‘Ale?’ Greythorne sniffed.
Tanner cocked his head. ‘I like ale.’
Greythorne lifted his nose. ‘To what do I owe this … honour?’
‘Thought I would see how our game is going.’ He leaned forward. ‘Making any progress?’
Greythorne sneered. ‘Do you think I would tell you?’
Tanner sat back again. ‘Actually, I did. I mean, if you have won the girl, you would be more than happy to tell me.’
The servant brought Tanner his ale and brandy for Greythorne.
‘So,’ Tanner went on, ‘you have not won the girl, but neither have you given up, I’d wager.’
Greythorne scowled at him. ‘I am progressing nicely, if you must know.’
‘Indeed?’ Tanner said. ‘So am I. What is your progress?’
Greythorne swirled the brandy in his glass and inhaled its bouquet before taking a gentlemanly sip. Only then did he answer, ‘I believe I shall not tell you.’
Tanner lifted his tankard and gulped some ale, licking his lips of the remaining foam. ‘Then I cannot very well report my progress either, can I? We are at a stand.’
Greythorne eyed him with disgust. ‘I am sure it makes not a whit of difference to me.’
Tanner leaned forward again. ‘Does not the competition fire your blood, man? The prize becomes more precious for knowing another covets it.’
‘For you, perhaps,’ Greythorne said with a casual air Tanner did not believe in the slightest.
‘Where is your fighting spirit?’ Tanner taunted. ‘This is a manly challenge, is it not? Who will win the fair maid?’
Greythorne gave a sarcastic laugh. ‘Shall we joust for our little songstress? Shall we don our chainmail and armour and wave our banners?’
Tanner pretended to seriously consider this. ‘The Tannerton armour will not fit me. Too small.’ He eyed Greythorne. ‘Might fit you, though.’
The barb hit. Greythorne’s eyes flashed with anger as he took another sip of his brandy.
Smiling inwardly, Tanner went on, ‘No a joust would not do. How about fisticuffs?’
The man nearly spat out his drink. ‘Do not be absurd!’
Tanner pretended to be offended. ‘You proposed a physical contest, not I.’
‘I am not going to engage in a physical contest to see who wins the girl,’ Greythorne snapped.
Tanner lifted his tankard. ‘I beg your pardon. I misunderstood you.’ He took one very protracted gulp, knowing he kept Greythorne hostage during it. Finally he set the tankard back on the table and continued as if he’d never interrupted his conversation. ‘So no physical contest for the girl. I do agree. That seems rather trite. How about a physical contest to learn this progress we each have made?’
Greythorne looked aghast.
Gratified, Tanner went on, ‘If you win, I tell you what we have achieved in conquest of the girl. If I win, you tell me the progress you have made. Agreed?’
‘No, I do not agree!’ Greythorne looked at him as if he were insane. ‘You would have us pound at each other with our fists over such a trifle? I assure you, I would do no such thing.’
Tanner did not miss a beat. ‘Oh, not fisticuffs. That would not be a fair fight at all. I’ve no real desire to injure you—well, not much of a desire anyway—or to injure my hands.’ He looked at his hands as if admiring them.
Greythorne’s eyes shot daggers.
Tanner returned a sympathetic look. ‘We could tame this for your sake. Perhaps a game of cards, if a physical contest is too fearful—I mean, if it is not to your liking.’
The man straightened in his chair. ‘I am well able to defend myself, if the sport is a gentlemanly one.’
‘Oh?’ Tanner lifted his brows. ‘A race, perhaps? On horseback or phaeton?’
Greythorne grimaced.
‘No? Too dirty?’ Tanner said. ‘What then?’
He waited, enjoying the corner he’d put Greythorne in.
Finally Greythorne answered, ‘Swords.’
Tanner grinned. ‘Swords it is!’
When they walked out of White’s, leaving a rustle of voices discussing what was overheard, it had started to rain. Greythorne opened an umbrella, not offering its shelter to Tanner as they walked from St. James’s to Angelo’s Fencing Academy next door to Gentleman Jackson’s Boxing Club on Bond Street. To thoroughly annoy Greythorne, Tanner sustained his friendly conversation the whole way, as if they were fast friends instead of adversaries.
When they entered the Academy, Tanner received a warm greeting from the third-generation Angelo to run the establishment. Tanner and Greythorne both stripped to their shirtsleeves.
‘Choose your weapon,’ Tanner invited.
‘Épée?’ responded Greythorne. ‘And shall we forgo masks?’
Tanner approved of that bit of bravado. He preferred clearly seeing the expression on his adversary’s face. In Greythorne’s case, he assumed it would be like reading a book.
‘How many touches?’ Tanner asked.
Greythorne thought a moment. ‘Five.’
Tanner nodded.
With Angelo and a few others watching, they saluted and faced each other en garde. Tanner gave Greythorne invitation, carefully watching how the man moved. Greythorne engaged his sword, and the sound rang throughout the room. Parrying the thrust, Tanner executed his riposte with just enough speed and skill to keep Greythorne attacking.
Again and again, Greythorne lunged and engaged. The man was light on his feet and had a supple wrist. He also had confidence in his skill. Tanner had to concentrate to keep up his defence. Greythorne managed a clever glissade, sliding his blade along Tanner’s, creating music not unlike a bow across a violin. The point of his sword hit Tanner’s shoulder.
‘Touché,’ cried Greythorne.
‘Bravo,’ someone called from the sidelines. Gentlemen from White’s, who had overheard the challenge, took their places to witness the fun.
Tanner acknowledged the touch, while a flurry of bet-making commenced among the onlookers. As near as he could tell, the odds were not in his favour.
He and Greythorne walked back to the middle of the room. Tanner glanced over and saw his friend Pomroy standing next to Angelo. Pomroy regarded Tanner with raised brows. Tanner lifted a shoulder and gave Pomroy a rueful smile.
He took position opposite Greythorne again.
‘You will lose both this and our other little competition,’ Greythorne boasted, as his épée clanged against Tanner’s blade, driving Tanner backwards. Tanner allowed alarm to show on his face as Greythorne looked more and more self-assured. Greythorne whipped the blade upward, its edge catching Tanner’s face before the point pressed into his neck.
‘Touché,’ Greythorne repeated.
Tanner felt a trickle of blood slide down his cheek. Greythorne’s eyes shone with excitement, a change in demeanour Tanner did not miss. He swiped at his cheek with his sleeve, staining the cloth red.
The contest resumed, and the shouts of their onlookers grew louder. The épées touched in a flurry of thrusts and ripostes, clanging louder and louder. Salty sweat dripped down Tanner’s face and stung the cut on