Page 68 of The Heiress's Daughter
A tall young man then stepped forward and coolly placed his foot on Clayborn’s other leg, pinning it to the floor. Clayborn lay there like a beached starfish, swearing and batting fruitlessly at their feet with his hands.
“Now, now, Custard,” the young man said pleasantly. “Let the nice doctor take your boot off.”
Custard?Despite his fury, Race was amused. The tall young man was, as far as he knew, a complete stranger. As he watched, his friend Grantley sauntered forward and joined them. Grantley and the young man exchanged greetings. They were obviously old acquaintances.
“How do you do, I’m Thornton.” The young man addressed Race politely, for all the world as if he didn’t have a man squirming and moaning and swearing beneath his foot. “Don’t think we’ve been introduced, Randall, but my aunt, Lady Tarrant, and my wife, Lucy, are good friends of Miss Studley’s.”
“Delighted to meet you,” Race responded with a smile. “Appreciate your help.”
“Happy to lend a hand. Or a foot, as it were.” He glanced down. “Now don’t fuss, Custard, you’re in excellent hands. Feet.” He winked at Race.
“How’s it going down there, doctor?” Race asked.
“There.” The doctor eased the boot off and set it aside. It fell over and a few little stones rolled out of it onto the floor with a light pattering sound.
“What’s this?” the doctor exclaimed. He shook the boot. It rattled. He upended it and half a dozen small sharp stones fell out and scattered on the ballroom floor. “It’s gravel,” the doctor exclaimed in surprise. “Why on earth would anyone have gravel in their boot?”
Beside him, Grantley swore softly.
Race saw it at once. “All the better to fake a limp with,” he said in a hard voice. “Step on some sharp little stones and you won’t have to remember to limp. And you’ll wince every time they stick into you.”
“But that’s—that’s outrageous,” the doctor said.
“It certainly is,” Grantley said grimly.
“Take off his stocking,” Race said. “Let’s have a look at this famed wound of his.”
Ignoring Clayborn’s resistance, the doctor peeled off his stocking and pushed up the leg of his breeches. Shocked murmurs ran through those who’d gathered in a tight circle, the better to observe the little drama as they pressed forward for a better look.
“So much for his shattered knee. Not a scratch on him.” Race glanced at Thornton. “But you knew that, didn’t you?”
Thornton nodded. “Served with him in the army—for a very short time. He joined up after all the fighting was over—at least we thought it was over at the time. He didn’t expect Waterloo—well, none of us did. I’d sold out by then, along with a lot of my friends, but when Boney escaped from Elba, we all joined up again. But Custard here was horrified at the prospect of actual fighting. Did everything he could to wriggle out of it.”
He snorted. “The day before Waterloo, he ‘fell’ on a broken wineglass and cut his right hand—his fighting hand, he told everyone. Nobody actually saw the alleged injury, mind, but the bandage was huge and he made a great to-do about how devastated he was not to be able to fight. And he didn’t. Left Brussels before the fighting even started.”
“And yet he’s been claiming to have fought at Waterloo, where he received a dreadful injury,” Race said.
The crowd murmured and seethed. People didn’t like being made fools of.
Thornton made a disgusted face. “Yes, so I’ve heard. Pretending to be a wounded war hero—trading on the credit and sympathy that other men—far better men—earned. It’s utterly despicable!”
“It certainly is. But why ‘Custard’?”
Thornton snorted. “That’s what the troops named him—Custard Clayfoot.”
They stepped away and the crowd slowly dissipated, talking and exclaiming over the exciting events. “Hey, Randall, he’s getting away,” someone called.
Race turned and saw Clayborn with a hunted expression, scuttling toward the exit, clutching his boot and stocking and limping—genuinely this time.
“I thought you were going to thrash him,” a man said in a disappointed voice.
Race said curtly, “I have more important things to do.” He desperately needed to see Clarissa.
Grantley said, “I don’t.” He marched grimly after Clayborn, who, seeing him coming, gave a frightened squeak and fled.
“Custard’s been publicly disgraced,” Thornton assured Race quietly. “He won’t be able to show his face in society again for a good long while—if ever.”
“I know. Thanks for your support,” Race said. “But now, I have more urgent matters to see to.” He shook Thornton’s hand, then the doctor’s and headed back toward the anteroom.
