Page 78 of Any Duke in a Storm

To the sound of boos, Dubois turned, greed and ragelighting his stare. “If I win, I get theSyrenand its captain, your ships and all cargo.”

“Fine.”

“And what do you want, boy?” his uncle asked.

Raphael bared his teeth at the insult, though he punctuated it with a loud belch. It was a battle for the throne and it would be dirty. “Exactly the same.”

Lisbeth clenched the fingers of her left hand into her skirts, dread perforating the hot shroud of her anger. One, she was no man’s prize. And two, she might want to gut Raphael herself and drag him behind theSyrenfor a prolonged spell, but this was not what she’d planned when she’d tracked him here. She’d been so spitting mad when the arrogant rotter had tied her up in her cabin and left her behind that she’d seen red.

In hindsight, perhaps she’d underestimated the brutality of this crowd.

They’d welcomed her as Raphael’s woman, but as Bonnie Bess, they would view her as a greater threat. Especially Dubois. If he saw through her guise that she—and Raphael—had deceived him, there was no telling how things would go. And fuckingDavy! What the hell was he doing there, next to Dubois of all people? He hadn’t been here the last time; then again, there’d been more ships in the bay. The boy’s gaze hadn’t left her since she’d walked in, but she couldn’t let herself be sidetracked.

She’d let this play out, and if things took a turn for the worse, well, the several vials of her favorite explosive she’d stashed around the dock would create an exit strategy, if needed. She wasn’t too worried about the two complacent brutes at her side who did not even have weapons out. The rest of the men were clearing a space in the middle of the hall, and she watched as Raphael and his uncle faced off just inside of a makeshift ring. She didn’t know much about bare-knuckle boxing, but there were no scorers. How would they tally the points?

They had removed their upper garments, clad only in loose pants and boots, and circled each other. She refused to notice anything about Raphael’s honed body or the fact that his recently healed wound was on puckered display. The tension between them was practically solid. Raphael wore his usual lackadaisical grin, while his uncle looked like he was going to murder his own blood.

She narrowed her eyes. The older man was fit and had fought in a war. Raphael seemed to be well into his cups, if his tottering steps were any signal, but she had seen this dance before. That gray gaze was too clear. Catching her stare, the bastard looked at her and winked. With a scowl, she thrust her middle finger up in a lewd gesture as the cheering men around her shouted, wagered, and exchanged money. Smalls and her crew had sidled closer, but for now all attention was on the two men.

Raphael went in clumsily for the first punch, staggering wildly as though trying to orient himself. Duboisdanced out of the way and landed a series of blows to his opponent’s ribs that would have made a lesser man fall. In fact, Raphael did stumble and fall flat on his arse, but if Lisbeth hadn’t been watching so closely, she would not have seen that his reaction had been a second delayed. More bets changed hands. It’d been on purpose, she was sure of it. What was he doing? Did heintendto lose?

“One point to me,” Dubois crowed, and Lisbeth caught on to the scoring system. The opponent had to be knocked to the ground for a hit to be counted. Raphael stumbled to his knees, but before he could stand fully and get his bearings, Dubois was there to release a savage kick to his nephew’s stomach. He let out a grunt and keeled over. “Two! Had enough, pup?”

“Foul play,” she shouted, but no one listened.

Madge, who was standing in front of her, looked over his shoulder. “It’s French street-fighting called savate. Punches and kicks are allowed. It’s brutal.”

This time, Raphael vaulted to his feet as if anticipating another blow, but Dubois was too busy swaggering. The two men came together again in a violent display of flying fists and vicious kicks meant to break bones.

Raphael was barely covering his torso even as his uncle leveled consistent blows right at his injury. She saw him wince right before a punch came at his jaw and he staggered straight back. Once more, a full second passed before he seemed to stumble and behave like the hit had been harder than it was. Lisbeth blinked at the odd timing.Surely she was not imagining that? Raphael swayed and spat a mouthful of blood to the floor.

“Too easy, you worthless drunk,” Dubois shouted, confident in his impending victory, beating on his bare chest like a caveman. Though he dressed like a dandy, he was built like a boxer. Thick and strong. His nephew, by contrast, was taller and leaner. And clearly more incapacitated than she’d thought. She caught Estelle’s eye and subtly touched her finger to her ear.

In the hours before docking, Lisbeth had sketched out the layout of the smugglers’ hidden sanctuary after Raphael had explained how to navigate the reefs to the bay. Not wanting to involve him in those particular plans so that any blame fell squarely on her, she had waited until he returned to his post before showing Estelle and Smalls where she planned to plant the explosives. One spot was an abandoned building and the other was one of the main docks. If things went bad, they were to light the fuses and prepare to sail.

Catching Estelle’s nod, her gaze panned back to the fight, only to see that Raphael’s attention was on her, a slight frown marring his face. Hell, had he seen the signal? The bloody man missed nothing even when he was in the middle of a fight that he was losing. He delved back into the fray as his uncle lurched toward him. It was imperceptible, but his fighting style transformed, his movements tight as he sidestepped the attack, one boot shunting out to launch a back heel into Dubois’s belly.

The man had barely stood before Raphael had him flat again, this time with a combination jab to the torso and a spin kick to the back of the knees. He didn’t fight dirty like his uncle and waited for the man to rush him again before finally shifting the score to three-two in his favor with an acrobatic handstand and a double-mule kick to the face that sent the older man to the ground.

“What are you playing at, boy?” Dubois screamed, the three successive points too fast to be believed.

Raphael shrugged and rolled his neck. “Drink’s wearing off, Uncle. Guess I’m lucky.”

A calculated slyness settled over Dubois’s face. “Your father thought he was lucky, too.” Lisbeth was close enough to hear the taunt and see Raphael stiffen, a wave of pain crossing his expression. Of course the man was guileful enough to try to get to Raphael that way. “Until he wasn’t…and was accused of treason and then got sent to that hospital.”

“You orchestrated that,” Raphael snarled, fist snapping in rage at his uncle’s face.

Dubois weaved out of the way and grinned because his strategy was working. “I was just doing my civic duty to the French crown.”

“You fucking bastard!” Raphael thundered, and the pain in his voice made Lisbeth’s stomach drop. “You betrayed your own blood. Did you have him beaten to death, too?”

Dubois spread his arms wide, taunting. “He was in the way.”

“You fuck!” With a guttural bellow, Raphael rushed blindly at him, but Dubois had anticipated that well and dove out of the way before spinning to plant a kick right in Raphael’s back.

He used the momentum to thrust the other man to his knees and then kicked him hard in the belly, right where Raphael had been stabbed. “Just like you’re in the fucking way! Give up now and I’ll let you leave with your dignity intact.”

“As if you know a single thing about dignity,” Raphael sneered at him from where he lay on the floor and then snapped sideways to twist his legs around and hook in between his uncle’s, but the man leaped out of the way at the last moment. Lisbeth gritted her teeth. Rage and pain were making him clumsy and his movements more predictable, and that was what Dubois was counting on.

---