“Why, I’ll—” Sir Frederick began heatedly, his face a dull red.
“Now, now,” Sir Jeremy interrupted, a placating note in his voice. “Don’t get in a stew, Jensen. You’ve had a few too many. You’re fuddled, man.”
“Fuddled! Me? I can drink any man here under the table, even his grace, the all-powerful Duke of Camareigh. Too good for the likes of me, are you?” he accused.
The gentlemen in the room had now stopped their gaming and were giving their full attention to the little contretemps being enacted before them. In the silence Sir Frederick’s heavy breathing could be heard loudly, and all eyes were focused on the two men who stood facing each other.
“You owe me an apology,” Sir Frederick demanded aggressively, his chin jutting forward pugnaciously.
“Indeed?” the duke asked disdainfully.
“Indeed, yes, your grace. You called me a yokel, a slow-coach, and said I was only fit to inhabit a dunghill. I demand satisfaction,” he spat, throwing his gloves in the duke’s face.
A gasp of surprise and a few whispered comments went around the room as they waited nervously for the duke’s reaction. The scar on his cheek had whitened visibly as he insolently took a pinch of snuff from a small gold box and putting a dab in each nostril sniffed disdainfully.
“It would be obvious from your actions this evening that had I indeed made such remarks about you, they could only have been the rather unpleasant truth,” the duke drawled, and looking at Sir Jeremy as he held a handkerchief delicately to his nose added, “Do open a window, there is the most loathsome and offensive odor in here—enough to turn one’s stomach.”
The duke had begun to walk away from the red-faced and humiliated Sir Frederick when he turned and spoke to him, a bored tone in his voice. “Do have your seconds with you, say dawn tomorrow morning under the oaks, and don’t keep me waiting, for I must make an early start if I’m to reach my destination by afternoon.”
Sir Frederick Jensen’s mouth dropped open and sweat broke out on his brow as he watched the duke and Sir Jeremy stroll nonchalantly from the room. And then as excited conversation broke out amongst the astonished guests, Sir Frederick hurriedly fled from the room with several of his friends.
Sir Jeremy poured himself a glass of port after handing Lucien one, and took a deep swallow. “What the devil got into Jensen? Never seen anyone act so bellicose. He purposely forced you into defending your honor, and yet you say you’ve never even met the fellow?” Sir Jeremy shook his head, clearly unable to understand the situation.
“Never set eyes on the fool before tonight,” Lucien answered. “Yet it would seem someone insinuated that I offended and insulted him.” He gazed ruminatively into the fire burning in the grate. “Now I wonder why anyone should want to do that.”
Sir Jeremy stopped his pacing abruptly. “What? A trick?”
“Well, it doesn’t all ring quite true,” Lucien replied. “Here is a fellow I’ve never met accusing me of lampooning him and, being something of a hothead, will not be satisfied until he’s called me out and hopefully killed me.”
Sir Jeremy frowned. “Jensen may be a fool—but he’s a damned good swordsman. Prides himself on being a successful duelist. The fact that he’s still alive proves that.”
“I always prefer a fair fight myself, but any man who allows himself to become someone’s cat’s paw, and be led into conflict at another’s direction, is easy prey for any schemer off the streets. No.” Lucien continued grimly, “I’m afraid our friend Jensen is ruled by his passions and not his head. There can be only one outcome to this affair.”
“Which is?” Sir Jeremy asked hesitantly.
Lucien glanced up, shrugging his shoulders fatalistically. “Sir Frederick Jensen will come to grief. It is inevitable and unfortunately it must be by my hand, but eventually he would have met this end. His unavoidable destiny, I fear.”
“You’re mighty cool about it, Lucien,” Sir Jeremy observed, a look of admiration on his face.
“Am I?” Lucien shook his head. “I’m just resigned, that is all. But I am curious as to the identity of the schemer behind this little scenario. I would hazard a guess that I’ve an enemy who plots my early demise.”
“It’s scandalous. The effrontery of some people,” Sir Jeremy complained. “Have you any notion who this villain is?”
