“Really, Pennington. Must you be such a bore? Counting curricles indeed. I have something better,” a booming voice said.
Pen sat up. There was something familiar about the voice. Where had she heard it? She peeked around the chair cautiously to catch a glimpse, then spun back and sunk lower in her chair.
Zounds, the bulky man with the red face was the corny-faced pig-widgeon! What was his name again? Lord Blackware, Blackstore. Blackstone!
He was speaking now. “Let us bet the Duchess of—who’s this starchy prick in Parliament—ah, yes, I remember—Ashmore—would you believe this, gentlemen: the Duchess has a scarlet past! Was said to be an actress before she married him. Heard it myself from an opera dancer who stood with her on stage not three years ago.”
Pen dug her fingernails into the armrest as she realised he was talking about her best friend, Lucy, the Duchess of Ashmore. She held her breath as she turned to look again.
“So the Duchess of Ashmore’s a light piece of muslin, a doxy. Once a doxy, always a doxy. Get my meaning?” Blackstone wagged his bushy eyebrows at them.
“I don’t know, Blackstone. Wouldn’t want to cross Ashmore.” The man called Pennington weighed his head back and forth. “Damn powerful man, he is. Said to love his wife.”
“You’re a bore, Pennington. If he loves her, make the stakes even higher.” Blackstone slapped his hand on the table. “Let’s bet any of us can get under her skirts within–say—give and take—two months, three? They’re all the same, actresses, doxies.” He waved a dismissive hand.
Forsyth slapped his thigh with a hooting laugh. “Aye! You do come up with the best ideas. That’s prime. Get the betting book!”
“How dare you!” Pen shot out of her seat, pale, wrath shooting out of her eyes.
“Eh?” The three men looked at her, nonplussed.
“How dare you! Insulting the Duchess of Ashmore in this lewd manner, slandering her reputation and honour. What did she ever do to harm you that you must talk about her in this utterly vile way!” Pen clenched both fists and trembled with rage.
“Who is this milksop?” asked Forsyth.
“You! I recognise you!” Blackstone wagged a fat finger at Pen.
“You know him?” Pennington, too, had risen from his chair.
“Demme, if that isn’t the insolent whelp from the East India House. Calling me vile names, even as he does now! What did you call me then? Eh?”
“Corny-faced pig-widgeon!” Pen hurled at him. “And so you are! All of you! You are no gentlemen. You are nothing but a bunch of evil bell swaggers.”
“Now look here, no one is calling me a bell swagger.” An angry flush coloured Forsyth’s cheeks.
“If you take the liberty to insult my friend, then I take the liberty to call you a bell swagger and worse.” Pen’s eyes shot lightning rods at him.
Blackstone stalked over to Pen, pushing a chair out of the way.
“Just let the greenhorn be,” Pennington muttered, placing his hand on his arm. But Blackstone shook it off.
“By my honour. This cannot go unpunished!” Blackstone’s florid face took on a shade of puce.
Pen drew herself up straight. “Honour? You speak of honour? You have none. But my friend does. And so do I!”
“How dare you!” Blackstone spluttered.
“I say, Blackstone. Do you let that insult sit? For the second time? Ought you not to demand satisfaction from that whelp?” Forsyth asked gleefully.
“A duel.” He huffed, and beads of sweat appeared on his forehead.
“Aye, a duel! I’ll be your Second.” Forsyth bent forward and lowered his voice. “You can best this milksop in a trice.”
“Can I? Very well. Very well indeed.”
“My name is Pen Kumari,” Pen said it with the haughtiest tone possible. “I accept. To defend my friend’s honour.”
“Name your Second.” Forsyth demanded.
