The Captive

by Grace Burrowes

  “As one expects the nobility to be arrogant on general principles. Please have a seat, Your Grace.”

  “I can see why Gillian hired you,” Christian said, taking one of two opulently cushioned armchairs.

  “That would be the Countess of Greendale.”

  Stoneleigh did not make his comment a question, though neither was it quite a scold, and he did not ask permission to sit in his own offices. Christian was pleased for Gilly that this dark, unsmiling man had her custom.

  “She is Gillian to me, and she, alone among all others, calls me by my given name.”

  Stoneleigh’s brows rose then settled, surely the lawyer’s equivalent of an exclamation of surprise.

  “Shall I ring for tea, Your Grace, or would you like something stronger?”

  One could tell a lot about a man by the drink he served. “Something stronger, if it’s not too much bother.”

  When they’d enjoyed fine libation indeed, Christian withdrew a sealed letter from his pocket and passed it to his host. “I will transact some business in the next several days that might result in my death or legal incapacity. That epistle is for the countess in the event of such an outcome.”

  Stoneleigh set the letter aside without even glancing at it. “The rumors are true, then? The clubs were all a-chatter last night because you’d challenged the man responsible for your ordeal after being taken captive.”

  Such delicacy. “I was responsible for being taken by the French,” Christian said. “At the direction of his superiors, Girard exploited the technicality of finding me out of uniform and treated me to months of torture.”

  “Ah, so we’re now killing soldiers who follow their generals’ orders,” Stoneleigh remarked, topping up Christian’s drink. “And were you out of uniform, Your Grace?”

  Any officer captured out of uniform was presumed to be a spy, and spies were regarded by gentlemen and scoundrels alike as beneath contempt.

  Stoneleigh’s willingness to lawyer that point now was not helpful.

  “I was naked, Stoneleigh, bathing in the same river the soldiers on both sides used to water their horses and wash their clothes. My uniform was in sight, spread on nearby bushes to dry, had the French bothered to look, and the ducal signet ring graced my finger.”

  “So you were out of uniform.”

  “What is your point?”

  “In the next day or two, you will get yourself killed or do premeditated murder,” Stoneleigh said, his air patient, as if he were instructing a dim junior clerk. “One seeks to understand how exactly your honor was slighted, that one might explain it to the countess when your death adds to the misery that has already befallen her. I assume that is what this letter is for?”

  When Christian remained silent, Stoneleigh flicked a glance at the missive Christian had spent hours composing.

  “A maudlin exercise in futility, to be visited on the woman in the event of your death?”

  A barrister knight errant. Tedious, but at least Stoneleigh was Gilly’s barrister knight errant.

  “That letter includes a substantial bank draft, made out to her, along with a few lines of apology and encouragement.”

  I love you. I will always love you.

  Stoneleigh steepled his fingers and said nothing. He didn’t have to speechify further, for Christian already understood that anybody who considered himself Gilly’s henchman could not approve of this duel.

  “I will pass along the letter should I hear of your death,” Stoneleigh said, “and return it to you if you prevail. You’re confident of prevailing?”

  “I’d be a fool to call myself confident against a man of Girard’s cunning. I’ll do well enough with pistols. If he chooses swords, a few prayers for my soul might be in order.”

  “Your Frenchman isn’t stupid. A stupid man might have tried to hide.”

  “He’s not stupid, but he’s arrogant and given to histrionic displays and—unless I miss my guess—weary to his soul.”

  If a soul he indeed possessed.

  Stoneleigh rose and busied himself moving pots of violets around so the most flowers benefited from the sunlight pouring in the window. “You’ve chosen your seconds?”

  “We have.”

  “Well, then, I have nothing more to say except best of luck. Where is the match to take place?” He lifted one blue ceramic pot sporting a cluster of deep purple flowers and sniffed.

  Gilly had been denied even the pleasure of the gardens. Would she tend Christian’s burial plot if Girard should prevail? She’d probably plant nettles over Christian’s grave and water them frequently.

