Page 46 of A Gentleman's Wager
“Like hell am I about to let you walk away. I know you too well, Marlinscar.”
Lucerne felt a weight on his left shoulder. Strong fingers curled into the fabric of his coat.
“What, will you tuck Miss Rushdale in as well?”
“Get off.” Lucerne jerked to one side, but Wakefield moved with him and shifted his grip, boxing him in against the wall.
“You’ll apologise.”
“For what? You’re the one who’s been free with your favours.”
Lucerne clawed at Wakefield’s hands, trying to bend his fingers back, but to no avail. The stitching of his coat began to give under the strain. Lucerne yanked at Wakefield’s arm and the fabric tore. Wakefield held up a piece of the cloth. Rage filled Lucerne’s eyes like a bloody film, making him conscious of the brooding anger he’d muddied with drink.
“You told me you weren’t interested.”
“I’m not.”
“Then what’s this, primae noctis?”
For too long he’d tried to be fair. He’d swallowed his anger, kept his opinions neutral, but there were limits. “Cur,” he snarled. “Which of her accomplishments are you interested in? Her painting and singing, or her money and her muff?”
Wakefield swung at him. Lucerne blinked uncertainly as he saw the fist hurtling towards him. He put up his arm to block the punch, somehow deflected it so that it only caught his chin. A dull explosion rang in his ear. In retaliation he lashed out wildly with his right fist, followed by a sharp uppercut to Wakefield’s jaw with his left. His opponent swayed backwards on his heels. Lucerne hit him squarely in the midriff and sent him sprawling to the floor. He choked down the urge to continue, feeling that his point had been made. He staggered past the downed captain, wheezing, his lungs inexplicably tight. Perhaps he’d taken more hits than he remembered. As he turned to cross the lower landing to the east wing, he saw Wakefield grab the banister and haul himself to his feet. He glared at Lucerne then charged at him.
Thrown forward by the impact, Lucerne’s shoes skittered on the stone floor. He threw his arms out to save himself and saw the marble stairs rise towards him. Everything slowed. Bile filled his throat as the world whistled past.
He hit the bottom surprisingly intact, but by the time he’d recovered, Wakefield sat astride him.
Lucerne tried to roll, but a shooting pain in his ribs stopped him. Wakefield hit him in the stomach, causing him to hack. He spat out the metallic-tasting saliva, and eyes watering, made a grab for Wakefield’s head, caught a handful of thick brown hair, and twisted. It earnt him a howl of outrage, bringing a grim smile of determination to his bloodied lips. They both fought for advantage, grappling and pummelling. A thumb dug into Lucerne’s throat. He countered, driving his elbow into Wakefield’s eye socket. Brawling might not be gentlemanly, but he’d had three older brothers, and what happened unwitnessed by adults didn’t count. The hand around his throat squeezed harder. Lucerne kicked away, gasping for air.
“Gentlemen…please.” Vaughan’s voice echoed down the stairwell, accompanied by his descending footfalls. Lucerne breathed hard, his head awhirl. After a moment, he felt a hand on his shoulder pulling him away from Frederick, who sagged against the bottom of the stairs.
“Lucerne.” Vaughan squeezed his shoulder and put a restraining hand to his arm. “Calm down.”
“What’s this infernal racket?” Charles bellowed gruffly. He appeared at the head of the stairs, tiptoeing down, avoiding the blood-spotted marble in his nightcap and gown. Which of them was bleeding? Wakefield’s nose was bloody. He tasted blood on his own lips. Both of them evidently.
“It appears they’re trying to kill each other.” Vaughan looked at Lucerne, then Wakefield. “Perhaps you’d prefer pistols at dawn, gentlemen? Brawling is for the rabble.”
Lucerne shook his head, having suddenly lost his will to fight. “That won’t be necessary.”
Thankfully, Wakefield nodded in agreement. He accepted Vaughan’s handkerchief for his bleeding nose. Then, the marquis returned to Lucerne’s side and offered him a hand up. Lucerne pushed him away. He was no greenhorn. He could rise on his own. No matter that his legs protested. He grimaced with determination and managed to stand.
“What were you fighting over?” Charles asked.
“Nothing. I don’t know.” A sliver of ice seemed to have embedded itself in his left side. He might have to resort to laudanum just to sleep, and he didn’t want to imagine how he’d feel once the numbing effect of the brandy wore off.
“Louisa,” Freddy said. “It was over Miss Stanley.”
Charles’s derisive snort jarred them all. “What the hell for? The maids are comelier. Got more meat on ‘em’.”
Lucerne frowned. He saw Frederick’s jaw harden and his eyes narrow. He wanted to warn Charles not to make light of it but was distracted by Vaughan snorting into his coat cuff.
-31-
Lucerne
“You’re leaving?”
Lucerne met Joshua’s cheery face with a troubled frown. They were standing in Lauwine’s marble entrance hall, not far from the bloodstained steps a pair of maids were busy scrubbing. The smell of scouring powder assailed his nostrils, mingled with the cleaner herbal odour of the rain beyond the open door.
