by Amelia Grey
“Tell him I’ll look forward to seeing him while he’s here. It’s been a long time.”
“I’ll be pleased to remember you to him when I return.”
“Will that be soon?” Race asked, thrusting himself back into the conversation.
Susannah turned to him. “That hasn’t been established yet. I’ve not made any final plans and won’t until I accomplish what I came here to do.”
“Keep in mind, Duchess, that I am in no hurry to look at the papers you brought with you.”
She gave him a confident smile. “I know that well.”
The marquis nodded to her and then turned to Sir Randolph. “What is going on here? Why have so many people gathered?”
“I’m not sure if it’s a fair that is coming to Town or simply a small carnival, but I’m told there will be a man arriving soon who will climb into that cage with a tiger. Everyone’s waiting to see if it happens.”
Susannah looked at the empty cage that had been placed on a platform. “That sounds very dangerous to me.”
“I’m sure it is,” Sir Randolph agreed.
“Why would he do something like that?” Susannah asked.
“It’s how the performers make their living,” Race said. “They will travel to a town, set up a small camp, and do free shows for a few people. They are taking a chance that the audience will be amazed and go back to their homes and businesses and talk about what they saw, which will make other people want to see it. Of course, when others come, they will have to pay money to watch the man get in the cage with the tiger.”
“A clever way to build excitement and anticipation,” Susannah admitted.
“Yes,” Gibby said. “They’ll stay in one location until the crowds stop coming, and then they will pack up their tents and shows and move on to another town and start all over again.”
Lord Raceworth turned to Susannah and asked, “Do you want to stay and watch this, or should we find a quiet place to sit?”
“If the man is going to be courageous enough to get in a cage with a tiger, he must need money. I’d rather come back and pay to see him do it.”
Race smiled at her. “I like your reasoning, Duchess, and I agree with you. We’ll come back another time to see him. Gibby, we’re going to find a place to sit and have refreshments. Want to join us?”
“There you are, you blasted scoundrel and seducer of innocent ladies,” someone shouted above the chatter of the crowd. “Ha! Now I’ve caught you. You will pay for what you did to my sister.”
Susannah, the marquis, Sir Randolph, and several other people in the small crowd all turned to see who had shouted.
Susannah’s blood ran cold, and her eyes rounded in alarm. It looked as if the irate man was pointing his finger directly at Lord Raceworth.
The marquis went still. From what she had read, she knew him to be a rake of the highest order, but to be vilified in the park like this, with ladies and children looking on, went beyond the pale.
She threw a questioning glance toward him. His gaze caught hers. His stunned expression asked that she reserve judgment until they found out what this man was talking about.
Without hesitating, Susannah instinctively moved closer to the marquis.
Five
Dearest Alexander,
I was reading through some of Lord Chesterfield’s old letters yesterday and found this shining gem from one of his early posts. “The strong mind distinguishes, not only between the useful and the useless, but likewise between the useful and the curious. He applies himself intensely to the former; he only amuses himself with the latter.”
Your loving Grandmother,
Lady Elder
RACE HAD NEVER BEEN SO CAUGHT OFF GUARD THAT he was speechless, until now. He felt Susannah’s protective step toward him and Gibby’s, too, but the last thing he wanted was for them to witness this stranger’s outrageous behavior. What the devil was this man thinking to make such a claim in front of more than two dozen people?
He didn’t know this short, rotund, and very angry man staring at him, accusing him of being a seducer of innocent ladies, but that was about to change.
Through the years, Race had tempted many young ladies into giving him forbidden kisses in dark gardens at parties and balls, and in his younger years, he had tempted a few of them into letting him share their bed, as well. This was the first time he had ever been accused in public of such risky behavior.
As of late, the younger ladies had lost their appeal, which was evidenced by Miss Mayflower just a few days ago. More than once, she had tried to corner him at his card party, but he’d avoided her each time. Recently, he’d much rather spend a leisurely evening in bed with his mistress than chasing after insipid ladies who were too young to know what they were doing.
