nodded his head in agreement. “Your character and convictions are strong, Atwood. It would be more believable if you initially stand firm against your father.”
“In fact, it might even be better if you do not capitulate completely,” Benton said, clearly warming to the plan. “Instead, tell him out of respect for his opinion, you will wait a full year and ponder all the implications of your choice before actually marrying the girl. And thus you will remain a carefree bachelor. At least for a year.”
Carter stroked his chin thoughtfully as he pondered the idea. It was just ridiculous enough to work. If he was of a mind to avoid marriage. Which he was not. Perhaps he should tell his friends of his change of heart? No, hearing Benton’s scheme was much too entertaining. “I have no interest in pursuing this rather outrageous course, yet I feel compelled to ask, where does one find an inappropriate female? A brothel, perchance?”
Dawson snickered. Viscount Benton threw the towel back at Carter. The marquess ducked and it flew passed his ear.
“I said make your father livid, Atwood,” the viscount huffed. “Not give the man a heart seizure.”
Dawson topped off his glass of ale from the pitcher on the table. “Benton is right. You cannot be boorish. The duke needs to believe you will go through with the marriage.”
“Exactly.” Benton’s lips curved in an amused smile. “The duke knows you would never marry a lightskirt. Hell, even I wouldn’t marry a soiled dove, and there’s not much I won’t do.”
The three friends laughed in agreement.
“A daughter of a merchant might do nicely,” Dawson suggested excitedly. He took a sip of his drink, grimaced, then set it on the table.
“Capital idea,” Benton acknowledged. “Nothing will boil the duke’s blood faster than the notion of having a chit, reeking with the smell of trade, for a daughter-in-law.”
Carter was at a loss for words. Everything they said was true. The duke would be appalled at the notion of his only son marrying a woman of inferior breeding. Thankfully it was unnecessary to entertain the notion.
“Who’s ready for another round of swordplay?” the marquess asked, determined to change the subject. “Dawson?”
“No thanks.” Dawson gingerly placed the foil he held on the bench beside him. “You nearly skewered Benton with that last lunge. I have no interest in being sliced to ribbons in the name of good sport. If I am going to die with a sword in my hand, I want it to be for a good and noble cause.”
A loud clash of steel, accompanied by the murmur of several male voices, suddenly drew their attention. A considerable crowd of men had gathered in a circle. Within the cleared space in the center of the crowd, two men were engaged in swift, intense swordplay.
“Hmm, that appears a bit personal,” Benton observed.
Carter nodded his head in agreement. Judging by the reaction of the crowd, this was not an ordinary match. The men so eagerly observing it all wore that avid interest men often display at the prospect of bloodshed.
Their curiosity piqued, the three friends moved closer to the action. The younger man of the dueling pair was thinner and shorter. He wore a crisp, white linen shirt, and a gold satin waistcoat adorned with intricate silver embroidery. He moved with elegance and grace, never seeming to break from the proper form or stance.
His opponent was a taller, solidly built man, dressed in a simple black waistcoat and a white linen shirt that had obviously seen many washings. His style of swordplay was not nearly as polished. It was more determined, more deliberate. More accurate, Carter conceded as with a glinting flurry of moves, the taller man shredded his opponent’s right sleeve.
“Impressive,” Benton muttered, when the man next blocked the attack from his opponent and then quickly put him on the defensive. “He moves as though the sword were a part of his arm.”
“Who is he? A new instructor?” Carter asked.
“He certainly possesses the skill,” Dawson replied. “Though I don’t believe he is employed here. I met him last week. His name is Gregory Roddington. Major Gregory Roddington, actually. From what I gather, he’s some sort of war hero. He was the youngest officer attached to Wellington’s staff and appointed himself admirably on the battlefield, especially at Waterloo. Rumors abound that Wellington himself is trying to secure a knighthood for him as recognition of his exemplary service to the crown.”
“Apparently they’ll allow anyone admittance to the club these days,” the viscount scoffed, but Carter could see his friend’s eyes light with respect.
As far as Carter knew, Benton had never done anything even remotely honorable, yet he had a keen respect for those who did, even though he tried to hide it.
“’Tis hard to believe he is only six and twenty,” Dawson commented.
“War ages a man,” Carter said wryly, agreeing the major looked older, more hardened than his years would indicate.
“Still, he’s a capital fellow. Good for a laugh.”
At that moment, the major attacked with a flurry of ferocious strikes. Off balance, his opponent fell back, then desperately brought his sword up to defend his face. Pressing his advantage, the major circled under the weapon, then with the tip of his blade neatly dislodged the sword from the other man’s hand.
It fell to the floor with a loud clatter. Moving so fast it was barely seen, the major then pressed the end of his blade into the base of his opponent’s throat.
“My match, I believe,” he muttered.
Panting hard, the younger man nodded. He seemed dazed, uncertain of exactly how he had been beaten. The major saluted his vanquished opponent, then looked up and seemed to notice the audience for the first time.
“Introduce us, Dawson,” Carter demanded as the crowd began to disperse.
“Major,” Dawson called out. “May I beg a moment of your time?”
The man turned, his expression startled. “Sorry, Mr. Dawson. Since resigning my commission I am trying very hard to distance myself from my former rank. To no avail.” Ironic amusement tempered his voice. “My friends call me Roddy. I would be honored if you would do the same.”
“Thank you, Roddy. May I present Carter Grayson, Marquess of Atwood and Sebastian Dodd, Viscount Benton.”
“My lords.” The major executed a bow. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
“We enjoyed your little show, Roddington,” the viscount replied. “Though it appeared somewhat more than a friendly match.”
“Did it?” The major shrugged, seemingly unconcerned with the observation. “Strange, I hardly know the man.”
The crowd made a wide berth as the men walked toward the door. Carter caught the edges of several conversations as they pushed through the crowd, making little sense of the comments he overheard.
“What is this all about?” he asked Dawson. The two of them had dropped back while the major and Benton led the way out of the club.
Dawson’s
