The Day of the Duchess (Scandal & Scoundrel #3)(98)

“Would you want her? It’s not as though she’s a lady.”

Haven gritted his teeth, loathing these men and this place and everything it represented—the life she’d chosen over him. How she must have loathed him to pick this life. He had to get to her.

Before he could, the first man spoke again, punctuating his words with a rude hand motion. “All the more reason to have her. Chit knows how to do.”

The men laughed uproariously as Haven turned toward them, taking note of the large tankards of ale on the table as he crouched low and took a shoulder in hand. “Say it again.”

The words were low and ominous, and the men just drunk enough not to see the danger ahead. “Wot, that the Sparrow seems a good plow?”

It was the hours of frustration, riding alone in the dark, desperate for her. It was the weeks of frustration, wishing for her with him even as she stood inches away, impossible to reach. It was the years of frustration, knowing that he’d made every possible mistake. Fearing that he might never find her.

Without all that, perhaps he might not have flipped the table, sending the quartet flying backward, out of the way of furniture and fury.

Perhaps he might not have grabbed a tankard of ale virtually from midair and cracked the most vocal of them on the side of the head, enjoying the mighty thud that came with the blow more than he should.

The man landed on the ground with a wild curse, the throngs that had seemed dense and immovable scattering to clear a wide space, someone calling out “Brawl!”

The room exploded with activity, the razor-edge anticipation of Sera’s return performance translating into a wild curiosity about the fight that had broken out. Women shrieked and yanked their skirts out of the way as men began to call out wagers.

Mal did not pause to hear the over-under on his success, however. He was too busy fighting, his fists connecting quickly and powerfully, punishing the remaining three members of the foul-mouthed group with his fury. “You do not speak of her that way,” he said, bloodying one man’s nose before turning to block a chair wielded by another.

The furniture crashed over his arm, and he turned away from the shower of splintered wood before landing a massive blow to his attacker’s jaw. “You do not speak of women that way,” he roared.

“Sod off!” came the retort from the first man down, now once more on his feet, blood on his cheek. “I’ll say what I like, where I like!”

Mal went for him again, taking him by his grubby shirt and tossing him, bodily, toward the enormous guard, who appeared less interested in the disgusting refuse of a human at his feet, and more interested in getting to Mal, no doubt to stop his bout of fury.

Mal raised his hands in surrender. He was not after the men who protected Sera. “I am not here to—”

He was unable to finish the thought, however, as a feminine screech sounded behind him. He turned, uncertain of what to expect.

He certainly did not expect to find his final foe mere inches from him, arms flailing, fists diverted from their original path by the woman who had attacked the cretin from behind. Sesily. His sister-in-law, who looked directly at him and said, “Go on then, take your shot!”

He did. One wicked jab that would have made his boxing instructor at Eton immensely proud. The man fell like a tree, Sesily atop him.

She sat up remarkably quickly, and with an impressive flourish, as though wrestling beasts to the floor while wearing skirts were a particular talent. She grinned up at him. “We’re in a bit of trouble, I’d think.”

Sesily was, as ever, superior at understatement.

The room was riotous, hooting and harrumphing and cheering and hissing consuming the group, money changing hands, and one enterprising bookmaker calling out, “As no one wagered that a girl would enter the fray, no one wins!”

Suffice to say, those assembled for their winnings were unsatisfied.

As they waged war among one another, several large men emerged from the woodwork to remove the four offending men. Mal reached down, offering his sister-in-law a hand, helping her to her feet.

She smirked. “I knew you would come, but I did not expect such an impressive entrance, I confess.”

He scowled. “I don’t know that she’ll feel the same way.”

She shook her head. “Don’t be silly. Women love a grand gesture.”

Mal wasn’t certain that destroying a tavern and bloodying four men was quite the same as a roomful of hothouse roses, but the guard reached him before he could argue the point, massive hands coming to Mal’s shoulders and yanking him back toward the entrance. “Time to go, toff.”

“Wait!” Sesily said, coming forward. “He’s—”

“What in ever-loving hell were you thinking?” Mal had somehow forgotten the American, which was a shock, honestly, considering how thunderous the man was at that particular moment, spinning Sesily to face him. “Did you just throw yourself into a goddamn bar fight?”

There wasn’t even a hint of a cower in Sesily. Indeed, it appeared that his sister-in-law was pleased beyond measure with Caleb Calhoun’s rage. Understanding dawned as she turned with utter calm. “What business is it of yours?”

It appeared the Talbot sisters had struck again, and for the first time since he’d woken hours earlier and realized that Sera was gone, Mal found himself thinking of something other than winning back his wife.