The first thing he had to do was safeguard the duchess from this ill-mannered oaf. Race slowly set the food basket down at his feet and calmly stepped in front of Her Grace, shielding her.
“Sir, as you undoubtedly know, I am the Marquis of Raceworth. Identify yourself.”
“I know who you are, my lord.” The older, balding man bowed quickly. “I am Mr. Steven Prattle. I am here to defend my sister’s honor.”
Race felt the duchess move from behind him to his side. He tried to step in front of her again, but she took hold of the crook of his arm and held firm, releasing him only when he stopped trying to shield her from the man.
Gibby remained at his other side. They were both making it clear that, no matter this man’s claims, they were supporting him whether he liked it or not. And while their defense made him feel damn good, it was not comfortable to find himself in the middle of this situation. He didn’t like being called out in public, and he was incensed it had happened in front of the duchess, not to mention at least two dozen other people who were inching closer to them with every second that passed.
Race didn’t recognize the man’s name, and he couldn’t remember a young lady named Prattle, either. He searched his memory for what incident this could be about. What the hell had he done to a young lady whose name he didn’t recognize? The sun that earlier had been warm and inviting, suddenly seemed scorching hot. He felt as if someone was pulling on his neckcloth, choking him.
“And well you should look after your sister,” Race said calmly, even though his insides were shaking with anger at this man’s ill manners, “but this is not the place to do it. This matter should be handled in private, not in a public park.”
The man walked closer but still kept a reasonable distance. “I went to his house, but he wasn’t there.”
His house? That didn’t make sense. Unless…
Race’s eyes narrowed. “Are you talking to me, sir?” Race asked.
The man’s bloodshot eyes bulged with rage, and his heavy cheeks shook. “Of course, I’m talking to you! But he is the man I want to talk to! That man standing beside you, Sir Randolph Gibson.”
This time it was clear the man pointed to Gibby, not Race.
Gibby?
Race felt like a fist slammed into this stomach, and he jerked toward his elderly friend.
“Me?” Gib said and pointed to his chest with his thumb. He threw a questioning glare to Race, to the small crowd that had now gathered around them, and then back to Mr. Prattle again. “You are accusing me of compromising an innocent young lady, sir?”
“I am,” he thundered. “And it’s not that she’s that young anymore, but she is innocent.”
It was one thing for the man to accuse Race of a vile act—he could easily defend himself—but accusing Gibby was a whole different matter. Race wouldn’t let the man get away with that. Everyone in London knew Gibby was a man of impeccable honor.
Race turned to his friend, and in a low voice, said, “Gib, do you know what he’s talking about?”
The old man shrugged his shoulder and held up his hands, as if to say, I have no idea what this man is talking about, and Race didn’t really want to find out here in the park with more than two d
ozen pairs of eyes and ears crowding even closer to listen.
Sweat beaded on Prattle’s upper lip and trickled down his neck to his collar. Clearly he was fighting angry. His clothing and speech indicated he was a man of some means, but obviously he was deep in his cups and had forgotten civility. Surely, even his sister would not want him announcing this kind of information in public. Race considered it an insult to her that her brother was doing this.
Race took a deep breath. “Mr. Prattle, I must insist that we move out of the park and finish this conversation at a more private location. We will meet you wherever you wish.”
“No, I’m not going anywhere,” he shouted and pointed his finger at Gibby again. “He compromised my sister, and I’m calling him out. I’m challenging him to a duel.”
Race swore under his breath. The duchess and half the crowd gasped loudly before everything went deathly quiet.
Gibby’s shoulders flew back, and his chest puffed out proudly. “I accept!”
Race swore again and mumbled, “Be quiet, Gib,” before his gaze darted toward the duchess.
Her Grace looked concerned but not horrified, so he took that as a sign she was holding up under this unsavory situation, but he would have given anything for her not to have witnessed this. Gibby might have stolen a few kisses from a lady or two in his time, but damnation, men his age didn’t go around accosting ladies.