The duke drained his glass and smiled. “You have a certain way of dramatizing situations, Jeremy, but to answer your question, no, not for a certainty. I’ve my fair share of enemies, so it could be any number of people, but most of them I know. This rascal would prefer to remain anonymous, and I can’t effectively deal with a phantom.”
He stood up and smiled at Sir Jeremy’s worried expression. “Don’t fret, Jeremy. I’m an obstinate fellow and insist upon having the last word. My only regret is having to rise so cursed early, so I’ll bid you good night,” he said, stifling a yawn as he left the room.
Sir Jeremy shook his head in bemused exasperation and pouring himself another drink sat down for further contemplation of the situation, grateful that it was not he who was meeting the duke tomorrow morning at dawn.
***
It was quiet under the avenue of oaks as the first light of daybreak summoned the crow of a rooster and the answering chirpings of awakening birds. Crystal-like dew still clung to the leaves of the trees and the tall grasses in the fields. Sir Jeremy stood silent, Lucien’s coat, waistcoat and stock across his arm as he waited along with those of the other guests who’d managed to rise so early. Most were still slumbering back in their rooms after the late night’s revelry. Lucien’s throat was bare and vulnerable, his shirt opened halfway to his waist, revealing the dark golden hair on his chest. He’d shunned a wig and thick golden hair curled back from his temples and ears, gleaming richly under the sunlight.
Lucien flexed his sword experimentally, then turned to face his opponent, his face expressionless.
“On guard!”
Sir Frederick Jensen lunged wildly and the duke parried the thrust of Sir Frederick’s rapier expertly as he sidestepped. His wrist was firm, his hand steady, his feet agile as he lunged, meeting Sir Frederick’s sword point at each thrust.
Sir Frederick was fighting offensively, constantly on the attack, using brute strength to beat down his foe, but Lucien’s quickness and finesse withstood the assault and gradually reversed the positions and began to tire the stockier Sir Frederick, who was by now breathing heavily, his face red and perspiring from his exertions. Summoning what little reserves he had left, he charged the duke like a mad bull, his sword swinging wildly as he tried to penetrate Lucien’s guard and pierce the smooth column of his throat, just tantalizingly out of reach of sword point. But Lucien easily parried Sir Frederick’s lunge and drove the point of his sword into the exposed shoulder of his aggressive opponent. Sir Frederick grunted in pain and fell back, his sword dropping from his hand as he clutched at the profusely bleeding wound.
Lucien stood back as the surgeon who’d stood readily available on the edge of the crowd ran forward and knelt down beside the fallen swordsman.
“Why didn’t you kill him?” Sir Jeremy asked, as he held Lucien’s waistcoat for him as he shrugged into it.
“No sense in it,” the duke answered matter-of-factly, his breathing coming quickly as he wiped his sword clean of Sir Frederick’s blood with a white handkerchief. “He’ll suffer enough with that shoulder wound. I don’t want a fool’s death on my conscience.”
The duke walked over to his coach and handed his valet his crumpled stock and accepted a freshly starched one in its stead, carelessly knotting it about his neck.
“I regret taking my leave of you so hastily, Jeremy, but I’ve business to see to, and”—he paused, casting an amused glance at Sir Frederick who was being led away, surrounded by a group of commiserating friends—“Sir Frederick should be allowed to enjoy his convales
cence to the fullest without my presence to distress him.”
“He’s lucky to be alive,” Sir Jeremy replied disgustedly. “Not many are given a second chance as he has been. Now look at him. Lud, but I think he’s fainted.”
The duke laughed. “I’ll keep in touch, Jeremy.” He disappeared into his carriage. A footman closed the door with a flourish and then jumped aboard quickly as the coachman whipped up the team of horses and they pulled out with a splashing of mud beneath the hooves and heavy wheels.
***
They had traveled for several hours, stopping for luncheon at a small inn and then continuing as a thunderstorm broke above and poured down upon the quickly moving team, slowing them down as the rain muddied the roads and created a quagmire out of the potted surface.
Lucien shifted lazily. Pulling back the hangings over the window he looked out in disgust at the muddy road and dismal countryside. The carriage wheel hit a deep hole and, lurching through it, threw the duke against the side of the coach.
