Maggie winced. Good lord. This was all her fault. She’d known full well that St. Clare had wanted to leave his old identity behind. Dead and buried, he’d said. And now, because of her, he was forced to confront it again, and in the most public way possible.

“The bastard son of a whore and a highwayman,” Fred said. “Born at Beasley Park, wasn’t he, Margaret? He used to muck out Squire Honeywell’s stables.”

Maggie’s fists clenched. “Shut up, Fred.”

“He was a thief, too,” Fred went on. “A dirty, no-good grubby little thief. He was going to be hanged for his crimes. And would have been if someone hadn’t set him free.” He flashed a scathing look at Maggie. “Were you letting him bed you even then?”

After that, things happened rather quickly.

Thrusting his flintlock at Maggie, St. Clare closed the distance between him and Fred in a few swift strides. He knocked the pistol from Fred’s hand. And drawing back, punched him full in the face.

There was a deafening roar of approval from the men in the tavern, and a great rush forward as they all closed in to watch what looked to be the beginning of a mill.

Fred flew backward from the strength of the blow, landing against a table. He rallied immediately. One minute he was shaking his head, as though stunned, and the next he was charging St. Clare like a bull. He caught him in the midsection, nearly bowling him off of his feet.

But St. Clare was no lad anymore. Not a lanky servant boy who Fred could beat without fear of reprisal. He returned Fred’s blows with powerful blows of his own, another to the face, and several to Fred’s sides, making his opponent grunt and grimace.

St. Clare’s flintlock still in her hand, Maggie shoved through the crowd to grab Fred’s fallen pistol from the floor. She reached out for it, but Mr. Beresford’s odious valet beat her to it. He swept it up in his hand, and with a triumphant sneer, withdrew back to his master, who was by this point hunkering behind the bar.

Meanwhile, St. Clare and Fred fought on, across the taproom and toward the door. Glasses shattered as they threw each other against tables, and wood splintered as chairs broke and upended onto the floor.

St. Clare’s golden hair was wildly disheveled, his greatcoat torn off, and his neckcloth ripped loose. Blood stained his brow and dripped from his mouth.

Fred was in even worse condition. His hat and coat were gone, his waistcoat had lost all but two of its buttons, and his copper hair stood straight up on his head. One of his eyes was half shut, and he was bleeding copiously from his nose.

Neither of which deterred him.