“There will be no duel, Prattle,” Race said firmly. “I have no doubt we can clear up this matter quickly, if you will just be reasonable about this and exit the park.”
The man completely ignored Race and said, “Penelope was crying by the time we got home from Lord Tinkerton’s party last night. I asked her what was wrong, but she was too distraught to talk about it. This morning she admitted to me that Sir Randolph had accosted her on the portico of Lord Tinkerton’s home and forced her to do things she didn’t want to do.”
Gibby took a step forward, putting him closer to the man than Race wanted. “I remember meeting your sister on the portico last night, but as a gentleman, that’s all I’m prepared to say.”
“Ah ha!” the man yelled with such fury he almost popped the buttons on his waistcoat. “He admits it! Choose your weapons.”
Race stepped in front of Gibby this time, shielding him from the enraged brother. “Nobody’s choosing weapons, Prattle. He didn’t admit to accosting your sister. I insist we move to a more private place to finish this discussion.” Race turned to Gibby, who didn’t look in the least concerned about this man’s accusation. “I know you didn’t do this, Gib, but this is not the place to defend yourself. Let’s go.”
“He can’t go until he chooses his weapons. I’ve challenged him to a duel, and now he must respond.”
“Gibby, don’t say anything else,” Race warned in a stern but low voice. “I will handle this.”
“Choose your weapons!” Prattle yelled again and started toward Gibby. Two men from the crowd grabbed his arms and held him back as he struggled to get free.
“All right.” Gibby shoved his two clenched fists in the air. “These!”
Race was almost as angry with Gibby as he was with Prattle. “Gib, you are making this worse. You can’t reason with this man. He’s lost control of himself, and he needs to leave the park and calm down. Then we’ll discuss this privately with him.”
“What do you mean?” Prattle asked, blinking uncontrollably. “Is your choice swords or pistols?”
Gibby brushed Race aside and shook his balled hands at Prattle again. “I mean fists. My weapon of choice is my fists.”
The man struggled to get loose from his captors once again. His eyes were wild, and his coat was half torn off his arms. “You are insane. We’ll use pistols.”
Gibby pulled on the tail of his coat and squared his shoulders, seeming unperturbed by this turn of events. “I might be old, but I’m not stupid. I don’t see well enough anymore to shoot a pistol and hit anything, especially you. Fists it will be.”
“Stop this, Gibby,” Race said with anger in his voice. “There will be no duel or fight of any kind going on in this park or anywhere else.”
“Well, then we’ll use swords,” the deranged man said as spittle flew from his wet lips.
“I haven’t picked up a sword in years,” Gibby argued calmly. “You told me to choose my weapon, and all these people heard you.” Gibby waved his hand at the crowd that had not only grown larger but had moved in closer. “You can’t take that choice away from me just because you don’t like my preference. We’ll have a pugilism match.”
“We will not!” the man yelled. More spittle flew from his mouth as he tried once more to break free from his captors. “It’s not my fault that you can’t see to shoot a pistol or that you haven’t picked up a sword in years. We’ve got to be gentlemen about this and use a gentleman’s weapon.”
“It’s gentlemanly to bare-knuckle fight. The prince himself enjoys going to matches. I’ll invite him.” Gibby looked at the crowd, smiled, and waved to them. “And we’ll invite all these nice people, too.”
Someone in the crowd yelled the word, “Fight!” and suddenly everyone was shouting, “Fight! Fight!”
This was lunacy, but Race didn’t know what to do, short of picking up Gib and throwing him over his shoulder and walking out of the park with him. He was powerless to stop Gibby, Prattle, or the crowd that was now part of this mayhem.
“I don’t know how to fight with my fists,” Prattle yelled in a hoarse voice to the crowd, and he seemed to go weak in the arms of the men who held him.
“Then you shouldn’t have given me my choice of weapons. That’s your fault. Not mine.”
