50 Ways to Ruin a Rake (24 page)

“Yes,” he said. “You strike me as a woman daring enough to make such a path enormously profitable. For us both.”

“Daring? Me?” She nearly laughed out loud at that. She'd been the opposite of daring. And the one time she'd truly embraced recklessness, she'd given her virginity to the absent Trevor.

“Yes, you,” he said, and there was a wealth of temptation in those two words.

She started to think about it. She tried to analyze her possibilities as she might a chemical formula. She tried to simply weigh options and costs, but despite all that intention, her thoughts were stuck on the night she'd shared with Trevor. And the horrifying idea of doing that with anyone else.

And while she stood there in awkward contemplation, a man appeared. A man who was so familiar to her heart and soul that her body was stepping toward him before her mind even registered his angry gaze and his raised fist.

“Bloody bastard!” Trevor bellowed. Then he planted a facer direct to Mr. Rausch's jaw.

Mr. Rausch rocked back on his heels, taken completely off guard. He had enough time to lift a hand in defense—but not recover his balance—when Trevor hit him again. This time, the man went down in the dirt.

Mellie rushed forward, grabbing Trevor's arm as she tried to pull him back. “What are you doing?” she cried. She could feel the fury in the man, felt it vibrating as he stood over Mr. Rausch.

“Name your seconds,” he growled.

“What?” Mellie cried. “You are not going to fight another duel!”

Trevor turned to look at her. “He offered you carte blanche,” he said as if that explained everything.

“Yes. So?” she pressed. “He offered it to me, not you. Damnation Trevor, how can you just punch a man like that?”

“He offered you
carte
blanche
,” he repeated.

“I know! And you have offered me nothing. So forgive me if I find his offer appealing.”

“Mellie!” he cried. “I came here to propose, and I find him offering you—”

“Yes, yes,” she interrupted. “But…what?”

He turned to face her more fully, though he clearly kept an eye on Mr. Rausch. “I had to get a special license. I had to make sure the money was there to support us.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “Mellie, we need to get married.”

She looked at him. She'd been caught off guard—by his punch and by his proposal—so she hadn't thrown herself into his arms. And now she stopped to take a breath. Now she waited for him to complete his proposal. And she waited.

And waited.

Until he frowned. “Mellie?”

Good Lord, did he think he'd just proposed? She wasn't expecting Ronnie's effusive poetry, but he had to know that she wanted more than: we need to get married.

“Why?” she asked.

He gaped at her. Then his gaze dropped significantly to her belly. “You know why.”

Oh. He was afraid she was pregnant. That was it. That was the reason he was here before her, special license in hand. Then she looked at Mr. Rausch who was just now pushing to his feet, his jaw swelling and his eyes narrowed. But he didn't seem like he was about to attack. Instead, he was watching them closely.

“Do I understand this correctly?” she asked, her voice tart as she turned to both men. “You, Mr. Rausch, are offering me the world in exchange for my formula, assuming I become your mistress—”

“Mellie!” Trevor hissed. “People are coming.”

Of course they were. And she didn't give a damn. “And you, Mr. Anaedsley, are proposing marriage because you feel an obligation, and a duel because Mr. Rausch just insulted your possible fiancée?”

Mr. Rausch arched a brow at her phrasing, but he did nod his agreement. Trevor, on the other hand, took a threatening step toward the man.

“He was offering
carte
blanche
.”

Well, there it was. Her choices lay before her and not a word about love. She'd thought Ronnie ridiculous, but now she saw he had the right of it. Love was a great deal more important to her than she'd at first guessed. But in the absence of love, she would take…either of these two idiots and then make the best of it.

“Fine,” she said coldly. Loudly, even, as she heard the rustle of people around them. They were staying just out of sight, but she knew they were there. “Name your weapon, Mr. Rausch, but let's make this a bit more exciting, shall we? The winner gets me.”

Both men turned to stare at her. “What?” gasped one. She didn't really care who.

“I am done with this Season, the dancing, and the courtship. That is all nonsense anyway. I will go with the winner. No matter whom.”

