“The thing is, old boy, you’ve never mastered the art of standing firm with the duke,” Viscount Benton said, emphasizing his point with a swift slash of his steel rapier. “’Tis no wonder your father is at odds with your behavior. He wants you to do as he bids and cannot understand why you are refusing him.”
Carter executed a swift parry of Lord Benton’s thrust and lunged forward on his lead foot, questioning his initial opinion that an afternoon of vigorous swordplay with his friends might relieve some of the tension he was feeling. If Benton’s mouth kept pace with his flashing foil, Carter would no doubt leave the fencing club with an even greater headache than when he arrived.
“This is not a simple dilemma,” Carter insisted, his voice raised to be heard above the clang of their steel rapiers. “The duke is hell-bent on finding me a bride. By the end of the Season.”
“This Season?” Benton visibly shuddered at the notion and Carter used the distraction to press his advantage. The viscount leapt back to evade the strong thrust and smiled. “God, that is a problem.”
“Exactly.” Carter’s rapier moved in a shiny flurry, his sword chattering against Benton’s. “He’s made a list of women.”
The viscount’s left brow lifted higher than the right. “How positively medieval.”
“I suppose that’s one way to put it,” Carter replied.
“There is, however, a very easy solution,” the viscount said mildly as he advanced, his left hand curved in an elegant arc behind his head.
“Oh?”
They moved in a tight circle, sweat gleaming on their brows. “Find a bride yourself. One that is not on his infernal list.”
“What?” Carter’s shoulders dropped in shock. How did Benton know? He had deliberately kept this decision to himself. The very last thing he needed was for it to be known in society that he was seeking a bride.
The viscount’s blade flashed up. Carter shouted, realizing Benton had made the comment to break his concentration. He countered the move and the sword suddenly flew from Benton’s hand. It slid, clattering across the floor.
“I say, Benton, ’tis unwise to provoke a man when he’s got a blade in his hand,” Peter Dawson advised. “Especially one as skilled as Atwood.”
Benton flashed an elegant grin, then offered his opponent a salute. “I knew the suggestion of taking a wife would get to him. And I was right.”
“Yes, but I still won,” Carter said as he bent to retrieve the sword.
“That’s only because you did not hear the rest of my plan.”
“It was not necessary. Your plan is as daft as you are, Benton. I have no interest in finding a wife,” Carter lied, shuddering to think of the consequences if the matchmaking females of the ton knew the truth.
“None of us do,” Benton replied. “Well, except for Dawson. I suspect he will marry and have a parcel of brats clinging to his knees before you or I have a serious conversation about marriage.”
“Hell, Benton, with that attitude, you’ll wait so long to find a bride that you could very well end up marrying one of my daughters,” Dawson quipped, then his expression sobered. “Strike that idea. I cannot imagine entrusting a child of mine into your care.”
The viscount slapped him on the back. “I always knew you were an intelligent fellow, Dawson. Now come, you both must hear me out.”
Benton poured them each a generous portion of ale and the three men settled into comfortable leather chairs that were set around the perimeter of the room. Against his better judgment, Carter found himself saying, “All right, out with it, Benton. I know we’ll have no peace until you’ve had your say.”
“My plan is brilliant in its simplicity.” The viscount rubbed his hands together with obvious relish. “You must find a completely unsuitable female and present her to your father as your future duchess.”
“Unsuitable?” Dawson questioned.
“Yes. The greater her unsuitability, the better.”
Carter swallowed the rest of his drink. The ale had an appealing, biting flavor as it slid down his throat. He reached for the pitcher and refilled his glass. “God knows, I shouldn’t encourage you, Benton, but I find myself macabrely interested. What do I do next, after the duke has a fit of apoplexy from meeting this unworthy creature?”
“You present your ultimatum. Tell him you will marry this woman or you will marry no one.” The viscount easily caught the towel Carter tossed at him. He held it up, then with a shrug, used it to wipe his damp brow.
