50 Ways to Ruin a Rake (5 page)

She sighed, the sound coming from deep within her. “Go get some sleep, Mr. Anaedsley. One can only hope that the rest will revive your brain.”

Right. She thought he was going to lose. “I will not lose a fistfight to a poet. The very idea verges on insult.”

She stood up from the settee. As he was still sprawled upon it, she looked very intimidating as she glared down at him. “You have promised to rescue me from my cousin. I shall be very cross with you if your injuries tomorrow prevent that from happening.”

“But—”

“Oh, go to bed, Trevor!” she snapped. “Perhaps in the morning you will be less of a damned fool!” And with that she swept from the room.

“Impressive woman,” he said to no one at all. “Definitely worthy of a second son. Most definitely.”

He spent the next few hours musing on her charms and enjoying his host's fine brandy. Which is why, a scant four hours later, he was squinting at the pre-dawn sky and wondering why in the devil his valet had woken him.

Allow him a few masculine amusements, but in no circumstance should you participate.

Mellie wrapped her cloak tight against the morning chill. There was no mist, thank God, but the field was wet and the cow pies pungent. She had hoped that the fight would be a quiet affair. That was the whole point of having it at dawn, wasn't it? Except it appeared that half the county had come to see the spectacle of the duke's grandson fighting one of their own. That Ronnie wasn't one of the local villagers didn't seem to matter. Ronnie had been knocking about the place since she and her father had come to live here a decade ago. That made him one of the locals, though only in respect to a fight against a lord who had never been about at all.

Ronnie stood in the center of the crowd, enjoying the attention as he pumped his arms back and forth, stamped his feet, and generally milked up all the hubbub. He kept looking to her, standing with her cloak about her face, as if searching for her approval. She wasn't going to give it, so he might as well look to the tavern maids prancing about. She'd even told him exactly that, in exactly those words, not ten minutes before when she'd tried to talk some sense into her cousin.

But the man loved the drama of an
affaire
d'honor
—apparently it was more important when spoken in French—and that made him stubborn. The fight would proceed as planned. If only the opponent would appear.

Ronnie was in the midst of his third overloud speculation on the cowardice of the aristocracy when Mr. Anaedsley appeared. He looked well turned out as he always did, but the skin beneath his eyes was shadowed, and he shot annoyed glances at the bright sunlight.

Overindulged in her father's brandy, had he? Well, it served him right. She had told him to go to bed. She had warned him of Ronnie's intention to beat him insensate. If after all that, he chose to ignore her advice, then she washed her hands of him. Except, of course, she didn't. Her belly was knotted with anxiety, and her hands gripped the edges of her cloak tight enough to poke holes in the fabric.

“Ho, ho!” Ronnie called when he spotted his opponent. “Is it a little early in the day for you? This is the time when decent folk are up and about their business.”

Loud catcalls greeted that statement, and Mellie watched Trevor wince even as he grinned with good-natured aplomb. “True enough!” he said. “I'm not one for an early day, never have been. But I'm here now. I acknowledge the grave insult I did to your person, stopping you from proposing to a woman who doesn't want you. But I was wrong, and so I am here to atone for my sin.”

“Churl!” Ronnie said, throwing his arm forward to point hard at Trevor's face. “You know nothing of us here. You are an interloper and a cad!”

Trevor clutched his chest as if wounded. “Oh sir, I cry guilty to being an interloper. But as for me not knowing women…” He turned and winked broadly at one of the more notorious bawds in the county. “On that mark, I say I am well versed.”

Good God, they were acting as if this were a performance at a theater. Even the bawd—Grace was her name—knew to blush prettily as she dropped into a curtsy. “Lawks, sir, but he does.”

There was a rush of bawdy comments after that, and Trevor played to every one of them. He acted like a bored roué, and Melinda found her teeth grinding in annoyance. Apparently, Ronnie didn't like it either as he tried to regain control of the crowd.

“Fie, sir! You speak of the base pleasures of the flesh.”

“That I do!” returned Trevor.

“But I refer to the lofty expression of love. Of man and woman in the pure state of godly adoration.”

“Oh, I adore. I assure you, I adore.”

The crowd roared at that, but Melinda felt her body tense for an entirely different reason. These two men were playing a game here. It was all a farce of fighting, of Ronnie's proposal and her godly adoration, whatever that was. They acted as if her marriage was a stage play where all the county got to watch and laugh. She hated it, and she hated both men for subjecting her to it.

