Free Devil's Cub by Georgette Heyer

full in Quarles’s face. He was smiling now and his eyes blazed. “And that’s a waste of good wine,” he said, and turned and said something to the waiter at his elbow. Mr. Quarles, with the burgundy dripping down his front, sprang up and made a clumsy lunge at him. Cholmondley and Captain Wraxall, the bluff gentleman, forced him back.
    “Damn it, you asked for that!” Cholmondley swore. “Take it back, you fool! We all know you’re drunk.”
    The Marquis had resumed his seat. The waiter looked frightened, and whispered to him. My lord turned on him with something like a snarl, and the man fled.
    Lord Rupert got up rather unsteadily. “Fiend seize it, the champagne’s got into my head!” he said. But the sudden interlude seemed to have jerked him back to sobriety. “There’s been enough of this,” he said authoritatively. “You be damned for a fool, Vidal. Can’t you see the fellow’s drunk?”
    Lord Vidal laughed. “I’m drunk myself, Rupert, but I can tell when a man calls me cheat.”
    “Good God, my lord, you’ll never care for what’s said after the third bottle!” cried Captain Wraxall.
    Lord Cholmondley gave Mr. Quarles’s arm a shake. “Take it back, man; you’re out of your senses.”
    Mr. Quarles wrenched himself free. “You’ll meet me for this, my lord!” he roared.
    “Be sure I will,” said the Marquis. “We'll settle it now, my buck.”
    Rupert took up the dice. “Break ’em,” he said briefly. “Where’s that rogue Timothy? I want a hammer.”
    Sir Horace Tremlett, he of the mincing speech, protested. “I vow it’s not necessary, my lard. We know my Lard Vidal, I believe. Break the dice? ’Pon my soul, sir, it’s to insult his lardship.”
    “To hell with that!” said Rupert. “I’m breaking ’em, see? If they’re true, Quarles apologizes. That’s fair, ain’t it?”
    “Ay, that’s the best,” Captain Wraxall agreed.
    Mr. Quarles was wiping his face. “I say my lord will meet me! By God, I’ll not take a glass of wine in the face and say thank you for it!”
    Cholmondley spoke in Lord Rupert’s ear. “It’s gone too far now. Rot that nephew of yours! What’s to do?”
    “Break the dice,” Rupert said obstinately. “Can’t have it said an Alastair plays crooked.”
    “Oh, you’re as drunk as Vidal! Who’s to say so? Quarles will take it back when he’s sober if you can stop Vidal forcing it on now.”
    The waiter had come back into the room carrying a flat case. With a scared look at the Marquis he laid this on the table. Vidal opened it, and it was to be seen that a brace of pistols lay within. “Take your choice,” he said.
    Rupert stared. “What’s this? Can’t fight here, Dominic. Arrange it for you out at Barn Elms, nine o’clock.”
    “By nine o’clock I shall be in Newmarket,” said the Marquis. “I’ll settle my score before I leave.”
    Mr. Fox roused himself. He inspected the pistols through his eyeglass, and looked inquiringly at Vidal. “Where did they come from?” he said. “Don’t carry pistols to gaming houses myself.”
    “They come out of my coach,” replied Vidal. He looked at the clock. “It waits. Choose, you!”
    “I’m for you!” Mr. Quarles declared. He rolled an eye at Captain Wraxall. “Sir, will you act for me?”
    “Act for you?” exploded the Captain. “I’ll have nothing to do with the business. My lord, you’re in no fit case to fight, and I recommend you to go home and let your seconds arrange the matter more seemly,”
    Vidal laughed. “Not fit? By God, that’s rich, Wraxall. You don’t know me very well, do you?”
    “I am happy to say I do not, sir!” said the Captain stiffly.
    “Watch then!” My lord drew a small gold-mounted pistol from his pocket. He levelled it, still lounging in his chair, and fired before any could stop him. There was a loud report, and the smash of glass as the bullet shattered the big mirror at the end of the room.
    “What in hell’s name—?” began