“I would prefer you did not.” Ives objected mildly, with some chagrin. “Our brother desires to go out tonight. I cannot prevent it. However, I would like some help with him, if you do not mind.”
Right now he would probably throw himself in the way of a musket ball for Lance. He immediately recalculated his schedule to allow for sleeping in tomorrow. “I don’t mind. A night on the town with Lance is never boring.”
“Yes, well, I regret to say our goal is to make it very boring indeed.”
***
Boring meant gambling in halls favored by the wellborn, instead of one of the democratic halls Lance preferred. Ives put his foot down when it came time to choose, because Lance’s favorite venues almost always featured one or two bouts of fisticuffs among their denizens, which Lance had a weakness for joining.
At midnight, Ives and Gareth found themselves watching Lance bid higher and higher at the faro table. Patrons who had already lost too much watched too. A thick crowd had formed.
“He is being deliberately reckless,” Ives muttered.
“He can afford it now, I assume.”
“No one can afford it unless they win most of the time,” Ives said.
Lance did win this time. He did not notice the buzz of talk that created. Behind him, Gareth heard one comment most clearly. “He looks calm for a man who probably did a murder. Of course, so did the French on their way to the guillotine. Blood will show, no matter what, eh?”
A few masculine chuckles responded.
Gareth glanced sideways to see if Ives had heard. Regrettably, he had, if his hard jawline meant anything. He looked down to see Ives’s fist clenching.
That was the problem with Ives. He talked like a lawyer and thought like a lawyer, and he appeared eminently sensible and even-tempered—but when angered, he often threw the first punch.
“They are in their cups. Ignore them,” Gareth muttered.
“Can’t do that. Can’t let such talk stand. One more word and—”
“Poison it is said,” that man’s voice said. “A woman’s weapon. I always said he was all talk.”
Ives pivoted and pushed through the knot of bodies to the voice.
Gareth followed. He found himself facing Lord Kniveton. He knew the viscount well, although they had never been introduced.
“Speak ill of my brother, and you will answer to me,” Ives said.
Kniveton thought that very funny. “What are you going to do? Thrash me with a stack of briefs?”
“I am more inclined to meet you on the field of honor than in a court of law.”
Kniveton paused just enough to show he was worried he had started down a bad path. Then he sneered. “It would be a shame to kill you when it is your brother I’d like to see dead.”
Ives moved so fast Gareth almost did not grab him in time. He clung to Ives’s arm so he could not follow through with his fist. “Do not let him goad you, Ives. Kniveton is only slandering Lance because he mistakenly thinks Lance fucked his wife. He extracts a coward’s revenge, nothing more.”
“Who in hell are you?” Kniveton bellowed, drawing attention from the closest in the crowd.
“I’m the bastard brother.”
“Ah, yes, I have heard aboutyou. Well, bastard, I don’t think he made free with my wife, Iknow, and I’ll be the first to vote his conviction when the lords try him.”
“Your desire to harm his name and person is misplaced. He did not cuckold you.”
“I know he did.”
“You are wrong.”
“The hell I am. I found a letter she wrote to him. Hemingford, she addressed him.”
