Chapter Twenty-Four
Men like to prove their worth. Allow him to demonstrate his value in his ownfashion.
T revor didn’t know how he got into these things. Before Mellie, he’d never challenged anyone to a duel in his life. And now? He was being roused before dawn by the Duke of Bucklynde and wondering if anything was more ridiculous.
He blinked, peered blearily at Radley, and managed to mumble a completely irrelevant question. “Where is Brant?”
“Asleep out there. Left this, though, with a note.” He held up a flask.
Trevor blinked and tried to focus while the pounding in his head worsened. Thanks to Brant, he had spent too much time last night toasting to a good bout in the morning. Truthfully, he thought his best friend was trying to get him good and drunk so that he’d sleep through the duel. Er…fray. They’d spent some time discussing if a duel with three—or perhaps four—participants could be rightly called a duel. They decided that fray was the more accurate term.
“What does it say?” he managed as he pushed himself upright.
The duke turned the bottle toward the light and read in a dry voice. “I hope you sleep through the fray. I certainly intend to because she is not worth even one morning’s lost sleep.” The duke frowned at the couch in the other room. “That’s rather severe.”
Trevor waved the comment away. “Brant doesn’t think any woman is worth a morning’s sleep. Or anything else for that matter. Though he has enjoyed my amorous misfortunes of late. As well as a great deal of bad wine and worse brandy.”
“Hmm. Best mates, are you?”
Trevor shrugged. He’d known Brant since Eton. They certainly had history, but they were more schoolboys who shared adventures every now and then. Except Trevor wasn’t particularly enjoying this adventure or his friend. “I’ve gotten tired of him.” His dislike began the first time Brant disparaged Mellie. By this point, Trevor wondered why he’d even allowed the man inside his rooms.
Meanwhile, the duke shrugged. “I’ve found an excellent one. I thought you had as well.”
The man didn’t have to finish the sentence. Trevor knew he’d mucked things up royally. But even he hadn’t guessed that he’d have to fight a duel—or a fray—to win the woman’s hand. The woman who might now be carrying his child.
“Hang on,” said the duke as he flipped over the note. “There’s more on the back.”
Trevor didn’t want to know, but hadn’t the ability to stop the duke.
“He says to drink this before the fight for strength. What does he mean by that?” He opened the flask and sniffed. “It smells like tea.”
“Brant likes to pretend he’s an apothecary.”
“With tea?”
“He adds things to it. Angelica and chives for a cough. Cloves to make an old lightskirt pretty. That kind of thing.”
Radley stoppered the flask. “Does it work?”
Trevor answered with a shrug, but he took the flask and tucked it into a satchel. Meanwhile, he pulled on his clothes with slow, resentful movements. “Why did she have to add the turkey? As if I don’t feel ridiculous enough.”
The duke had no answer. He seemed the kind of man who didn’t bother with questions like why. He accepted and moved forward, no explanations needed. He held out Trevor’s cloak, and then paused before he passed him the quarterstaff that was leaning against the wall.
Damn the thing was huge.
“So you plan to fight for her?”
What kind of question was that? “Of course I do. They can’t have her. Neither man is worthy of her.”
“It’s the oversized chicken I’d be worried about.”
“It’s a turkey, but don’t worry. I have a plan.”
He’d thought long and hard about it last night and knew this fight wouldn’t be easy. Trevor had fought Ronnie before and so had firsthand knowledge of how powerful the big man was. And that was with his fists, not a six-foot-long stick of hardwood. As for Mr. Rausch, who knew what the man planned? He wasn’t ton even if he ran in the right circles to be. He hadn’t been educated in the usual schools but was generally known to be wily. Such a man was completely unpredictable, and Trevor wasn’t anxious to see what he was capable of in a quarterstaff fight.
