“Hmm, that appears a bit personal,” Benton observed.

Carter nodded his head in agreement. Judging by the reaction of the crowd, this was not an ordinary match. The men so eagerly observing it all wore that avid interest men often display at the prospect of bloodshed.

Their curiosity piqued, the three friends moved closer to the action. The younger man of the dueling pair was thinner and shorter. He wore a crisp, white linen shirt, and a gold satin waistcoat adorned with intricate silver embroidery. He moved with elegance and grace, never seeming to break from the proper form or stance.

His opponent was a taller, solidly built man, dressed in a simple black waistcoat and a white linen shirt that had obviously seen many washings. His style of swordplay was not nearly as polished. It was more determined, more deliberate. More accurate, Carter conceded as with a glinting flurry of moves, the taller man shredded his opponent’s right sleeve.

“Impressive,” Benton muttered, when the man next blocked the attack from his opponent and then quickly put him on the defensive. “He moves as though the sword were a part of his arm.”

“Who is he? A new instructor?” Carter asked.

“He certainly possesses the skill,” Dawson replied. “Though I don’t believe he is employed here. I met him last week. His name is Gregory Roddington. Major Gregory Roddington, actually. From what I gather, he’s some sort of war hero. He was the youngest officer attached to Wellington’s staff and appointed himself admirably on the battlefield, especially at Waterloo. Rumors abound that Wellington himself is trying to secure a knighthood for him as recognition of his exemplary service to the crown.”

“Apparently they’ll allow anyone admittance to the club these days,” the viscount scoffed, but Carter could see his friend’s eyes light with respect.

As far as Carter knew, Benton had never done anything even remotely honorable, yet he had a keen respect for those who did, even though he tried to hide it.

“’Tis hard to believe he is only six and twenty,” Dawson commented.

“War ages a man,” Carter said wryly, agreeing the major looked older, more hardened than his years would indicate.

“Still, he’s a capital fellow. Good for a laugh.”

At that moment, the major attacked with a flurry of ferocious strikes. Off balance, his opponent fell back, then desperately brought his sword up to defend his face. Pressing his advantage, the major circled under the weapon, then with the tip of his blade neatly dislodged the sword from the other man’s hand.

It fell to the floor with a loud clatter. Moving so fast it was barely seen, the major then pressed the end of his blade into the base of his opponent’s throat.

“My match, I believe,” he muttered.

Panting hard, the younger man nodded. He seemed dazed, uncertain of exactly how he had been beaten. The major saluted his vanquished opponent, then looked up and seemed to notice the audience for the first time.

“Introduce us, Dawson,” Carter demanded as the crowd began to disperse.

“Major,” Dawson called out. “May I beg a moment of your time?”

The man turned, his expression startled. “Sorry, Mr. Dawson. Since resigning my commission I am trying very hard to distance myself from my former rank. To no avail.” Ironic amusement tempered his voice. “My friends call me Roddy. I would be honored if you would do the same.”

“Thank you, Roddy. May I present Carter Grayson, Marquess of Atwood and Sebastian Dodd, Viscount Benton.”

“My lords.” The major executed a bow. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“We enjoyed your little show, Roddington,” the viscount replied. “Though it appeared somewhat more than a friendly match.”

“Did it?” The major shrugged, seemingly unconcerned with the observation. “Strange, I hardly know the man.”

The crowd made a wide berth as the men walked toward the door. Carter caught the edges of several conversations as they pushed through the crowd, making little sense of the comments he overheard.

“What is this all about?” he asked Dawson. The two of them had dropped back while the major and Benton led the way out of the club.

Dawson’s eyes widened and Carter wondered at his friend’s sudden anxiety. “Apparently the swordplay we just witnessed was a point of honor,” Dawson whispered to Carter.

“Whose honor?”

“The major’s.” Dawson craned his neck forward, as if needing to confirm the major and the viscount were still engaged in conversation before speaking. “There’s a bit of a mysterious cloud regarding Roddington’s background. Rumors, I’m sure.”

Carter was intrigued. “What sort of rumors?”

“It seems he is illegitimate. There are some who say he was fathered by a nobleman. And others who say he is of royal birth.”

Carter could not hold back the laugh that rumbled up from his chest. “If Prinny were in truth the father of only half the offspring that are attributed to him, he wouldn’t be able to stand.”

