by Liz Carlyle
At that thought, recollection suddenly dawned. He lived in his sister-in-law’s house! He was not hiding from anyone. Cecilia searched her memory for the name she’d heard David give de Rohan. Treyhern.
Jed entered the smithy and returned quickly. “At the end of Heath Street,” he announced. “We’re to turn at North End Way, pass by the Castle Tavern, and it’s the third cottage on the left.”
“Thank you, Jed,” she said with a sigh of relief.
Soon they had reached the tavern, and then the wooded lane beyond. The third house was small, but rather more than a cottage. Made of vine-covered red brick, the old house was two-storied, with a sharply pitched slate roof and twin chimneys at each end. It was situated very near the street, with what appeared to be fine gardens neatly fenced with wrought iron.
Cecilia dismounted beneath the branches of a bare oak opposite the house, handing her reins to Jed. “I shall be but a few moments,” she insisted, more bravely than she felt. But just as she reached the gate, a stooped, elderly woman came toddling out the front door. She was dressed all in black and wearing an old-fashioned white cap with lappets. On her arm, she carried an empty market basket.
Cecilia met her at the gate, heart hammering in her chest. “Good afternoon, ma’am,” she said politely. “Is Mr. Rutledge at home?”
Nodding, the old woman lifted the latch and held open the gate, her expression one of polite disinterest. “Aye, if it’s young Mr. Bentley you’d be wanting,” she agreed, waving her hand toward the rear of the house. “He’d be right around back, puttering about in the garden. Just go ‘round and announce yourself.”
Cecilia was a little taken aback. She had not thought it would be so simple. Moreover, the woman who stood before her looked nothing like the sort of servant she would have expected Mr. Rutledge to have. “Thank you, I shall,” she managed, stepping onto the graveled path the old woman pointed toward.
Behind her, Cecilia heard the woman call out a cheery good afternoon to Jed, and then the iron gate clattered shut. Gravel crunching softly beneath her riding boots, Cecilia made her way past a sweep of well-pruned boxwoods which edged the street. The side gardens were filled with flower beds, now freshly turned and lying dormant as they awaited spring. Soon, the serpentine path wound past a swath of lilac bushes flanking the house, then entered a trellised passageway which was covered with old climbing roses. As she passed through it, Cecilia could only imagine how lovely it must be in the summertime.
Suddenly, the passageway ended, and Cecilia found herself standing in a beautiful rear garden with a stone fountain in the center. Along the wrought-iron fence stood rose bushes, three and four deep in many places, their beds artfully edged with a low rock wall. In the rearmost corner, a man holding a rake was bent down on one knee, fixedly studying the earth around one of the bushes.
At once, he seized the bush by its gnarled base and gave it a violent shake. “Bloody frigging ants,” she heard him growl. “It’s scarce March, rot you.” So frustrated was his invective, so intent was his study, Rutledge did not hear Cecilia approach.
He bent lower, still scowling. Cecilia found herself compelled to suppress a giggle. “Mr. Rutledge?” At once, Rutledge’s head jerked up, his eyes squinting against the afternoon sky.
Suddenly, comprehension dawned, and he stood, casually tossing the rake against the fence. “Well, you do surprise me, Lady Walrafen,” he said softly, swinging one long leg out of the bed and onto the lawn. “I confess, this is not at all what I expected to happen next.”
Cecilia thought it an odd remark. “I’m sorry to disturb you, Mr. Rutledge,” she said. “But your servant told me I should come directly back. I believe she was on her way to market.”
“Ah—that would be just like Nanny,” he acknowledged, still staring at Cecilia with a burning intensity. “Of course, we stand on little ceremony here at Roselands Cottage.”
Nanny? Just how dissolute could a man be if he lived with his nanny in a cottage called Roselands? The thought almost gave Cecilia confidence, but it was a grave mistake. Rutledge was still walking toward her with a slow, predatory grace. His cocksure humor of last night had vanished, to be replaced by something far less benevolent. He looked angry. No, he looked...affronted.
When he spoke, Rutledge’s voice was quiet, almost seductive, as he closed the distance between them. “You are still clutching your crop, my lady,” he said, letting his gaze slide over her. “Do you fear you may have need of it?”