Fortunately, it hadn’t taken Trevor long to figure out a course of attack. He meant to knock Ronnie unconscious first simply because the man was an idiot. A turkey was not a dodo bird! Next, he would face off with Mr. Rausch. Though he’d like very much to beat the man for the insult to Mellie, Mr. Rausch had already been punched three times yesterday. That predisposed Trevor to be forgiving. If Rausch offered an apology, then Trevor would accept it and lay down his staff. If he didn’t, well then Trevor planned to fight until he won.
He’d had a little experience with the quarterstaff long ago. He would be able to get at least a few blows in. That was all honor required. And then he would step away from the fight and appeal to Mellie. She needed to marry him. It was the only possible solution, especially if she were pregnant. As a logical girl, she would see that.
She had to.
So he grabbed the damn staff and began the long walk to Hyde Park. They were only a few feet out the door before the duke lifted the quarterstaff from his hand.
“I guess I’m your second now, so I should carry that.”
Trevor took a moment to process that statement. Bloody hell, it was early. He wasn’t thinking clearly. “That’s right. Brant is my second. So why did you come to my rooms?”
The duke looked rather sheepish, his gaze skittering away before returning to Trevor. “I, um, came to tell you something.”
Great. More bad news. “Spit it out, man. What’s the newest disaster?”
“Well, it’s my wife and Eleanor.”
Dread twisted dark and hard in his chest. It was never good when women worked in concert.
“They’ve, um, decided to take Mellie’s part in this.”
“And see her wed to the winner of a du—fray?”
“And see that none of you gets her.”
That sounded like Eleanor. And the duchess. And Mellie, for that matter. “How?”
“They’ve decided to take up arms for the turkey. They’ve got truncheons. Their plan is to let you three knock one another out and then declare the turkey the winner.”
“She’s not going to marry a turkey.”
“No. Cook is right now trying to decide how to best make it into a stew.”
Of course she was. He had no witty response to that. No judgment on the absurdity of this entire affair. He simply knew that Mellie had set the course. He had to follow it or relinquish her forever. And that, he would never do.
Trevor didn’t respond as he trudged to Hyde Park. Then he slowed his steps to glower at the scene before him. Commentary was left to the duke who released a low whistle. Every man, woman, and child in the ton had risen early to watch. There were even vendors selling sausages or meat pies. Plus a dozen tarts looking for their own business.
“It’s like a hanging,” the duke said under his breath. “Only with peers.”
And him as the doomed man. Or the jester.
On that cheery thought, Trevor pushed his way through the crowd to the central clearing. Four posts encompassed by rope marked the edges of a square. The combat area, he assumed. It was hard to see through the press of people, but things soon became clear. To his shame, he was the last one there. But in his defense, his second had done everything in his power to sabotage his showing up at all.
He looked first at Ronnie, who was strutting in the center and waving his quarterstaff as if it were as light as a cricket bat. It was also bigger than Trevor’s. By about three feet.
“Bloody hell, where did Brant get my staff?” How absolutely perfect that his second hadn’t even bothered to get a correctly sized quarterstaff! The duke, naturally, had no answer to that, especially as Ronnie drowned out his words. The idiot was insisting that the last surviving dodo bird should not be sacrificed on the altar of true love. Apparently, he had some scientific restraint to his poetic soul, and he chose to exercise it here.
“That’s not a dodo bird,” Trevor said, pulling two natural history books from his satchel. He had spent some time last night—while Brant was procuring his shorter-than-average quarterstaff—to visit one of his favorite scholars of natural history. Together they had found the appropriate volumes, and Trevor now set them out for all to see.
“This,” he said pointing to a sketch of a bird with a huge hooked beak and a short, stubby yellow tail, “is a dodo bird. This is a turkey.” He lifted a sketch of a bird with a huge dark fan of a tail, a small head with almost no beak, and a distinctive red chin called a waddle. He handed the sketches off to the nearest person, knowing it would make the rounds of the crowd.
Ronnie, of course, didn’t look. “After generations, some differences are expected. Changes in environment would certainly cause greater variety in the creature.”