  “St. Just will offer three locations in reverse order of my preference.” He went on to describe them, two being in London’s environs, one in a secluded corner of Hyde Park, and all surrounded by dense woods to ensure privacy. When Christian left an hour later, he was confident that Stoneleigh would deliver the missive to Gilly if the need arose, and keep his mouth shut about the business generally.

  When Christian returned to St. Just’s town house, St. Just’s mouth was busy swearing heartily in what Christian suspected was Gaelic.

  “Calm down,” Christian said, closing the door to a surprisingly well-stocked library. “You met with the second, and the details are resolved. If you can recall the King’s English, you might consider sharing those details with me.”

  A volume of Blake sat near a reading chair, opened to the very same damned poem Christian had quoted for Gilly. She’d known much more about being mocked in captivity than he’d understood.

  “He’s chosen foils,” St. Just spat. “The bloody Frog wants foils.”

  Well, of course. “To the death? Hard to kill a man with a foil.”

  “Not hard,” St. Just said. “Time-consuming, for you must pink him over and over, or try for a lunge to the heart or lungs or windpipe—some damned organ that will shut him down. Messy business, foils, and not the done thing.”

  An odd notion flitted through Christian’s head as he shoved Blake into a desk drawer: captivity came in many forms. A marriage being one, a dungeon being another, a quest for vengeance another, though far preferable to the variety Girard had traded in.

  “Perhaps among the French, foils are the done thing.”

  St. Just left off pacing long enough to move a carved white pawn on a large chessboard that sat under a tall, curtained widow. The set was marble and had to have cost a decent sum.

  “If you’d like to spar, Mercia, I can accompany you to Angelo’s.”

  “Generous of you, but if I did not acquit myself well, my confidence would suffer, and if I bested you, I might become overconfident.”

  “Tell me you’ve at least been practicing,” St. Just said, walking around the chessboard and fingering a bishop, as if he’d oppose himself.

  “I’ve been practicing.”

  “With a sword?”

  “You fret over details,” Christian said. “I must meet the man, St. Just. For the sake of my own sanity, I must meet him, and the outcome is in God’s hands. If I best him, he’s dead. If he kills me, he will be tried for murder and executed. Either way, a just God will see a period put to the man’s existence.”

  “Not God,” St. Just said, shifting the black bishop half the width of the board. “Don’t bring the Almighty into it. That good fellow thought twenty years of mayhem at the hands of the Corsican was merely entertaining. Half a million men dead in the 1812 campaign to Moscow alone, and you want God to determine the outcome of this duel?”

  “St. Just, must I get you drunk?”

  “Tonight, yes,” he said, scowling at the board once again from the white perspective. “You’re to meet your man the day after tomorrow, at daybreak in the copse a quarter mile distant from the Sheffield Arms. We’ve arranged for two surgeons, as the choice of weapons was—Blessed Virgin preserve us—foils.”

 
“St. Just, calm yourself. All will be well.”

  “Forgive me. My mother was a Papist. She was a fallen woman, but a fallen Papist woman—they are the most pious of all.” He shifted a white knight, so the blighter was imperiled but closing in on check. “All will be well once you get me roaring bloody drunk.”

  Seeing no alternative, Christian proceeded to do just that.

  ***

  Two nights without Christian in her bed had left Gilly unrested and unsettled. She told herself they’d parted on a positive note, they’d made progress, but progress toward what, she could not say.

  She couldn’t bring herself to garden, she couldn’t embroider, she couldn’t wander the house for fear of running into Marcus. He’d been polite enough over dinner the previous evening, but he’d watched her, and Gilly was afraid did she remain in his company, she’d start blurting out questions.

  Did he know?

  How much did he know?

  Had it ever occurred to him to assist her?

  Had Greendale threatened him?

  Had Greendale ever raised a hand to his heir? A buggy whip? A riding crop?