“Are you not listening, Benton? I just said I have no wish to marry anyone, least of all an unsuitable female.”
“Pray, let me finish,” the viscount said indignantly. “When you present this female, a woman not personally selected by the duke to be your bride, a woman not on his exalted list, he will be appalled. Angry.”
“Livid,” Dawson interjected helpfully.
“Yes,” Benton agreed. “Livid. And the duke will tell you that it is better to remain unwed than to tie yourself, and your illustrious family name, to an inappropriate female. You fight him on this, but are eventually brought around to reason and reluctantly agree with him.” Benton leaned forward in his chair. “Now that is key. You must make a great show of being reluctantly brought around to the duke’s point of view. If not, he will not believe you were serious about marrying the chit.”
Dawson nodded his head in agreement. “Your character and convictions are strong, Atwood. It would be more believable if you initially stand firm against your father.”
“In fact, it might even be better if you do not capitulate completely,” Benton said, clearly warming to the plan. “Instead, tell him out of respect for his opinion, you will wait a full year and ponder all the implications of your choice before actually marrying the girl. And thus you will remain a carefree bachelor. At least for a year.”
Carter stroked his chin thoughtfully as he pondered the idea. It was just ridiculous enough to work. If he was of a mind to avoid marriage. Which he was not. Perhaps he should tell his friends of his change of heart? No, hearing Benton’s scheme was much too entertaining. “I have no interest in pursuing this rather outrageous course, yet I feel compelled to ask, where does one find an inappropriate female? A brothel, perchance?”
Dawson snickered. Viscount Benton threw the towel back at Carter. The marquess ducked and it flew passed his ear.
“I said make your father livid, Atwood,” the viscount huffed. “Not give the man a heart seizure.”
Dawson topped off his glass of ale from the pitcher on the table. “Benton is right. You cannot be boorish. The duke needs to believe you will go through with the marriage.”
“Exactly.” Benton’s lips curved in an amused smile. “The duke knows you would never marry a lightskirt. Hell, even I wouldn’t marry a soiled dove, and there’s not much I won’t do.”
The three friends laughed in agreement.
“A daughter of a merchant might do nicely,” Dawson suggested excitedly. He took a sip of his drink, grimaced, then set it on the table.
“Capital idea,” Benton acknowledged. “Nothing will boil the duke’s blood faster than the notion of having a chit, reeking with the smell of trade, for a daughter-in-law.”
Carter was at a loss for words. Everything they said was true. The duke would be appalled at the notion of his only son marrying a woman of inferior breeding. Thankfully it was unnecessary to entertain the notion.
“Who’s ready for another round of swordplay?” the marquess asked, determined to change the subject. “Dawson?”
“No thanks.” Dawson gingerly placed the foil he held on the bench beside him. “You nearly skewered Benton with that last lunge. I have no interest in being sliced to ribbons in the name of good sport. If I am going to die with a sword in my hand, I want it to be for a good and noble cause.”
A loud clash of steel, accompanied by the murmur of several male voices, suddenly drew their attention. A considerable crowd of men had gathered in a circle. Within the cleared s
pace in the center of the crowd, two men were engaged in swift, intense swordplay.
“Hmm, that appears a bit personal,” Benton observed.
Carter nodded his head in agreement. Judging by the reaction of the crowd, this was not an ordinary match. The men so eagerly observing it all wore that avid interest men often display at the prospect of bloodshed.
Their curiosity piqued, the three friends moved closer to the action. The younger man of the dueling pair was thinner and shorter. He wore a crisp, white linen shirt, and a gold satin waistcoat adorned with intricate silver embroidery. He moved with elegance and grace, never seeming to break from the proper form or stance.
His opponent was a taller, solidly built man, dressed in a simple black waistcoat and a white linen shirt that had obviously seen many washings. His style of swordplay was not nearly as polished. It was more determined, more deliberate. More accurate, Carter conceded as with a glinting flurry of moves, the taller man shredded his opponent’s right sleeve.
