There was one solution to his dilemma, which Eamon was certain Rudyard would not like.
“You need to be taught manners, Berridge,” Eamon said calmly. “My seconds will call on yours in the morning.”
Rudyard’s mouth popped open and some of his bravado evaporated. “Are you challenging me to a duel?” he managed. “As though you are a gentleman?”
Eamon lifted his brows. “Are you refusing?”
“I do not duel with those beneath me.” Rudyard tried to stick his nose in the air and stroll away, but he was hemmed in by the interested crowd that had formed, and he couldn’t move a step.
“I will second,” Wolfe announced beside Eamon.
“And me,” McCormick, who’d obviously deserted his game, said on Eamon’s other side.
“You are a pack of nobodies,” Rudyard scoffed.
The man who’d expressed shocked disapproval at Rudyard’s nasty comments about Caro moved to Rudyard’s shoulder. “Have a care. That’s Lord Dominick Wolfe. Hardly a nobody. And Stone’s a dead shot.”
“Name your seconds, Berridge,” Wolfe said. “And we’ll arrange the meeting. But know that if Stone decides not to waste powder on you, I’ll shoot you myself.”
Eamon warmed at Wolfe’s offer, but he continued to regard Rudyard with a firm stare.
“Of course you need your friends to fight for you,” Rudyard said nervously. “How convenient for you, Stone. I heard you were honored for your bravery at Waterloo, but that was all balderdash, wasn’t it?”
This was as close as Rudyard could come to calling Eamon a coward without actually saying the word. He must enjoy teetering on the edge.
“I suppose you will find out when we meet,” Eamon said in a mild tone. “It is bad form to continue to speak about it. I issued the challenge, and you will answer it. Our seconds will discuss it from now on.”
Eamon deliberately turned his back on Rudyard and without haste strolled away, leaving Wolfe and McCormick to close in front of Rudyard.
The Viking’s voice rose above the sudden swell of conversation. “Swine,” he bellowed at Rudyard. “How dare you call my friend a coward?”
The sound of fist meeting flesh echoed, and Rudyard grunted. Eamon reached the fray in time to see the Viking pull back his massive fist and plant another blow on Rudyard’s face. Blood streaked Rudyard’s skin, and the man cried out in pain.
The Viking took a step back, still furious, but he made no other exertion. Rudyard wiped his face, blood staining his glove.
Just as the surrounding men relaxed, deciding the brawl was finished, Rudyard launched himself at the Viking. Both Eamon and Wolfe blocked him.
“Enough,” Eamon said in a commanding tone.
Rudyard surged forward, mindless rage propelling him. He kicked Wolfe in his bad leg, and Wolfe cursed, stumbling. He managed to pound Rudyard once in the jaw before half-collapsing.
McCormick took Wolfe’s place. McCormick grinned at Rudyard, a bad sign. McCormick was at his most deadly when he smiled at his enemy.
Rudyard swung at Eamon. McCormick got in front of him, deftly intercepting the blow and returning one of his own. Rudyard snarled, spitting blood, but continued to flail.
Eamon wound an arm under Rudyard’s and around the back of his neck, locking him in a hard grip.
“Time you were gone.” Eamon half dragged, half carried Rudyard through the parting crowd and out of the game room. Rudyard’s coterie seemed to have deserted him, none coming to his aid.
The Viking and a dozen others followed, McCormick assisting Wolfe. When they reached the front hall, Rudyard struggled anew, but Eamon propelled him to the front door, with Viking and the others surging with them.
The beefy man who guarded the entrance sprang forward and opened the door.
“Not only is Berridge craven, but he owes me a packet,” the Viking boomed. “I gave him scads of cash to invest in this canal scheme of his months and months ago. He assured me it would pay out handsomely in only weeks, and others have had plenty back from him. But not me. So where is my blunt, eh?”
Rudyard, in Eamon’s headlock, could only splutter.
“I invested with him too,” another tightly angry voice came. “What have I to show for it? Not a sausage.”
