Race felt tight as a new drum, but the old man was having the time of his life. Race should just walk away and leave the old codger to clean up his own mess. But Race couldn’t do that. He had too much respect for Gibby to leave him on his own.
“I don’t know how to box,” Prattle said again in a desperate, high-pitched voice.
“In that case, I’ll go easy on you and make it fair. I’ll give you a month to train.” Gibby turned to the crowd and with a wide smile on his face said, “What do you say, ladies and gentlemen? Do you think I should meet Mr. Prattle here in the park one month from today at midday?”
“Yes!” the crowd roared.
“Then it’s settled. All of you are invited, and bring all your friends, too.”
The crowd erupted with more cheers and chants of “Fight! Fight!”
Race felt like he was watching a madcap play at the Lyceum. He’d never felt so helpless.
He looked over at the duchess, who was moving closer to Gibby. “Sir Randolph,” she said, “you are not helping yourself in this matter. Perhaps you should listen to Lord Raceworth. He has the best plan to help you with this unfortunate turn of events.”
Gibby smiled and tipped his hat to her. “I can’t stop it, Your Grace. The man challenged me and I have to accept. My honor demands I fight him.”
Race moved to stand between Gibby and Prattle, and in a low voice sternly asked, “Did you do anything to his sister?”
“I’ve said all I’m going to say on the subject,” he said and then set his lips in a firm line.
Race exhaled slowly. He looked at the fellows holding Prattle and said, “Will you men see that Mr. Prattle gets home?”
“Yes, my lord,” the men said in unison, and they walked off with Prattle still muttering that he wanted to use pistols.
Gibby smiled and waved to the jubilant crowd as they dispersed.
“You can’t be serious about any of this, Gib. Prattle looks to be at least ten years younger than you.”
Gibby looked from the duchess to Race. “How old do you think I am?”
“I don’t know,” Race muttered. “Mid-seventies, I guess?”
“Oh, he cannot be that old, Lord Raceworth,” the duchess said. “See how strong and fit he is. And he hasn’t even started to lose his hair yet.”
“What does it matter? My only point is that he is too old to box with anyone.”
Gibby smiled at Her Grace. “You’re right, Duchess. I’m not as old as he thinks.” He then turned to Race and frowned. “I’m sixty-six, and by the looks of him, I’d say Prattle isn’t much younger. The problem is that you don’t think I can beat him, do you?”
“Of course I do.” Race swept his hat off his head and ran a hand through his hair. “I mean, no, because I don’t want you to even try.”
The duchess smiled affectionately at Gibby and said, “Sir Randolph, you look much younger than sixty-six.”
He grinned. “Thank you, Your Grace.”
“Now you’re the one not helping, Duchess,” Race said in an exasperated voice.
“Oh, sorry.”
She gave him a sheepish smile, and Race felt his heart trip. Damn, she was beautiful. Her parasol had dropped to the back of her shoulders. A gentle breeze danced through curls free of her bonnet. There was wonder in her eyes. Sunshine fell across her beautiful face in a way that made him want to pull her to him and kiss her. Even with all the folly happening around him, he wanted to taste her lips and feel the weight of her breasts in his hands.
He shook his head and half laughed to himself. The desire he was feeling right now wasn’t appropriate for where they were, so he willed his mind back to the matter at hand.
“What are we doing talking about age? Blast it, Gib, all that matters is that you are too old to be fighting anyone.”
“You are worrying too much about this, Race. I’m going to be fine.”
Race sighed. “I’m going to take the duchess home, and then I’m going to see what I can do to stop this madness before it goes any further. There will be no duel with fists or anything else if I have anything to say about this.”
