Regency: Rogues and Runaways. Margaret Moore
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had seemed like an angelic apparition, and kissed her.
Which just proved how hard he must have been hit on the head.
The carriage rolled to a stop and he quickly jumped out. He wouldn’t even think about women—any women—for a while.
He dashed up the steps of Thompson’s Fencing School. Entering the double doors, he breathed in the familiar scents of sawdust and sweat, leather and steel, and heard clashing foils coming from the large practice area. He’d spent hours here before the war, and then after, learning to hold a sword again, and use a dagger.
A few men sat on benches along the sides of the fencing arena. It was chilly, kept that way so the gentlemen wouldn’t get overheated in their padded jackets. A few more fencers stood with a foot on a bench, or off to the side, and one or two nudged each other when they realized who had just walked in.
Drury ignored them and followed Thompson’s voice. Jack Thompson had been a sergeant major and he shouted like one, his salt-and-pepper mustache quivering. He moved like it, too, his back ramrod straight as he prowled around the two men en garde in the practice area cordoned off from the rest of the room by a low wooden partition. Beneath their masks, sweat dripped off their chins, and their chests rose and fell with their panting breaths.
The first, thinner and obviously not so winded, made a feint, which was easily parried by his larger opponent.
“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