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“I ... certainly do not accept,” Amy murmured hopelessly. Her wishes no longer mattered. She was ruined. Lost. Doomed.

“Nick, my mother just had the wallpaper redone,” Markham advised. A bon mot Amy didn’t understand. Until Clarendel’s fist slammed into Darby’s face.

Amy gasped, throwing her hands out to catch herself as Darby dropped her. Her knees took the impact. Darby fell against a bookshelf, knocking a pair of heavy tomes to the ground. He staggered and kept his feet, fists raised to retaliate. Clarendel’s next blow connected with Darby’s stomach. The heavier man doubled over, choking.

Amy scrambled up and hurried behind Markham, watching the display with gratitude and horror as Clarendel fell on Darby like one of her father’s hounds spotting a bloodied rabbit.

“A—Are you ... really worried about the wallpaper?” She cursed herself, realizing the question was a stupid one.

“I never jest about my mother’s regard for her interiors,” Markham replied while Clarendel’s next strike sent Darby to the ground.

Shaking her head, Amy tried again: “Aren’t you going to stop them? He could kill him.”

“Would you mind?” Markham asked, as if two men weren’t destroying his family’s library. Or at least one was destroying it on account of the second slamming his head into the arm of the scholar’s chair. Among other things.

“I, um, I should hate for Lord Clarendel to get in trouble over a man like Darby.” She risked meeting Markham’s gaze and saw his grin return.

“Oh, don’t worry about that. Darby doesn’t have the stones to face Nick in a duel. He’ll keep his fat mouth shut.” Markham picked up the decanter. “Care for some brandy before it gets spilled?” He paused. “Purely medicinal. You’ve had quite a fright.”

Another crack of knuckles against flesh. It was a nice change, in a way. For somebody else to be on the receiving end of a beating. Especially since he deserved it. “Perhaps a little.”

Markham handed over the decanter. “Take whatever you need. I’ll only be a moment.” Amy balked, taking over what she now realized was a fabulously expensive antique. Markham marched into the chaos without any such concern. He caught Clarendel’s right arm mid-windup and whispered something Amy couldn’t hear.

Clarendel sighed, glancing back at Amy for God knew what reason. He bore the expression of a cat showing off its latest catch. Right before he knocked Darby’s head into a stout oak table leg. Darby slumped. Motionless. Amy suspected one of his teeth might’ve skittered across the floor. She didn’t investigate.

“A pity your mother’s so fussy about ruining the furniture, Tom,” Clarendel said before gaining his feet and dusting off his pants.

“I assure you, should I inherit, you’re welcome to break every matchstick you wish over whatever idiot crosses you,” Markham replied. “So long as it isn’t my skull.”

For some reason, this made both men laugh.

Amy poured herself a generous glass of brandy. Oak-tinged hellfire burned across her palate and down her throat, leaving a faint vanilla note. She grimaced but tilted her head back and finished the rest. She set the tumbler down, doing her best to ignore the intensity of Clarendel’s sky-blue eyes.

Clearing her still-burning throat, she said, “The furniture does look finely made.”

She didn’t know what else to say. They acted as though battering a man and leaving him on the floor was a matter of course. How Clarendel’s knuckles weren’t bleeding was—“Your hand!” Amy forgot Darby and Markham, and in an instant, she stood in front of Clarendel, reaching for his busted right hand. His knuckles were already bruising, and the second dripped blood down his finger.

“It’s nothing.” Clarendel flexed his ragged fingers. “His skull wasn’t that hard.”

“Oh, let her fuss. You saved her from the dragon. Now’s not the time to reveal you’re a hulking ogre.” Markham sprawled into one of the chairs.

“What are you doing?” She turned her attention to Markham. “I need rum unless you want me to use the brandy instead. And, hm...”

She looked around until her eyes landed on Darby, who was snoring. Or snorting? Probably something to do with his bloody nose. Better than dead, she thought as she bent and grabbed his cravat. She unfastened the diamond pin with deliberate disdain and yanked the strip of linen off his unworthy neck. His valet had to be around somewhere with spares anyway, considering Darby’s drinking binge.

“To hell with the rum.” Clarendel was beside her, his expression dark as thunder. “We have a worse problem. You’re limping,” he clarified to her confused stare.

“She fell. But if he’s as foxed as he seems, that might not have been the first fall,” Markham answered, his expression strangely intent.

“Damn. Come here.” Clarendel’s large hand caught her upper arm—not painfully, but certainly not allowing her any demurrals—and, in some heretofore unknown physics, Amy found herself in his arms, still holding Darby’s spotless cravat. The linen strip trailed behind them as Clarendel settled her onto the chaise by Markham. “I hate to ask, Miss Sunderland, but would you mind showing whatever’s causing the pain? If we can address it now, we will be better off. Otherwise, we shall have to fetch your chaperone. And with your father here, it might be better to—”

“No!” She intended to refuse. It wasn’t proper to do what he asked, but it meant keeping her father in the dark about all of this. If he discovered what happened, Darby wouldn’t be the only one going to bed with bruises. “I—I ... um. It is nothing to worry over,” she insisted, swallowing hard. It didn’t help. Her throat stayed dry. “I’ll be mindful and keep myself from limping. I didn’t even notice ... Please. Don’t...”

Markham coughed. “Miss Sunderland, you left the ballroom, graceful as any nymph. And you’ll be returning a while later from parts unknown, creaking like one of Old Nelson’s ships. Let Clarendel see what he can do. He’s had enough experience getting his soldiers through a march.”

Clarendel caught her hand in a gentle grip, and she stared uncomprehendingly as he towered over her. “Tom can perform the same services if he’s less intimidating. But this is about your reputation. Darby’s a wretched sot, and nobody should suffer for it but him.”

Amy wanted to assure the men she’d had worse and knew how to hide it when she had to. But she hadn’t even seen her state. Her hair was probably a mess, and her dress more wrinkled. God, what if it’s torn? Father will turn the horse whip on me...