So with a grunt of disgust she started to turn away. But she had forgotten that everyone here knew who she was. She was covered in a cloak, but that did nothing to hide her identity among people who had known her for half her life. The minute she turned away, she found the path blocked. No one wished for her to leave, and it took only a moment's commotion to attract Ronnie's attention.

“My fair darling, pray don't abandon me in my hour of triumph!”

She gave up trying to push between the baker's wife and his three daughters. So she turned around and threw back the hood of her cloak. She might as well enjoy the sun on her face while she was made a laughingstock. “You clearly have no need of me here, Ronald.”

“Nay, fair maiden, but—”

“Leave off, Ronnie. You weren't insulted by Mr. Anaedsley. You barely even have a bruise.”

“This is an
affaire
d'honor
!”

“Then I say, your honor be damned.”

There were gasps all around at her language, but she didn't care. She wasn't a lady, and she certainly wasn't someone who enjoyed this type of spectacle. Meanwhile, Trevor came up beside her.

“It's just good fun, Mellie. There's no harm in it.”

Good God, he still didn't understand! Ronnie was enjoying prancing about now, but in a few minutes, her cousin was about to bloody Trevor. And then what type of good fun would it be?

She turned to her cousin and spoke earnestly. “He's the grandson of a duke. You cannot hurt him.”

Ronnie actually grinned. “Oh, I mean to hurt him quite a lot, my love. Quite a lot.”

She bit back a curse, but it was Trevor who kept her from really speaking her mind. “Don't take this so to heart. I had meant to let him have his fun for a bit longer, but for you, I shall end it quickly now.”

“Good Lord…”

“Hush and step back. You have to trust me.” He led her to a spot beneath a tree near enough to see clearly, but far enough away so as not to interfere. Or so she presumed. And right as if this had been rehearsed, the crowd parted to keep her and the combatants in view.

Clearly Ronnie didn't like Trevor acting the gallant. But given that he never thought to escort her anywhere, Mellie hardly cared, especially as it gave him yet another public jab.

“Play the dandy all you like,” he taunted. “My lady fair will know her true heart before this morning's work is done.”

Trevor executed an elaborate bow, pitching his voice to the crowd. “If it were done when 'tis done, then 'twere well it were done quickly.” A nice touch, she thought, quoting Shakespeare's
Macbeth
, though the reference was likely lost on most everyone there. Everyone, that is, except herself and her cousin. Ronnie just grinned, apparently liking that Trevor had cast himself in the role of betrayer. That cast Ronnie in the role as the king.

“The love that follows us sometime is our trouble,” quoted Ronnie from the same play. “Which still we thank as love. Herein I teach you!” Then he took up a position in the middle of the field.

Trevor stripped off his coat and jacket, ready to set it down in the grass, but Grace stepped up. “I'll keep it nice and tight for you, me lord.”

Trevor grinned. “I have always felt safe in your arms,” he returned as he delicately set his clothing in her arms. Grace grinned while the rest of the crowd jeered. And then Mr. Anaedsley took up his position before Ronnie, his fists raised.

Except, apparently Ronnie wasn't satisfied. “A little to your left, if you would, sir.”

Trevor frowned. “What?”

“Just a step, if you would.”

Trevor's expression flattened into a grimace of distaste. “If you insist.”

“I do.”

With a resigned shrug, Trevor took the requested pace to the left and then readied his fists. The baker stepped forward and raised…good God, had he brought a cowbell? Apparently so, because he lifted it high before striking a single loud clank with a small hammer.

The crowd began to scream, Mellie felt her breath squeeze tight in her lungs, and then she watched in horror as Trevor threw his arms wide and lifted his face to her cousin. It was well timed if he intended to be flattened. Ronnie had drawn back his ham-like fists and had begun a slow but obvious blow. Even she could see it coming, and Trevor adroitly put his chin in its direct path.

She gasped, too horrified to speak. And then it happened. Ronnie's fist connected, Trevor's head snapped back and spittle went flying, and then Mr. Anaedsley, grandson to the Duke of Timby, went flying backward to land in a rather large and obvious pile of cow dung.

So that was why Ronnie wanted him to step to one side. So Trevor would land there. Of all the dishonorable, despicable—

The crowd roared and surged forward, carrying her with them, but Ronnie didn't stop. He stepped forward, dropped to one knee in the muck, and raised his fist again. Trevor was just coming back to himself, groaning as he raised a hand to his jaw. He'd barely managed to open his eyes before Ronnie grabbed him by the collar and lifted him into better striking position.

