Chapter Nine #2
“Your chit… Excuse me… Agatha’s friend’s daughter—” Griffendale winked—“is light on her feet.”
“I wager after a little bit of training, Gen can beat Roseanna,” Jonathan blurted, then cringed. He was all cat and no cattle. A blunderbuss of the worst sort.
“Davenport, slow down,” Nicolas said. “Roseanna is excellent. Probably the next Duke’s and Dame’s Champion. Gen is a novice.” His brow furrowed. “Or is she experienced? She moves well.”
Damned if he knew.
Franny wrapped her hand around Gen’s wrist.
“Wait,” Nicolas said. “I think Franny is telling her to keep her wrist firm when she punches. Perhaps she is new to the sport. Which means, you need to give her time.”
“Agreed,” Robinson said.
But they hadn’t seen Gen defend herself in that alley against a group of adolescent boys. They didn’t know how fast she was. “If you are going to question my judgement, all three you can bugger off with the same thorny stick,” Jonathan spat.
“My champion against your champion,” Griffendale said.
Jonathan stepped into Griffendale’s space and lifted his chin. “Name your time and place.” So much for staying even-keeled and good-natured, or for protecting Gen. Damnations, Griffendale brought out his worst.
Griffendale shoved his index finger into Jonathan’s chest. “We will make it legal. Outside the city. Seven days from now, at my country estate. Five hundred pounds.”
“Bloody hell,” Nicolas said. “The two of you need to stop this ridiculous rivalry. Your wagers tend to run amok. Do you remember that bloke at school who ended up with an intestinal infection and spent weeks in the infirmary?”
Griffendale scoffed. “’Twasn’t our fault he ate the entire hog.”
“How do you figure that?” Nicolas asked. “You goaded him, betting that he couldn’t eat the entire thing, brains and all.”
“Exactly,” Griffendale said, “I wagered he couldn’t. Davenport bet he could.”
Ah, yes. Jonathan missed those carefree days when he wasn’t worried about a viscounty, his mother, headaches, or a street waif. “I won because he ate everything but the bones.”
“But he almost died,” Nicolas said.
That was not Jonathan’s fault. He had suggested the cabbage head boil the beast first. That would have saved him weeks of casting up his accounts.
“Then there was Leopold Dior?” Nicolas said, resorting to his you-two-are-idiots tone. “Are you both denying culpability for that fiasco?”
“There was no fiasco,” Jonathan said. “You barged into the field, acting like a hero, and put a stop to the wager before Gunther had a chance to shoot the apple off Dior’s head.”
Nicolas rubbed his temple. “Because Gunther was so deep in his cups, he couldn’t even keep the arrow on his bow. You should still be thanking your lucky stars that I was there.”
True. Thank the gods of Puckishness that Nicolas had looked out for them, or Jonathan and Griffendale probably would have accidentally killed a few blokes by now. Perhaps even themselves, and most definitely each other.
“Nicolas, you and Josie are together due to one of our wagers running amok,” Griffendale pointed out.
“Exactly.” Jonathan clapped Griffendale on the back. He might occasionally find the duke vexing, but they had a history, and the bloke was hellishly fun. They were two peas in a pod. Partners in devilment. Cut from the same ilk.
Robinson tsked his disapproval. “Do you want to get Gen killed? She appears to have potential, but she will have to gain at least a stone. That isn’t possible in a week. And you can’t ignore the fact that Roseanna has more experience.”
Griffendale inclined his chin toward the ladies. “Watch. Gen is catching on quickly.”
Franny demonstrated a quick succession of jabs. Gen and Roseanna imitated her, jabbing their imaginary opponents with precision. Gen might look as ethereal as a ghost, but she moved like a powerful fighter.
“I stand by our wager,” Jonathan said.
“Josie and Franny will have your heads.” Nicolas sliced a finger across his neck. “Dead, the both of you. It’s been nice knowing you.”
“Now that is a wager I’d take,” Robinson said. “The rake and the rogue against the she-devils. My blunt is on Franny and Josie.”
“Says the man who had his nose broken by his wife the first time he met her,” Griffendale said with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.
“Learned my lesson the hard way. Never bet against or anger my wife.” Robinson turned to the side, sweeping a hand along his profile. “Admit it. My crooked nose gives me character.”
“Be still, my beating heart,” Jonathan jested. He grabbed Robinson and kissed his scruffy cheek.
The large man swatted him.
Feeling more like his jovial self, Jonathan chuckled, then tuned out the men so that he could concentrate on Gen, who was twisting her hip in slow motion. After a few trials, she threw a cross, snapping her hip as if putting power behind her punch came as naturally to her as walking.
“Bravo, Gen,” Jonathan called.
She must have heard him, because she cast a smile in his direction.
As the three ladies crossed the gymnasium to choose skipping ropes, Nicolas and Robinson returned to the ring.
Griffendale stayed put, blabbering while they watched Roseanna, Franny, and Gen skip rope. His voice was a monotonous drone of nonsense. That is, until he said, “Blahblahblah …Gen?”
Jonathan’s ears actually twitched at the sound of her name, mixed in with whatever blether Griffendale was uttering.
He turned to him. “Excuse me?”
Griffendale smirked, probably aware that Jonathan had been ignoring him until he spoke her name.
“I said, ‘seriously, who is Gen?’”
“My mother’s friend’s daughter,” Jonathan lied.
“Which friend?”
“You don’t know her.”
“Fine, don’t tell me. But why doesn’t she talk? I saw her tongue when she smiled, so it’s not that. Is she… What is the word?… Is her brain injured?”