“No, indeed!” said Cecilia, nervously dropping it into the grass. “I simply—forgot.”
At once, Rutledge bent down to snare it. Cecilia noticed that he wore no work gloves, and that his hands looked capable and callused. “You seem very ill at ease, Lady Walrafen,” he said, sliding her crop through his long fingers, his eyes glittering wickedly. “You needn’t be, you know. I daresay I already know what you’ve come for.”
Cecilia drew back just an inch. “I’m certain, Mr. Rutledge, that you have no clue,” she said, her voice surprisingly calm. “All I seek is information.”
“Oh, information?” Rutledge said lightly. “Are you perfectly sure, my lady, that there is not something a little more specific which you wanted from me?”
“You mistake me, Mr. Rutledge,” she retorted.
“Do I?” he whispered, stepping just a little nearer. “Do you wish me to believe, Lady Walrafen, that your friend Delacourt didn’t deliberately send you here?” Almost absently, he lifted his hand to capture the ringlet of hair which brushed her collar.
“I can assure you he did not,” she coolly insisted, slapping away Rutledge’s hand. But Cecilia was suddenly uneasy.
“Then I think, my lady,” Rutledge continued very softly, “that you’d best convince me your interest is more self-serving.”
“You’ll not intimidate me with your bold pretensions, Mr. Rutledge,” Cecilia insisted. “It won’t wash. I’ve already seen you for what you are, a rather nice young man undernea—”
Cecilia never completed her sentence. Like a strong, sinewy carriage whip, his arm lashed around Cecilia’s waist, dragging her against him. As her hand came out to stay him, Rutledge’s mouth captured hers, almost gently at first, then harder as she struggled against him. Panic shot through her. His mouth was nothing like David’s. Rutledge’s touch felt cold and calculating, his grip implacable.
Jed! She had to scream for Jed! Impotently, she struggled against him until she freed one hand, drawing it back to slap him. But just then, Rutledge was somehow torn from her and hurled backward onto the ground, his skull cracking ominously against the base of the stone fountain.
Her hands flying to her mouth, Cecilia stared at the man who towered over Rutledge. It was not Jed.
Oh, dear...
“You worthless son of a bitch,” David growled down at the man who lay sprawled upon the grass. “I’ve a mind to splinter your ribs for that.”
He moved as if he might draw back his boot, but Rutledge swiftly recovered, rolling away and springing to his feet like a cat. “If it’s a brawl you want, Delacourt, I’d be glad to oblige,” he challenged, making a fist with one hand while motioning David forward with the other. “Come on, my pretty fellow! It’s been deuced dull around here.”
“There is a lady present, you swine,” growled David. “And you will apologize to her at once.”
Rutledge let his fighting stance go, rocking back onto his heels. “Will I?” he asked, his voice lethally soft. “I cannot see why, when the lady has sought me out in the privacy of my home. In my experience, that generally means she either wants something besides information, or she’s a woman who’s been sent to do a man’s job—but with soft words and trickery.”
At once, David grabbed him by the coat collar, jerking him forward. “You will apologize for that as well.”
“I don’t think so,” Rutledge sneered, shoving David violently backward.
David stepped back a pace. “Mr. Rutledge,” he said, his voice ruthlessly cal
m, “I am afraid we must meet.”
Cecilia rushed forward. “David, you must be out of your mind! He tried to kiss me, nothing more.”
David’s head jerked around, his eyes blazing almost cruelly. “Cecilia, you will be quiet.” Immediately, his gaze went back to Rutledge’s. “Your second, sir?”
“Lord Robert Rowland?” Rutledge snidely suggested, dusting the grass from his coat sleeves.
“Name another,” demanded David. “Or I swear to God I’ll kill you now with my bare hands.”
At that, Rutledge gave a dry chuckle. “Very well,” he said almost amiably. “I suppose it would not do to make a fellow choose between his friends. I shall send Mr. Weyden to wait upon you tomorrow.”
From one corner of his eye, David watched Cecilia start forward as if to come between them. Immediately, he threw out a staying arm. “David,” she said sternly, “this is foolishness!”
