Unclaimed (Turner, #2)

CHAPTER NINETEEN

TOMORROW CAME ALL too swiftly, and with it, Mark’s plan for revenge. It didn’t take long to find his quarry. Weston was too much of a creature of habit to escape.

The sun was high overhead, and Weston was scurrying across the lawn of Hyde Park when Mark found him. Ironic, that he was headed to meet with men whom he hoped would put him forward for the position on the Commission on the Poor Laws. The upcoming vacancy had been announced today; the nomination to fill it would soon be made.

“Weston,” Mark called across the expanse of the park.

Weston paused and turned, a puzzled expression on his face. That expression faded to annoyance as he found Mark striding toward him. His jaw stiffened; the corners of his mouth ticked down.

“Sir Mark.” He made the words sound like an insult.

After Mark had listened to Jessica’s tale last night, anything out of Weston’s mouth would have seemed an insult. Mark walked forward. “I heard you had some interest in the Commission.”

Weston scowled and folded his arms. Around them, people were promenading. Mark knew his appearance would draw attention. He’d hoped for it, in fact. He felt almost calm, floating in a sea of inaction.

That was going to change.

“And what does it matter to you?” Weston growled.

Mark smiled. “I’m going to make sure you don’t get it,” he said.

“You sanctimonious prig. I should like to see you stop me.”

“Pardon me.” Mark needed to stay calm. “You don’t think there will be any…any interest in the fact that you hired a woman to seduce me? Now, that would be an amusing addition to the serial that concluded in the papers a few days ago. I wonder what that should do to your reputation?”

“I—” Weston looked about and lowered his voice. “You can’t prove that.” He swallowed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he added, belatedly.

“Oh, I could prove it,” Mark said. But he wouldn’t. He wasn’t about to thrust Jessica into the center of attention over this. The last thing she needed was to be permanently linked with this man in the public’s eye.

“How much power do you think you’d have,” Mark said, “if people knew the true you? A man so cowardly he resorts to hiring women to do his dirty business, and so untrustworthy he cheats them in the end.”

Weston took a step forward, his fists balling. “I am not a coward. You don’t want to start a fight with me, Sir Mark. I warn you.”

“No.” Mark smiled placidly. He didn’t want to start the fight. “I’d imagine you’re afraid. It’s not so easy to be powerful, when you have to face down someone your own size.” His calm was a scant layer of civility over an anger that had taken control of his entire being. He could almost see the moment when Weston’s temper snapped, could see his hand curl into a fist, draw back from him. Every thing seemed to happen so slowly. Mark could have moved, could have stepped out of the way of the punch that Weston threw, so languidly did it seem to drift toward him.

But if he had dodged, all of Hyde Park would not have seen Weston hit him unprovoked. Mark barely felt it land, in the haze of his fury. His head snapped back; the force of the blow knocked him to the ground. He saw the limbs of a tree wave overhead, green leaves obscuring blue sky. All around him, gasps rose, and people turned, rushing over to them.

Mark jumped lightly to his feet.

“I box regularly,” Weston said, raising his fists. “I shoot, too. There’s more where that came from. I told you not to start a fight with me.”

“I don’t box at all.” Mark stood in stillness, a calm contrast to Weston’s bouncing on his toes. “I wasn’t going to start a fight with you. But I was rather hoping I could finish one.”

Mark had never seen the need for boxing—especially not with the newly adopted rules that brought civility to the fighting. But then, he’d lived on the Bristol streets as a child. He’d learned to fight in a harsher environment than the London Prize Ring.

And so when Weston threw a second punch, Mark swiveled to the side. He caught the man’s fist in his hand as it passed, jerked Weston to the side and let the man’s own momentum send him crashing to the ground.

Weston gasped like a fish as the wind was knocked out of him. Mark set one hand idly against the trunk of the tree and waited.

“You tripped me,” Weston said in confusion. “But don’t think you can beat me for sheer power.”