Someone to Love (Westcott #1)(72)
“I believe,” Avery said, “Walling is waiting for you to finish your monologue, Riverdale, so that he can get this meeting started.”
His second looked at him in some exasperation and fell silent.
“The fight will begin,” Walling announced. “It will continue until one of the two gentlemen concedes defeat or until one is knocked down and is unable to rise.”
Uxbury strode onto the stage—one could not see that circle of scrubby grass as anything else when he did so—with purposeful strides and grim demeanor and clenched fists. He proceeded to take up a boxer’s stance that would have done Gentleman Jackson proud. He danced a few steps on his booted feet. Avery strolled toward him and stopped a couple of feet away, his arms at his sides.
Uxbury leered at him and threw a straight right that, if it had landed, would have gone straight through Avery’s nose and out the back of his head. Avery batted it away with the side of one forearm and then did the same when a left followed close upon the right.
“Cover yourself, Netherby,” someone from the crowd cried above the general swell of sound—it might have been Riverdale.
Uxbury danced a few more steps, leered again, and repeated the exact same attack—with the exact same result. He was a slow learner. It was amazing, Avery thought, what height there was to boots. Uxbury seemed a full two inches taller than usual, though probably it was he who was two inches shorter in his bare feet. The ground was uneven and a bit stony in places, very different from the attic floor, but he had encountered worse when working with his Chinese gentleman.
“You are just going to stand there like a fairy boy, are you?” Uxbury asked.
A few people tittered. A number cried, “Shame!” though whether they meant Uxbury or the Duke of Netherby was not clear.
The next time, Uxbury followed the same two leading punches with his body and a flurry of ferocious blows. But he had signaled his intention with his eyes and his body, foolish man, and there was no method to the punches except the desire to end the fight almost before it had begun. It took just a little more effort of eye and reflex to deflect the flailing fists, though one of them actually glanced off his shoulder and turned him slightly sideways. Uxbury followed it up with another powerful blow intended to knock his victim into kingdom come. Avery stepped sideways, waited for fist and arm to whistle harmlessly by, twisted his body a little more, and caught Uxbury on the side of the head with the flat of his foot.
He went down like a sack of potatoes.
The crowd roared.
Uxbury blinked and looked dazed, then puzzled, then indignant, then wrathful. The man was as easy to read, Avery thought, as a book written in large, heavy print. He could not be much of a cardplayer. He scrambled to his feet, shook his head, staggered once, glared at Avery, then resumed his stance, while all the time in the background there were voices urging Avery to go for the kill while he had the chance.
“That was a dirty hit,” Uxbury said from between his teeth.
“Did you get dirt on your shirt?” Avery asked. “But I daresay it will wash out.”
Uxbury had not learned a thing. He resumed the attack in much the same manner, though a little wilder this time, just as though weight and muscle and brute force made brain and agility and observation obsolete. Avery let him flail about for a time while he deflected every punch or moved out of its way. Uxbury’s attack grew only more desperate. He paused after a couple of minutes, however, breathless, sweat pouring down his face, his shirt clinging wetly about his person. It was most impressive.
“The little prancing, dancing master,” he said through gritted teeth. “Stand still like a man, Netherby.”
Avery spun about and caught him on the other side of the head with the flat of his other foot.
Uxbury bent to the side but stayed on his feet this time while the crowd roared again. His fists slipped a little lower.
“Man-milliner!” he said with contempt. “Camille Westcott is not just a bastard, you know. She is a slut and a whore. So is Abigail Westcott. So is Lady Anast—”
When Avery launched himself this time, he planted both feet beneath Uxbury’s chin and kicked out. His opponent went down heavily backward and stayed down.
There was a curious hush. Avery became only gradually aware of it. He was more aware of the fact that, unlike the other two blows, that last one had been struck in anger. It went against the discipline of his training, but he was not sorry. Sometimes anger was a justifiable human emotion.
He had not used his hands at all, he realized. It was probably as well he had not used them in anger.
Walling was hurrying toward Uxbury. So was the physician, clutching his black bag. Avery walked back to Riverdale and the neat pile of his clothes. It was only then that noise erupted to break the eerie silence. But no one spoke to Avery. No one even looked directly at him.
“Where the devil,” Riverdale asked as Avery sat on the tree stump and pulled on one of his stockings, “did you learn to do that?”
“You see,” Avery said softly, “I was a small lad, Riverdale, as you may remember. And a pretty one. And a prey to every school bully—and a boys’ school abounds with the breed.”
“Wherever you learned it,” Riverdale said, hovering as Avery pulled on his boots, “it was not at school. Good God, I have never seen the like. Nor has anyone else here. I do understand now, though, why that aura of power and danger seems to hover constantly about you. I always thought there was no reason for it. But now I understand! Let me take you for breakfast at White’s. It is still very early, but—”