Plague of frogs

"Quite," Janet agreed, "Bunch of grown men fighting over a bleedin' dining room. And the name's Janet, love," she continued, turning back to William.

These daft fellows thought he was not a true Englishman? Well, they were not wrong at all, were they?

"I am not an Englishman, in fact," Barton told them, shaking his head slightly. He stepped toward the food-laden table, the hobnails in his boot soles thudding against the hardwood floor. Whatever sort of feast or gathering he'd interrupted, he was now giving in to the rumbling of his empty stomach.

He helped himself to a pork pie before turning partially toward Miss Janet to ask, "Would you care for something yourself, Miss?"

Manners dictated that he ask the same of the men across the room, but their behaviour was so outlandish that he thought he was safe to exclude them from a similar offer.

Janet had to hide a smile. Quite the young gentleman, this one. "Why not?" she responded lightly, grinning once more. She wasn't one to turn down an offer of food. "Thank you, William."

With a nod, Barton passed a pork pie to her. "You're welcome, Miss." He bit into his own and waited until he'd swallowed that mouthful to ask, "What is going on here? What is this place?"

"Ah ha, just as I thought," Samuel sneered, upon hearing the man in the strange clothes say that he was not an Englishman. As if he needed any further proof that the dirty ragamuffin was not fit to be among them.

Seeing as both the naval officer and the Frog with the chair had lowered their weapons slightly, Samuel turned his poker sideways and began to tap it absently against his left hand. It was not as though he had any interest in fighting anyway.

While the latest question had not been directed at him, nor did he feel that the scruffy stranger even deserved an answer, he deigned to respond anyway. "I could give a toss about what this place is, but quite frankly I do not think much of it if the owner chooses to allow such vermin to populate it."

While he was no more keen on fighting than his brother, Gareth was not as quick to let his guard down, and so kept his sword ready in case any of the Frenchies tried any tricks. He would not put it past the sneaky devils to use children, women or badly-dressed ruffians as a distraction to lull them into a false sense of security. However, he did have to agree with Samuel that the establishment's owner must be a madman to let in such a crowd.

And now that foul-looking scamp was trying to insinuate himself with the lady! French invading the dining room were one thing, but by God he was not going to stand to have any ruffians bothering ladies!

"Don't trust that cad, miss!" he snapped, moving towards the table, "Surely he's in league with these French scoundrels!"

"Now, now, loves..." began Janet hastily, "Be polite to the lad with the gun." Then to the redcoat she added sweetly, "I wouldn't want you to get hurt." Best not to burn any bridges just yet.

She selected a small pastry from the tray beside her -- what appeared to be a small jam tart. It would, she reflected, look absolutely marvelous on the blond fellow's waistcoat.

That was rather too pointed a remark to be directed at anyone but himself, wasn't it? Barton swallowed the remaining half-mouthful of pork pie and turned slightly toward the two spotlessly-dressed men.

"There's hardly any call to be ill-mannered," he said mildly, deciding that these two would not know a day's proper work if it knocked them in the heads. Not that he had known the same himself, before he'd enlisted. "Whether or not I have a rifle," he added with a nod toward Miss Janet.

Really. Now that he'd had a snack, his stomach was rumbling in earnest. A pot of what smelled like soup sat near the end of the table and he longed to ladle out a bowl of it.

Gareth grinned at the woman's declaration that she did not want him to get hurt. But as much as he appreciated her interest, there was still the problem of the infestation of Frogs in the room.

"Never fear miss, I am quite adept at protecting myself. It's those Frenchies who need to watch themselves," he said, shooting a glare in their direction.

Samuel resisted the urge to roll his eyes at his brother's bravado. They both knew Gareth could not defend himself against a particularly vicious rabbit let alone a hoard of Frenchmen. But he could see that Gareth was already plying his so-called charm on the lady, and Samuel knew better than to get in the way in such a situation. Instead, he turned his attention back to the ill-dressed ruffian.

"I know how to mind my manners, guttersnipe," he snapped, "You're the one who would do well to speak mindfully in the presence of your betters."

A sharp snap of her wrist and the jam laden pastry went flying. It was just the right weight for this particular distance, and Janet had surprisingly good aim.

So much for not burning bridges.

Guttersnipe? Sure he could use a bath, a fresh uniform, and a shave, but so could every man in his regiment. It was hardly his fault that six days in the trenches made a fellow hopelessly dirty. As to betters... his grip on his rifle sling tightened. He'd endured more than enough of this sort of talk when he'd enlisted, damn it all.

"I rather think 'betters' is relative," Barton began, a trifle curtly, but he was interrupted by a jam tart choosing that instant to splatter quite solidly against the blond fellow's midriff.

At first, Samuel could barely believe that the squelching sound he had heard was of the jam tart hitting him. But it was, and as he looked down at the horrible, sticky filth sliding down his immaculate waistcoat, he was filled with an unimaginable rage.

