“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 imbécile!” 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.
Villiers had left his rapier on the bench, and Tobias picked it up.
Naffi swung to face him, uttering his horsey laugh. “You dare to face me with a sword? Moi, the great Naffi? The man whom even the Duke of Villiers begs to train him?”
“That duke beat you twice this morning,” Tobias observed.
“I could slash you,” Naffi hissed. “Such a regrettable accident. Yes, I think that’s what I’ll do. A little slash to the face that will mark you as the gutter rat you really are.”
Naffi had spittle around his lips, which made Tobias feel faintly nauseated. He tossed the rapier to the ground between them. The man broke into that donkeylike laughter again, throwing his head back so his chin pointed to the ceiling. “So you’re not so stupid but that you—”
Tobias snatched the staff from Ashmole’s hand and slammed its large knob under Naffi’s chin. The man fell straight backward without a word.
The thump echoed in the empty ballroom. “I doubt you kilt him,” Ashmole said. He prodded the man with his toe. Naffi made a snorting noise but his eyes stayed shut.
“Unlikely,” Tobias agreed. He picked up the duke’s rapier and twisted the button off its tip. It was sharp as a needle’s point.
“Are you going to kill him now?” Ashmole inquired. He didn’t sound terribly scandalized. “It’ll make a terrible mess.”
Tobias put the rapier in position and brought it carefully straight down. “Absolutely not.”
Ashmole cursed and jumped back. “You’re set to ruin the polish on my floor.”