“What?” Trevor asked, but there was no time as Ronnie's fist landed again with a sickening thud.

Trevor's head snapped back, and the crowd roared its approval. Mellie saw blood splatter and smelled the stench of the offal. She was furious at Ronnie, and yet wasn't this exactly what she'd known he would do? What he'd said he would do? He was going to beat Trevor senseless, and from the way he was lifting the man up and readying his fists, that's exactly what he was about to do.

Trevor managed to rally. He raised his arms and blocked the punch as it descended. But he was slow and clumsy, obviously still reeling. At best he managed to grab hold of Ronnie's lapels and use his arms to keep his head clear of the blows. In retaliation, Ronnie grabbed his opponent's arms, gritted his teeth, and tensed his whole body. With a bestial roar, he hauled backward, lifting them both off the ground much to the crowd's approval.

They made it to their feet, both men staggering. But a moment later, they recovered, though Trevor looked a great deal worse for wear. Nevertheless, he raised his fists, though his expression was still somewhat confused.

“You have the won the bout,” he said through his bloodied mouth. “There is no need—”

Apparently, there was need because Ronnie swung again, but Trevor was prepared this time. He ducked, he weaved, and he staggered about the field while her much larger cousin pursued.

The crowd started rumbling, disgruntled that no blows were landing. Ronnie was certainly throwing them, but Trevor was lighter on his feet and managed to avoid everything.

“Hit him!” screamed Grace where she still clutched Trevor's clothing. “Show 'im what for!” The sentiment was echoed all around until Mellie actively hated them all.

Then Trevor struck. The jab was quick and drew nothing but a surprised grunt from Ronnie, but the crowd thought it wonderful, especially as he followed it with a half dozen more in rapid-fire succession.

Ronnie might have been surprised, but that didn't last. He soon started punching, each blow heavy, now with increasing speed. The fight was on in earnest, and Mellie watched in horrified fascination. Her cousin had size and power. Trevor had speed, connecting twice as many times as Ronnie. Though his blows were not as powerful, the cumulative effect was beginning to take its toll. He also had a fox's speed as he ducked and twisted all over the field.

It was after ten more agonizing minutes of this that Mellie finally began to relax. It's not that she was enjoying the fight like so many of the crowd. Far from it. But she understood finally what Trevor had been trying to tell her. It was boys fighting in the school yard. Bloody and violent, to be sure. Especially since they were grown men. But no one was likely to die or even end up needing a surgeon. The two were well matched. At least that's what she saw with her very limited experience. Which is when things went horribly awry.

Trevor stepped in a hole.

It was Ronnie's doing, she was sure of it. He probably thought himself clever, but Melinda thought him a beast for it. After all, he knew this field. Had played here as a boy. He'd no doubt arranged for other pugilist matches on this very location. He likely knew every hole, every rock, every cow pie in a quarter mile and must have maneuvered Trevor to step in exactly that spot.

Trevor cried out in surprise and pain, crumpling quickly—in part from being off balance, in part because he was ducking to avoid Ronnie's fist. Thank God he was wearing boots, otherwise his leg might have snapped in two. As it was, he was perched precariously, one leg ankle deep in mud while the crowd roared in bloodlust.

Trevor held off Ronnie as best he could, blocking blows aimed at his head. He needed enough space to regain his footing. He found it a moment later, lucky that Ronnie was a big man who tired quickly. Her cousin couldn't keep up his rain of blows for long, especially with his lungs working like great bellows. Ronnie paused, pulling back his arm for another blow, but obviously slow from exhaustion.

Trevor took that moment to wrench his leg free, but when he stepped down on it he continued to fall. Damnation, his leg had given out! He must be hurt in earnest.

Mellie saw the realization hit both men at once. Trevor grimaced in dismay, doing his best to roll with the fall. Ronnie, on the other hand, saw his moment of triumph. His lips pulled back in an ugly grin, and she knew what he intended to do.

Trevor was down. Ronnie was going to finish the fight. But he hadn't reckoned on Melinda. She'd been an unwilling participant in this whole disgusting display. Well, if her cousin wanted a Cheltenham tragedy, she would bloody well give him one.

She surged forward, having no need to fake the desperation in her voice. “Stop it! Ronnie, stop it now!” And when he didn't hear her, she said the words she'd never thought she'd utter in her entire life. “My love!”