“Of course,” Darcy replied. “Howard’s kick is only a little better than his foil.”
Fitz held out a hand to haul Darcy to his feet. Darcy tested his leg. It pained him, but it was sound. Fitz’s eyes bored into his, and Darcy offered his cousin the faintest of nods.
“I will continue,” Darcy said solemnly. He turned to stare at Howard. “And I will win, even with only one good leg.” There was a rolling murmur of approval from the spectators.
“Hit for Darcy,” shouted Fitz with a smug, satisfied air.
Fawkner glanced around the room. He did not look at Howard this time before he nodded.
Howard had damaged his blade in the fall. He returned to the far end of the room to exchange it as Darcy limped back to his position. Howard returned and held up his blade but did not leave it there for long, settling quickly back into the match.
Darcy parried another thrust, and for a moment he and Howard were stationary, pressed up close together, their blades crossed. Darcy’s eyes watched Howard’s foil as it was retracted and saw the sharp tip.
Howard was not using a practice blade.
Darcy’s temper finally flared beyond control. No one had noted the exchange, and he berated himself for not checking the weapon when Howard first brought it onto the floor. He advanced steadily in a straight line, thrust and parry, thrust and parry, until Howard could retreat no farther. The man burst forward, delivering a thrust in tierce, but it was a desperate attempt to regain a foothold. Darcy parried with the edge of his foil, forced Howard’s wrist upward, and seized the hilt of Howard’s foil, twisting it away.
“Disarm!” someone shouted.
Darcy leaned in close to speak in Howard’s ear. "You would approach my wife, frighten her half to death, on our wedding day? I was there—but you approached her.” The raucous crowd had gone silent, and his words rang clear around the room. “Now you bring an unbated blade to cut me down?” He lifted Howard’s foil and tossed his own aside.
Darcy lifted the foil, the pain in his knee forgotten. “It might have done you some good had you known what to do with it.” He stepped forward, weapon before him, as Howard shrank back.
“You should have married my sister instead of that country chit,” Howard snarled as he retreated. He stopped near the wall and tossed his arms out. “Kill me if you will. At least I know you will hang for it.”
Darcy held the sharp tip of Howard’s weapon above his heart and let it linger there. “It is your own foil, Howard. Most men would call this self-defense.” He toyed with the blade, eyeing the precise location where it might enter Howard’s heart and end this game once and for all. For a long, long moment, Darcy remained as he was, the tip of the sharp foil lightly caressing Howard’s shirt. Howard’s bravado waned. Darcy smiled.
Howard should be afraid. He should be as afraid as Elizabeth had been.
Darcy stared into the panicked eyes of his adversary, enjoying the way the man’s complexion was now devoid of color. A bead of perspiration gathered on Howard’s forehead and ran into his eye, making him blink. But Howard was in no danger from Darcy. Honor was a ruthless taskmaster. It would not allow him to kill an unarmed man. No matter if that man wished Darcy dead. No matter if had he made the attempt. Darcy scowled. “I am not going to kill you, Howard.”
Howard sagged a little in relief. But Darcy leaned in with just a bit more pressure and raised his voice. They wanted a spectacle? Devil take them, they could have one. “Though every man here knows I would be justified in running you through, I will spare you.” He paused. “But you must apologize.”
Howard held up a shaking hand. “I apologize for the insult to your wife, Darcy.” He said grimly. “And to your sister.”
“Are you truly such a fool as to provoke a man into killing you?” came a voice from behind Fitz. “An honest man whom you have attacked since the summer merely because he refused to wed your ruined sister? By the by,” he added drolly, “it was Lord Bartholomew Denham who did the deed.” Henry stepped out onto the floor.
Howard’s eyes narrowed. “That is a lie.”
Henry smiled and slowly shook his head. “I am afraid that it is not.”
Miss Howard’s fate had been spoken of for months, but not the disagreement between Darcy and Howard and not the identity of her lover. There was surprise in the hum of voices that followed the revelation.
Of course it was Henry, publishing Darcy’s private business far and wide. He wondered where his cousin had learned that Denham was Miss Howard’s lover. His mind was in turmoil, but eventually, he realized that he still had Howard pinned to the wall. Slowly, Darcy lowered the blade and Howard slid to the floor.
“Apologize properly,” Darcy said coolly.
Howard closed his eyes and spoke loudly enough for the gathered men to hear. “I apologize, Darcy.” The tension in the room eased significantly.
“You have had your fun, and you have your gossip,” Henry said, waving his arms towards the back of the hall. “Settle your business elsewhere. Everyone—out.”
The spectators filed from the room exchanging a great deal of conversation. Fitz snatched the foil from Darcy’s hand. “You nearly placed your head in a noose, Darce,” he mumbled, his complexion ashen. “Do not ever do that to me again.”
“He did no such thing, Richard,” Henry said cheerfully. “I never knew you had such theatrical flair, Darcy. I quite approve. Shall we move to a more private room?”
With a single look at an attendant, Henry procured them a room in the back of the building. Fitz yanked Howard up from the floor and shoved the man into the room as Darcy and Henry followed.
Howard seethed, crossing his arms over his chest. Fawkner had slunk out with the others, leaving him entirely alone.