen to people who stick their noses where it don’t belong. If you want to stay safe, you’ll not return. Otherwise, I’ll hand you to the boys over there.” He nodded toward the group of men on the other side of the room. “Have you ever been passed around to seven or eight men in one night?”

  The lump in her throat made it impossible to speak. She shook her head. He was capable of such cruelty, she had no doubt.

  “I’m thinkin’ you would not like it, my lady. Now, why don’t you return home?” He jerked his head at the man who’d brought her here. “Make sure our friend gets in a carriage, won’t you, Tommy?”

  She followed Tommy to the door, one last glance over her shoulder at O’Shea. She expected to find him gloating but instead, he was pulling pen, ink, and paper from his desk. That was odd, she thought. Who’d’ve guessed he knew how to write?

  “Tommy,” O’Shea called. “Bring up Red when you’re done.”

  Sophie rested against the squabs, determined to stay awake. The carriage tilted and whirled around her, as if it were already moving, only it was perfectly still. They were still in front of The Black Queen. The night had not gone well, but she needed to learn one thing before returning home.