Gwen follows after, no longer concerned with their plan. Lord Ashmond’s just pushed Bobby into Albie, and the boys are building up toward fisticuffs. She has to stop this.
She takes another step forward only for a hand to close over her wrist.
“Don’t.” Gwen turns, surprised, and Lady Demeroven slides her hand up to take Gwen’s arm. “You don’t want a black eye, and none of them can take the scandal of accidentally knocking you one,” she says lowly.
Beth steps up on her other side. Gwen glances at her, both of them wide-eyed. It takes her a moment before she turns to Lady Demeroven.
“Should you be standing with me?” she asks, too anxious and overwhelmed to find a subtler way to ask.
“Your father is about to defend your cousins from that clod. No one will blame me for watching over you in his stead right now.”
She gives Gwen a tight smile, though Gwen can feel the tension in her frame from the vise of her arm.
“Okay,” Gwen whispers.
Beth takes her other hand, the tangle of their fingers hidden by their bumping skirts.
“What possessed Bobby?” she asks as they watch Lord Ashmond’s friends trying to step between the boys and Lord Ashmond.
Father’s visibly restraining Albie, who’s yelling obscenities that Lord Ashmond is spitting right back.
“Walk it off, Lord Ashmond,” Father shouts as he wrestlesAlbie behind himself and steps up, wrapping an arm around Bobby’s torso to hold him back. “Your son will be in another race in minutes, we’ll return to our tents, let calmer heads prevail.”
“So you can keep bribing honorable men into your heathen schemes? I think not,” Lord Ashmond shoots back, pressing forward.
Father sidesteps and pushes Bobby out of the way. Gwen gasps as he and Lord Ashmond press chest to chest. With Father, it’s an even match.
“Your mangy nephews have no business here,” Lord Ashmond spits.
“They’ve as much right as anyone. It’s you who’s turned a sporting bet into a fight.”
Gwen watches in horror as Albie pulls Bobby back. Lord Ashmond’s men—others from the House of Lords—encircle Father and Lord Ashmond.
“He’s going to end up on the floor,” Lady Demeroven mutters.
Gwen bristles. “Father can handle himself.”
“Lord Ashmond,” Lady Demeroven clarifies. “Your father has a mean left—”
CRACK. Father throws a punch that spins Lord Ashmond into the chairs, sending him toppling headfirst into the grass. Lady Ashmond shrieks in dismay. Bobby and Albie rush back in to restrain Father as the other Lords gape.
“Go back to your betting,” Father spits out as Lady Ashmond attempts to help her husband up.
But he doesn’t need the help. In a blink, Lord Ashmond has risen from the chairs and launched himself at Father. The two go down in a flurry of fists and linens, rolling on the grasslike two common urchins. Both sides hurry to try to pry them apart. Beth squeezes Gwen’s hand so hard it hurts and Lady Demeroven holds her back when Gwen goes to surge forward.
This is her fault. He’s in this fight because of her. She has to stop it—
The Lords manage to pull Lord Ashmond off Father, but not before they each get one more punch in. Lord Ashmond clutches at his jaw as the men force him away, his wife caterwauling after them. Bobby and Albie help Father off the ground and everything goes quiet.
She can distantly see another race underway, knows the commoners on the river have been watching, can almost hear their own tent tittering. The Ashmond tent has entirely cleared out. She doesn’t know where they’ve taken Lord Ashmond, but she hopes it’s somewhere to be doused in cold water, the lout.
“Father,” Gwen exclaims.
Lady Demeroven finally loosens her grip and Gwen rushes forward, dragging Beth with her. Father turns and regards them, squinting. His white suit is stained green, and she can tell he’ll have a livid bruise and swollen eye tomorrow, but otherwise he looks remarkably unscathed.
“You always could take a punch,” Lady Demeroven says. She comes up behind Gwen, placing a hand on her waist.
Father rolls his eyes, testing his jaw and brushing off Albie’s supportive arm. “And you always could pick the rottenest of the bunch,” he returns.
