Edith Layton by The Chance Page A

his wake, annoyed him. But they weren’t dangerous. What he overheard as he left the room was.
    Two drunken bucks were waiting in the hall for their hats when they saw Rafe come to collect his. They’d gamed in the back room, and drunk even more than they’d gambled. Now they were weaving out of the club to look for better sport. They found it.
    “I say!” one said loudly. “There’s Dalton. Can’t be another with that flaming head. He’s the ginger-top who took down ol’ Dearborne! Good show!”
    “Good show? I s’pose.” the other sneered. “But futile, in my humble ’pinion. A fellow’s a fool to fight over a slut’s good name. She’ll only dip it in the dirt a’gain, mark my words. She must have been dicked in the nob as well as being a whore. Imagine…tryin’ to cut the beauteous Annabelle out! Took off her clothes, did she? Ho! The creature could have shucked down to her bones and she wouldn’t have a chance of showing up the fair Annabelle!”
    Rafe’s head shot up.
    His friend rolled his eyes. “Ignore them,” Hazelton said.
    But Rafe had already stalked over to the pair. “Iwould not repeat that,” he told them in a deadly soft voice. “One, it’s not true. Two, it makes me very angry to hear untruths.”
    “Oh, goin’ to fight me too?” the heavier of the two asked with a smarmy smile. “Well, sorry, m’lord. I’m a better man than Dearborne in every way. If you want to test me, do it.” He started unbuttoning his jacket.
    “Gentlemen,” Hazelton said, “this can be resolved in neater fashion at a later date.”
    “Nothing neater than my right fist,” the man said as he flung off his jacket. He rolled up his sleeves and assumed a stance, two fists raised. “Let’s settle it here and now. Or do you need a day to get your courage up?”
    “No need,” Rafe said with resignation. “I don’t want to brawl,” he said over his shoulder to his friend, “but I can’t let this go on. There’s already talk. Maybe this will put an end to it.” He put up his fists.
    The other man made a feint toward him. Rafe danced back, but kept his eyes on him, measuring his face, his pose, his reach.
    “I didn’t invite you to the waltz,” the man jeered.
    Rafe nodded. Then his fist shot forward. The sound of it connecting with the man’s jaw was loud as a pistol shot. The sound the fellow made when he hit the marble floor was worse.
    “I’ve just discovered something else,” Rafe told Hazelton through clenched teeth as he took his hat from a frozen faced footman. “A man can’t die of pain, no matter how he may want to. Damme,” hesaid, as he tried to flex his shoulder, “I don’t know if I can survive this Season.”
    “Or if any of the gossips will,” his friend sighed.
     
    The coach rattled on down the long, rutted road to Shropshire. Brenna looked out the dusty window. Shadows were making the hedgerows turn purple and brown, the fields beyond them growing misty lavender with oncoming night.
    She glanced into the corner of the dim coach. Her brother lay back against the leather squabs. She knew he wasn’t sleeping. She’d seen him shift his long frame a few too many times in the past half hour. “We have to stop now,” she said.
    He opened his eyes. “I feel fine. Let’s go on.”
    She couldn’t make out his expression, but she couldn’t hear the usual rich, deep timbre in his voice either.
    “No,” she said firmly. “You may have the constitution of an ox, my dear, but I don’t. My teeth are half rattled out of my mouth. My kidneys have made the acquaintance of my lights and liver—they’re all a jumble now. And I’d give several fortunes—if I had them—to use the convenience a lady may not mention. Please, may we stop for the night now?”
    He chuckled, low. “Witch,” he said fondly, “you know I can’t resist that. I doubt you’re even weary, or that you have to use that…convenience. Still, yes, of course, tell the coachmen we’ll