They stared at her, stunned that she was calling their bluff. Did they not think that women could descend to their level? If they hinged their sacred honor upon a duel, then why not a woman? She could be an honorable, unloved wife with Trevor or a dishonorable, unloved mistress with Mr. Rausch.

“Mellie,” Trevor said, his voice hushed, and then another man came forward.

Just like before, she recognized him long before her brain registered a name. She knew the size and shape of him and recoiled on instinct. Though that might be because of the large bird that fluttered to the ground in his wake.

It was Ronnie, rushing forward, his fists raised and…

Bloody hell. He punched Mr. Rausch on the chin, knocking the man flat again.

“I accept!” Ronnie cried. “A duel for Mellie's hand!”

“Are you insane?” bellowed Trevor. Mellie wasn't even sure if the words were aimed at her or at her cousin, but it didn't matter. Ronnie didn't matter in the least, except that she felt bad for poor Mr. Rausch who had been decked now twice. Meanwhile, she was staring at the strange bird fluffing its feathers in irritation and emitting a strange “gobble” sound.

“Ronnie, what is this bird?” And why had he brought it to a garden party? But the minute she thought the question, she already knew the answer: his quest.

“I found it!” he cried dramatically, puffing out his chest as he turned to face her. “I have fulfilled my quest and brought you a rare and hitherto extinct dodo bird.”

She stared at the bird as it stretched out its neck, shook a bright red comb that waggled under its chin, and trilled an annoyed, “gobble, gobble.”

“That's not a dodo bird!” snapped Trevor.

To which Ronnie responded by decking him. Her cousin was fast, and Trevor had been glaring at the bird, so her former fiancé was soon sprawled in the dirt.

“You two do realize that dueling is illegal, don't you?” Mr. Rausch said from his place seated in the dirt. Apparently, the man had chosen to stay down this time as he fingered his jaw.

“And I'm already dueling him,” added Trevor as he glared at Ronnie.

Mellie gaped at the men, wondering how seemingly rational gentleman could descend to such depths of idiocy so quickly. “Why not all three of you scramble together? Whomever comes out on top of the pile can have me.”

She meant it as a joke. Her tone was laced with sarcasm as a way to point out how silly this whole affair had become. And yet, Ronnie took her words for complete truth.

“Exactly!” he cried. “A three-way duel!”

“Is still illegal,” said Mr. Rausch. “Is it not,
Barrister
Creshe?” he said.

Mellie looked to where he gestured, and sure enough the barrister stood watching, his ponderous chins nodding their agreement. A half dozen others stood staring as well, and each one nodded. Yes, dueling was illegal. Sadly, Ronnie was a romantic, not an idiot.

“Which is why we shall do this duel the correct way.”

“Ronnie, stop this now,” she said, momentarily distracted as the possible dodo bird strutted toward Mr. Rausch. Good Lord, she hoped it wasn't dangerous.

“To the death is traditional,” Trevor said as he pushed to his feet.

“And—” began Mr. Rausch, but he needn't have bothered. Trevor finished it for him.

“And illegal.”

“Not if it's a fight of yore. A fight of superiority not murder. A fight—”

“That's a fistfight, Ronnie—” Mellie said.

“With quarterstaves.”

“And that's an American turkey,” Mr. Rausch added.

“Lies!” Ronnie said as he prepared to punch the man again. But Mr. Rausch wasn't a fool. With a sudden kick, he knocked Ronnie's legs out from under him. Her cousin was now the third man to be sprawled in the dirt.

“Gobble, gobble,” exclaimed the turkey.

“Unfair,” moaned Ronnie as he clutched his ankle.

“You're an idiot,” groused Trevor. “That's a turkey.”

At which point, Mellie had enough. She had been moaning about the lack of love, and here providence had provided her with her last and final choice. A man who professed to love her to the depths of his poetic soul.

Very well then. Hadn't she said this entire Season would be a farce played out with her in the center? Then by all means, she should allow fate to have its way.

“Agreed!” she cried. “I shall be at Hyde Park tomorrow morning at dawn. A melee duel with quarterstaves. The man left standing wins me.” She looked at the three men in turn, daring them to contradict. “And the turkey gets to compete as well!”