"How dare you, you little tramp! How dare you!" He shouted, shaking his poker in the woman's direction. Of course, he was too much of a gentleman to hit a woman, so instead he turned his attention to the scruffy man she seemed so fond of. "This is your fault, you cur, and you'll pay dearly for it! Stand your ground and fight me like a man!"

Despite being so very tempted to laugh, Barton felt a frown crease his brow. This was really getting to be too much. He eyed the red-faced fellow warily for a long moment, then slowly shook his head.

"No," he said simply.

He would not fight this idiot unless circumstances demanded it.

"No? Are you deaf, you coward? I said fight me!"

Truly this man was a fool. Samuel had never met a man who would not fight when honour needed to be satisfied. And the honour of his wardrobe was a high one indeed. Well, in his mind, at any rate.

Janet gave a whoop of laughter at the horrified expression on the other man's face, quickly grabbing another pastry as the fellow rounded on her with the poker -- he mistook her profession if he thought her to be put off by men pointing things at her -- however, rather than attack, the posh little prat turned his venom on the boy.

Janet's eyes narrowed. That wasn't very nice. "Put that down. Or the next one goes on your coat. No, make that breeches." And she knew just the spot, too."

If his sergeant was here, Barton would definitely let such a remark pass. He feared Donovan's temper more than he did this buck. But the sergeant wasn't here and he was becoming irritated by all this blustering.

"Oh I heard you," Barton said, deciding that whoever this fellow and his companion were, he owed them no courtesy. "But I'm not fighting you."

It might almost be better to let Miss Janet let fly another jam tart, but that would not do either. "I rather think enough perfectly good scran's been wasted, Miss," he added and turned pointedly back toward the table. He was still ravenously hungry, after all.

Deverel began to laugh at the bejammed gentleman. "She's got your number, man!" Pompous fop. Deverel himself was already losing interest in conflict, and he was not in the mood to pick a fight with a pretty young woman and a strange soldier lad who was not even French.

"Damn your eyes, why won't you fight?" Samuel snapped at the ruffian. Though to a certain extent, he was rather glad the man was refusing to fight. He was smarting over the affront to his wardrobe, but in truth he was as eager to avoid a fight as his brother.

Thankfully the woman offered him a distraction. As irritated as he was with her for soiling his garments, Samuel still did not miss the fact that she had mentioned a particular item of his clothing.

"While your interest in my breeches flatters me, miss, I need to put this dolt in his place first." Smirking, he added, "Perhaps later I shall put you in your place as well."

Noticing that the navy officer was now laughing at his misfortune, he rounded on the man with a glare. "If you are so familiar with fighting women, sir, then do share your insight with us. I would greatly appreciate it."

"Oh, I very much doubt that, m'dear," she replied softly, a faintly pitying expression on her face as she nodded at the poker. "Compensating for something?"

Having found a plate, helpfully provided by a grinning boy from the group of schoolchildren, Barton was only too happy to distract himself from the blond fop's insults by piling the plate up with a sampling of everything on the table. It all looked too good to ignore any of it.

He turned back to the unpleasant little gathering, the well-laden plate in one hand, but was obliged to swallow his mouthful of dumpling before speaking. "Is there any dido round here?"


Dido - rum

Samuel narrowed his eyes at the woman. She was a brazen strumpet indeed to make such a statement.

"Mind how you wag your tongue, you jumped-up tart. Though I'm sure a woman like you is quite used to doing that."

Noticing that the ill-dressed soldier had turned his attention to the food, Samuel breathed an internal sigh of relief that he seemed to be dodging the possibility of a fight. However, just because he himself did not want to fight did not mean there had to be no fight at all...

"Gareth," he said, suddenly turning to his brother, "Don't you find it odd that the ragamuffin seems more interested in his food than in fighting? What are we to do about this? Are we going to let such un-gentlemanly behavior continue? Are we to let honour go unsatisfied?"

Fortunately for Samuel, Gareth was too dense to realise that his brother was trying to trick him into fighting. So, despite the fact that he wanted to avoid fighting even more than Samuel, he naturally took the bait.

"Won't fight? That will never do!" Puffing himself up, he stomped over to where the soldier was trying to eat, "Now see here, you lout, while you may be no gentleman, that is no excuse to dismiss the honourable signal of a call to arms! My brother has received a grievous affront, and I will not stand by while his demand is brushed aside! What say you, man?"

Deverel snorted, finally tossing his fire poker aside and helping himself to a plate of scones. "It should be the woman you're challenging to a duel," he said, giving her an appreciative glance. "But don't look to me. I prefer to be friends with pretty women rather than fight 'em." He sidled over and offered the plate to her, grinning as he took a bite of his own scone.

This was ridiculous.

"A private soldier being challenged to a duel?" Barton suppressed a sigh. He had been raised as a gentleman, literally, but he was a swaddy. Life as a private was much simpler than the life he'd had before the war.

He shook his head. "I have had my fill of fighting for a day or two, thank you."