Page 42 of Scandalous

For his part, Martín was beginning to get the light, almost dizzy sensation he usually experienced right before he engaged in violence.

Graaf looked from Banks to Martín, his angelic features equal parts worry and confusion. Martín smiled at the Dutchman’s discomfort. It was clear he’d never experienced the invigorating sensation currently flooding Martín’s body.

The only other man Martín had met who’d understand his blind fury on the issue of slavery was Standish. It had always intrigued Martín that such a cultured and well-bred man could suffer from the same uncontrollable anger as an ex-slave whore.

Unfortunately, a major difference between Martín and his mentor was Ramsay’s ability to recognize the feeling and stop it. Well, at least some of the time.

Martín sipped his wine and chatted with Graaf, nodding at whatever he said without listening. The four men at the other table were becoming increasingly agitated by the presence of a black man in the dining room. Too bad they didn’t realize there were really two black men polluting the dining room.

Martín was close to coming apart at the seams when one of the men stood, his friends muttering angry encouragement as he stalked over to their table.

“What’s he doing in here?” the man demanded, interrupting something Graaf had been saying.

Martín glanced up as if he’d only just then noticed the man. He was as big as Martín, but perhaps a few years older. He had the brown, battered face of a sailor, but wore expensive, if tasteless clothing. Martín raised his eyebrows. “I beg your pardon?”

“I said, what makes you think you can bring him in here?” he repeated, his face darkening at having to repeat himself.

“I did not bring him in here; he brought himself in here.”

The man’s face contorted. “You know what I mean. His kind isn’t allowed in here.”

“His kind?” Martín set down his glass and scratched his forehead.

Herr Dietzel appeared, his cherubic face tense. “Excuse me, gentlemen. Is there a problem?” His protuberant blue eyes swung from Martín to the man hovering over him.

“This gentleman says my friend is not allowed in here.” Martín turned to the Dutchman. “It appears he does not care for Dutchmen, Captain Graaf. I think he wants you to leave.”

Graaf’s jaw dropped.

“You know damn well I don’t mean him. Do you think I’m some kind of fool?” The thug’s face was dangerously red.

Martín shoved back his chair and stood. The other man took a step back as Martín shrugged out of his coat.

“Will you please hold this?”

The stunned Prussian took the garment without speaking.

Martín turned to face his aggressor, who’d swelled up like a poison-spitting toad. “No,” Martín said, giving his shirt cuff a minute adjustment. “I do not think you are a fool. I know you are one.”

Martín saw the punch coming before the man even knew he’d swung his arm. He ducked the roundhouse swing and jabbed the sluggish man twice in his side, doubling him over and then capping him off with a powerful left to his jaw. The big man’s body hit the floor so hard that dust puffed up from the gaps in the wood flooring, and cutlery, china, and crystal jumped on tables twenty feet in any direction.

Martín looked down at the groaning lump at his feet, adjusting his cuffs again as he waited for the man’s three friends to make up their minds.

They did not disappoint.

The men rose up like a single organism and clambered toward him, knocking aside chairs and tables in their clumsy fury, leaving shattered glass and clattering silverware in their wake.

Martín turned to the horrified Prussian. “Please take my coat somewhere safe, Herr Dietzel,” he murmured, as Banks rushed to greet the first of the aggressors. “I should hate for it to get soiled.”

The big ex-slave punched the closest man in the face with a fist as large and heavy as a twelve-pound shot. The man was teetering drunkenly when Banks hit him with a full-body slam that threw him back a good ten feet to his now empty dinner table.

Banks straightened and turned just in time to dodge a chair and then marched implacably toward the next man.

Martín’s new opponent was smaller and lighter than he, but exceptionally quick. He danced and bobbed in a manner that told Martín he’d done his share of sparring, if not actual fighting.

They exchanged a few jabs while Martín took his measure. It didn’t take him long to assess his opponent. His moves were predictable, obviously learned in some gentleman’s salon. He displayed a fundamental knowledge of pugilism, but he lacked cunning, something Martín possessed in abundance.

Still, it was enjoyable to have such a sparring partner, and Martín took his time, harrying the man with small, quick jabs rather than laying him out. He realized he’d toyed with him too long when the sound of a breaking glass came from behind him.