“Damn,” he mumbled, cursing the coachman atop, and was about to send some select phrases to him when the carriage slowed and he heard the coachman commanding the horses to a halt.
“What the devil?” Lucien demanded as he opened the carriage door and leaned out, the rain falling lightly on his face.
Ahead, halfway in a ditch on the other side of the road, lay an overturned carriage. The horses had been unharnessed and were being quieted by a couple of outriders. The coachman was rubbing his shoulder while he and another servant struggled to open the carriage door, behind which came a wailing moan that rose hysterically until a resounding slap was heard, then muffled sobbing.
“Dio mio!” someone spoke in exasperation.
The duke’s lips twitched with a grin as he heard the feminine voice. “See what you can do for them,” he commanded his coachman, who was surveying the scene of chaos with contempt.
“Aye, Sandy, Davey, hop to it,” he called to the young grooms who’d run to the duke’s lead horses to hold them and were standing gawking at the commotion.
The duke reluctantly climbed down from his coach and walked through the mud to the overturned carriage. He could have sent his coachman, but he was curious about the inhabitants of the coach, especially if there was an Italian beauty to match the voice he’d heard. He was not disappointed, for as he approached the carriage a dark head adorned with a red silk hat appeared from the confines of the coach. Lucien’s eyes traveled slowly, and appreciatively, over her well-rounded figure. The décolletage of her dress was low and wide, the scarlet damask a perfect contrast for the four rows of pearls clasped about her smooth, white neck. His eyes returned to her face and the reddened lips that were parted in a wide smile as she stared at her gentlemanly rescuer, her dark brown eyes full of surprised pleasure.
“Buon giorno.”
“Good afternoon,” the duke replied. “You seem to be in some difficulty. May I be of some service?”
“Oh, grazie, we would be so grateful,” she sighed with relief.
“We?” Lucien inquired politely.
“Si, aspetti un momento, per favore.” She disappeared into the carriage while the duke waited as she’d requested, until another figure appeared through the window. Lucien hid his disappointment as a well-dressed man stared down at him from his perch on the side of the carriage.
“Can’t you get your men to move any faster and turn us upright?” the man demanded peevishly as he took in the scene. Then as his eyes saw the ducal crest emblazoned on the side of Lucien’s coach, his demeanor swiftly underwent a change and he looked closer at their rescuer.
“I say, don’t I know you?”
“I seriously doubt that,” the duke answered coldly, regretting his impulse to stop.
“Of course. You’re the Duke of Camareigh,” the man spoke triumphantly. “We met in Vienna. I’m James Verrick, the Marquis of Wrainton. I’ve been out of the country for quite a few years now.” He looked into the dark interior of the coach, saying something in Italian, then glanced at the duke gratefully. “We were on our way to London when this disaster happened and nearly cost us our lives. We’ve just arrived from France, the seat of civilization, I’m beginning to believe. I’d forgotten how surly these English servants can be,” he complained spitefully.
“Per favore, but I grow much fatigued sitting here upside down while you make conversation, James,” a fretful voice echoed from the coach.
“My dear, of course, I beg your pardon,” Lord Wrainton answered quickly as though afraid of possible hysterics. “Will you be able to help us, your grace?”
Lucien nodded reluctantly. “Naturally, I couldn’t leave you and the lady—?” He paused delicately, waiting to be enlightened.
“Lady Wrainton, my wife; but living in Italy as we have, she is used to being addressed as the contessa.”
“Of course,” the duke sighed, “I’ll escort you to the nearest inn, where you may hire conveyance to London. I am afraid that we are traveling in opposite directions after that.”
“We shall be most grateful just to get out of this cursed ditch.”
Lord Wrainton jumped down from the side of the coach, splattering his pumps as he did so and nearly slipping in the slick mud as he regained his balance. He was a middle-aged man in his forties, slight of build, and almost too handsome to be masculine, with his thickly lashed, violet eyes.
“Luciana,” Lord Wrainton called to his wife. The contessa looked down from the carriage doubtfully as Lord Wrainton told her, “Jump and I’ll catch you, my dear.”
