“Is it a wager then?” Gerrard challenged.
Drury undid his cravat and tossed it on top of his coat.
“Very well. And if you lose?”
“Whatever you like.”
Cocky young bastard. “Very well. I may ask you for a favor someday. Nothing illegal or dangerous, but one never knows when one can use the assistance of a man of skill and intelligence capable of defending himself. Do we have a wager then, Mr. Gerrard?”
A very determined gleam came to the younger man’s eyes. “Indeed.” He pushed his mask over his face and saluted with his sword. “En garde as soon as you’re ready, Sir Douglas.”
“I’m ready now,” Drury said, spinning on his heel and pulling one of the foils from the rack with surprising speed.
Gerrard stumbled back as Drury, unpadded and unprotected, saluted with the buttoned sword. He and Thompson had worked for hours to find a way for him to hold a sword after he’d come home, and while it looked strange, his grip was firm, and he had no need to worry that he would drop his weapon.
Gerrard recovered quickly and took his stance.
The merchant’s son had probably never dueled, or fought for anything more important than drinks and bragging rights. Drury wondered if he realized he was facing a man who had killed without compunction or remorse. Who had pushed his blade into flesh and blood, and been glad to do it.
Of course, that had been under very different circumstances. This wasn’t war, but a game, a cockfight, and nothing more—which did not mean Drury intended to lose.
He waited in invitation, letting the younger man make the first move. Gerrard opened with a fast advance, forcing Drury back while Gerrard’s blade flashed, wielded with swiftness and skill. Drury countered with an attaque au fer, deflecting his opponent’s foil with a series of beats, slashing down with his foil, or the sliding action of the froissement, pushing Gerrard’s blade lower.
Then, while Gerrard was still on the attack, Drury countered with a riposte. Now on the offensive, he forced the man back, keeping up a compound attack with a series of beats, counterparries, a croisé and a cut.
By now, both men were breathing hard and they paused, by silent mutual consent, to catch their breath and, in Drury’s case at least, reevaluate his opponent. The merchant’s son was good—very good. One of the best swordsmen he’d ever encountered, in fact.
That didn’t change the fact that Gerrard was going to lose. Drury would never surrender, not even in a game, not even after that foul, stinking lout in France had broken his fingers one by one.
He launched another attack. Gerrard parried, then answered with an energetic and direct riposte. No fancy flourishes or footwork for him, no actions intended to impress the excited onlookers; this fellow fought to win.
How refreshing, Drury thought, enjoying the competition. It was like fencing with a younger version of himself before the war. Before France. When a host of women had sought his bed, and more than one been welcomed. When he had still, deep down, dared to hope that he could find a woman to love with all the passionate devotion he had to give. Before he realized the best he could ever hope for was affection and a little peace. For Fanny, perhaps, if she would have him. If she hadn’t loved another.
He lunged again, fast and hard, and it was a testament to Gerrard’s reflexes that he wasn’t hit before he dodged out of the way.
“Damn me, sir, you play for keeps,” Gerrard cried, his shocked tone reminding Drury that this was not a fight to the death, or even a duel, and this young man had never done anything to harm him.
“Fortunately, so do I,” the young man said in the next breath, making a running attack, trying to hit Drury as he passed.
The flèche wasn’t successful, for Drury was just as quick to avoid the cut. But now the battle was on in earnest, neither man giving quarter, each using every bit of skill and cunning and experience he possessed until both were so winded and dripping with sweat, they could only stand and pull in great, rasping breaths.
“It’s a draw, by God. As even a match as I’ve ever seen,” Thompson declared, stepping between them. “Gentlemen, will you agree?”
Drury waited until Gerrard nodded and saluted with his foil. Then he, too, raised his foil in salute. “A tie, then.”
He would have preferred to win, but at least he wouldn’t have to introduce this clever young rascal to Juliette Bergerine.
“What of the wager?” Buckthorne called out. “Who has won the wager?”
“Neither, although I’ll gladly stand Mr. Gerrard a drink or two at Boodle’s,” Drury replied, still panting.
“I’d be delighted, of course,” Gerrard said, also breathing hard as he removed his mask and tucked it under his arm. “It would be a pleasure to talk to you about some of your trials, too, if I may. I intend to enter the legal profession myself, you see.”
He paused, then continued with a mixture of deference and determination. “However, I’d also like to meet your cousin, if you’d be so kind.”
Drury’s eyes narrowed. Why was Gerrard so keen to meet Juliette? What had Madame de Malanche said about her? That she was pretty, which she was? That she was French, which she was? Or was there more to it?
What more could there be, if Madame de Malanche had been the source?
Would it look odd if he refused? Would it make Juliette more interesting to this young rogue and the other dandies of the ton if he kept her hidden away?
Yet who knew what Juliette might do or say to such a fellow? What if she lost her temper? What if she didn’t?
“If you’d rather not…” the young fellow began, his brow furrowing.
That suspicious expression was enough to sway Drury’s decision. Better to let him meet Juliette than make her a mystery. “Very well, Mr. Gerrard. As I’m sure you’re also aware, we’re staying with Lord Bromwell for the time being.”
He gave him Buggy’s address. “Present yourself tomorrow morning at nine o’clock and I will introduce you to my cousin.”
Then Sir Douglas Drury’s lips curved up in a way that had made hardened criminals cringe. “And might I suggest that if you’re serious about pursuing a legal career, you refrain from making wagers with barristers.”
Early that evening, Juliette bent over the napkin she was hemming in the elegant drawing room. The light would soon fade and she wanted to finish before it did.
All her life she had wondered what it would be like to be a lady—to have everything you needed, to never have to work or lift a hand, to have beautiful clothes and servants at your beck and call.
Well, she thought with a rueful smile, she’d discovered that while it was certainly delightful to be well fed and have pretty clothes, it was otherwise terribly boring. Now she could understand why the young ladies who’d come into the shop seemed so excited by the prospect of a new hat or the latest Paris fashion and bit of gossip. If she had nothing else to do with her time, her clothes might become vitally important, and gossip as necessary as food.
After spending hours by herself during the better part of two days, she’d finally gone to the housekeeper and asked if there was some sewing she could do. It would make her feel less beholden to Lord Bromwell for his kindness, and she was good at it, she’d explained, which was quite true.
“His lordship’s guests don’t work!” Mrs. Tunbarrow had cried, regarding her with horror, as if Juliette had proposed embalming her.
Undaunted and determined, Juliette had persisted,