“Pretentious bugger,” said a voice beside him. He recognized the voice as belonging to Mr. Rausch.
Trevor turned, almost afraid to see what the man looked like this morning. Would he be in full battle armor? Would he be riding a horse as he whacked them with his quarterstaff? No. Mr. Rausch looked exactly like himself. Tall with a calm expression and a perfectly groomed face, assuming one discounted the bump in his nose where it had once been broken. His clothing was well tailored, and he carried…
“Bloody hell,” Trevor groused.
Not only was the man’s quarterstaff bigger than Trevor’s, it had silver tips on each end. The better to stab and maim his opponents, one would assume. Because bludgeoning each other wasn’t enough.
Meanwhile, Ronnie continued to prose on about a tenderhearted Portuguese sailor who had rescued a dodo bird from a Chinese island and brought it to be raised and nurtured by his mother in Leeds. Leeds, for God’s sake.
“No one in Leeds grows up to be a sailor,” said Mr. Rausch.
“No one in Leeds would save a dodo bird,” commented the duke. “It’d be whacked for supper before it came out of the sack.”
Mr. Rausch nodded. “I say we whack him first, then discuss this like gentlemen.”
It was exactly Trevor’s plan, so he was pleased that Mr. Rausch had the same thought. Sadly, there were two other people they had to convince. “We might have a problem with them,” Trevor said as he gestured to the far corner where the turkey sat in a large cage.
There they were—Lady Eleanor and the duchess—looking like fierce Grecian maids as they stood on either side of the bird.
“What are they carrying?” Mr. Rausch asked, a note of admiration in his voice.
“Truncheons. They intend to have us battle it out so they can declare the turkey the winner.”
“The devil you say.”
The duke chuckled. “Don’t underestimate them. My wife is determined to clobber someone today. I hope she gets one of you or she might turn that thing on me.”
Trevor made a mental note to stay on Eleanor’s side of the turkey.
“Well, I suppose we best get to our places,” said Mr. Rausch. He gave Trevor a genial tip of his hat before sauntering off to another corner of the roped-in square. Cheeky bastard. He sounded like he was off to a show, while Trevor was beginning to feel decidedly ill.
And where in all this milling mass of elite humanity was Mellie? Surely she wouldn’t miss this. Or maybe she would. Maybe her logical side finally convinced her that this display was unnecessary, that London was filled with fools, and she would be better off at home with her father, never to see the light of day again.
That thought depressed him even more than hearing a prominent member of their government declare that the bird truly was a new form of dodo.
“Give me that flask,” he said to the duke.
“Are you sure?” asked the man as he handed it over.
“Course not.” But he unstoppered it and tipped it for a full draught. It tasted vile. Worse than vile for all that Brant had obviously added honey in an attempt to sweeten it. He only managed to drain about half the flask before he passed it back to the duke. “Definitely not sure.”
“You need to get to your corner.”
Yes, he could see that. The others had reached their places and were looking expectantly at him. But he’d be damned if he joined this display before Mellie got here. He was doing this for her, damn it, and…
There she was.
She’d drawn a cloak about her head, but he knew the shape of her even in that ugly shroud. She was at the edge of the crowd, waiting for something. He took a step forward, and she turned toward him. Her face was shadowed beneath the hood, but he could feel her gaze on him. It was a heat that brought everything inside him to life. He felt a surge of emotion, an enveloping wave that said, “She’s beautiful.”
He couldn’t even see her face, but that word echoed though him. Her soul was so beautiful that he couldn’t stop until he had her. Even if it meant fighting her giant of a cousin, a turkey, and…well, whatever Mr. Rausch was. He would fight for her until his dying breath.
“Steady on, mate.” An arm gripped his elbow.
He frowned at the duke. “What?”
“You were swaying. Are you all right?”
Swaying? “I’m fine.” He took a step forward and felt as if the ground had turned to sea. He gripped his quarterstaff, using it to keep himself upright. What was wrong with him?
