A Duke of Her Own(17)

Given that Tobias had fled the nursery an hour ago because Violet's happy, high-pitched screaming was threatening to drive him out of his mind, he could answer that. "No."



The duke pulled his shirt over his head again. "I have met a lady whom I'll probably marry. Clearly, we need a woman in the house. And since I'm going in a few days to look at an orphanage in Kent, and there's another appropriate candidate living close by, I'll meet her as well. I can choose between them." His head reappeared through a billow of white linen.

"A—A wife?" Tobias stammered.

"You and I could probably just rub along together, but I'm no good with girls. They need a mother."

Tobias just stared at him.

"All right," Villiers snapped. "I'm no good with boys either."

He strode off before Tobias could say another word, but he paused next to the Frenchman on his way out the door. "Naffi, I have a feeling my son might have a talent for the rapier. I think he would benefit from some lessons. See Ashmole about arranging it." And he was gone.

Tobias had learned a lot about the natural order in the months since Villiers plucked him out of a back street in Wapping and brought him to the mansion. Dukes were gods, and servants were rubbish; gentlemen were somewhere in between. Bastards were at the very bottom of the heap.

But as far as Tobias could tell, Villiers treated everyone as if they were rubbish. He had walked straight past Naffi without waiting for an answer, even though the Frenchman had lost two bouts in row. The man was quivering with annoyance, and Villiers's abrupt command could only have made things worse.

Tobias watched warily as the Frenchman walked over to him, rapier in hand. His lower lip was curled so savagely that Tobias could see the pink flesh inside. "So I'm to teach the by-blow to fence," he said in a low, dangerous tone, picking up his wig and jamming it onto his sweaty hair. "I, the great Naffi, lauded in three courts, am to waste my time teaching a trollop's bit of rubbish. As if you would ever have cause to defend your honor. What honor?" He threw his head back, laughter erupting from his mouth like a horse's whinny. "Honor! I hardly think so. Bastard begot, bastard in mind, bastard in valor, I say!"

Tobias had learned that watching people silently made them uneasy: it was only after he moved into the duke's house and observed his father's chilly eyes that he realized it was a family talent. So he said nothing, just let his eyes rest on the sweaty hair sticking out from under Naffi's wig, the red patches high in his cheeks.

"I don't care even to cross my sword with a whoreson like yourself," the Frenchman said. "To contaminate my blade jousting with a bastard. I, who jousted with His Grace the Duke of Rutland only last week? You don't need to learn proper conduct. Blood tells, and your sort will always end in the gutter."

Tobias didn't give a fig about insults to himself, but "whoreson" was different. Naffi was saying something about his mother. He never thought all that much about his mother until he met the gilded, glittering duke. Then he realized that it wasn't her fault, what had happened to him. It was the duke's fault.

"If blood is a reliable guide to conduct, it would explain your father's horns," he said, spacing the words so that Naffi would understand.



It took a moment for his insult to sink in. Then the Frenchman's voice rose. "You impudent little goat! You dare imply my maman—" His voice broke off as he unexpectedly shot forward, like a cork from a bottle.

Tobias jumped to the side just in time as Naffi bashed against the wall and rebounded, his nose gushing startlingly red blood.

Ashmole, Villiers's ancient butler, grinned at Tobias. In his right hand he held a large golden staff with a huge knob, with which he had apparently jabbed Naffi in the back. The Frenchman lurched around, clutching his nose with one hand and screaming incoherently.

"That'll teach you to insult the young master," Ashmole said, his voice cracking only once.

Blood was splattered down Naffi's white shirt. "How dare you lay a hand on me, you disgusting imbecile!" he shrieked.

Tobias began to laugh, when he suddenly realized that Naffi still had a rapier in his right hand, and that if the man would hesitate to assault a son of the house—even a bastard—he would feel no such compunction about a servant.

"I'll teach you to touch your betters!" Naffi snarled, bringing his blade up.

"Stop!" Tobias cried.

But the Frenchman was already poking the old butler hard in the chest, prodding him with the button-covered tip of the rapier. His lips curled happily, and Tobias could see that he was enjoying Ashmole's squawking protests and the way the old man stumbled back each time he was struck.