A mere eyeblink for a glacier.
Farquar hadn’t a prayer against him.
The skin of Pangborne’s face had gone peculiarly tight. One of the men finally shifted uneasily. Allof them, in their tension, had visibly, unconsciously recoiled from Farquar.
Who wasseething.
“No one listened to Joseph, either, when he sobbed for mercy,” Dominic added, politely. As if the silence was a request for clarification.
He saw Pangborne’s throat move in a swallow.
Several of the lords with whom he stood bothered to vote so rarely they were actually fined during the king’s attempted divorce for not appearing in Parliament for the proceedings. Life was comfortable for them, whether they voted for anything or not. They didn’t need to care. He genuinely liked very few of them. He didn’t much care if they liked him. Liking was often beside the point in politics.
But most of them had consciences, at least a modicum of intelligence, and children. He might not ever be able to move Farquar. But he could bloody well use Farquar to move the rest of them.
It was so quiet in their little group that they could hear Farquar’s audibly swift breath, sucked in and blown out of his sculpted nostrils.
“Funny,” Farquar finally said, his voice pitched strangely high, “that you should show more concern for that guttersnipe than you do for your own by-blow, Kirke.”
When he looked back on that moment later, Dominic was confident he didn’t so much as blink.
But he went briefly as sick and airless as though he’d taken a fist to the ribs.
The blood flashed away from his skin, leaving him ice-cold.
And then nourishing, hot fury flooded in.
Suddenly the eyes of the men were fixed on him with avid curiosity.
“I’m afraid you must have confused me with someone else, Farkie,” he said gently. “Or were you perhaps crossing in front of a mirror when the word ‘bastard’ sprang to mind?”
Some instinct made him swiftly sidestep, and this was how he avoided taking Farquar’s fist full in the mouth.
The part of him, which, of course, was causing Farkie all the upset.
But his head snapped back from the glancing blow, and all the men surged forward swiftly to seize Farquar’s arms, restraining him, soothing him before he could cause a ruckus that would upset any nearby ladies.
They were prepared to restrain Kirke, too, but he held up his hand and shook his head: no need.
He touched his fingers to his mouth absently. He backed away.
And he fixed Farquar with the kind of black stare guaranteed to cause the man many, many sleepless nights wondering when he might hear from Kirke’s seconds.
“If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen?” he said mildly.
Chapter Four
I sure hope Lord Kirke ducks in time, Catherine had thought, guiltily enjoying every second of listening to him walk that awful, bloviating man into a trap. Because much likeThe Ghost in the Attic, she was pretty certain she knew how the story was going to end.
Well, he hadn’t.
When men got too full of themselves and liquor, it was best to just get out of the way of the flailing—she’d learned this from living in a town where everyone happily frequented the only pub. Goodness knew her father had matter-of-factly stitched a lip or two after a brawl.
She abandoned the shelter of the ferns, darted swiftly past the oblivious, promenading dancers until she was out of the ballroom, then wove through little clusters of people shouting and gesticulating at each other in cheerfully inebriated conversation. A few curious heads turned as she swept past and she offered what she hoped was a confident, I-belong-here smile.
She considered retreating to the ladies’ withdrawing room, where at least she’d have some company and might meet a nice person or two, or have a chat with a lady’s maid. But suddenly she felt shy about her sleeves, and was worried someone else might point them out.
So when she came upon the flight of stairs to the rest of the house, she impulsively dashed up, and with every step the music and the voices below grew fainter.