  They might have said a great deal to each other, but considering Gilly could barely endure what Christian knew of her past, the less she saw of Marcus—and the less she smelled of his wretched cigars—the better.

  By contrast, she was specifically charged with spending time with Lucy, who’d grown listless indeed, so although the hour was early, Gilly left her sitting room intent on heading for the nursery. She was surprised to find both George and John waiting for her in the corridor.

  “Good morning, gentlemen.”

  “Milady.”

  “Did Lord Greendale set you to following me?”

  “Nay, milady,” George answered. “’Twere the dook. Said we was to stick to you like flies to honey, and it would be worth our Christmas pudding to do as he bid.”

  “Then we’re for the nursery,” she said, relieved it was Christian spying on her and not Marcus. “And possibly a stroll in the gardens.”

  They looked resigned—the gardens again—as they fell in step directly behind her. She was half thinking of a nooning picnic with Lucy when she paused at a faint whiff of tobacco in the third-floor corridor, where it had no business being. The playroom door was a few inches ajar, and Marcus’s voice came from behind it.

  “Even your nurse and your governess haven’t heard you speak,” he said, his tone musing. “I must applaud your diligence, child. When I said you must not speak one word of what you’d overheard, I hardly thought you’d take me so literally. Your mama is gone now, and no one would believe it did you accuse me of trying to persuade her to leave your papa.”

  A pause ensued, the length of time it took a man to puff on a cigar.

  “As for the rest, your papa is about to meet his demise on the field of honor at the hands of the very Frenchie who was delegated the matter more than a year past. Justice delayed is justice denied, eh? Justice for me—and expensive justice, too, I can tell you.”

  Silence, while Gilly’s blood ran cold and the scent of a burning cigar threatened to upend her breakfast. She put her finger to her lips and shook her head, lest John and George fall prey to heroic notions. Without making a sound, she motioned for them to follow her back down the stairs and into her parlor.

  “He’s a scheming bounder,” George hissed. “Beggin’ your ladyship’s pardon, but what Greendale was sayin’…”

  “Hush, George. I need to think.”

  George and John exchanged a look while Gilly’s mind whirled.

  Marcus had conspired with that awful Frenchman? Marcus had tried to woo Helene from Christian’s side? Marcus had threatened Lucy into complete silence?

  Marcus, who now had her and Lucy right under his paw.

  “Gentlemen, I need your attention, and I need to get word to the stable to put my sidesaddle on Chesterton, and to saddle Damsel for Lucy. We’ll need a groom, too, and your greatest discretion.” She gave them instructions and prayed luck would be with her and with Christian.

  For they would both need it.

  Twenty

  Gervaise Stoneleigh eyed the missive sitting on his mantel and wondered, not for the first time, if Mercia knew what he was about. A man facing a duel must make his arrangements, that was part of the common sense of the process, but most men facing duels hadn’t had their hands—their bodies, their minds—mangled by their opponent.

  Which might give Mercia a tactical advantage, or it might put him at a practical disadvantage.

  Or both.

  A knock on the door of his library disturbed Stoneleigh’s evening solitude. “Enter.”

  “Beg pardon, sir, but a female has come to the door, and she has a child with her. She says she’s a client.” The butler’s face betrayed nothing, not curiosity, disapproval, concern—nothing. Stoneleigh paid him handsome wages to say nothing as well.

  “Bring them in.”

  Gillian, Lady Greendale, followed the butler in, holding the hand of a golden-haired girl Stoneleigh would guess was about seven or eight years old.

  “Hanscomb, a tray with both tea and chocolate, and close the door behind you. Lady Greendale, an unexpected pleasure.”

  Another unexpected pleasure.

  “I am sorry to impose,” she said, still clutching the child’s hand. “We’ve come up from Severn today, and I couldn’t find the colonel, and His Grace isn’t residing at the ducal town house, but Girard is going to kill him if we don’t warn him.”

  A silence ensued while the countess caught her breath and Gervaise puzzled out the sense of her words.

