Heroics, Derailed

“Are your gonads in your throat?” Daryus’s elder brother Bashir smirked without looking at him.

“Don’t concern yourself with my gonads. It’s my pistol you ought to be wary of.” Daryus returned his gaze to the expanse of green lawn cordoned off by velvet ropes, the site of the Earl of Suffolk’s annual sporting tournament. The scent of the wild gray Atlantic carried on the wind, biting through the brocade of Daryus’s coat. He linked his hands in front of said gonads, taking care to appear leisurely, lest the spectators—as well as his brother— think him nervous. He’d no idea what to expect in this final event. The morning’s competition had been easy enough. Fitness, marksmanship, a gallop across the estate on the brass backs of mechanical horses. But this final event, according to the eccentric Earl, was a surprise.

Beside him, Bashir tugged at his ill-fitting robe. “Blast Father and these bloody costumes,” he grumbled, savoring the English curses.

“It’s all part of the show, brother.” Daryus steadied his tall black sheepskin cap against a gust of wind. “Persian princes are exotic entertainment.”

Bashir grunted. Not only was their attire impractical for sports, Iranian nobility hadn’t worn these styles for at least two decades. The tall kolāh, the long jobba in bright red paisley with gold piping, the scimitar at his hip. All theatre. But, given the stakes, he’d take every advantage he could get.

Father’d taken out a sizable loan to orchestrate their presence here, in the hopes one would win not only the tournament, but also the hand of the Earl’s daughter. The high-profile marriage would ease tensions between Iran and the encroaching British empire, shore up their family’s fading wealth and status. For once, Daryus wanted to be the family hero.

He spotted the Earl’s daughter in the front row. Catching her eye, he turned on his hundred-watt smile and winked. The young lady tittered, flushing cheeks as bland a shade of white as her personality. 

Bashir nudged him with an elbow. “I’ve heard British girls are vixens in bed.”

Daryus sighed. “I suppose one of us will find out.”  

“That one at dinner last night looked like she’d give me the ride of a lifetime. What was her name? Baru…Burat…”

“Baroness. Martha, of Dorset.” Daryus ran a hand over his face. “Honestly, Bashir. You could conquer the entire continent if you’d focus your mind once in a while.”

Bashir shrugged. “Scholarship is for weaklings like you, brother.”

Daryus was not, in fact, a weakling. He’d won the morning’s fox hunt, placed second in marksmanship and third in the fitness course, though his brother had bested him in the latter by a wide margin. As one of the two finalists, he supposed the odds were, technically, in Bashir’s favor. But the culminating challenge would likely test their wits, and, here, at least, he had the advantage.

Bashir shifted impatiently. “When the bloody hell are they going to start?”

As Daryus turned back to the field, his gaze snagged on her. How he’d spotted the slight, dark-haired housemaid at the back of the crowd amidst a sea of black and white uniforms, he couldn’t say. But she drew his attention as surely as a magnet attracts iron.

The previous afternoon, he’d strolled down from the manor house to preview the tournament set-up. Behind the outbuilding at the far end of the field, he’d found her sighting down her outstretched fingers at a wooden target, as if she held a pistol. He’d ducked into the shadow of a recessed doorway to watch as she marched down the firing line, marking each target, then hiked up her skirts and ran through the agility course with surprising speed. He’d held his breath as she passed, not ten paces from him, enthralled by the unexpected beauty of her soft brown skin and bright eyes.

Who was she? He’d replayed the scene in his mind all evening. And now, here she was again. Threatening to undo him.

He’d no time to collect himself, as the doors on the long side of the outbuilding burst open. A six-legged monster of brass and steel scuttled from the darkness, twice the height of a man and three times as wide, belching clouds of steam. An articulated, dagger-point tail arced over its back, a single incandescent eye burning malevolently. Daryus went cold as he drew his pistol.

This was the final event?!

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