Edith Layton by The Chance

now?”
    “You may,” Rafe said. “If you’ve lost your mind. Tell me, who did you study with? Harry?”
    Dearborne was taken aback. “Harry Angelo, yes. The greatest swordsman in England.”
    “I think even he’d dispute that,” Rafe said. “His father was the best. I studied with him at Eton when I was a boy. He was an old man then, but there was none better. I polished up that training later with his son, Henry, Harry’s brother.”
    Lord Dearborne’s high color, even reinforced by port as it was, began to fade.
    “Yes,” Rafe went on, “and Henry was superintendent of sword exercise in the army. A fellow’s arm gets rusty if he don’t keep at it, so then I kept training with a friend of mine, Henry’s other brother, Edward. A professional soldier and the army’sinstructor of the sword. Demons with swords, every one of the Angelos,” he mused. “I fenced with Harry once too. His brothers could beat him hollow.”
    “But your arm…” his friend Hazelton said anxiously.
    “Yes, your arm,” Dearborne said with regained confidence. “Surely you have to take that into account.”
    “Which arm?” Rafe asked. “I trained myself to use both. So,” he said mockingly, “arrange things with Hazelton here—or apologize. It’s up to you. Just admit you lied. As you usually do.”
    Dearborne snarled; his fist shot out. Rafe shifted his weight, dodged the blow, and countered by catching Dearborne square on the chin with a fist. As the man’s head snapped back, Rafe followed it with his fist, hitting him in the nose. A quick blow to the stomach made Dearborne grunt; another sharp rap to the head made him stagger. One more hit to the chin put him down. And out.
    Dearborne lay on the floor, groaning and bleeding copiously from his nose.
    “That was for the lady in question,” Rafe said, straightening his sleeves, “and for an old friend, and others probably too numerous to mention.” He looked down at Dearborne. “Won’t waste good shot or dull a fine blade on you. Better be on the next ship out, though, or I’ll see to the finishing touches in some other way.” He stepped over Dearborne. “I’ll pay for cleaning the carpet,” Rafe told a spellbound waiter as he walked out of the dining room.
    Hazelton strode alongside him. “He said he didn’twant to use fists, then struck without warning. But you were ready for his treachery!” he said with admiration.
    “I’m always ready for treachery,” Rafe said, grimacing.
    “Have you hurt yourself?” his friend asked worriedly, noting Rafe’s pained expression as he tried to rotate his shoulder. “I thought you said you could use either arm.”
    “I can,” Rafe said, wincing. “That doesn’t mean I should.”
     
    When Rafe went out to dinner that night, he winced again. Not because of the pain in his arm. He saw the looks he was getting. Admiration. Awe. Even envy. He tried to concentrate on his cutlet.
    “It’s the way of the world,” Hazelton laughed when he saw how Rafe hunched over his dinner plate, scowling at his blameless veal. “London’s buzzing. Dearborne’s off to the Continent with his nose in a sling and his name in the dirt. There’s not a man here who doesn’t applaud you for it. Scandal-mongering was one of Dearborne’s more endearing traits.”
    “I wish they’d forget it,” Rafe said wholeheartedly. “The sooner they do, the sooner they’ll forget the reason for it.”
    “They already have,” his friend said.
    Rafe shook his head. Part of what had saved his life in the past was knowing when there’d be troubleahead. He felt it in his aching bones now. Not for the first time, he wished Drum were there. He’d never have to explain a thing to him, and they’d worked together against bad odds before. He had a sinking feeling the business wasn’t done.
    Dinner passed easily enough. The looks Rafe got, the glad greetings from relative strangers, the way others came up to his table to greet him, the whispers in