“The Regent isn’t the only royal in England,” Dawson replied with mild indignity.

Benton glanced over his shoulder at them. “We are going to the Bull and Finch for some food and drink. In exchange for buying him supper, the major has graciously agreed to teach me how he disarmed his opponent so thoroughly.”

“Sounds as if you are on the better end of that bargain, Benton,” Carter called out.

“You have not seen me eat or drink, my lord,” the major readily replied.

When the four men reached the tavern, they discovered a brawl underway, blocking the entrance. Fists were flying, limbs were flailing, bodies were being flung through the air.

“I don’t fancy wading into the middle of all that mess,” Dawson said cautiously, backing up.

“I’ve seen worse,” the major replied. “And I’m hungry. I’ll meet you inside.”

They watched as Roddington pushed himself into the chaos of brawling men, stepping around and over bodies, ducking and dodging to avoid any stray blows aimed his way. When he was safely through the doorway, he waved to them, then disappeared inside.

“Damn!” Benton broke into a grin. “Gentlemen, shall we?”

The viscount followed the major’s lead. Swallowing hard, Dawson kept close to the viscount’s coattails, while Carter brought up the rear. They had just crossed over the threshold when one of the brawlers lost his balance and careened into Carter.

“Watch it!” Carter yelled sharply, swinging his closed fist upward. His blow landed directly on the culprit’s jaw. He staggered back, arms flailing, then fell awkwardly to the ground, swearing loudly.

Carter’s hand stung, yet he felt vitally alive. Grinning, he began to follow his friends toward the taproom when suddenly he heard a loud shout.

“He’s got a knife!” Dawson cried.

Carter turned, saw the flash of steel, and scrambled to get out of the way. There were several shouts and then another body suddenly appeared, stepping between the marquess and his would-be assailant.

“Halt!” The command was quickly followed by the unmistakable sound of a pistol being cocked.

Carter whirled his head. The major stood tall, his feet braced apart, the pistol in his right hand calmly pointed at the man’s chest. “Now, lads, a bit of fisticuffs we can understand, but knives take all the fun out of it, don’t you agree?”

One of the man’s companions came forward to help him, eyeing the major, and his pistol, most warily. “We don’t want no trouble,” he grumbled.

“Fine. Then off with the lot of you.”

The man on the ground flinched violently as he regained his feet. One of the other brawlers took the knife away and handed it to Carter. The marquess fingered it thoughtfully, surprised at how calm he felt in the midst of such obvious danger.

Gradually, the crowd shuffled away. “You are a handy individual to have around,” Carter finally said, breaking through the silent tension. He brushed the dirt from his coat and smiled at the major. “How would you like to accompany us to a society ball this evening?”

“It’s bound to be rather dull compared to the afternoon you’ve just had, but we can promise there will be a few laughs,” Benton added.

The major slowly eased back the hammer on his pistol and returned it to his coat pocket. “Sounds delightful. I can hardly wait.”

Five hours later, fresh from a lukewarm bath, Major Gregory Roddington began to shave. His former batman, now his personal servant, Julius Parker, had somehow managed to keep the shaving water hot, which was more than could be said for the bathwater. But Roddy didn’t mind. He had lived in far worse conditions than these shabby London accommodations.

“There’s a man at the door asking to see you,” Parker said. “He refused to give his name.”

Roddy nodded. He had been waiting, wondering why the man was so late. “Send him in.”

Ignoring Parker’s clear disapproval, Roddy shrugged into a robe, cinching the belt tightly around his waist. Then he resumed his shaving.

“I’ve come for my money,” the visitor declared the moment he entered the room.

“It’s on the table,” Roddy replied. His back was toward the visitor, but the mirror propped in front of him allowed his eyes to follow the man’s every move.

“I should charge you more,” the man grumbled as he slid the two gold coins off the table and thrust them into his pocket. “I didn’t know the bloke was going to sucker punch me.”

The major smiled grimly. “It looked like a clean blow to me.”

“Yeah, well, he punches damn hard for a toff.” The man rubbed his hand gingerly along his jawline, wincing several times. Roddy could see the shadow of a bruise had already begun to form. “I thought them aristocrats were a bunch of limp-wristed dandies.”

“Apparently not all of them.”

“Humph.” The man grunted, but didn’t seem convinced. “I’m telling you right now, there’ll be an extra charge the next time.”