Page 48 of The Rake and Lady Julia
His words were directed at Lord Michaels and Benjamin, but as they made for the door, Cavendish and two of his cronies were fast on their heels.
"I will try to stop it," Rob whispered to Julia, whose face was as white as her stuffed sheep's wool, "I will return."
As he smiled at her, he saw stars—from love or concussion he could not say, though the romantic in him was inclined to think the former.
Determined to cut Cavendish and Michaels off, before they did any real damage, Rob made for the door.
Outside in St James' Square, all was in darkness, though Robert could hear shouts coming from King Street.
He raced toward the noise and found Michaels and Benjamin engaged in a kerfuffle with Cavendish and his two friends. It was clear, now they were all in the open, that all of the men were in their cups. As the only sober one present, and the only one with peace in mind, Rob decided he should take charge.
"Stop," he roared, his voice so loud that he momentarily brought the hooligans to a standstill, "This is madness. You are not tars, you are gentlemen; you should not be brawling in the streets."
"He's right," Cavendish staggered backward, wiping his bloodied nose, "We should fight as gentlemen fight. Lord Michaels, I challenge you to a duel. Pistols, one hour, Pickering Place. Bring your second."
"That wasn't what I meant," Rob called weakly after Cavendish and his departing friends.
"Montague," Michaels called, "You will stand as my second."
"I cannot," Rob shook his head, "You must not go through with this, Michaels. Do not go to Pickering Place."
"I defend your honour, and you will not defend mine?" Lord Michaels frowned, and Robert felt a rush of anguish.
Lord Michaels might die tonight, and if Rob did not stand with him, he would go to his grave thinking that Robert had betrayed him. Male pride and brotherly affection niggled at Rob's consciousness, but he resisted their call.
He could not draw the blood of Julia's kin, no matter how irritating said kin was.
"Montague did not ask us to defend him," Benjamin interjected, with a sympathetic glance to Robert, "He cannot stand as your second, not when he wishes to wed Lady Julia. I will stand in his stead; I will defend our family's honour."
Was it Rob's imagination, or was there a hint of derision in Benjamin's tone? He held up his hands and stared beseechingly at his two friends.
"I will go," Rob said, "I will accept the challenge and allow Cavendish shoot at me. He simply wishes to vent his anger, let him vent it at me."
"No," Michaels shook his head, "It is I who he challenged, and I who accepted. I cannot lose face over this, simply because you wish to get under some wench's skirts."
Rob quelled the urge to deliver a blow to Michaels himself, and Benjamin, sensing that another storm was brewing, stepped between the two men.
"Come," he said to Michaels, "Let us select your weapon, and make for Pickering Place."
The two men departed, without a backward glance to Robert, who was now filled with anguish and despair.
He had to stop the duel, he thought desperately, if he just waited in Pickering Place for them to arrive, he might somehow manage to intervene.
Despite the fact that he was still ludicrously dressed as a sailor, Rob set off on foot for the famed courtyard, to await the arrival of Michaels and Cavendish.
The place was in an uproar when he arrived, gentlemen hung out of the windows of the gaming-hells, calling bets out to each other, while a crowd had already gathered beneath the great lanterns which lighted the cobblestone square.
"Did you hear about the duel?" Lord Horace roared into Rob's ear when he sighted him.
"Yes, I'm here to try stop it," Rob roared back, wincing at Horace's terrible breath. Had a rat crawled into the back of his throat and died? It was unnatural for someone so wealthy to have breath so foul.
"That's no fun," Horace objected.
"I'm no fun," Rob replied grimly, and he shrugged Horace's shoulders away and began to pace.
An hour felt like an eternity, but eventually Cavendish arrived to a great cheer from the crowd, followed by Michaels who was similarly lauded. The drunks of Pickering Place had loyalty to neither man, excepting, perhaps, the one they had wagered on.
"I put a shilling on both," one man whispered to Rob, "One never knows."
