When the four men reached the tavern, they discovered a brawl underway, blocking the entrance. Fists were flying, limbs were flailing, bodies were being flung through the air.
“I don’t fancy wading into the middle of all that mess,” Dawson said cautiously, backing up.
“I’ve seen worse,” the major replied. “And I’m hungry. I’ll meet you inside.”
They watched as Roddington pushed himself into the chaos of brawling men, stepping around and over bodies, ducking and dodging to avoid any stray blows aimed his way. When he was safely through the doorway, he waved to them, then disappeared inside.
“Damn!” Benton broke into a grin. “Gentlemen, shall we?”
The viscount followed the major’s lead. Swallowing hard, Dawson kept close to the viscount’s coattails, while Carter brought up the rear. They had just crossed over the threshold when one of the brawlers lost his balance and careened into Carter.
“Watch it!” Carter yelled sharply, swinging his closed fist upward. His blow landed directly on the culprit’s jaw. He staggered back, arms flailing, then fell awkwardly to the ground, swearing loudly.
Carter’s hand stung, yet he felt vitally alive. Grinning, he began to follow his friends toward the taproom when suddenly he heard a loud shout.
“He’s got a knife!” Dawson cried.
Carter turned, saw the flash of steel, and scrambled to get out of the way. There were several shouts and then another body suddenly appeared, stepping between the marquess and his would-be assailant.
“Halt!” The command was quickly followed by the unmistakable sound of a pistol being cocked.
Carter whirled his head. The major stood tall, his feet braced apart, the pistol in his right hand calmly pointed at the man’s chest. “Now, lads, a bit of fisticuffs we can understand, but knives take all the fun out of it, don’t you agree?”
One of the man’s companions came forward to help him, eyeing the major, and his pistol, most warily. “We don’t want no trouble,” he grumbled.
“Fine. Then off with the lot of you.”
The man on the ground flinched violently as he regained his feet. One of the other brawlers took the knife away and handed it to Carter. The marquess fingered it thoughtfully, surprised at how calm he felt in the midst of such obvious danger.
Gradually, the crowd shuffled away. “You are a handy individual to have around,” Carter finally said, breaking through the silent tension. He brushed the dirt from his coat and smiled at the major. “How would you like to accompany us to a society ball this evening?”
“It’s bound to be rather dull compared to the afternoon you’ve just had, but we can promise there will be a few laughs,” Benton added.
The major slowly eased back the hammer on his pistol and returned it to his coat pocket. “Sounds delightful. I can hardly wait.”
Five hours later, fresh from a lukewarm bath, Major Gregory Roddington began to shave. His former batman, now his personal servant, Julius Parker, had somehow managed to keep the shaving water hot, which was more than could be said for the bathwater. But Roddy didn’t mind. He had lived in far worse conditions than these shabby London accommodations.
“There’s a man at the door asking to see you,” Parker said. “He refused to give his name.”
Roddy nodded. He had been waiting, wondering why the man was so late. “Send him in.”
Ignoring Parker’s clear disapproval, Roddy shrugged into a robe, cinching the belt tightly around his waist. Then he resumed his shaving.
“I’ve come for my money,” the visitor declared the moment he entered the room.
“It’s on the table,” Roddy replied. His back was toward the visitor, but the mirror propped in front of him allowed his eyes to follow the man’s every move.
“I should charge you more,” the man grumbled as he slid the two gold coins off the table and thrust them into his pocket. “I didn’t know the bloke was going to sucker punch me.”
The major smiled grimly. “It looked like a clean blow to me.”
“Yeah, well, he punches damn hard for a toff.” The man rubbed his hand gingerly along his jawline, wincing several times. Roddy could see the shadow of a bruise had already begun to form. “I thought them aristocrats were a bunch of limp-wristed dandies.”
“Apparently not all of them.”
“Humph.” The man grunted, but didn’t seem convinced. “I’m telling you right now, there’ll be an extra charge the next time.”
Roddy rinsed off his shaving blade, placed it on the rim of his bowl, then pressed a towel to his face. Finally turning, he faced the man who had so recently been staring down the barrel of his finest pistol. “Though it did not go specifically as I had planned, the outcome is satisfactory,” he said confidently. “There will be no need for a next time.”
Chapter Four
The Duke of Warwick’s London townhome was a rather overwhelming place, Dorothea thought as she slowly circled around the outer edges of the ballroom. Antique mirrors lined the walls, rich gold satin drapes were pulled back to reveal the long windows leading out to the terraced gardens, six enormous crystal chandeliers hung from the gilded ceiling. She had heard that the room had been designed in a similar style as Versailles, yet with the memories of the vanquished Napoleon so fresh in everyone’s mind, no one dared to make any references to the French.
She reached the end of the room, turned, and could not contain her gasp of delight. The room was magnificent, decked out in the finest accompaniments. No expense had been spared for the ball, and Dorothea still had difficulty believing it had all been done for her. The innumerable porcelain vases were overflowing with white lilies, the ten-piece orchestra placed in the balcony above the dance floor, the hundreds of lit beeswax candles shimmered and glittered off the mirrored surfaces.
Dozens of rooms beyond the main ballroom were also set up, awaiting the pleasure of the many guests. This would not, she was pleased to note, be an overcrowded, stuffy affair. The Duke of Warwick, or rather his daughter-in-law, Lady Meredith, had the sense to ensure there would be ample room for all of the four hundred or so guests that had been invited. And from the looks of things, not one person had refused the invitation.
The generosity of her temporary chaperones was humbling and Dorothea silently scolded herself for not enjoying the affair more. As a girl growing up in Yorkshire, she had dreamt of such a moment, though even her fertile imagination had not included cases of chilled French champagne being so casually served to the guests by white-gloved footmen dressed formally in blue and gold livery.
While standing in the receiving line earlier, she thought it might be necessary to pinch her arm to truly believe it was all real. If only her sisters were here to share in this moment! But Gwendolyn was nearing the end of her confinement and naturally not participating in any society events. And Emma, at sixteen, was too young to be included. She was languishing at home in Yorkshire with uncle Fletcher and aunt Mildred, no doubt bored to tears.
Dorothea promised herself she would write Emma a long, detailed letter tomorrow afternoon. At least that way she could share some of the excitement of the evening with her sister.
Dorothea’s thoughts were interrupted as a hush fell over the crowd. She turned and saw the Duke of Warwick was leading Lady Meredith onto the dance floor. Dorothea moved herself toward the center of the room, searching for the Marquess of Dardington. He had explained to her earlier in the day that his father, the Duke of Warwick, would insist on opening the dancing at the ball himself.
The idea of dancing with the duke had put a flutter of butterfly nerves in Dorothea’s stomach, but Lord Dardington had quickly explained that