Page 60 of A Mismatch Made in London

Jeremy grabbed him by the throat, although not hard enough to restrict his air flow. “Fairweather lied, do you hear me? Nothing happened. If you say a word to anyone else, if you tell another living soul what you just said to Lord Peabody, I will find you, and I will make you sorry you were ever born.”

He squeezed harder for good measure, then let go.

Wallcroft rubbed his neck. “I won’t tell a soul. I’m not a fighter. I don’t want to fight.”

“And just in case you are too drunk to remember this, I will find you tomorrow and I will make you hear it again.”

“I’m not too drunk. I’ll remem-member.”

“And you will tell me where Fairweather is.” Jeremy thumpedhis chest, leaning close, in spite of the man’s foul alcohol-and-vomit breath.

“He’s playing cards upstairs.”

Jeremy turned and stomped away.

He stood in the empty hallway in a dark corner, took deep breaths, and tried to think.

He could go to the constable, have Fairweather locked up and tried in court, but that would destroy Juliet’s reputation. No gentleman would wish to marry her after it was publicly revealed what Fairweather had done. The only other way to make Fairweather pay was to fight him in a duel.

He didn’t want to kill Fairweather, but in a duel, one could injure his opponent and still win the duel without killing him. But there were no guarantees. And Jeremy had no wish to kill anyone. Yet he could not allow that man to get away with what he did to Juliet.

Juliet must have been so afraid. His head ached, thinking of how he hadn’t been there to protect her.

He went up the stairs and stepped into every room until he found Fairweather grinning and laying down his cards on the table.

Jeremy took a breath. He didn’t want to make a scene, so he took another breath and another, until he had himself under control. Then he stepped toward Fairweather.

“May I have a word in private?” he said quietly near Fairweather’s ear.

Fear flickered over his face. He excused himself from the table and asked another to hold his winnings.

Jeremy led him to an empty room, faced him, then punched him in the chin as hard as he could.

Fairweather stumbled backward. “I’ll have you arrested.” Fairweather held one hand to his chin and the other palm out, as if to hold Jeremy back.

“No, you will meet me for a duel at dawn at Battersea Fields.”

Fairweather stuttered, then said, “That’s not enough time to ask my seconds.”

“At dawn, day after tomorrow, then.”

“What did I do? Why are you calling me out?”

“You know what you did.” He drew his fist back as if to hit him again. Fairweather shrank back.

Jeremy could see the pink scar from a fairly fresh scratch across his left cheek. “You will never do that to anyone else, ever again. You will never show your face here at White’s again, and if I ever catch you in the same room with my sister, I will take you out and kill you right there.” He was so angry he could barely control himself, his clenched fists ready at his sides.

Fairweather’s throat bobbed as he swallowed.

He pressed his fist into Fairweather’s chest, hard. “Get your seconds ready. Battersea Fields at dawn, one day hence.”

He stomped from the room, went downstairs, half stumbling, found his horse, and rode for home.

He’d need to get a couple of fellows to act as his seconds, but first ... he had to sort through this murderous rage that was making his blood boil and his limbs shake.

Once he was home and safe in his room, having successfully avoided seeing anyone, even the servants, he sank to his knees and put his head in his hands.

How could he have let this happen?