Then she spun on her heel and stomped away.

Men like to prove their worth. Allow your rake to demonstrate his value in his own fashion.

Trevor didn't know how he got into these things. Before Mellie, he'd never challenged anyone to a duel in his life. And now? He was being roused before dawn by the Duke of Bucklynde and wondering if anything was more ridiculous.

He blinked, peered blearily at Radley, and managed to mumble a completely irrelevant question. “Where is Brant?”

“Asleep out there. Left this, though, with a note.” He held up a flask.

Trevor blinked and tried to focus while the pounding in his head worsened. Thanks to Brant, he had spent too much time last night toasting to a good bout in the morning. Truthfully, he thought his best friend was trying to get him good and drunk so that he'd sleep through the duel. Er…fray. They'd spent some time discussing if a duel with three—or perhaps four—participants could be rightly called a duel. They decided that fray was the more accurate term.

“What does it say?” he managed as he pushed himself upright.

The duke turned the bottle toward the light and read in a dry voice. “I hope you sleep through the fray. I certainly intend to because she is not worth even one lost morning's sleep.” The duke frowned at the couch in the other room. “That's rather severe, I'd say.”

Trevor waved the comment away. “Brant doesn't think any woman is worth a morning's sleep. Or anything else for that matter. Though he has enjoyed my amorous misfortunes of late. As well as a great deal of bad wine and worse brandy.”

“Hmm. Best mates, are you?”

Trevor shrugged. He'd known Brant since Eton. They certainly had some history, but they were more schoolboys who shared adventures every now and then. Except Trevor wasn't particularly enjoying this adventure or his friend. “I've gotten tired of him.” His dislike began the first time Brant disparaged Mellie. By this point, Trevor wondered why he'd even allowed the man inside his home.

Meanwhile, the duke merely shrugged. “He's well out on the women. I've found an excellent one. I thought you had as well.”

The man didn't have to finish the sentence. Trevor knew he'd mucked things up royally. But even he hadn't guessed that he'd have to fight a duel—or a fray—to win the woman's hand. The woman who might now be carrying his child.

“Hang on,” said the duke as he flipped over the note. “There's more writing on the back.”

Trevor didn't really want to know, but hadn't the interest to stop the duke from reading.

“He says to drink this before the fight for strength. What does he mean by that?” He opened the flask and sniffed. “It smells like tea.”

“Brant likes to pretend he's an apothecary.”

“With tea?”

“He adds things to it. Angelica and chives for a cough. Cloves to make an old light skirt pretty. That kind of thing.”

Radley stoppered the flask. “Does it work?”

Trevor answered with a shrug, but he took the flask and tucked it into a satchel. Meanwhile, he pulled on his clothes with slow, resentful movements. “Why did she have to add the turkey? As if I don't feel ridiculous enough.”

The duke had no answer. He seemed the kind of man who didn't bother with questions like why. He simply accepted and moved forward. He held out Trevor's cloak, and then paused before he passed him the quarterstaff that was leaning against the wall.

Damn the thing was huge.

“So you plan to fight for her then?”

What kind of question was that? “Of course I do. They can't have her. Neither man is worthy of her.”

“It's the oversized chicken I'd be worried about.”

“It's a turkey, but don't worry. I have a plan.”

He'd thought long and hard about it last night and knew this fight wouldn't be easy. Trevor had fought Ronnie before and so had firsthand knowledge of exactly how powerful the big man could be. And that was with his fists, not a six-foot-long stick of hardwood. As for Mr. Rausch, who knew what the man planned? He wasn't
ton
even if he ran in the right circles to be. He hadn't been educated in the usual schools, but was generally known to be wily. Such a man was completely unpredictable, and Trevor wasn't anxious to see what he was capable of in a quarterstaff fight.

Fortunately, it hadn't taken Trevor long to figure out a course of attack. He meant to knock Ronnie unconscious first simply because the man was an idiot. A damned turkey was not a dodo bird! Next he would face off with Mr. Rausch. Though he'd like very much to beat the man for the insult to Mellie, Mr. Rausch had already been punched three times yesterday. That predisposed Trevor to be forgiving. If Rausch offered an apology, then Trevor would accept it and lay down his staff. If he didn't, well then Trevor planned to fight until he won.