Two more steps had him listing like a drunk. No. Oh no. He needed only another breath to realize the truth. Brant. “For strength, my ass,” he spat.
“What?”
“I’ve been drugged,” he muttered. “I’m going to kill him.”
“You can’t fight, then. Damnation, you can barely stand.”
Then he saw Mellie move. Or perhaps that was him moving and her standing still. He couldn’t tell. She tossed off that ugly cloak—good—and shook out her hair. It was tied back in a simple braid, but that was all that was simple about her.
Her hair shown like auburn fire in the morning light, a perfect complement to the rich green of her gown. Her skin was dewy fresh, and her eyes… Sweet God, her eyes were bright with the sheen of tears. He was sure of it. There was anger in every abrupt slash of her gaze, fury in the way she pushed aside an offered hand before she stepped on her own over the rope to cross to the center of the square. But a well of sadness surrounded her too, and that reached to him through his drugged haze.
She hated this. He could see her disdain for the mockery her life had become, and he wanted to take her in his arms and carry her away. He would give her a laboratory filled with all the chemicals she wanted. He would build her a house and furnish it however she liked. And he would give her children. A thousand children if she wanted.
“You better sit down,” said the voice beside him.
“What?”
“You’re giggling.”
“What?” Though it might have come out as a wha—?
“Jesus, what was in that tea?”
Good question. But it didn’t matter. “I’m going to fight.”
“You can’t.”
“For her. I fight. Just…get me to the ring.”
He felt the duke’s supporting arm. Felt the grip of his fingers and the push as he half guided, half carried Trevor to his corner. Then there was the awkwardness of trying to get over or under the rope.
There was a strange roaring in his ears. The wave of an ocean punctuated with bawdy suggestions. It took him a moment to realize that he was hearing the crowd jeering him. He had in mind to give them a rude gesture back, but he needed all his concentration to crawl under the rope without getting sick.
Bloody hell. Maybe he should get sick. That might get the damned poison out of him.
Sadly, there wasn’t time. Things looked like they were getting ready. His love was saying something. She had turned away, and his heart lurched in his chest. This is what it had felt like when she gave him the cut direct.
His insides hollowed out, and there was a yawning emptiness where she had been. An aching hole that expanded and grew with every moment without her. He swallowed, feeling the tears threaten to choke him.
“Mellie!” he cried as the darkness threatened to overwhelm him.
She turned at his cry, and he dropped to one knee before her. Then to his horror, he watched as her lip curled in disdain. He looked down at himself, seeing the mud on his pants. He tried to brush it away, but that only smeared it into a disaster.
Never mind. He had to speak. He had to tell her his heart. Whereas words and images flowed through his brain he couldn’t quite form them into words. All he managed was, “Cricket. Beaut. Beuuu. Tt.” Damnation, he couldn’t even say the full word. His mouth wouldn’t form the y .
He watched her eyes narrow. The sheen of tears was gone, and now she was a towering goddess of fury.
“Beauuuuttt,” he garbled.
And then he went down. Toppled like a tree. He landed face-first in the mud.
He clutched his staff, trying to use it to lever himself upright. But what before was a too-short stick was now a towering tree of unwieldy wood. All he managed was to roll onto his side so that he could see the fight.
Apparently, his collapse signaled the beginning of the fray. While he was trying to use arms that had gone numb to push himself upright, Ronnie had lifted his own massive stave up to the sky with a roar.
Backlit as he was by the sun and the crowd, the man looked impressive. Like a giant of old with a really big stick. But off in the other corner, the ladies were busy as well. They opened the turkey’s cage door. The bird would likely have just sat there, content in his cage. Turkeys—or even dodos—were not contentious beasts. But Ronnie’s bellow had startled it.
It leaped forward, gobbling and flapping its wings. Eleanor reached for the thing, but she missed, as did the duchess who flung herself forward, succeeding in startling the poor creature even more.
That’s a really big bird, he thought as he lay on the ground watching. Big enough to hurt a man if he were, for example, helpless on the ground.
