Page 42 of Colour My World
Jackson, arms crossed, stood nearby. “All right, ya silent toff. Show me your mettle.”
Darcy turned to his opponent. He and Turner had danced the first steps, a few light exchanges to test reach, reaction, and rhythm. The actual battle had yet to begin.
Darcy shifted, light on his feet, breath steady. He waited for the tell. Just one: the wrist, the hip, the blink of decision.
“Hold!”
The crowd stilled. Wagerers hesitated. Even the drunkards, halfway into a curse or a cheer, fell silent. A pocket opened in the throng, cut clean as by a sabre.
Three men advanced, silent, cold-eyed, and each marked by the kind of violence that needed no boasting.
Darcy recognised his cousin’s men—armourers—killers in scarlet. Villiers. Reeves. Legget. Their names, when spoken, were followed by the tally of enemy slain.
The gamblers scattered.
Fitzwilliam passed between them; his scarlet coat brilliant against the smoke-laced gloom. He held up a creased fight billet. “Lord Fancyhands?”
“I did not choose it.”
“Was the Mayfair Bruiser already claimed?”
Darcy turned to face his cousin. “Is this a social call, or have you come to scold me like a governess?”
Fitzwilliam stared at him, unsmiling.
“You did not send word you had leave.”
“Six weeks.” Fitzwilliam surveyed the room, his lip curling. “Long enough to see your newest folly.”
Darcy wiped his brow with the back of his hand. “I would have thought you to visit my sister.”
“I have.”
“Georgiana must have been ecstatic.”
“She was.” Fitzwilliam’s words were clipped. He gestured toward the edge of the pit. “Come away a moment.”
Darcy hesitated, then followed. They moved where the ropes sagged into a gap between some crates. The crowd shouted their displeasure.
“Something is off,” Darcy said. “You disapprove.”
“I found her companion wanting.”
“Mrs Younge?”
“Is that the name she gave you?”
“You believe she lied?” Darcy blinked.
Fitzwilliam nodded once. “Georgie is at Matlock House. Safe.”
He looked across the ring. “Who is that?”
Darcy wiped his knuckles against his breeches. “Mr Ned Turner.”
At the sound of his name, Turner stepped forward. “That another toff cove of yours?” He raised his fists. “I wager he bleeds scarlet same as he wears it. Come on, then—let’s see if your coat hits harder than your fist.” He spat.
The killers halted. Villiers rolled his eyes. Reeves smirked. Legget crossed his arms.