Race held up his hands and said, “Stop this madness, both of you, before I call the magistrate and have you thrown in prison. Do I have to remind you two that dueling is against the law?”
“Pugilism isn’t,” Gibby said with an innocent grin.
That’s when Race realized why Gibby wasn’t more upset about this outrage against his character. He was loving the attention he was getting.
Race felt tight as a new drum, but the old man was having the time of his life. Race should just walk away and leave the old codger to clean up his own mess. But Race couldn’t do that. He had too much respect for Gibby to leave him on his own.
“I don’t know how to box,” Prattle said again in a desperate, high-pitched voice.
“In that case, I’ll go easy on you and make it fair. I’ll give you a month to train.” Gibby turned to the crowd and, with a wide smile on his face, said, “What do you say, ladies and gentlemen? Do you think I should meet Mr. Prattle here in the park one month from today at midday?”
“Yes!” the crowd roared.
“Then it’s settled. All of you are invited, and bring all your friends, too.”
The crowd erupted with more cheers and chants of, “Fight! Fight!”
Race felt like he was watching a madcap play at the Lyceum. He’d never felt so helpless.
He looked over at the duchess, who was moving closer to Gibby. “Sir Randolph,” she said, “you are not helping yourself in this matter. Perhaps you should listen to Lord Raceworth. He has the best plan to help you with this unfortunate turn of events.”
Gibby smiled and tipped his hat to her. “I can’t stop it, Your Grace. The man challenged me, and I have to accept. My honor demands I fight him.”
Race moved to stand between Gibby and Prattle, and in a low voice, sternly asked, “Did you do anything to his sister?”
“I’ve said all I’m going to say on the subject,” he said and then set his lips in a firm line.
Race exhaled slowly. He looked at the fellows holding Prattle and said, “Will you men see that Mr. Prattle gets home?”
“Yes, my lord,” the men said in unison, and they walked off with Prattle still muttering that he wanted to use pistols.
Gibby smiled and waved to the jubilant crowd as they dispersed.
“You can’t be serious about any of this,
Gib. Prattle looks to be at least ten years younger than you.”
Gibby looked from the duchess to Race. “How old do you think I am?”
“I don’t know,” Race muttered. “Mid-seventies, I guess?”
“Oh, he can not be that old, Lord Raceworth,” the duchess said. “See how strong and fit he is. And he hasn’t even started to lose his hair yet.”
“What does it matter? My only point is that he is too old to box with anyone.”
Gibby smiled at Her Grace. “You’re right, Duchess. I’m not as old as he thinks.” He then turned to Race and frowned. “I’m sixty-six, and by the looks of him, I’d say Prattle isn’t much younger. The problem is that you don’t think I can beat him, do you?”
“Of course, I do.” Race swept his hat off his head and ran a hand through his hair. “I mean, no, because I don’t want you to even try.”
The duchess smiled affectionately at Gibby and said, “Sir Randolph, you look much younger than sixty-six.”
He grinned. “Thank you, Your Grace.”
“Now, you’re the one not helping, Duchess,” Race said in an exasperated voice.
“Oh, sorry.”
She gave him a sheepish smile, and Race felt his heart trip. Damn, she was beautiful. Her parasol had dropped to the back of her shoulders. A gentle breeze danced through curls free of her bonnet. There was wonder in her eyes. Sunshine fell across her beautiful face in a way that made him want to pull her to him and kiss her. Even with all the folly happening around him, he wanted to taste her lips and feel the weight of her breasts in his hands.
He shook his head and half laughed to himself. The desire he was feeling right now wasn’t appropriate for where they were, so he willed his mind back to the matter at hand.
“What are we doing talking about age? Blast it, Gib, all that matters is that you are too old to be fighting anyone.”
“You are worrying too much about this, Race. I’m going to be fine.”
Race sighed. “I’m going to take the duchess home, and then I’m going to see what I can do to stop this madness before it goes any further. There will be no duel with fists or anything else, if I have anything to say about this.”
