The Highwayman's Mistress

by Francine Howarth

  “Bumpkin,” she corrected, annoyed at Francois, “and Hugh’s no bumpkin, he’s well-educated and I think you do him great dishonour.”

  She feared him when he looked the way he looked now, for there was sense of malice in his dark eyes, and dark thoughts were probably reeling in his mind. “This fool, love-sick fool deigns to challenge Francois de Boviere. And you, did you not claim you and he were friends, mere friends?”

  “We were. We are. That is all we ever will be. I swear.”

  Francois waved her away. “Pity your mother had not the good sense to warn him of the danger of throwing a gauntlet at a de Boviere.”

  “I see you, Francois de Boviere,” declared Hugh, as report of his pistol once again rang out across the bay. “Come down here, choose your weapon and fight. Fight to the death.”

  Francois turned back to the window. “Swords it shall be.”

  “So be it,” said Hugh.

  Five minutes, allowance of five minutes and I will be down to pluck your heart from your chest.”

  “You cannot do this, Francois. He’s no match for you,” she said, grasping at his arm.

  He brushed her aside. “I did not seek this, Diamonta. He came to me, and I presume your mother wished me dead, and this fool man seeks to win your hand in marriage.”

  “He doesn’t love me, he’s in love with someone else.” Francois ignored her and hauled on his breeches. “Please, please, don’t do this.” His boots were next, and he didn’t bother with a shirt. She grabbed his arm. “Listen to me, Hugh’s sweet, and I would not want him harmed, not for any thing, and certainly not over me and you.”

  Francois prised her fingers from his arm, and cast her hand aside. “You expect me to walk away a coward?”

  “No, I want you to ignore his insult, let me get dressed, and I shall talk to him. I can get him to see reason, that to be with you is what I want, and that I love you. I know I can make him understand and make him go home.”

  “It is too late, Diamonta,” he said, striding toward the door. “The challenge taken I duel. No more to be said.”

  Oh God, this could not be allowed to happen. Francois was too skilled in swordsmanship for someone like Hugh. She frantically searched the room for clothes discarded on the previous evening. There was no time to don a corset, nor could she fuss with her appearance, for getting dressed in order to appear decent before other men took longer than anticipated.

  Francois voice suddenly drifted on the warm morning breeze. “You intend to duel a coat on your back? Come, dear fellow, do me the honour of a fair fight. As you see, I come prepared for your blade to do its worst.”

  His words caused iced shivers to ripple down her spine, for he was naked from the waist up. Hugh, a big man with powerful arms, might not appear much of a threat but a lucky thrust could see him the victor, though it would have to be a miracle thrust.

  She fled the room and in the corridor bumped into Richard. “Stop him, stop Francois from harming Hugh.”

  “I doubt that to be anywhere near possible. The damn young fool taunted Francois, I heard him, and what was Francois to do. Turn his back, and be branded a coward?”

  They hurried onward, Richard rushing ahead. He bounced down the staircase and fair sped along the passage leading to the door that opened onto the gardens. She followed heart in mouth at a run, glad no swords could be heard clashing as yet. Perhaps Francois had seen the error of what he was about to do. But no, for as soon as she reached the door, there he was sword aloft in salute to Hugh, a second rapier by his side.

  Richard halted her progress arm outstretched. “Don’t distract Francois,” he said, a mere whisper, “it could be the end of him.”

  “Why two swords, when Hugh has only one?” she asked, a terrible sick feeling deep inside.

  “Francois will offer Hugh the other rapier.”

  “Why for, when he has a weapon already?”

  “Hugh’s sword is as ancient. It’s rusty, and less wieldy than Francois weapon.”

  Richard was right in his supposition Francois would offer the second rapier to Hugh.”

  “You wish to kill me in a fair duel?”

  “I shall, that you can be sure of,” said Hugh, stepping forward, sword held clumsy at best.

  “I think not,” said Francois, ignoring Hugh’s advance and not a backward step taken. “We duel fair, swords matched in weight, or not at all.”

  Her heart lurched, sense of hope against hope washing over her. Was this Francois’ way of letting Hugh back down with honour? Would Hugh agree to no duel? Her hopes were instantly dashed, for Francois threw the second rapier into the air causing it to somersault mid-flight. It landed with its point embedded in the turf no more than a foot in front of Hugh.

  Blood drained from Hugh’s face, his plight now real. He knew himself to be facing a master of swordsmanship. He momentarily faltered and stepped back, then cast his own sword aside, rid himself of coat and reached for the rapier.

  Francois bowed, and Hugh advanced again. This time Francois back-stepped, a parry to left, a parry to right, each time warding off thrusts and wild slashes. She held her breath fearing the worst, hand gripping Richard’s sleeve so tight she felt her knuckles would snap. He cupped her hand, said, “Francois is toying with him, luring him into a false sense of security.”

  Hugh seemed to have the advantage, his body mass powered him forward while Francois had no alternative but to keep backing away. The lucky strike she dreaded happened so suddenly she failed to see it occur, and Francois was almost against the house wall. Her stomach lurched, as blood poured from a gash on Francois left shoulder.

  Hugh’s laughter rang out in cruel mockery, and Richard chuckled said, “That damn rose caught Francois a passing jab, and mark my words he’s about to put the fear of God into Hugh.”

