Yankee Earl Read Free Page A

and when—note the emphasis on the first word—I decide to marry, I shall choose a woman for her personal allure, not her dowry or bloodlines.” Suddenly that hoyden in britches flashed into his mind, and he grinned.
           Thinking about that allure, are we, hmmm?”
           “Just a rather unusual female I encountered last week in the country. No one of account. But she possessed a sharp wit. Claws to match, too.”
           “Just like Alex. Always chasing a skirt,” Drum said with a chuckle.
           “No skirt.”
           “No skirt? Egad, was she running about mother naked?”
           Jason smirked. “She wore britches.”
           “Britches?” Drum choked on his brandy.
           “Is there an echo in here?”
           Ignoring the taunt, Drum asked sourly, “Is there to be nothing left sacred for us poor males? Women in britches, indeed. We need a night of diversion sans female company, in skirts or otherwise attired. Heigh-ho, we're off to the Haymarket Room. Two of Domenico Angelo's pupils are putting on a demonstration with foils.”
           “Personally, I've always preferred a good sturdy cutlass.”
           “Being a retired pirate, you would…regrettably,” Drum replied. “But you shall learn better under my most excellent tutelage.”
     
    * * * *
     
           The room was not all that large, considering the crowd. Drum had been right. Unlike gambling hells, dog fights and horse races, where ladies of the evening were always in evidence, the fencing demonstration drew an all-male audience. Most were from the upper ten thousand, but a few wealthy Cits were present as well. The low murmuring of fencing enthusiasts filled the smoke-laden air as gentlemen puffed on expensive cigars and wagered.
           “I say to hell with that Mediterranean mediocrity,” a nasal voice announced from a corner of the room as Jason and Drum entered. The speaker stood surrounded by a gaggle of sycophants. His blond hair was cut a la Brutus, framing a pale angular face with a long patrician nose and deeply set yellow eyes that skimmed the crowd with restless energy.
           As the fellow continued to hold forth, it was apparent to Jason that he had imbibed too much; but no one seemed inclined to notice. “Who is that pompous ass?” he asked Drum, sotto voce.
           “Ah, Forrestal, an insufferable lout. Drinks too much and has execrable taste in fashion,” Drum replied, shaking his head at the man's waistcoat, which was embroidered with a garish floral design. “If the sot ventured into the countryside in that flowered monstrosity, he'd be suffocated by amorous butterflies.”
           “His companion's sensibilities don't appear offended,” Jason replied dryly.
           That's because Forrestal is Etherington's heir. Currently he's waiting for the old man to kick the bucket so he can ascend to the dukedom. Well known as a skilled duelist.”
           “Displaying such manners, he had better be.”
           “Ah, but he'll be a duke one day. Most of the ton is willing to overlook a fault or two for that. Of course, in the meanwhile he's perpetually out at heels.”
           “Why doesn't his father give him an estate to run for himself? Surely a duke has several to spare.”
           “Heigh-ho, you've seen what a charming creature he is—would you gift him with aught before absolutely forced to do so?”
           “You have the right of that,” Jason replied thoughtfully, feeling the future duke's eyes fasten on him with inexplicable hostility.
           “Come, they're about to begin,” Drum said, moving through the press.
           Jason was passing by Forrestal and his entourage when one of the duke-in-waiting's companions seized hold of his arm and said, “Wouldn't care to place a wager on Arless, would you? We have a purse-proud Cit over there who's taking all bets.