He'd had a little experience with the quarterstaff long ago. He would be able to get at least a few blows in. That was all honor required. And then he would step away from the fight and appeal to Mellie. She needed to marry him. It was the only possible solution, especially if she was pregnant. As a logical girl, she would see that.

She had to.

So he grabbed the damn staff and began the long walk to Hyde Park. They were only a few feet out the door before the duke lifted the quarterstaff from his hand.

“I guess I'm your second now, so I should carry that.”

Trevor took a moment to process that statement. Bloody hell, it was early. He wasn't thinking clearly. “That's right. Brant is my second. So why did you come to my rooms?”

The duke looked rather sheepish, his gaze skittering away before returning to Trevor. “I, um, came to tell you something.”

Great. More bad news. “Spit it out, man. What's the newest disaster?”

“Well, it's my wife and Eleanor.”

Dread twisted dark and hard in his chest. It was never good when women worked in concert.

“They've, um, decided to take Mellie's part in this.”

“And see her wed to the winner of a du—fray?”

“And see that none of you gets her.”

That sounded like Eleanor. And the duchess. And Mellie, for that matter. “How?”

“They've, um, decided to take up arms for the turkey. They've got truncheons. Their plan is to let you three knock one another out and then declare the turkey the winner.”

“She's not going to marry a turkey.”

“No. Cook is right now trying to decide how to best make it into a stew.”

Of course she was. He had no witty response to that. No judgment on the absurdity of this entire affair. He simply knew that Mellie had set the course. He had to follow it or relinquish her forever. And that, he would never do.

Then they made it to Hyde Park. Trevor slowed his steps, but made no comment. Which left it to the duke to express his awe with a low whistle. Every man, woman, and child in the
ton
had risen early to watch. There were even vendors selling sausages or meat pies. Plus a dozen tarts looking for their own business.

“It's like a hanging,” the duke said under his breath. “Only with peers.”

And him as the doomed man. Or the jester.

On that cheery thought, Trevor pushed his way through the crowd to the central clearing. Four posts encompassed by rope marked the edges of a square. The combat area, he assumed. It was hard to see through the press of people, but things soon became clear. To his shame, he was the last one there. But in his defense, his second had done everything in his power to sabotage his showing up at all.

He looked first at Ronnie, who was strutting in the center and waving his quarterstaff as if it were as light as a cricket bat. It was also bigger than Trevor's. By about three feet.

“Bloody hell, where did Brant get my staff?” How absolutely perfect that his second hadn't even bothered to get a correctly sized quarterstaff. The duke, naturally, had no answer to that, especially as Ronnie drowned out his words. The idiot was insisting that the last surviving dodo bird not be sacrificed on the altar of true love. Apparently, he had some scientific restraint to his poetic soul, and he chose to exercise it here.

“That's not a dodo bird,” Trevor said, pulling two natural history books from his satchel. He had spent some time last night—while Brant was procuring his shorter-than-average quarterstaff—to visit one of his favorite scholars of natural history. Together they had found the appropriate volumes, and Trevor now set them out for all to see.

“This,” he said pointing to a sketch of a bird with a huge hooked beak and a short, stubby yellow tail, “is a dodo bird. This is a turkey.” He lifted a sketch of a bird with a huge dark fan of a tail, a small head with almost no beak, and a distinctive red chin called a waddle. He handed the sketches off to the nearest person, knowing it would make the rounds of the crowd.

Ronnie, of course, didn't even look. “After generations some differences are expected. Changes in environment would certainly cause greater variety in the creature.”

“Pretentious bugger,” said a voice beside him. He recognized the voice as belonging to Mr. Rausch.

Trevor turned, almost afraid to see what the man looked like this morning. Would he be in full battle armor? Would he be riding a horse as he whacked them with his quarterstaff? No. Mr. Rausch looked exactly like himself. Tall with a calm expression and a perfectly groomed face, assuming one discounted the bump in his nose where it had once been broken. His clothing was well tailored, and he carried…

“Bloody hell,” Trevor groused.

