Juliana did not know whether it was idle anger or something boiling inside her brother, waiting to be let out, but things quickly got out of hand.
Kit climbed onto the table, heedless of the crystal, the plates, or the rather ambitious flower arrangement the staff had placed in the center. He launched himself off the edge at Cassian, who sidestepped just enough that Kit’s fist caught only air. The momentum carried Kit stumbling forward, and as Cassian moved to catch him, his elbow struck the edge of the table, sending the flower arrangement toppling sideways into Lady Hawthorne’s lap.
Then Cassian lost his balance and hit the floor, and Juliana screamed.
“Kit! Have you lost your senses? Leave him alone!”
But her brother no longer seemed to hear her.
Kit was too far gone. He threw himself down after Cassian, with the full commitment of a man who had wanted to do exactly this for years. They grappled on the floor, Kit’s legs kicking the table legs with a series of hollow thuds that rattled what remained of the crockery. A fork slid off the edge. A wine glass followed.
The Dowager Duchess cried out in outrage.
“Stop it, you two!” she screamed, bringing her fan down on the table with a crack that made everyone flinch, except the two men on the floor.
Meanwhile, Lady Hawthorne had pressed herself back against her chair, making small sounds of helplessness and clutching her reticule as though it might offer protection.
“Oh, do stop that dreadful noise, Honoria!” the Dowager Duchess snapped at her. “If you cannot be useful, at least be quiet!”
Lady Hawthorne’s chin came up. “I beg your pardon! I will not be spoken to in such a manner by some powder-faced harridan in blue silk!”
The Dowager Duchess drew herself up to her full seated height, which was considerable. “Powder-faced!” she repeated, in a tone of such icy precision that Juliana took a small, involuntary step back. “How dare you!”
What followed was the inevitable consequence of two proud women who had sat stiffly across from one another all evening, with a great deal to say and nowhere appropriate to say it. Lady Hawthorne reached for the bread basket. The Dowager Duchessseized what remained of the flower arrangement.
“Oh, I dare to do more than that!”
Lady Hawthorne threw a roll at the Dowager Duchess with considerably more force than anyone had anticipated. It struck her squarely in the coiffure, knocking a pin loose. A curl drooped over her left eye.
The Dowager Duchess looked at her.
Then she picked up the flower arrangement and threw it at her.
It was not a precise throw. Greenery landed in Kit’s wine glass. A peony hit Lady Hawthorne in the mouth. She pulled it out, set it on the table, and reached for the salt. The Dowager Duchess ducked, came back up with her spectacles askew, and reached for the butter dish.
Both women seemed to have forgotten about the two men fighting on the floor.
All Juliana could do was cover her mouth with both hands.
“It is your fault that Marta is dead!” Kit yelled at Cassian, even as the two rolled on the floor in what looked like a tiring, futile fight.
And there it was.
Cassian stopped fighting. He went still, in the way of someone who has been trained not to react, and who is now using every scrap of that training. His breathing remained even. His expression revealed nothing.
But Juliana saw his hand close slowly into a fist against the floor.
Then, with a quiet and deliberate calm that was somehow more alarming than any amount of shouting, he hit Kit square on the jaw.
Kit’s head snapped back. He rose from the floor, cradling his jaw, staggering a little, blinking as if surprised to find himself upright. He shook his head once, and then the reckless look returned to his eyes, and Juliana’s stomach dropped.
Kit’s eyes were fixed on Cassian. Something resolute and ugly passed over his face.
“This is for Marta’s death,” he muttered, drawing his arm back.
“Kit, stop! Everyone, just stop!”
The word tore out of Juliana before she had thought a single thing.
