Page 20 of To Defend a Damaged Duke (Regency Rossingley #2)

“Your Grace,” Tommy began in a low voice, determined to confront the chasm yet again opening up between them. “You and I. I think it best that—”

Raised voices and a commotion at the door claimed his attention.

Ashington jerked around at the fuss, then swore.

From the stiffening of the man’s shoulders and the tightening of his fingers around his brandy balloon, Tommy didn’t need to turn to know who the newcomer must be.

He didn’t need to hear the imperious, if not a little slurred, dismissal of Tommy’s footman, nor the raucous greeting of a fellow nob.

Nor the shattering of crystal as his latest unruly guest staggered against a table.

“Clumsy fool,” Lord Lyndon Fitzsimmons barked at a cowering Mickey. He cast his bleary gaze around the room until landing on his twin brother.

“Oh, God.” The duke cringed. “He’s…what if he…”

“My thoughts exactly,” Tommy murmured. “Though in this foxed state, I doubt anybody would believe a word of it.”

“That is small consolation, sir. Since your warning, I have dreaded this encounter. I have barely left my house. And now I’m petrified.” The duke bit his lip, shaking his head ashamedly. “I am a coward of the poorest rank, am I not?”

“Some might say wise.”

Another glass splintered on the floor, deliberately this time, it seemed.

“Your brother is a man of few morals, and, I fear, even fewer social graces.”

“Whoopsie!” Lyndon trilled, pleased with himself. Young Mickey had fled, so he clicked his fingers at Sidney, skulking by the window and looking murderous. “Hey, you! Man! Job for you. Over here.”

“Please excuse me a moment, Your Grace. I may have to intervene.” Tommy gritted his teeth. “Sidney does not care to be summoned like a street urchin, and he’s rather handy with his fists. A year in Newgate will do that to a man.”

Never pick a fight with a Rom, a redhead, or an Irish was Tommy’s motto.

And growing up with a father boasting the blood of all three, it had served him well.

Pale-skinned, black-eyed, and hot-minded, Sidney swore blue he’d never started a brawl, yet invariably managed to be the last man standing.

And despite being drunk as a wheelbarrow, Lord Lyndon Fitzsimmons had the same half-crazed look in his eyes that Tommy recognised far too well.

A look only matched by the one in Sidney’s, goading, tempting someone—anyone—to give him the smallest excuse for fisticuffs.

“Lyndon.” Ever the peacemaker, Lord Francis weaved through the tables towards his brother. “Jolly nice to see you.”

Perhaps, like Tommy, Francis had spotted Sidney flexing his meaty fingers. More likely, he’d recognised Lord Lyndon was spoiling for a fight and had picked the wrong opponent. “Do join us over here, nearer to the fire. Have a seat, take the weight off your feet. Thrash us at loo.”

“No.” Lord Lyndon folded his arms. “I’m going to stay here and supervise this brute as he picks up every last shard of shattered glass.”

“Good evening to you, my lord.” Smoothly, Tommy slid between Sidney and the drunk peer. The duke stood a more cautious pace behind him. “May I lead you to Lord Francis’s table?”

“No,” Lord Lyndon repeated like a spoiled, petulant child. “I’m perfectly fine here.” Turning his attention to the duke, he performed a mocking bow, nearly toppling in the process. “Your Grace. It’s…been a while.”

“Lyndon,” managed Ashington hoarsely, then stiffened as Lyndon lay his hand on his arm.

Tommy had an insane urge to swat it away. Side by side, their similarity to each other was unmistakeable. Except, as with roast chicken carved and split into two, one portion contained the breast and thigh meat, the other the scrawny wings and parson’s nose.

“How funny, Your Grace,” Lord Lyndon continued, his snide tone implying nothing of the sort.

“I was only chinwagging about you the other day. With some new acquaintances, south of the river.” He leaned closer.

“Not quality , of course.” Jerking his chin towards Sidney, he added, “More like this chap. The sort of folks who hold dinner knives like quills.”

He flicked an imaginary mote of dust from the duke’s pristine topcoat before stroking along the sleeve. “You of all people, Your Grace, should know how it is when one ventures south of the river. A grim hike but very entertaining and informative, nonetheless.”

Tommy’s stomach clenched. There was something quite odious about Lord Lyndon’s manner.

How he toyed with his brother, like a bored tomcat batting around a half-dead sparrow.

His proprietorial hold on his twin’s arm jarred even more.

Tommy hadn’t ever especially warmed to the man. Now he vehemently despised him.

Caught between his two older brothers, Lord Francis’s features held a half-amused, half-puzzled expression.

Thankfully, Sidney had taken a step back, but not so far that he couldn’t plant the sneering lord a facer or two.