  “Perhaps the child might enjoy her chocolate in the kitchen?” Bad enough he was about to discuss a duel with a grown woman. In the child’s presence, such a thing could never be mentioned.

  “Lucy stays with me.”

  “I can talk,” the girl said. “I’m staying with Cousin Gilly.”

  The silent child, then, the one Lady Greendale had despaired of, but silent no more.

  “I am to host two damsels in distress,” Stoneleigh said. “Your duke is safe enough as we speak. I know this, for His Grace called on me, and I have some familiarity with his schedule. He will come to no harm tonight.”

  He gave the lady a pointed look, and she nodded.

  The tale that emerged over sandwiches and tea cakes would give Mercia nightmares for years, provided he lived to hear it, and provided His Grace’s other nightmares didn’t absorb his every sleeping hour. Lady Greendale tried to convey some of the story in adult code, only to be thwarted by the girl.

  “Cousin Marcus loved my mama,” Lady Lucy volunteered at one point. “But Mama said he was an amusement to her. She told me that, but when she told Cousin Marcus he grew very angry and said he’d risked everything he had so they could be together. Mama laughed at him, and I crept away.”

  “You did the smart thing, then,” Stoneleigh said. “Have another tea cake. They promote sound sleep.”

  Lady Greendale’s eyebrows rose, but she nonetheless selected a small raspberry-flavored cake for the girl. Her ladyship was tired, with shadows under her blue eyes and a drawn quality about her mouth. Haring up from Surrey with a child in tow and a would-be murderer likely in pursuit wouldn’t improve a lady’s appearance.

  “I wasn’t smart enough,” the girl said, munching her tea cake. “Cousin Marcus knew I was there, and he said if I told one word—even one word—of what I knew, then terrible things would happen. Evan died, then Mama died, and then Papa didn’t come back. What could be more terrible than that?”

  “What indeed?” Stoneleigh murmured. “I know something terrible, though not as terrible as your cousin’s mischief. Desperately needing a decent night’s rest and not getting it is terrible.”

  The child looked skeptical, the expression showing her resemblance to
her father.

  “My ladies, I can send you to my sister’s, or you can flaunt all propriety and stay here with me. My staff is most discreet. In the alternative, I can escort you to Mercia’s town house.”

  “Marcus will look for us there, and I would not want to involve your sister.”

  The general populace regarded the practice of law as an exercise in tedium, when in fact, Drury Lane could offer no more riveting drama.

  “Then you shall be my guests.”

  He waited for Lady Greendale to tuck the child in, then sent the maid to bring the countess back to his study, because a judicious scolding was in order.

  “Lady Greendale, your duke would not want you interfering.” He passed her a finger of brandy, it being a canon of unwritten law that counsel keep the medicinal tot on hand for the occasional distraught client.

  “My duke has no idea what he’s up against. Girard won’t offer a fair fight, and no one can warn him but me.”

  “I can go.”

  She shook her head. “I would not burden you with the details of Marcus’s perfidy. This is a family matter, truly.”

  His curiosity was piqued, though he allowed her a moment to sip the brandy. “Another drop?”

  “No, thank you.” Lady Greendale was distressed—sorely distressed—but composed. Greendale had no doubt taught her that trick, may the old blighter be cavorting in hell. “Please tell me what you know, Mr. Stoneleigh. I suspect a duel has been planned?”

  He told her what he knew: that a contest of honor had been scheduled for the very next morning, though its exact location was as yet uncertain.

  ***

  Unique among his peers, Christian had never met another on the field of honor. Dueling struck him as a chancy way to settle a matter of pride—honor usually didn’t enter into it—particularly for a duke with an obligation to a titular succession.

  So he knew not how he should feel when he contemplated single mortal combat with a personal enemy. The exchange with Stoneleigh had put doubts in his mind, and doubts were a liability.

  Technically, Girard had played by the rules of war, such as war had rules, but only technically.