Unveiled (Turner #1)(93)

Ash stopped in front of the man. The tip of Indiver’s cheroot glowed red, and Ash smelled acrid smoke.

“And,” Indiver continued, having no idea of the danger he was in, “you do need every vote you can muster. Do you not?”

Ash set his hand on the man’s shoulder. “No,” he said, in as friendly a tone as he could manage. “I don’t need every vote. I can spare this one.” Before Indiver could make sense of that, he drove his fist into the man’s stomach. He barely had time to let out a gurgling cry before Ash followed his strike with a blow to the kidneys. Another—and then Indiver collapsed at his feet.

How satisfying. He only wished it had lasted longer.

Dalrymple came scampering up behind him.

“That,” Ash said quietly, “is what you should have done to me when you found me with your sister. You are the most ineffectual flailer.”

“Sometimes,” Dalrymple responded in a murmur, “I almost think I could like you.”

Ash snorted. “Why bother?”

At their feet, the earl moaned slightly. Ash wasn’t sure whether to be pleased that the man had survived, or annoyed that he was still twitching.

“Is that your plan?” he continued. “You attempt to befriend me? To convince me that we should reach some sort of agreement? I don’t make agreements with you, Dalrymple—not of any sort. I know your type.”

“After this—” Dalrymple prodded Indiver’s prone form with a foot “—there’s little enough we can agree on. I suppose we have reached the end of the matter. I should be grateful it took us a ten full minutes.”

Ash glanced askance at the man. “I once told your father I’d make you an allowance, should I win. The offer is still open. All you have to do is ask for it. Politely.”

“What, so I could dangle on your string, subject to your every whim? No, thank you, Turner. I hardly want to be beholden to you.”

He’d not imagined the man would take kindly to his offer. “Perhaps,” Ash said in a low growl, “you thought we might split the honors. I take the dukedom. You take one of the lesser titles attached to Parford.”

That seemed to take Dalrymple aback. In the darkness, his head skewed to one side. “How would you propose to do that?” He sounded almost shocked. “Is that…possible?”

“I don’t know. I suppose we could petition the queen to strip off one of the lesser titles. Not,” he added with a wary glance to his side, “that I would support any such thing.” But perhaps that might satisfy Margaret—if not Ash’s own need for vengeance.

“The queen?” Dalrymple’s eyes narrowed.

“While you were out, ruining your constitution studying in Oxford, you might have heard of her once or twice. Lovely lady. Recently ascended to the throne.”

“The queen can’t simply strip a lord of a title on a whim. What sort of ignoramus are you?”

“She’s the queen. She can do anything.”

Dalrymple rolled his eyes again. “No, she can’t. It’s called Magna Carta, you dolt. You might have heard of it—if you’d any education to speak of. But you didn’t, did you? How can you think you can run a dukedom when you’re ignorant of even the most basic tenets of government?”

If Ash had been able to think, he wouldn’t have done it. But thought fled before a red, furious miasma, and before he could consider, he punched. His knuckles bruised with the blow, and he heard rather than saw Richard stumble back against a tree.

“Maybe,” Ash snarled, “if you’d spent a little less time memorizing Latin and a little more actually trying to accomplish something of merit, you wouldn’t find yourself in this situation.”

“What, waste my life pursuing trade like you? You’re mad if you think anyone would want a stinking businessman in the House of Lords, when—”

“When they could have you?” Ash said with a sneer. “Let me spell it out for you, Dalrymple. For a man in trade, I’ve garnered a shocking percentage of the lords to my side. You’re going to lose. And it’s because nobody likes you. Nobody has ever liked you—don’t fool yourself. I heard the stories from Eton.”

Ash had only a moment to register that Dalrymple was rushing towards him with a wordless roar, before the man careened into him, flailing wildly in his rage. Ash punched him once, and once again, but there was a fierce desperation to his opponent. When Ash took a step back, his boot caught a flagstone beneath him and he fell.

Dalrymple was on top of him, pummeling him ineffectually—really, someone needed to teach the man to use his fists—and Ash had just reached up to take hold of the man’s neck when the sound of another man, clearing his throat, echoed.

“Gentlemen,” said a dry voice. A pause.

Ash’s hands were tangled in Dalrymple’s cravat.

“I assume,” the man continued, “that contrary to all available evidence, the two of you are still gentlemen?”

Damn. Hell and damn. That censorious tone could only belong to Lord Lacy-Follett, one of the few lords whose vote was not yet decided—and one of the most influential. He’d told Ash a few days ago that he could not quite decide between the strength of the son’s claim and his desire to see Parford punished for his bigamy.