Jack shook his head again. Eleven? What the hell?
Nick grabbed him by the shoulders, and Jack prepared for another blow, but Nick only yelled, “Eleven! Eleven’s here!”
Jack glanced over his brother’s shoulder and out the window. There, stepping down from his sleek black coach and four, was the Duke of Bleven, a veritable army of thugs on horseback surrounding him.
“Bleven’s here,” Jack murmured.
“I know! Run!”
Jack grabbed his brother ’s shoulder and yanked him back. “We’re not running. We shall face this thing.”
“Face it?” Nicholas motioned toward Bleven’s thugs, one of whom carried a club that resembled a medieval torture device. “If we get in that guy’s way, we won’t have a face left.”
“Stand your ground,” Jack ordered.
“You’re only saying that because you want me to die,” Nick moaned, but Jack noted that his brother braced his feet and stood straight.
Outside the now-empty coffeehouse, Bleven amassed his troops, placing the men so they stood in a solid wall behind him. The duke was tall and thin, handsome for an older man. His raven black hair and the silver streaks that flanked his temples even gave him a distinguished look. But Jack had known the duke for more than two decades. When he was a child, his father had pointed Bleven out and warned him to stay away from him. He had heeded the advice, never exchanging more than a cursory hello with the duke. But over the years, Jack had been close enough to look into the older man’s eyes.
There was no warmth in Bleven’s gaze. His eyes were predatory. The man was cold as a hawk, and when he attacked, just as deadly.
“I do want you to die,” Jack said to Nicholas as Bleven and his men moved forward. The man with the club pulled the coffeehouse door open. “Problem is, I’m the only one allowed to kill you.”
“I don’t think our friend knows your rules.”
Bleven stepped through the door, followed by his men, and Jack assumed a casual stance—as though standing in an empty coffeehouse, dripping blood on the floor from the nose his brother had pummeled, was an everyday occurrence.
He gave Bleven a stiff nod. “Your Grace.”
“Ah, the Martingale brothers,” Bleven said, his characteristic high-pitched voice contrasting with his otherwise formidable demeanor. “I’ve been looking for you.”
“We’re not hard to find.” Jack reached down, righted a chair from the floor and sat backward, crossing his arms lazily over the chair’s top rail. Nick followed suit, taking an extra moment to swipe a full coffee cup from an abandoned table.
Anyone who walked in at that moment would have thought that the two brothers owned the shop, which was precisely the impression Jack wanted. “Take a seat,” he said to Bleven. He motioned to a table of abandoned cups. “Coffee?”
Bleven’s men fanned out on either side of the duke. Jack counted six—all large men who looked as though they had no aversion to violence. “Let’s forgo the chitchat, Blackthorne. You know why I’m here.”
Jack shrugged. “I’ve always thought chitchat the mark of a civilized society.”
Bleven gave him a thin grin. “I’m not feeling particularly civilized at the moment.”
“Haven’t felt that way for the past several years, from all accounts,” Jack countered. Bleven’s face darkened. “Lord Blackthorne, your presence grows tiresome. If you leave now, I’ll spare you today. It’s your brother I want at present.”
“That makes two of us. What’s he done to you?”
“He has challenged my honor.”
Jack glanced at Nick as though this accusation was a complete surprise. Nick shrugged. “Impossible,” he said.
Jack raised a brow as Bleven’s men moved closer.
“The duke has no honor,” Nick added.
“You shall pay for that,” Bleven said, removing his gloves and slapping them in his hand.
Jack held up a hand. “There must be another way to settle this.”
Bleven’s gloves slapped his hand again. “Certainly. If you boys get down on your knees, beg forgiveness, and admit you are the whoreson scoundrels, I’ll consider merely maiming you.”
