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But it was too late for that. Rising from his seat, he went to confront Eleanor’s detractor. “What interesting tales you tell, Sir Yarborough. Do continue.”
Blanching, Yarborough nevertheless stood to face him. “What business is it of yours what I say about some nameless whore?”
A hush fell in the room, and Sorin felt all eyes on him. Steady, now. “I should think it both an honor and a duty to warn one’s friends concerning such a female as you have just described,” he said lightly, gesturing to the other man’s companions. “Come. You are among friends, are you not? Speak her name so that we may be warned against this man-trap.” He waited while beads of sweat formed on Yarborough’s brow. “No? How very curious. Don’t you think it curious?” he asked Marston, who’d come to stand at his side.
“Indeed,” agreed Marston with a toothy grin. “One wonders at the meaning of his sudden silence when but a moment ago he was a veritable magpie.”
Yarborough’s eyes darted between them. “You have no proof that I was speaking of…her,” he finished low through clenched teeth.
The blood roaring in his ears, Sorin smiled. “I don’t need proof.” Without offering any other warning, he followed his statement with a satisfying fist to the other man’s jaw.
It was a brawl worthy of any dockside tavern. The pair that had come in with Yarborough leaped to their feet in his defense, and within seconds everyone in the room was trading indiscriminate blows. The club’s frantic proprietor came running in to break up the fight and received a punch to the nose for his trouble. Thus were the odds evened, for the man at once charged back into the fray like a maddened bull. Though the reinforcement was welcome, Sorin and Marston needed no help. Having spent a goodly amount of time as sailors, both knew how to take a man down quickly and did so now with great gusto.
When at last Yarborough lay moaning on the floor in bloody surrender, Sorin looked down on him in contempt. “Get up.”
Yarborough stared up at him with fear-filled eyes. “If you mean to challenge me—”
“Oh, I do.” Consequences be damned. He’d already broken the rules of gentlemanly conduct by striking the blackguard. “I warned you this would happen. At your own peril you chose to ignore that warning. Now name your weapon and choose your second.”
“I hate to disappoint you,” gasped the other man, swiping at the blood trickling from his nose, “but allow me to remind you that the king has declared a prohibition against dueling.”
“Only within the boundaries of London itself,” replied Sorin, feeling the red tide of rage rise up in him once more. “I believe we both possess horses, do we not?”
But Yarborough only shook his head and spat out a bloody tooth. “I will neither defy my king nor risk my life for the sake of satisfying your antiquated code of honor.”
Those watching muttered in frank disapproval. No true gentleman would publicly disparage a female so, or fail to answer such a challenge.
Fury set fire to Sorin’s veins. “Coward. You risked your worthless life the moment you opened your lying mouth to wrongly malign the woman I love.”
“Love?” Yarborough let out an irreverent snort. “If you think she could ever love you, then you really are an old fool.”
“Perhaps I am, at that,” Sorin replied, gratified to see the younger man flinch as he took a step closer and bent low to peer into his battered face. “But this fool will gladly lay down his life to defend her good name. If you will not answer my challenge, then you admit your statements concerning the lady are false in their entirety.”
His pale face flushing, Yarborough glanced around at the men circling them.
Sorin could see there was not a sympathetic face among the lot. Even the braggart’s friends, those who’d defended him with their fists only moments ago, stared down at the fallen man with hard eyes. If a man has not his honor, he has nothing…
Swallowing, Yarborough bowed his head in defeat. “Very well. Before these witnesses, I offer you my humble apology and retract my offensive words concerning the lady.” He looked up and met Sorin’s gaze. “You have taken my dignity, sir, and can ask no further reparation. Do you accept?”
Utter disdain filled Sorin, and he did nothing to prevent it showing on his face. “You leave me little choice.” He weighted his next words with deadly cold. “But know this: if I ever hear you speak falsely of her again—in fact, if I ever hear you’ve spoken of her at all, prohibition or not, I will find you and put a hole in your craven hide.”
Turning to the proprietor, whose previously nondescript face now bore a great deal of character in the form of a spectacularly broken nose and an assortment of cuts and bruises, he took out his purse. “My apologies,” he said, dropping enough money into the man’s outstretched hand to cover the cost of reparations thrice over.
“Nod ad all, by lord,” said the man, smiling in spite of what had to be a painfully split lip. He bowed, making it clear to all that Sorin, at least, would be welcomed back.
“You know you’ve just committed yourself to a course from which there is no turning back,” said Marston as they walked out. “It’ll be all over London by morning. The good and the bad. You must go and see Ashford at once.”
“Agreed. But I cannot take myself to his house at this hour, especially looking as I must.” His right cuff was torn, and his cravat and jacket were spattered with blood—Yarborough’s, he hoped—and he could feel the beginnings of an ache in his jaw where someone’s fist had connected with it. “I’ll go first thing in the morning.”
Marston eyed him. “Perhaps you’re right. When you do see him, best be prepared to tell the truth.”
The truth. Though part of Sorin dreaded the prospect, another rejoiced. Whatever the outcome, there would be no more secrets, no more lies. He would learn once and for all the nature of Eleanor’s feelings for him. Then he would have to live with them—one way or another.
Now that he’d declared his love for her publicly and drawn blood in defense of her good name, they must marry. There was no other way to avoid what would doubtless be the scandal of the Season. Eleanor would marry him, but the nature of their marriage would be determined by her will alone.
If by some miracle she found it within herself to eventually return his full affection, he would give heartfelt thanks to God every day for the rest of his life. Even now he prayed it would be so.
If, however, the only thing she would accept was the protection of his name, then so be it. Through no fault of hers, it had come to this. He wouldn’t impose upon her more than she desired. He wouldn’t even subject her to his presence, if such was her wish. To ensure her happiness, he would deny her nothing within his power to give, even if it was his absence.
