Howard sneered. “I have no apologies to make.”
“Then,” Darcy said, lifting his foil, “en garde.”
Howard did not mirror his movement. “I cannot trust a man like you to admit my hits. Fawkner will score.”
Darcy dropped his arm and rolled his eyes. “Very well. Colonel Fitzwilliam will also score.” Fitz pushed through the crowd and stepped forward.
Howard’s stare through his spectacles was murderous. “He has wagered on you.”
Darcy shrugged. “As Fawkner had wagered on you. If you are seeking a disinterested party, you are in the wrong place.” There was some hooting among the men, and Howard’s face reddened. “Are we through with these petty games?”
A muscle in Howard’s cheek twitched. “Very well. To three points?”
Darcy nodded.
The men moved into their positions, and each lifted his foil. The spectators quieted. Darcy’s focus narrowed until Howard was all he saw.
They began.
Howard stepped to the right. One, two . . . he lunged.
Darcy parried with a flick of his wrist. The noise was back, increasing in pitch and drowning out the clink of metal on metal. It did not matter, for Darcy heard none of it. He simply watched Howard retreat and begin to circle in a demi-volte.
Howard advanced, then retreated quickly, attempting to lure Darcy into a lunge of his own. Darcy simply waited and watched, moving defensively, awaiting the right moment. Howard made a pass on the outside. Again, Darcy parried.
As Howard’s arm and foil were thrown out to the side, Darcy advanced, turned his wrist in carte, and with a quick strike, fixed his point to Howard’s right breast. The eruption of sound registered in Darcy’s mind, though it was not loud enough to pull his attention away from his adversary.
“A hit for Darcy,” called Fitz.
Fawkner glanced at Howard but nodded his agreement. It was not as though they could disagree.
Howard stepped back and away from Darcy’s foil. “Again,” he demanded.
“That is the way a match typically proceeds,” Darcy said drily. Howard scowled at the catcalls Darcy’s rejoinder produced.
Darcy had never doubted he would emerge the victor, but Howard was presenting even less of a test than he had expected. He was wild and undisciplined, which did not fit the man Darcy had once known. A younger sister’s ruin could account for Howard’s change in behavior, but this sort of sober madness was inexplicable and, as Fitz had warned, dangerous. Had Georgiana not been saved, Darcy would have been distraught, but he did not believe he would have allowed it to undo him.
Howard came at him with no grace and little strategy, his attempt to thrust under Darcy’s wrist easily parried. The man retreated, and Darcy had ample time to analyze each vulnerable area. His opponent must have understood what Darcy was doing, for he launched into a series of advances so quick that Darcy retreated, parried, retreated, parried, and at last found himself with no additional room to step back. He lifted his foil to block a high strike, then, anticipating a finishing thrust, stepped nimbly to one side. There no longer being a body before him to stop the momentum, Howard flew past Darcy, the tip of his foil touching only the wall. The weapon’s blade bent as Howard’s forward motion sent him to one knee. He straightened and whirled to face his opponent, but the foil was not raised quickly enough.
From his superior height, Darcy reached out to tap Howard’s chest with the tip of his foil.
“A hit!” Fitz cried.
Howard began to rise. As he straightened, he jabbed his foot out straight before him.
Darcy felt the impact of Howard’s heel against the kneecap of his planted leg, and then a fiery pain exploding as the leg snapped back. He released his foil and dropped to the ground, instinctively wrapping his hands around his knee and drawing it to his chest.
“If you cannot finish the match,” Howard said with a smirk, “you have forfeited.”
“Those are the rules,” Fawkner insisted, stepping to Howard’s side.
“Those are not the rules, you ivory-tuners,” Fitz growled. “You are not allowed to kick at your opponent like an unruly child. You must instead face Darcy’s second.” He shoved Howard back amidst a growing cacophony of hoots and hisses. “That would be me.”
The pain in Darcy’s knee subsided but did not vanish. He sat slowly. As he glanced around the room, he realized that Howard had already been defeated. The man had been rather isolated at the club, but now he had even lost those who had been sympathetic.
“Fitz,” Darcy said, a sort of eerie calm suffusing him. “Leave him to me.”
His cousin turned. “Are you able to continue?”