He would not be defeated by a damned turkey. And he would not give up Mellie. So with his own muted roar, he shoved his hands down, managing to lever himself onto all fours.
That, of course, put him nearly eye to eye with the bird, so he had a perfect view of the thing—running straight at him—as it fouled Ronnie’s sudden charge.
Man and beast collided with much squawking and roaring. Ronnie tried to recover. He was nimble for such a big man, and he side-stepped as best he could. But he was carrying a nine-foot quarterstaff. Trevor’s own six-foot one was difficult enough. The three extra feet was too much for Ronnie. He tried to use it against the bird, but ended up digging the end in the ground instead. With the quarterstaff suddenly jerking him sideways and the bird pecking at his knees, there was no hope.
Ronnie fell as all giants fall: with flailing arms, a roar of frustration, and—in this case—a bird pecking at his privates. Which—now that Trevor thought about it—was probably the reason for the high-pitched nature of Ronnie’s scream.
The duchess ran forward, her truncheon raised high. She was heading for the turkey, saying something that might have been, “you poor dear,” and then she gave Ronnie a big whack as she rushed past.
Ronnie might have recovered. The duchess, though fierce, had hit him on his fleshy behind, which was insulting but not really damaging.
Mr. Rausch stepped forward. He walked leisurely, which Trevor thought was rather lucky. The longer Mr. Rausch took to subdue Ronnie, the more time it gave Trevor to get to his feet.
But he’d forgotten that Rausch was a smart man, not given to ostentatious shows of fury like Ronnie. He stepped casually forward and set the silver-tipped point of his staff on Ronnie’s throat.
“I win,” he said.
“No,” Trevor bellowed. Or he tried to. It came out more as a strangled groan. It took all his concentration to stay upright on his knees.
The crowd was deafening as they screamed abuse. No one seemed to have heard him. But he was fighting for Mellie. He couldn’t let her go to the roué. He couldn’t!
“No!” he tried again as he got one foot under him. Oh bloody hell, the ground was heaving about like a boiling pot of porridge.
Meanwhile, Ronnie looked like he was going to fight. There wasn’t much he could do lying flat with a silver-tipped spear to his throat, but he started cursing. Apparently, the man was well versed in ways to insult his attacker. Rausch, of course, wasn’t the least bit concerned.
“Yield, Mr. Smithson.”
Ronnie didn’t want to, but a little pressure to his throat had his insults sputtering to silence. A moment more—or perhaps after a deeper push from Mr. Rausch—and Ronnie gave in. He raised his hands in a gesture of surrender.
“Say it, Mr. Smithson.”
Finally, Ronnie did. “I yield.” It was an angry curse, but the word was clear enough.
“I don’t,” said Trevor.
With a Herculean effort, he surged to his feet. He would fight for Mellie.
But he’d forgotten the damned turkey. The beast was a menace. Worse, it was an easily startled menace that abruptly set to gobbling and pecking at him. And the duchess did nothing to restrain the satanic creature.
Trevor went down again, tripping over the bird on his way to Mellie, who was just now stepping into the ring. He tried to call out to her. He tried any of a thousand different things that all added up to him pleading with her to understand. To forgive him. To wait.
But none of the words came out except one. It burst forth as the turkey managed to kick him in the gut.
“Bugger!”
Then he went down beneath the creature’s wings.
He rolled away. He could manage that. But by the time he got free of the maniacal creature, it was to see Mr. Rausch on one knee before Mellie. And while she stared in frozen shock, he offered her a ring.
Bloody hell, the man had just proposed.
Trevor didn’t give up until he saw Mellie’s nod. A slow dip of her chin that cut the heart straight out of him. Proposed. Accepted. And him flattened by a turkey.
With a moan of despair, he gave up. He closed his eyes and let unconsciousness claim him. The last thing he heard seemed fitting somehow. A final end to this charade.
“Squawk!”
He really hoped that someone had just strangled the demonic bird.