“If you will allow me?” the duke interrupted. “I would be pleased to assist the contessa.”
Lord Wrainton frowned, then nodded his head. “Yes, I am rather shaken up from the accident, otherwise I could easily carry my wife.”
The duke hid his smile, not wanting to offend Lord Wrainton’s pride, but as he stepped forward and lifted the contessa from the carriage he doubted seriously if the older man could have managed. He followed Lord Wrainton to the carriage, the contessa’s scarlet silk stockings and white silk shoes with their high, slender heels revealed to the gaping grooms as Lucien swung her into a firmer grip in his arms.
He carefully traversed the muddy road, his foot slipping once in the slime, causing the contessa to grasp his neck tightly with her arms. Her heady perfume drifted to Lucien and he grinned as she allowed herself to press closer.
“Grazie,” she murmured, her breath warm against his throat.
“My pleasure.”
He lifted her into the coach, tucking her fur-trimmed pelisse snugly about her and then placing a sable rug over her lap. Lucien was about to follow when a frightened wail drifted to them from the overturned coach, followed by a scream and a flow of excited Italian.
“Dio mio, I’m afraid I forgot poor Maria, my maid,” the contessa confessed. “And I really can’t leave her stranded here; she speaks no English,” she explained apologetically, her big brown eyes full of wishful pleading.
Lucien shrugged. “By all means, you must have your maid, contessa.” He looked around and seeing one of the grooms standing idle ordered him to see to the other occupant of the overturned coach. At the sound of an outraged scream, the duke glanced back and laughed as Sandy staggered across the road carrying a large, struggling woman, her face red and puffed from crying and issuing a tirade on the flushed Sandy’s blond head. As they neared the carriage Sandy’s foot disappeared in a large hole filled with water, and, losing his balance, he fell backwards and disappeared beneath the bulky figure of the contessa’s maid.
Stoically, Lucien assisted the flustered woman to her feet and hefted her into the carriage from which she called forth a volley of abuses on the unfortunate Sandy, who’d quickly struggled to his feet and was hastily making his way some distance from the carriage, his face as red as a beet and his backside covered with clinging mud.
After a moment’s consultation with his coachman, Lucien climbed into the coach, the door closing behind him as he settled himself comfortably beside Lord Wrainton.
“You’ve a broken axle, so there is no question of using your coach.”
“It’s just as well. I didn’t trust those coachmen anyway. Wouldn’t be surprised to find them in league with highwaymen waiting to rob us.”
“Dio mio, that is all that I need now,” the contessa swore beneath her breath.
“I don’t think we need fear that occurrence,” the duke replied calmly. “My men are well trained to act in our defense.”
“This country is most inhospitable, I don’t know why I let you talk me into visiting it,” the contessa spoke tiredly.
“Now, now, Luciana, I promise you that you’ll find London much more to your liking,” Lord Wrainton placated her.
“I gather this is your first visit to England, contessa?” the duke asked.
“Si, and I hope my last. It is not a country I have a liking for. L’Italia è molto bella, but this country, aah,” she said in disgust, throwing her hands up in the air.
Lucien laughed. “It takes the Englishman to love England. As when a man is in love with a woman, he often doesn’t see her faults.”
“So you admit this England has faults.” The contessa smiled thoughtfully. “Me, I wish to be back in Venice in the smooth swaying of a gondola,” she sighed as she was thrown sideways when the wheels of the coach bumped through a hole. “These carriages were made for fools.”
“I didn’t think you had holdings in these parts, your grace?” Lord Wrainton inquired curiously. “Isn’t your estate farther north?”
“Yes, I’m just looking over some recently purchased property,” Lucien replied. “You seem to know this area. Have you lived hereabouts?”
“Born and raised around here,” Lord Wrainton confided. “In fact, I have an estate in the next valley, Verrick House. Not much to look at I’m afraid. It’s just a small Elizabethan manor house, and I haven’t even seen it in Lord knows how many years, come to think of it. Wonder what it’s like now.” he speculated idly.
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