“I can and I will,” Harveston said. “Your mother holds the purse strings and I will insist on it. In any case, what would be the point of staying? I can assure you that you are out of the YBC.”
“You cannot do that either!” Chelderberry said. “You don’t run the club.”
Harveston looked at his cousin as if he were a halfwit. Roland was beginning to think that was not far off. For a wit, he was rather dense.
“Lord Darden runs the club,” Harveston said, “and you have disrespected his sister. Of course you are out. The rest of us are astute enough to realize that whatever the real story is, it has been blown out of proportion. According to my investigations, Lady Clara is at the bottom of it. She’s taken some innocent statement and turned it to something shameful. We at the YBC will stand by Lady Viola.”
“How was I to know the story was made up?” Chelderberry said petulantly.
“What you were to know,” Harveston said, “is that there is never a bad time to keep your mouth closed and your thoughts to yourself. You will go home and read some books. It will do you good, as I have found your education lacking and your judgment nonexistent.”
Harveston turned to Roland. “We are friends and I would like to keep it that way. I apologize for my cousin. He will not bother you further.”
Roland nodded, as he had no wish to take the thing any further than it had already gone. He hadn’t swung a fist at anybody since he and Markson had a ruthless fight when they were seven.
In any case, the idea that the YBC stood firmly behind Lady Viola had soothed him a little and Chelderberry would shortly be in a carriage heading out of Town. He could not think of one person who would miss the rotter. Not even his own cousin.
On the morrow, he must see Lady Viola. He must call on her. It would not be a particularly ideal time, as his right eye had swollen to an alarming degree and he was certain it looked hideous. But he must see her. He must tell her that he did not countenance the rumor going round and would box any man having the nerve to repeat it.
Arriving home, he jogged up the stairs at a fast pace. There were candles still lit in the drawing room and he supposed the dowager lay in wait there, like a tiger behind a tree in an Indian forest. He slipped into his bedchamber before his mother could spring at him. She might stalk him through the house, but she would always be stopped at his door.
Not even the dowager would dare cross into a gentleman’s sanctuary.
Markson emerged from Roland’s dressing room.
“What ho!” he said, staring at his eye.
“Chelderberry,” he said.
“Ah, the annoying one,” Markson said, nodding.
“He spoke ill of Lady Viola and I put a stop to it.”
“Right. I’ll send for some ice from the icehouse and then a comfrey salve. Though, all the remedies in the world won’t make the damage disappear anytime soon. A blackened eye heals on its own time.”
Roland had been afraid that would be the case. It was no matter though—let anybody ask him what happened and he would tell them. He would tell them that Chelderberry had dared to affront him on the subject of Lady Viola and been sent packing.
“Also,” Roland said slowly, “there has been one other little matter that has come up,” Roland said. “I have engaged myself to a duel with Setterdown.”
Markson sank into a chair, which must indicate his shock as he had never sat down in Roland’s bedchamber. At least, not while he was in it.
“Lady Clara’s brother?” his valet asked. “My God, does the dowager know?”
“Yes, it is Lady Clara’s brother and no, my mother does not know. Nor does she need to.”
“No, of course not,” Markson said. “Not unless you turn up dead! Then she will need to know, won’t she?”
Markson had begun fanning himself with a handkerchief. “You’ll be dead and that awful cousin of yours will turn up and throw us to the road. I was really counting on you having a son to prevent that disaster!”
“I am very sorry that contemplating my death is such an inconvenience to you,” Roland said drily. “Though, I have no intention of dying.”
“When is it to be?” Markson asked.
“I do not yet know. Conbatten is acting as my second.”
“Conbatten,” Markson said thoughtfully. “Well that is something, at least.”
“I’m glad you approve.”