David ignored her. He felt blood-lust thrumming through him, but with it came the cool certainty that he must have—no, burned for—satisfaction. For some reason, a reason which went beyond even Rutledge’s insult to Cecilia, David wanted desperately to teach the younger man a lesson. “Your choice of weapons, sir?” he demanded.
Rutledge was a notoriously sharp shot, and there was little question what his choice would be. And yet, Rutledge seemed to ponder the matter, holding his chin between his thumb and forefinger as he lightly brushed the stubble of his beard. Abruptly, the hand dropped away. “Swords,” he said with a bemused smile.
Good God! He would not have made Rutledge for such a fool. David was a good marksman, yes. But with a blade, he was known to be lethal. “Swords, then,” he concurred.
Abruptly, Rutledge’s face split into a wide grin. “And do you wish to kill me, my lord? Or merely to mar my handsome face?”
David was beginning to believe that Rutledge had some sort of death wish. “That, sir, is up to you.”
Rutledge paused for just a heartbeat. “Well, for my part,” he said with a smooth bow, “I think I shall aim to slice away at least one of your perfect ears.”
“You may well try.”
Briskly, Rutledge scrubbed his hands together as if anticipating a treat. “Very well, then,” he said almost cheerfully. “And now that I think on it, why wait? I’ve a lovely set of Florentine blades just inside the house. I’ve not yet used them myself, for, as I said, it’s been dashed boring here.”
Mere seconds later, Cecilia found herself being propelled unceremoniously back through the rose pergola, out the garden gate, and into the lane.
“David, are you daft?” she insisted, twisting her head to look over her shoulder. “This is precisely what I’ve been trying to avoid! What if you kill him? What if you’re hurt? What can you possibly be thinking?”
But it was as if David could not hear her. His grip on her arm was ruthless, the expression on his face dark and hard. Without hesitation, he propelled her across the lane where Jed still watched their loosely tied horses, but now her groom held the heads of four handsome black geldings frothed with sweat.
The beautiful blacks were drawing an equally beautiful black phaeton. An expensive, high-slung vehicle, it was made for speed and elegance. With four horses, it could be handled by none but the most experienced whipsman. No wonder he had arrived on her heels—and Cecilia had no doubt that Etta was the loose-tongued culprit who’d sent him.
Without another word, David dragged her toward the carriage and shoved her rather gracelessly into it. Then he turned to Jed. “You were a fool to bring her here,” he snapped, drawing a pistol from his coat and passing it to him. “Now, watch her. And by God, if I’m not back in a quarter-hour, see her safely home.”
Stubbornly, Cecilia jumped back down from the high seat, very nearly turning her ankle as she stumbled after him. “David!” she persisted. “You cannot mean to do this! One of you could be killed!”
His expression murderous, David’s head snapped around, his angry gaze taking in both her and Jed. “Perhaps, madam, you should both of you hope that I am.”
Cecilia felt her anger flash. “David, this is hardly Jed’s fault. I gave him no choice. And in case it had not occurred to you, he is in my employ.”
David turned to stare at her incredulously. “And in case it had not occurred to you, madam,” he said, stabbing at her with his finger, “he may shortly be in mine! With all the gossip your coming here will likely cause, I shall probably have to marry you.”
“You shan’t have to do any such thing,” she insisted, biting out the words. “I believe we discussed this some years ago.”
“Cecilia, I think discussions are over.” David’s expression was implacable. “I begin to conclude that you require a husband, and rather desperately, too. No sensible woman would come rushing out here to beard a scoundrel like Rutledge in his own den—”
“Rose garden!” Cecilia bitterly interjected. “The man you have pegged as the Antichrist was raking out his rose garden!”
As if he’d forgotten his duel altogether, David spun about in the middle of the lane. “Cecilia, aren’t you in the least bit curious about what we found in the cellar this morning? Because I am bloody well eager to tell you.”
Cecilia felt marginally contrite. “What?”
David’s temper did not lessen. “Evidence of opium smuggling,” he answered harshly. “Moreover, Rutledge has killed at least three men that I know of, and ruined more women than I should care to count. And now, I’m going to meet him. Given both my reputation and his, do you really think that there is one person in all of Mayfair who won’t hear of this debacle by teatime if I don’t run a sword through his heart?”
