A Duke of Her Own

Page 12

“I don’t care even to cross my sword with a whoreson like yourself,” the Frenchman said. “To contaminate my blade jousting with a bastard. I, who jousted with His Grace the Duke of Rutland only last week? You don’t need to learn proper conduct. Blood tells, and your sort will always end in the gutter.”
Tobias didn’t give a fig about insults to himself, but “whoreson” was different. Naffi was saying something about his mother. He never thought all that much about his mother until he met the gilded, glittering duke. Then he realized that it wasn’t her fault, what had happened to him. It was the duke’s fault.
“If blood is a reliable guide to conduct, it would explain your father’s horns,” he said, spacing the words so that Naffi would understand.
It took a moment for his insult to sink in. Then the Frenchman’s voice rose. “You impudent little goat! You dare imply my maman—” His voice broke off as he unexpectedly shot forward, like a cork from a bottle.
Tobias jumped to the side just in time as Naffi bashed against the wall and rebounded, his nose gushing startlingly red blood.
Ashmole, Villiers’s ancient butler, grinned at Tobias. In his right hand he held a large golden staff with a huge knob, with which he had apparently jabbed Naffi in the back. The Frenchman lurched around, clutching his nose with one hand and screaming incoherently.
“That’ll teach you to insult the young master,” Ashmole said, his voice cracking only once.
Blood was splattered down Naffi’s white shirt. “How dare you lay a hand on me, you disgusting imbécile!” he shrieked.
Tobias began to laugh, when he suddenly realized that Naffi still had a rapier in his right hand, and that if the man would hesitate to assault a son of the house—even a bastard—he would feel no such compunction about a servant.
“I’ll teach you to touch your betters!” Naffi snarled, bringing his blade up.
“Stop!” Tobias cried.
But the Frenchman was already poking the old butler hard in the chest, prodding him with the button-covered tip of the rapier. His lips curled happily, and Tobias could see that he was enjoying Ashmole’s squawking protests and the way the old man stumbled back each time he was struck.
Villiers had left his rapier on the bench, and Tobias picked it up.
Naffi swung to face him, uttering his horsey laugh. “You dare to face me with a sword? Moi, the great Naffi? The man whom even the Duke of Villiers begs to train him?”
“That duke beat you twice this morning,” Tobias observed.
“I could slash you,” Naffi hissed. “Such a regrettable accident. Yes, I think that’s what I’ll do. A little slash to the face that will mark you as the gutter rat you really are.”
Naffi had spittle around his lips, which made Tobias feel faintly nauseated. He tossed the rapier to the ground between them. The man broke into that donkeylike laughter again, throwing his head back so his chin pointed to the ceiling. “So you’re not so stupid but that you—”
Tobias snatched the staff from Ashmole’s hand and slammed its large knob under Naffi’s chin. The man fell straight backward without a word.
The thump echoed in the empty ballroom. “I doubt you kilt him,” Ashmole said. He prodded the man with his toe. Naffi made a snorting noise but his eyes stayed shut.
“Unlikely,” Tobias agreed. He picked up the duke’s rapier and twisted the button off its tip. It was sharp as a needle’s point.
“Are you going to kill him now?” Ashmole inquired. He didn’t sound terribly scandalized. “It’ll make a terrible mess.”
Tobias put the rapier in position and brought it carefully straight down. “Absolutely not.”
Ashmole cursed and jumped back. “You’re set to ruin the polish on my floor.”
“No.” Tobias was concentrating. The rapier was heavy, and employing it as precisely as a knife took all his attention.
Ashmole peered over his shoulder. “No blood.”
“Of course not.”
“You’re putting a cut in his coat? What’s the good of that?”
Tobias looked at him incredulously. “Have you been wearing the duke’s getup your whole life? This fool is wearing all his money on his body.”
Ashmole cackled. “Not anymore.”
They both looked down at the floor. Naffi’s mouth hung open; he was breathing heavily through it. His brocaded waistcoat was now vented like an apple pie.
Ashmole raised an eyebrow. “Yer leaving him with his breeches, lad?”
Tobias raised the rapier again.
“Careful around them jewels of his,” the butler commanded. “Wouldn’t want to be responsible for changing him from a rooster to a hen.”
Tobias cut a slice down the right leg of Naffi’s pantaloons.
“I’ll get one of the footmen in here to drag off the riffraff,” Ashmole said with palpable satisfaction. “He won’t wake up for a while, from the look of him.”
“A blow beneath the chin can put a man out for hours,” Tobias said. He was wiping the duke’s rapier carefully. “This blade might have been slightly dulled by slicing that brocade. Perhaps you should have it sharpened.”
“Frosty, that’s what you are,” Ashmole said. “You’re yer father’s son all right.”
“The duke is leaving in a few days for Kent,” Tobias said.
“He’s got to follow up on them twins,” Ashmole said. “Not that we need more brats around this house.” He started rubbing his chest. “I’ll have bruises tonight, so I will, thanks to that French varmint. The duke’ll never take you with him. You stay at home with the little girl. It’s sweet the way she’s taken to you.”
“What time of day does he usually call for his carriage?”
Ashmole peered at him. “Think you’ll beg him to take you?”
“I never beg,” Tobias stated.
“Father’s son,” Ashmole cackled. “Father’s son. He’s prone to leaving early, for him. He’s not one to see the sun rise. Likely around ten of the clock. So you can make your case, but I wouldn’t hold your breath. He’s like you, if you see what I mean. Not going to take you up just out of the goodness of his heart.”
Chapter Six
London residence of the Duke of Montague
Same day
“We’ll pack all your best gowns,” the duchess announced at luncheon. “And your riding habit. It is the country, and one must make the effort, I suppose. But not that trimmed habit you were wearing in the park last week. Trimming suddenly looks rather tawdry.”
“Plain is best,” Anne agreed. “Lady Festle wore such a cunning riding habit the other day. It had a waistcoat of ribbed white dimity…”
Eleanor wasn’t listening, which didn’t matter, as her mother didn’t consider conversation to be an occasion for interaction. Her sister Anne had appeared that morning in a costume that Eleanor would never have dreamed of ordering: a close-fitting coat of sky-blue taffety with a low neckline. It flared into folds at her hips, with a short petticoat of white linen underneath. In short, Madam Bouchon looked like the dashing and delectable young matron she was.