“I, uh, don’t have any.”
Blackstone bared his teeth. “Then get one. Tomorrow. Hyde Park, at dawn. I will make mincemeat out of you, insolent pup.” He narrowed his eyes. “And if you don’t show up, I will send my men after you, Pen Kumari. Mark my words. I will remember your face and find you.”
Pennington eyed her dubiously. “Do you even know how to hold a pistol, boy?”
Pen smiled contemptuously. “I’m a prime shot. I’ve killed tigers in India with a single shot.”
“Did you hear that, Blackstone? That makes things rather interesting. Should we place a bet?” Forsyth was eager to get the betting book.
“Pah. Tigers.” Blackstone threw Pen a scathing look before drawing aside Pennington. “Just because he can kill tigers in the jungle doesn’t mean he can hold himself up in a duel, can he?”
“But tigers, man. Tigers! They’re devilishly ferocious…”
The men left the room.
Pen collapsed in her chair.
Zounds.
Not two days in London, and she’d managed to knock out a Corinthian, squabble with the doorman of White’s and call out a lord for insulting her friend Lucy.
Pen gulped.
Then she finished her drink and cracked her knuckles. She ought to be proud of herself. Her initiation into the world of men had certainly started out well.
