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He didn’t mention that the vicar had been an advocate of the Star Elite’s endeavours. He had, but couldn’t help them by passing on various valuable bits of information about his parishioners anymore because he had been found dead last night-murdered by being stabbed repeatedly. Joe suspected that the Count knew that already.
If he is Russian, I am a Dutch man, Joe mused as he studied the man’s evening attire with a calculating eye.
His clothing was expensive but could have been purchased from any gentleman’s outfitters anywhere in London. Sayers would be able to afford such expensive clothing. With his fingers in many pies, most of them illegal, he had wealth that could only be described as alarming given his rather destitute start in life. All of it had been obtained illegally because the man had never worked an honest day in his life.
“We need-” she began only for the Count to cut her off.
“I am afraid that you are breaking an agreement between her father and me that neither of us will renege on. Margaret is not free to wed,” the Count declared pompously.
“I am free to wed,” she snapped. “I am an adult and have a choice, regardless of what you think.”
“Yes, you are marrying me,” Joe declared, gazing at her in what he hoped was an adoring manner.
Marguerite snorted. “If this carries on, we can go to the vicar right now,” she huffed.
“I am afraid Martha is already engaged,” the Count began.
“Her name is Marguerite, and she is going to marry me. The vicar is waiting,” Joe announced flatly. “I have the license here.” He patted his pocket meaningfully and watched the Count’s gaze slither toward it. He half expected the Count to demand to see it. To thwart him, Joe turned his attention to the woman beside him.
Later, he would spend a few moments thinking about just how stunned she looked but, right now, it was more important that he stop any further protests either her or the Count might make. They had to get out of the house before the Count did something rash, like challenging him to a duel or something highly illegal and dangerous.
“I challenge you to her hand,” the Count declared suddenly, as though he had read his mind.
Too late, Joe mused with a curse.
“What?” Marguerite cried. “You can’t! It is illegal.”
“What is?” The Count ignored her.
“Duelling.”
The Count shook his head at her and then gave Joe a look of complete masculine arrogance as if to say ‘stupid woman’.
“I wouldn’t be so foolish. It wouldn’t be a duel, it would be an execution,” the Count declared with a smirk.
“Don’t be so presumptuous,” Joe chided. “You know nothing about me.”
In exactly the same way the Count had looked at Marguerite, Joe scoured the man with an insulting look in return, mostly because he hated any woman being looked at in such a derogatory way. He watched a muscle tick steadily in the Count’s jaw, and knew that his point had hit home.
“I will accept whatever challenge you want to put before me,” Joe announced calmly. “However, I warn you now that I will war with only you on the condition that nobody aides you.”
He put sufficient meaning into his words to make Sayers frown slightly and look at him with renewed curiously. It served his purposes to leave the man burning with curiosity because he knew the Count had no information on him at all, and wouldn’t be able to trace him. Marguerite, however, was an entirely different matter. He suspected that, for whatever reason, the Count knew all about Marguerite; who she was, where to find her, and what she was all about.
“Just name how you wish to challenge me for her hand,” Joe ordered.
Inside, he was calculating how many men it would take from the Star Elite to round up not only the Count, but the minions he would undoubtedly bring to whatever skirmish he was cooking up. Whatever it was, Joe was prepared to fight. Not just for the honour of the woman by his side if she was innocent, but for the honour of each and every man in the Star Elite who worked tirelessly day and night to bring men like Sayers’ to justice, and put their lives in perilous danger while doing so.
Marguerite went still and stared at him in dismay, but he didn’t even glance at her. He was too busy staring the Count in the eye in a silent battle of wills. He smirked when the Count’s gaze slid away. It was clear that the Count now doubted the wisdom of challenging him so brashly.
“Two rounds at Jacks. Whoever is left alive wins her,” Joe suggested with an arrogant smirk.
From the look of the Count, he hadn’t had a good meal in many years, and wouldn’t have enough strength to withstand even one round against someone as highly trained, and heavily muscled, as Joe, and they both knew it. Not only that, but inside a boxing ring, in somewhere like Jack’s, Sayers wouldn’t be able to get any of his cohorts to bail him out. It would be a fight just between the two of them. Joe relished the possibility of being able to pound the man-before he arrested him. Now that he had seen Sayers up close he was amazed at how puny the man looked. In a way, it stood to reason that the man had to have a ruthless reputation. If he didn’t, he would have no chance of persuading any of the East End thugs in his employ to take him seriously. Unfortunately, that reputation had been earnt by murdering innocent people who stood in his way.
“No, you cannot do this,” Marguerite whispered. “Jeremy, you mustn’t.”
“But we are fighting for your hand, my dear. You should be honoured,” Joe drawled.
“Well, I am not honoured,” she snapped with an energetic shake of her head. “I am not honoured one bit. You are a pair of buffoons.”