Cecilia balled her hands into fists. “I cannot think why you called him out,” she retorted. “It was just a kiss. And now, you might kill him! Or injure yourself!” Her voice took on a hysterical edge. “Yes, yes, you stubborn, arrogant pig! You could!”
David’s eyes narrowed ominously. “Your honor is at stake, Cecilia,” he growled, pacing back toward the gate. “It falls to me to see to it.”
“Does it indeed?” Cecilia challenged, lifting her chin. “I cannot think why. I rather fancied it the duty of my brother, Harry. Or even Giles, come to that.”
His hand already on the latch, David spun about, the hems of his greatcoat whirling about his high, polished boots. His horses tossed and snorted in disapproval. David ignored them. “I’ll show you what duty is, you red-haired witch,” he rasped, coming back across the lane. “Just as soon as I finish with Rutledge.”
And before she knew what he was about, David had jerked her against the wall of his chest. His touch was swift, almost clumsy with desperation. Ravenously, his mouth took hers in a kiss which was searing. Primal. Proprietary. Nothing like Rutledge’s calculated embrace. David bent her back over one arm, stilling her face with one hand, his fingers driving through the hair at her temple. With her hat nearly tumbling off backward—and in front of God, Jed, and anyone who cared to come strolling down the street—David shoved his tongue into her mouth, greedily taking, giving her no opportunity to respond.
And then, as swiftly as it had begun, it ended.
David let his hands fall to her shoulders, all but shoving her away. Lifting one hand to steady her bonnet, Cecilia barely managed to keep her weak knees from collapsing altogether. But David had disappeared through the gate, leaving it to swing wildly in the breeze.
By the time David strode back through the rose arbor, Rutledge was waiting for him, a long leather case laid open beneath the spreading branches of an elm tree. “You may have your pick, my lord,” he said with an expansive gesture of his arm. “And if they do not suit, we may certainly defer this meeting to another time and place.”
“They will suit,” confirmed David, shucking off his coats and pitching them into the dead grass beneath the tree. His top boots and waistcoat soon followed, until he stood in the cold winter air in nothing but his shirtsleeves, breeches, and stockings.
�
�Ah!” said Rutledge softly. “A serious-minded swordsman.”
David made no answer. Instead, he moved to drag a small garden bench away from the space between the fountain and the elm. To his credit, Rutledge took the other end, helping him lift it. That done, Rutledge tossed his own coat and boots almost lazily to the ground.
Jerking his head toward the leather case, he offered David his choice of swords. At once, David seized one, curling his thumb and index finger about the strange Italian grip. It was not, most assuredly, the blade of his choosing. Still, he accounted himself lucky not to be facing Rutledge down a pistol barrel. As it was, he had little doubt of prevailing. Surely, despite the disparity in their ages, Rutledge must know that?
Neither of them mentioned formalities—the rules of conduct, the absence of seconds, not even the point to which they would fight. It was as if Rutledge did not care. Certainly, David did not.
Gracefully, Rutledge bent down and took up the remaining sword, balancing it confidently in the palm of his hand. “They are remarkably fine, are they not, my lord?” he observed dispassionately. “I had them from an Italian nobleman who, shall we say, had fallen on hard times. So let us hope that neither of us meets a similar fate today.”
Disinclined to chitchat, David raised his sword in the opening salute. “En garde, Mr. Rutledge.”
Like the strike of a snake, Rutledge saluted, then lunged. Their blades met low, scraping against one another like the opening cord of an appallingly dissonant melody.
God help him, David’s body thrilled to it. He had done this more times than he cared to count, and still, the clash of metal never ceased to electrify him. Everything—Cecilia, the murders, de Rohan, his troubled mind—melted, and he saw nothing but Rutledge’s blade glinting wickedly in the afternoon sun.
At once, David responded, lunging forward on his right foot, his blade low, the muscles of his arm taut and eager. Rutledge’s eyes lit up as he danced back just a step. David followed him, driving him hard toward the elm tree. But Rutledge was not without experience.