“Not the wallpaper,” Devon said. “Reginald. Fairfield. And his friend Lafferty.”
“Harmless blokes.” Adam laid a hand on Devon’s shoulder, trying to pull him toward the door. His voice had lost its drunken lilt.
“Help me out of my coat,” Devon growled.
“You jest, Devon.” No drunken lilt at all.
“Not about this. Now. Help me out of my jacket.”
Adam sighed, grabbed Devon’s collar, and pried the tight-fitting garment off him. “Odd. It’s remarkably out of style. By several seasons. Never noticed when it was on you.”
Devon rolled up his sleeves. “Stand,” he said loud enough to make the room go quiet.
Reginald looked at Devon with wide eyes and pointed to himself. “Me?”
“Stand and fight me,” Devon insisted.
Reginald looked at the man to his right, then at the man to his left. Both men’s gazes skittered away from their doomed mate. “Me?” Reginald asked again.
Devon cracked his knuckles, and each crack sent a fissure of anger through him. “Yes, you, you foul-mouthed blackguard. Your vulgar mouth and treatment of women makes you the lowest refuse to scuff my boots on a muddy day. You are a fly, and I will squash you for insulting my wife. First. Then I’ll squash Lafferty.”
Lafferty squeaked and scooted his chair several inches away from Reginald. Did the man think a bit of distance could separate him from his friend? If he did, he thought wrong.
Reginald shook his head like a dog whipping water from its hair. “Your wife? You’re married?”
Adam scratched the back of his neck. “Yes. He is. To the formerMiss Clarke.”
Reginald’s face drained until he was pale as a debutante’s gown. He began to shake.
“Stand,” Devon repeated, “and I will beat you to a bloody pulp.” Reginald stood. Then he ran, scurrying around the edge of the room—between people, over chairs, bouncing against the wall—as fast as he could until he dashed through the door.
Devon sighed and looked up at the ceiling. Why couldn’t the vermin just stay in place? No use for it. He bolted after Reginald, leaping over a chair like a horse jumping a gate, and soon had him in his sights. Reginald was running toward the large double doors that led into the ballroom.
“Damn,” he hissed between breaths. He couldn’t let him get that far. If he entered the dancing fray, Devon would not learn the pleasure of sinking his fist into the man’s face. He couldn’t do that. If theton’swhispers shadowed him for something he had not done, they would ruin him, ruin Lillian, for slamming another man into the crowd in front of all of them. That would never do.
He increased his speed, sprinting now.
Reginald reached for the doors.
Devon reached for Reginald.
And caught him.
“Gawp!” Reginald yelped as Devon pulled him back.
Devon held him tightly by the cravat, lifting him almost off his feet. Reginald gasped for air, and Devon loosened his grip. He needed the man conscious and capable of speech.
“Apologize,” Devon demanded.
“Don’t see why I should.” Reginald’s voice squeaked, the sound of a scurrying mouse. A brave rodent. Foolish one, too.
“Since everyone has been wondering what I’ve been doing at the docks,” Devon said, “I’ll tell you. I’ve been lifting things. Very heavy things. Do you know what lifting very heavy things does to a man, Reggie?”
“Makes him unfit for polite company.” Reginald spit at Devon.
The spittle hit his waistcoat, and Devon took a deep, steadying breath, his grip tightening on the other man’s cravat.
Reginald choked. His face burned red.