By God, Tommy was sorely tempted to do it himself.

He didn’t dare look at the duke, though he sensed his breath quicken.

“May I offer you some refreshment, my lord?” Tommy persisted. “Perhaps a strong coffee might be to your taste?”

“Hmm.” Lord Lyndon studied the assembled group, pretending to contemplate. “No, thank you. Though it’s a rum thing, taste , isn’t it? For instance, how we all differ in our tastes. And our need to assuage it from time to time. Our bodily need for refreshment. Isn’t that right, Your Grace?”

“I’m afraid I don’t follow,” answered the duke stiffly. “However, Mr L’Esquire has suggested you—”

“I, for example, Your Grace, am one of the many gentlemen whose preferred taste , when the urge is upon them, is to seek horizontal refreshment by indulging in a stroll down Petticoat Lane. Whilst others, sadly, can only quench their quite peculiar thirsts with nothing more than—”

With one sharp glance from Tommy, it was all over. Before Lord Lyndon could fathom which way was up, Sidney had grabbed him by the scruff of the neck, bungled him through the salon door, and dragged him kicking and screaming along the narrow corridor.

It happened so swiftly Tommy wagered the man disappeared from the gaming room before most of the patrons even registered the scuffle at all.

Lord Lyndon wasn’t the first to be ejected for bawdiness, and he wouldn’t be the last. But he was the first Tommy had wanted to spear with a rusty switchblade.

Tommy, the duke, and Francis hurried after to find Sidney dangling Lord Lyndon over a short flight of stone steps at the rear of the property. Much like he was about to empty a chamber pot full of piss down them.

“Hey! Get your filthy mitts off me! At once! I demand it!”

Tommy peered down at him coldly. “Sidney will keep a hold on your collar until he’s tossed you into the street. This is my club, whereby we obey my rules. My lord ,” he tagged on mockingly.

At Tommy’s nod, Sidney firmly encouraged the man, yelling blue murder, down Squire’s back steps.

“You bleeding thug!” Lord Lyndon’s arse smacked every stone. “Ow! I box, I’ll have you know!”

“I daresay you do.” Sidney brushed his hands together before straightening his neckcloth. “Love a bit of boxing myself, so I do. Gentlemen’s boxing clubs are wonderful at keeping a man trim and teaching him how to win a fair fight.”

Lord Lyndon pulled himself up from the kerb, making a sly grab for Sidney’s ankle. He received a smart kick in the face for his efforts.

Blithely, Sidney carried on. “But I learned to fight in the back privy at Newgate, not at one of yer fancy clubs. And the back privy at Newgate teaches a man how to wrestle like a pig.” He tidied his waistcoat.

“And pigs like to fight dirty. So yer pretty boxing fists will be no help whatsoever ’ere. My lord .”

A great deal more dishevelled than when he first arrived, Lord Lyndon stared dazedly up from where he sat, his fine breeches covered in street filth.

“Oh, and if anyone happens to enquire, my lord,” Tommy informed him before turning to leave, “His Grace, Lord Francis Fitzsimmons and, indeed, several other gentlemen of the ton will bear witness to the fact that you were already half sprung when you arrived this evening. And a tad bad-tempered, to boot. It is not a huge stretch of the imagination to believe that you tripped and fell against a newel post on your way out.”

He turned back to where Sidney rubbed his knuckles, the duke and Lord Francis both staring at Lord Lyndon with gaping mouths. “What say you, Lord Francis?”

An agog Lord Francis eyed Sidney as if afraid he’d be next. “I’d…I’d say it’s a damned awkward place to have a newel post, sir. Anybody could have barged into it.”

“Quite. I couldn’t have phrased things better, myself, my lord.”

Tommy turned back to address a now staggering Lord Lyndon. “I’d also go so far as to suggest you nurse that shiner at home for a couple of weeks, Lord Fitzsimmons. We wouldn’t want any contradictory stories spreading, now, would we?”

*

IN AWKWARD SILENCE , the group of men retraced their steps back to Squire’s entry hall, whereupon Sidney melted away.

“Francis?” The duke sounded quite calm considering his hands were visibly shaking. “Why don’t you return to your friends? Smooth the waters somewhat. Help yourself to another drink. I’ll just…I’ll just have a quick word with Mr L’Esquire, if I may.”

Wordlessly, Tommy led him up the stairs. After closing the study door behind them, he turned the key in the lock, then marched straight to the drinks cabinet.

“Your quick thinking prevented a disaster, Tommy. I can’t thank you enough.”

“It has bought you a little time whilst his shiner goes down and his pride is restored. Nothing more.”