Not only was the man's quarterstaff bigger than Trevor's, it had silver tips on each end. The better to stab and maim his opponents, one would assume. Because bludgeoning each other wasn't enough.

Meanwhile, Ronnie continued to prose on about a tenderhearted Portuguese sailor who had rescued a dodo bird from a Chinese island and brought it to be raised and nurtured by his mother in Leeds. Leeds, for God's sake.

“No one in Leeds grows up to be a sailor,” said Mr. Rausch.

“No one in Leeds would save a dodo bird. It'd be whacked for supper before it came out of the sack.”

“I say we whack him first, then discuss this like gentlemen.”

It was exactly Trevor's plan, so he was pleased that Mr. Rausch had the same thought. Sadly, there were two other people they had to convince. “We might have a problem with them,” he said as he gestured to the far corner where the turkey sat in a large cage.

There they were—Lady Eleanor and the duchess—looking like fierce Grecian maids as they stood on either side of the bird.

“What are they carrying?” Mr. Rausch asked, a note of admiration in his voice.

“Truncheons. They intend to have us battle it out so they can declare the turkey the winner.”

“The devil you say.”

The duke was standing near enough to overhear. “Don't underestimate them. My wife is most determined to clobber someone today. Pray one of you allow her to get in a good hit, otherwise she might turn that thing on me.”

Trevor made a mental note to stay on Eleanor's side of the turkey.

“Well, I suppose we best get to our places,” said Mr. Rausch. He gave Trevor a genial tip of his hat before sauntering off to another corner of the roped-in square. Cheeky bastard. He sounded like he was off to a show, while Trevor was beginning to feel decidedly ill.

And where in all this milling mass of elite humanity was Mellie? Surely she wouldn't miss this. Or maybe she would. Maybe her logical side finally convinced her that this display was unnecessary, that London was filled with fools, and she would be better off at home with her father, never to see the light of day again.

That thought depressed him even more than hearing a prominent member of their government declare that he believed the bird truly was a new form of dodo.

“Give me that flask,” he said to the duke.

“Are you sure?” asked the man as he handed it over.

“Course not.” But he unstoppered it and tipped it for a full draught. It tasted vile. Worse than vile for all that Brant had obviously added honey in an attempt to sweeten it. He only managed to drain about half the flask before he passed it back to the duke. “Definitely not sure.”

“You need to get to your corner.”

Yes, he could see that. The others had reached their places and were looking expectantly at him. But he'd be damned if he joined this display before Mellie got here. He was doing this for her, damn it, and…

There she was.

She'd drawn a cloak about her head, but he knew the shape of her even in that ugly shroud. She was at the edge of the crowd, waiting for something. He took a step forward, and she turned toward him. Her face was shadowed beneath the hood, but he could feel her gaze on him. It was a heat that brought everything inside him to life. He felt a surge of emotion, an enveloping wave that said, “She's beautiful.”

He couldn't even see her face, but that word echoed though him. Her soul was so beautiful that he couldn't stop until he had her. Even if it meant fighting her giant of a cousin, a turkey, and…well, whatever Mr. Rausch was. He would fight for her until his dying breath.

“Steady on, mate.” An arm gripped his elbow.

He frowned at the duke. “What?”

“You were swaying. Are you all right?”

Swaying? “I'm fine.” He took a step forward and felt as if the ground had turned to sea. He gripped his quarterstaff, using it to keep himself upright. What was wrong with him?

Two more steps had him listing like a drunk. No. Oh no. He needed only another breath to realize the truth. Brant. “For strength, my ass,” he spat.

“What?”

“I've been drugged,” he muttered. “I'm going to kill him.”

“You can't fight, then. Damnation, you can barely stand.”

Then he saw Mellie move. Or perhaps that was
him
moving and her standing still. He couldn't tell. She tossed off that ugly cloak—good—and shook out her hair. It was tied back in a simple braid, but that was all that was simple about her.