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I was woefully unprepared for anything of that sort… and a good deal too drunk.
“Turley,” Cavendish interjected, giving him a warning look. “Sheathe your, uh, weapon, good sir.”
The idea of Turley brandishing a weapon in White’s Club struck me as hilarious and, without thinking, I found myself chuckling out loud.
In the silence of the room, the noise reverberated like an echo.
“Do you think this isfunny, LordMarsden?” Turley yelled, his face contorted in anger. “You think it’sfunnyto romp around town, dirtying every lady and chambermaid who’ll have you?”
I smirked.
“Ah, to the contrary, Turley, I think it’s very serious.” I drawled, my words soaked in liquor. “Indeed, I think it’s of the upmost importance that ladies, of whatever standing, be educated on theproperway of lovemaking…beforethey enter into arrangements that may hinder such a discovery fromeverbeing made.”
Turley’s face was turning from blotchy red to a deep purple.
“What are you implying, you imbecile?”
“Oh,” I continued, feeling the burn of another gulp of brandy in my throat. “Merely that if a lady seeks the company of a well-traveled man, it may simply result from a fear of the state of confinement she soon imagines herself to be in. We all want to taste a bit of sweetness, before we’re doomed to an eternity of dread-”
My words were cut off as Turley lunged at me, his bayonet in attack position. I watched it happen in what seemed like slow motion; Turley’s body was like some sort of absurd adult posing as a schoolboy during a fencing lesson, learning how to lunge for the first time. He clattered into my body, sending my chair crashing backwards into the ground, and both of us along with it.
Before I knew it, I found myself pinned to the ground, Turley kneeling over me with his bayonet pointed at my chest. He was manically grinning, and there was the slightest glint of madness in his eyes.
Cavendish moved towards us, yelling, as the whole room watched in stunned silence.
“Turley, for God’s sake, man-”
“No, let him do what he must.” I interrupted, shaking my head slightly towards the Duke.
The bayonet’s edge was only inches from my neck, and I had a perverse curiosity as to what Turley was actually going to do.
Would he try to kill me, right here, on the storied carpets of White’s?
Would this be how I finally went – speared by the play weapon of an Earl heir apparent, all of the finest gentleman of the ton watching with open mouths?
It was completely uncivilized, and for that reason, almost marvelous. It was certainly more eventful than how I’d always imagined my untimely demise would go: alone, in a stupor in a St. Giles alley, after I’d finally drank myself to death.
Life could always surprise one, it seemed.
Turley glared down at me, his expression marked by pure hatred.
“You, Lord Marsden, are no better than your drunken father!”
I laughed, letting the spit fly into his face. Did he really mean to anger me by mentions of my father’s drinking habits? Everyone knew I was a drunk, and a far worse one than my father had ever been.
Turley’s rage seemed to strengthen, fueled by my mirth.
“No, in fact,” He snarled, “I think you take after your mother. Dead, isn’t she? But not from drink, oh no – they say it’s the opium that did it.”
I felt the blood draining from my face. The room was as silent as a graveyard.
“Don’t you dare bring up my mother-”
“Aw, your opium-addicted mummy? Tell me, before she died, could she even recognize her own son, or sit up long enough to change her soiled-”
The next moments were a blur. All I knew was that, somehow, I was on top of Turley, and his bayonet was clashing to the ground a few yards away from us. My fists met his face, harder and harder, cold bone against damp flesh.
And then, strong hands pulled me away. I was snarling and covered in the pathetic man’s blood.