  She hoped not, at the same time she wanted Francois safe from harm, too. “Can you not intervene, make them see sense? This is madness, utter madness.”

  Her words fell on deaf ears and about to push past Richard to at least try and get the two men to stop their stupid duel, Angelica appeared at her elbow. “Do not fear, Francois will not kill that idiot, but he will frighten him in to never, never call another man to a duel.”

  She wished that possible. “How can you be so sure?”

  “I know my brother.”

  She did indeed, for Francois made a parry to the left as Hugh thrust with force toward his heart and missed. Before he knew it Francois had countered and sliced Hugh’s shirt from left wrist to shoulder and not a drop of blood drawn. Forced to turnabout, he seemed stunned as Francois backed up toying, teasing, and beckoned him to follow. Face reddened, shirt soiled with sweat, Hugh seemed to lumber forward rather than as agile as when the duel had begun. Yet Francois, lean muscled, taller by at least three inches, his movements as agile as a cat, seeming no less tired than before.

  A commotion in the hallway erupted, voices loud drifted along the passageway and her heart leapt to mouth. She could hear her mother and Hugh’s father, and before she could gather her senses in readiness to receive her mother, the two of them came sweeping toward her.

  Her mother looked utter distraught. “Where is Hugh?”

  Hugh’s father was equally worried. “Diamonta, tell me my son is safe.”

  “He foolishly called Francois to a duel.” What else could she say? “They’re out there, now, fighting.”

  “Dear God,” said his father, rushing forward.

  Richard stepped into his path. “Let Francois teach him a lesson he won’t forget, and your son may live to old age. For he’s a hot-headed young devil and foolish with it.”

  He then stepped aside allowing Hugh’s father to stand alongside, they and Angelica’s eyes centred on the duel. Strangely she suddenly felt detached from it all, for Richard’s words had reassured her neither Francois nor Hugh were destined to die, it was as though she and her mother were in another place, another time, her mother’s face as she remembered from childhood: h
er expression one of love.

  “Thank God, you’re safe too,” said her mother. “We feared we might be too late for Hugh, that Francois, like his father, would . . .” Her mother paused mid-sentence, caught up Diamonta’s hand and drew it to her bosom. “I’ve wronged you, my darling. Wronged Francois, and all because I could not forget nor forgive Francois’ father for something that happened a very long time ago. It is something I have every reason to be ashamed of, for unlike you, I failed to win the heart of de Boviere and I shamefully sought revenge.”

  “I know, but you were young, and wounded by betrayal at that time, whereas I am so lucky, oh so lucky. I have a man I adore who loves me in like manner.”

  “Can you ever see it in your heart to forgive me, forgive my cruelness?”

  She threw herself at her mother and hugged tight. “I love you, nothing can change that, and I forgive you, as I forgive Francois for thinking Hugh was my lover.”

  “I love you too, my darling girl.”

  A chuckle came from behind, and there stood Francois both rapiers in hand. “Your friend, mere friend is disarmed and alive, perhaps never to challenge such as I again.”

  Her mother relinquished her hold and turned to Francois. “I greatly dishonoured you, and cannot ask your forgiveness. But I will ask that you take my daughter’s hand in marriage, that you will love her and keep her safe.”

  Francois bowed. “I accept your kind offer, but we are as man and wife already.”

  “I had not expected otherwise.” Her mother smiled, a loving smile. “Do you think it possible a wedding could be arranged before I return to England?”

  “It shall be so, for I love her with all my heart.” He chuckled again. “I fear I must apologise for indecent dress.”

  Her mother smiled. “You are your father’s son, no doubt about that, and in many ways. Now be off with you, the pair of you. I can wait until you are both decent to receive me.”

  Diamonta grabbed Francois hand and dragged him away from her mother’s appraising eyes, and whispered, “You’ve won her over. She’s smitten.”

  “You are your mother’s daughter, in many ways, and I smitten.” He laughed, hugged her to him, and kissed her head. “How long do we have?”

  “As long as we need.”

  “Good.”

  “One thing,” she said, as they entered the hall. “Tell me. Why did you rent a house in Faringdon?”

  “Am I the Oxfordshire Highwayman, is the next question. Correct?”

  “Yes, I suppose so. Though it matters not in so much as I love you. I am though, of a curious nature.”

  He chuckled, half dragging her up the staircase in haste of their making the most of moments alone in the privacy of their bedchamber. “I shall say this once, and then the matter is forgotten. The house in Faringdon served my purpose for two months. From there I secured the services of four mercenary soldiers and together we returned to Guernsey. I needed armed men who were capable of carrying out a secret mission. From under the noses of soldiers of the Republique we stole away the treasures of Saint Mont Marche, the de Boviere jewels, and Angelica now has her dowry returned in full. To which, I believe will come into your brother’s hands very shortly. For they are, I think, to be wed.”

  “Oh how delightful.” She laughed, her heart tripping over itself. “Ha. He too will marry a Frenchy.”

  “Frenchy?” Francois brows hooded his dark eyes, and the memory of a highwayman kissing her fingers leapt to mind. “You shall pay for that, Diamonta. Pay dearly.”

  “I had thought I might.”

  The End.

  ~~

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