“No.” Lucy let her hands drop, deflated and weary. “I won’t marry you.”
“DAMMIT!” EDWARD DE RAAF, the fifth Earl of Swar-tingham, roared as yet another boy whizzed past. The boy somehow managed to avoid seeing de Raaf’s large, waving arm.
Simon stifled a sigh. He sat in his favorite London coffeehouse, his feet—shod in new red-heeled pumps—propped on a nearby chair, and yet he could not drag his mind away from the little town he’d left over a week ago.
“D’you think the service is getting worse?” his companion asked as he was passed over again. The boy must be blind. Or willfully not seeing. De Raaf stood a solid six feet and some inches, had a sallow, pockmarked face, and striking midnight black hair worn in a messy queue. His expression at the moment was enough to curdle cream. He didn’t exactly blend into a crowd.
“No.” Simon sipped his own coffee thoughtfully. He’d arrived earlier than the other man and was thus already set up. “It’s always been this awful.”
“Then why do we come here?”
“Well, I come here for the excellent coffee.” Simon glanced around the dingy, low-ceilinged coffeehouse. The Agrarian Society, an eclectic, loose-knit club, met here. The only terms of membership were that the man had to have an interest in agriculture. “And, of course, the sophisticated atmosphere.”
De Raaf shot him a ludicrously outraged look.
A fight broke out in the corner between a macaroni in a deplorable pink-powdered, three-tailed wig, and a country squire wearing muddy jackboots. The boy scurried past them again—de Raaf didn’t even get a chance to raise his hand this time—and Harry Pye stole into the coffeehouse. Pye moved like a cat on the hunt, gracefully and without any sound. Add to that his nondescript appearance—he was of average height and looks and favored a dull brown wardrobe—and it was a wonder anyone noticed him at all. Simon narrowed his eyes. With his physical control, Pye would have made a formidable swordsman. But since he was a commoner, no doubt he had never held a sword; only nobility could wear one. Which didn’t stop Pye from carrying a wicked little blade in his left boot.
“My lords.” Pye sat in the remaining chair at their table.
De Raaf let out a long-suffering sigh. “How many times have I told you to call me Edward or de Raaf?”
Pye half smiled in acknowledgment at the familiar words, but it was to Simon he spoke. “I am glad to see you well, my lord. We had news of your near murder.”
Simon shrugged easily. “A trifle, I assure you.”
De Raaf frowned. “That’s not what I heard.”
The boy slammed a full mug of coffee down beside Pye.
De Raaf’s jaw dropped. “How did you do that?”
“What?” Pye’s gaze lowered to the empty space on the table before the earl. “Aren’t you having a cup today?”
“I—”
“He’s decided to give up coffee,” Simon cut in smoothly. “Heard it’s not good for the libido. Huntington wrote a treatise on it recently, didn’t you hear? It especially affects those nearing their middle years.”
“Really.” Pye blinked.
De Raaf’s pale, pockmarked face crimsoned. “What a lot of rot—”
“Can’t say I’ve noticed it affecting me.” Simon smiled blandly and sipped his coffee. “But then again, de Raaf is considerably older than I.”
“You lying—”
“And he’s recently married. Bound to have a slowing-down consequence, that.”
“Now see here—”
Pye’s lips twitched. If Simon hadn’t been watching closely, he’d have missed it. “But I’m newly married as well,” Pye interrupted softly. “And I can’t say I’ve noticed any, ah, problem. Must be the age.”
Simon felt a strange pang as he realized he was the odd man out. They turned in unison to the earl.
Who sputtered, “Despicable, lying, caddish—”
The boy whirled by again. De Raaf frantically waved his arm. “Ahhh, damn!”
The lad disappeared into the kitchen without ever turning his head.
“Good thing you’ve given up the sacred brew.” Simon smirked.
A crash came from the brawl in the corner. Heads swiveled. The country squire had the dandy, sans wig, on his back against a table. Two chairs lay broken nearby.
Pye frowned. “Isn’t that Arlington?”
“Yes,” Simon replied. “Hard to recognize him without that atrocious wig, isn’t it? Can’t think why he chose pink. No doubt that’s the reason the rural chap is pummeling him. Probably overcome with loathing for the wig.”
“They were arguing over swine breeding.” De Raaf shook his head. “He’s always been a bit unreasonable about farrowing pens. Runs in the family.”
“Do you think we should help him?” Pye asked.
“No.” De Raaf looked around for the boy, an evil gleam in his eye. “Arlington could benefit from a beating. Might knock some sense into him.”
“Doubt it.” Simon raised his mug again, but then lowered it as he saw a slight, scruffy character hesitating in the doorway.
The man scanned the room and spotted him. He started toward them.
“Dammit!” de Raaf exclaimed beside him. “They’re ignoring me on purpose.”
“Do you want me to get you a coffee?” Pye asked.
“No. I’m going to do it myself or die trying.”
The man stopped before Simon. “Took me most of the day, Guv, but I’ve found him.” He proffered a dirty scrap of paper.
“Thanks.” Simon gave the man a gold coin.
“Ta.” The little man tugged a forelock and disappeared.
Simon opened the paper and read: The Devil’s Playground after eleven. He crumpled the note and stuffed it in a pocket. And only then realized the other two men were watching him. He raised his brows.
“What’s that?” De Raaf rumbled. “Found another one to duel?”
Simon blinked, taken aback. He thought he had kept his dueling secret from de Raaf and Pye. He’d not wanted their interference or their moralizing.
“Surprised we know?” De Raaf leaned back, endangering the wooden chair he sat in. “It wasn’t that hard to ferret out how you’ve been spending the last couple of months, especially after that sword fight with Hartwell.”
What was the big man’s point? “Not your business.”