“Impressive,” Benton muttered, when the man next blocked the attack from his opponent and then quickly put him on the defensive. “He moves as though the sword were a part of his arm.”
“Who is he? A new instructor?” Carter asked.
“He certainly possesses the skill,” Dawson replied. “Though I don’t believe he is employed here. I met him last week. His name is Gregory Roddington. Major Gregory Roddington, actually. From what I gather, he’s some sort of war hero. He was the youngest officer attached to Wellington’s staff and appointed himself admirably on the battlefield, especially at Waterloo. Rumors abound that Wellington himself is trying to secure a knighthood for him as recognition of his exemplary service to the crown.”
“Apparently they’ll allow anyone admittance to the club these days,” the viscount scoffed, but Carter could see his friend’s eyes light with respect.
As far as Carter knew, Benton had never done anything even remotely honorable, yet he had a keen respect for those who did, even though he tried to hide it.
“’Tis hard to believe he is only six and twenty,” Dawson commented.
“War ages a man,” Carter said wryly, agreeing the major looked older, more hardened than his years would indicate.
“Still, he’s a capital fellow. Good for a laugh.”
At that moment, the major attacked with a flurry of ferocious strikes. Off balance, his opponent fell back, then desperately brought his sword up to defend his face. Pressing his advantage, the major circled under the weapon, then with the tip of his blade neatly dislodged the sword from the other man’s hand.
It fell to the floor with a loud clatter. Moving so fast it was barely seen, the major then pressed the end of his blade into the base of his opponent’s throat.
“My match, I believe,” he muttered.
Panting hard, the younger man nodded. He seemed dazed, uncertain of exactly how he had been beaten. The major saluted his vanquished opponent, then looked up and seemed to notice the audience for the first time.
“Introduce us, Dawson,” Carter demanded as the crowd began to disperse.
“Major,” Dawson called out. “May I beg a moment of your time?”
The man turned, his expression startled. “Sorry, Mr. Dawson. Since resigning my commission I am trying very hard to distance myself from my former rank. To no avail.” Ironic amusement tempered his voice. “My friends call me Roddy. I would be honored if you would do the same.”
“Thank you, Roddy. May I present Carter Grayson, Marquess of Atwood and Sebastian Dodd, Viscount Benton.”
“My lords.” The major executed a bow. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
“We enjoyed your little show, Roddington,” the viscount replied. “Though it appeared somewhat more than a friendly match.”
“Did it?” The major shrugged, seemingly unconcerned with the observation. “Strange, I hardly know the man.”
The crowd made a wide berth as the men walked toward the door. Carter caught the edges of several conversations as they pushed through the crowd, making little sense of the comments he overheard.
“What is this all about?” he asked Dawson. The two of them had dropped back while the major and Benton led the way out of the club.
Dawson’s eyes widened and Carter wondered at his friend’s sudden anxiety. “Apparently the swordplay we just witnessed was a point of honor,” Dawson whispered to Carter.
“Whose honor?”
“The major’s.” Dawson craned his neck forward, as if needing to confirm the major and the viscount were still engaged in conversation before speaking. “There’s a bit of a mysterious cloud regarding Roddington’s background. Rumors, I’m sure.”
Carter was intrigued. “What sort of rumors?”
“It seems he is illegitimate. There are some who say he was fathered by a nobleman. And others who say he is of royal birth.”
Carter could not hold back the laugh that rumbled up from his chest. “If Prinny were in truth the father of only half the offspring that are attributed to him, he wouldn’t be able to stand.”
“The Regent isn’t the only royal in England,” Dawson replied with mild indignity.
Benton glanced over his shoulder at them. “We are going to the Bull and Finch for some food and drink. In exchange for buying him supper, the major has graciously agreed to teach me how he disarmed his opponent so thoroughly.”
“Sounds as if you are on the better end of that bargain, Benton,” Carter called out.
“You have not seen me eat or drink, my lord,” the major readily replied.
