Trevor turned, almost afraid to see what the man looked like this morning. Would he be in full battle armor? Would he be riding a horse as he whacked them with his quarterstaff? No. Mr. Rausch looked exactly like himself. Tall with a calm expression and a perfectly groomed face, assuming one discounted the bump in his nose where it had once been broken. His clothing was well tailored, and he carried…
“Bloody hell,” Trevor groused.
Not only was the man’s quarterstaff bigger than Trevor’s, it had silver tips on each end. The better to stab and maim his opponents, one would assume. Because bludgeoning each other wasn’t enough.
Meanwhile, Ronnie continued to prose on about a tenderhearted Portuguese sailor who had rescued a dodo bird from a Chinese island and brought it to be raised and nurtured by his mother in Leeds. Leeds, for God’s sake.
“No one in Leeds grows up to be a sailor,” said Mr. Rausch.
“No one in Leeds would save a dodo bird. It’d be whacked for supper before it came out of the sack.”
“I say we whack him first, then discuss this like gentlemen.”
It was exactly Trevor’s plan, so he was pleased that Mr. Rausch had the same thought. Sadly, there were two other people they had to convince. “We might have a problem with them,” he said as he gestured to the far corner where the turkey sat in a large cage.
There they were—Lady Eleanor and the duchess—looking like fierce Grecian maids as they stood on either side of the bird.
“What are they carrying?” Mr. Rausch asked, a note of admiration in his voice.
“Truncheons. They intend to have us battle it out so they can declare the turkey the winner.”
“The devil you say.”
The duke was standing near enough to overhear. “Don’t underestimate them. My wife is most determined to clobber someone today. Pray one of you allow her to get in a good hit, otherwise she might turn that thing on me.”
Trevor made a mental note to stay on Eleanor’s side of the turkey.
“Well, I suppose we best get to our places,” said Mr. Rausch. He gave Trevor a genial tip of his hat before sauntering off to another corner of the roped-in square. Cheeky bastard. He sounded like he was off to a show, while Trevor was beginning to feel decidedly ill.
And where in all this milling mass of elite humanity was Mellie? Surely she wouldn’t miss this. Or maybe she would. Maybe her logical side finally convinced her that this display was unnecessary, that London was filled with fools, and she would be better off at home with her father, never to see the light of day again.
That thought depressed him even more than hearing a prominent member of their government declare that he believed the bird truly was a new form of dodo.
“Give me that flask,” he said to the duke.
“Are you sure?” asked the man as he handed it over.
“Course not.” But he unstoppered it and tipped it for a full draught. It tasted vile. Worse than vile for all that Brant had obviously added honey in an attempt to sweeten it. He only managed to drain about half the flask before he passed it back to the duke. “Definitely not sure.”
“You need to get to your corner.”
Yes, he could see that. The others had reached their places and were looking expectantly at him. But he’d be damned if he joined this display before Mellie got here. He was doing this for her, damn it, and…
There she was.
She’d drawn a cloak about her head, but he knew the shape of her even in that ugly shroud. She was at the edge of the crowd, waiting for something. He took a step forward, and she turned toward him. Her face was shadowed beneath the hood, but he could feel her gaze on him. It was a heat that brought everything inside him to life. He felt a surge of emotion, an enveloping wave that said, “She’s beautiful.”
He couldn’t even see her face, but that word echoed though him. Her soul was so beautiful that he couldn’t stop until he had her. Even if it meant fighting her giant of a cousin, a turkey, and…well, whatever Mr. Rausch was. He would fight for her until his dying breath.
“Steady on, mate.” An arm gripped his elbow.
He frowned at the duke. “What?”
“You were swaying. Are you all right?”
Swaying? “I’m fine.” He took a step forward and felt as if the ground had turned to sea. He gripped his quarterstaff, using it to keep himself upright. What was wrong with him?
Two more steps had him listing like a drunk. No. Oh no. He needed only another breath to realize the truth. Brant. “For strength, my ass,” he spat.