Anthony kicked his leg back, at just the right angle, his heel smashed into Bonneville’s kneecap with the same thrust he’d use to kick down a stall door. He felt the crack through his boot. Rachel turned and Anthony followed her line of sight, shrugging with innocence. Bonneville was down. In misery. Punch stained his orange en chenille frock coat, breeches, and splattered his cadaverous face. An improvement.
Rachel blinked. “Did you do that on purpose?”
“Do what?”
“Trip him.”
“He fell, merely a gravitational force. The punch adds color to his complexion don’t you think?”
Her smile made his spirits soar.
“I’m glad you did. I was thinking more of Newton’s impulse of force, if extracted and found to be equal to the change in momentum of an object provided the mass is constant. Do we concur that Sir Bonneville’s mass is constant?”
Smart girl. They rejoined the Duke of Banfield and Humphrey. A flurry of servants fled down the hall in the direction of the library. The wailing Sir Bonneville had been discovered. No need for any questions. Anthony would deny they were in the library and the Banfield’s would back him up—an unwritten code between neighbors who lived side by side for four centuries.
Humphrey grimaced. “Gossip at the ball claims Lord Ward is not going to quit.”
As if on cue, Lord Ward and his wife appeared. “Humphrey’s right, I’m not quitting.”
Anthony scoffed. “Not quitting? You never started. No doubt you’ll dazzle us with parlor tricks, hanging orphans from the ceiling and charging them with electricity or shocking dead cats to jump.”
Lady Ward worked her fan with the passion of a blacksmith on his bellows. A woman in her thirties, she was beautiful in a hard and glittering manner, except for her ridiculous pouf hairstyle. Indeed, an architectural feat, erected with scaffolding of wire and gauze and covered with fake hair set with flour and lard, and then topped with ostrich feathers. Built so high that Anthony considered how it might interrupt bird migration patterns. He was glad Rachel did not adopt the high powdered fashion and kept the rich glow of her chestnut hair.
“Miss Thorne, I understand you are a Colonial?” Lady Ward’s purr was a subtle intimation, connecting Rachel to what was considered the rude and democratic tide that had swept over the Colonies.
“From Boston,” Lord Banfield answered for Rachel. “I take your pettiness as a personal affront.”
Undeterred, Lady Ward smacked her lips. “Any relation to Captain Thorne?”
“A very distant relation.” Anthony cut in, blunt to the point of insult. He would nip Lady Ward’s wagging tongue before it had occasion to start.
“But a patriot, everyone must assume.” Lady Ward dipped a patronizing smile with the same predatory relish that a vulture shredded carrion with its beak.
Rachel needed his protection, vulnerable to the subtleties of Lady Ward whose personal mission was to vulgarly flaunt her rank and socially destroy those she considered inferiors.
“Must be terrible without civilization, all savages and wigwams.” Lady Ward’s ostrich feathers fanned a breeze over Anthony’s heated face.
Rachel cranked her neck to peer at the towering mass of Lady Ward’s hair that dwarfed her husband by two feet. “We ill-bred Colonials have a saying that a donkey looks into the mirror and wonders at the charm of her own reflection.”
Lady Ward inhaled, her ostrich feathers trembling.
Anthony smirked. The Yank could take care of herself.
The Duke of Banfield stomped his cane unable to contain his chortle. Lady Ward glared at him then pivoted her attention to Anthony. “How are your experiments?”
Rachel’s lips took on a mutinous tilt. “Lord Anthony is soon to unveil something so spectacular it will set the world on end.”
Lord Ward took a pinch of snuff. “You are young, Miss Thorne. How tragic.”
“Are you sure a flower pot did not fall on your head?” Anthony scowled. The falling urn incident at the Chelmsford lay fresh in his mind.
Lord Ward narrowed his eyes. “So glad the pot missed you, Lord Anthony. Of this I am most sincere.”
Anthony took a step toward Lord Ward. “I have learned a little sincerity is a dangerous thing. A great deal of it is absolutely fatal.”
“Ah. Well. We must not monopolize your time.” They bowed and drew back. “Magnificent ball.”
Lord Banfield laid a detaining hand on Anthony’s shoulder. “Cowards make the best bullies. They understand fear and know how to use it. Don’t waste your time.”
