24. The Lonely Gentleman #3
He swayed backward, and Ramsay’s fist whistled past his face, missing by inches. In the same fluid movement, Gina’s body coiled and struck, her fist driving into Ramsay’s exposed midsection, landing just below the ribs with enough force to drive the air from his lungs.
The technique was seamless, almost elegant, dodge and counterstrike flowing together as one motion, too practiced, too precise to be anything but years of training.
Ramsay doubled over with a choked gasp, staggering forward until he crashed into a table and finally fell to the ground.
However, the combination of movements, the turn and the punch, executed with precise force, had proved too much for Jason’s balance, already compromised by alcohol. His foot caught on something, a chair leg maybe, or a patron’s boot, and suddenly the floor was rushing up to meet him.
He hit the ground hard, the impact jarring through his bones, knocking what little breath he had left from his lungs.
“Jason!”
Kate moved fast toward him, the shock that had frozen her seconds ago dissolving in an instant. She dropped to her knees beside her husband, her fine dress dragging through spilled ale and dirt, her hands reaching for his shoulders.
“You fool,” she breathed, her voice shaking. “You absolute fool.”
Vikram was there a heartbeat later, his small hands grabbing at Mr. Moore’s arm, trying to help pull him upright. “Mr. Moore-Sullivan, are you hurt? Can you stand?”
Mr. Moore blinked up at them both, his vision swimming. Kate’s face hovered above his, pale and frightened despite her anger. Her hands gripped his shoulders with surprising strength, as though she could hold him together through sheer force of will.
Behind them, he could dimly make out Viscount Perry materializing from the crowd, moving to help Ramsay to his feet.
But Ramsay shook Perry off violently, still trying to find new air to fill his lungs. His eyes, when they lifted to find Mr. Moore still on the floor with Kate kneeling beside him, burned with pure hatred.
“Enough, Ramsay. You’ve had your fun. Time to leave,” said Perry.
“No,” Ramsay said, his voice thick with rage and humiliation. “This isn’t finished.” He straightened, swaying slightly, and his voice rang out clearly across the now-silent tavern: “Mr. Moore-Sullivan, I demand satisfaction. Name your seconds.”
The formal words of challenge landed like yet another punch into Kate’s chest. Her hands tightened on Mr. Moore’s shoulders while her whole body tensed after hearing those dreadful words. Her head swayed from one to another.
“No,” she said immediately, fiercely. “This is madness. He’s drunk—you’re both drunk—this isn’t—”
But Mr. Moore was already pushing himself up, using Kate’s grip on him for leverage, getting his feet under him despite the way the room tilted. He looked at Ramsay across the space between them, and something in his chest settled into cold certainty.
“I accept,” he said clearly. “Name the time and place.”
“NO!” Kate’s protest came out as a scream. “You can’t—this is—”
“Hampstead Heath,” Ramsay said, his smile vicious despite the blood. “Saturday morning. Dawn. The old dueling grounds near the pond. Pistols at twenty paces.”
Mr. Moore nodded once. “Agreed.”
The room erupted in murmurs, a duel between a lord and a merchant. It was scandalous. It was precisely the kind of spectacle that would be talked about for months.
Viscount Perry stepped forward, his expression grave. “Gentlemen, perhaps we should reconsider—”
“The challenge is made and accepted,” Ramsay cut him off. “Unless Mr. Moore-Sullivan wishes to prove himself a coward as well as—”
“Enough.” Perry’s voice carried unexpected authority. “The challenge stands. But both of you will leave now, before the magistrate is called and this becomes more than a private matter.”
Ramsay turned and strode toward the door, his bearing still arrogant though. The crowd parted for him.
Mr. Moore stood swaying slightly, Kate’s hands still gripping his arm for support. Vikram hovered nearby, looking like he might cry.
“Come on,” Kate said. “We need to get you out of here. Now.”
She steered him toward the door, Vikram taking his other arm. The crowd watched in stunned silence as Mrs. Moore-Sullivan escorted her drunk husband out of the Green Swan, her face set in lines of fury and fear.
Perry followed them out, visibly uncomfortable, into the damp night air. “Mrs. Moore-Sullivan, I apologize that you had to witness—”
“There’s no need, Viscount Perry,” Kate said, her voice tight. “Vikram, get the carriage.”
The boy ran, grateful for something useful to do.
Kate kept her grip on Mr. Moore’s arm, holding him steady as they stood in the street waiting. She didn’t look at him, not even once, but he could feel the tension radiating from her body.
“Kate,” he tried to say. “I’m—”
“Do not,” Kate cut him off sharp, “Do not say a word. Not here. Not now.”
Mr. Moore stood in silence then, the cool evening air doing nothing to clear his head, and waited for the carriage that would take them home to face whatever came next.