When the four men reached the tavern, they discovered a brawl underway, blocking the entrance. Fists were flying, limbs were flailing, bodies were being flung through the air.
“I don’t fancy wading into the middle of all that mess,” Dawson said cautiously, backing up.
“I’ve seen worse,” the major replied. “And I’m hungry. I’ll meet you inside.”
They watched as Roddington pushed himself into the chaos of brawling men, stepping around and over bodies, ducking and dodging to avoid any stray blows aimed his way. When he was safely through the doorway, he waved to them, then disappeared inside.
“Damn!” Benton broke into a grin. “Gentlemen, shall we?”
The viscount followed the major’s lead. Swallowing hard, Dawson kept close to the viscount’s coattails, while Carter brought up the rear. They had just crossed over the threshold when one of the brawlers lost his balance and careened into Carter.
“Watch it!” Carter yelled sharply, swinging his closed fist upward. His blow landed directly on the culprit’s jaw. He staggered back, arms flailing, then fell awkwardly to the ground, swearing loudly.
Carter’s hand stung, yet he felt vitally alive. Grinning, he began to follow his friends toward the taproom when suddenly he heard a loud shout.
“He’s got a knife!” Dawson cried.
Carter turned, saw the flash of steel, and scrambled to get out of the way. There were several shouts and then another body suddenly appeared, stepping between the marquess and his would-be assailant.
“Halt!” The command was quickly followed by the unmistakable sound of a pistol being cocked.
Carter whirled his head. The major stood tall, his feet braced apart, the pistol in his right hand calmly pointed at the man’s chest. “Now, lads, a bit of fisticuffs we can understand, but knives take all the fun out of it, don’t you agree?”
One of the man’s companions came forward to help him, eyeing the major, and his pistol, most warily. “We don’t want no trouble,” he grumbled.
“Fine. Then off with the lot of you.”
The man on the ground flinched violently as he regained his feet. One of the other brawlers took the knife away and handed it to Carter. The marquess fingered it thoughtfully, surprised at how calm he felt in the midst of such obvious danger.
Gradually, the crowd shuffled away. “You are a handy individual to have around,” Carter finally said, brea
king through the silent tension. He brushed the dirt from his coat and smiled at the major. “How would you like to accompany us to a society ball this evening?”
“It’s bound to be rather dull compared to the afternoon you’ve just had, but we can promise there will be a few laughs,” Benton added.
The major slowly eased back the hammer on his pistol and returned it to his coat pocket. “Sounds delightful. I can hardly wait.”
Five hours later, fresh from a lukewarm bath, Major Gregory Roddington began to shave. His former batman, now his personal servant, Julius Parker, had somehow managed to keep the shaving water hot, which was more than could be said for the bathwater. But Roddy didn’t mind. He had lived in far worse conditions than these shabby London accommodations.
“There’s a man at the door asking to see you,” Parker said. “He refused to give his name.”
Roddy nodded. He had been waiting, wondering why the man was so late. “Send him in.”
Ignoring Parker’s clear disapproval, Roddy shrugged into a robe, cinching the belt tightly around his waist. Then he resumed his shaving.
“I’ve come for my money,” the visitor declared the moment he entered the room.
“It’s on the table,” Roddy replied. His back was toward the visitor, but the mirror propped in front of him allowed his eyes to follow the man’s every move.
“I should charge you more,” the man grumbled as he slid the two gold coins off the table and thrust them into his pocket. “I didn’t know the bloke was going to sucker punch me.”
The major smiled grimly. “It looked like a clean blow to me.”
“Yeah, well, he punches damn hard for a toff.” The man rubbed his hand gingerly along his jawline, wincing several times. Roddy could see the shadow of a bruise had already begun to form. “I thought them aristocrats were a bunch of limp-wristed dandies.”
“Apparently not all of them.”
“Humph.” The man grunted, but didn’t seem convinced. “I’m telling you right now, there’ll be an extra charge the next time.”
How To Seduce A Sinner Page 5