Fires of Delight

by Vanessa Royall

  Royce’s eyes flew toward Sussex. But to Selena’s surprise, he said nothing.

  “You have outdone yourself this time, David,” said Sean to the duke. “Even a vulture has better breeding than you.”

  “I am bred to honor,” Sussex grinned cheerfully. “You were only elevated to it. A questionable decision on His Majesty’s part, I think.” Then he faced Royce. “If your whore does not comply with my wishes—” He leered. Royce and Sean stiffened at the insult; Selena was too numb to react. “—if she does not comply, I will repeat my challenge to you, and you must face me on the field outside Kingston tomorrow at dawn. You ran from me last time, as I recall.”

  Royce looked at Selena, and in his eyes she saw the unfamiliar look of tragedy.

  “I did not run from you at all,” he said to the duke, who laughed, “but if I accept this challenge and defeat you—”

  “Defeat me? Never!”

  “We shall see. But if I defeat you, which will mean your death of course, Selena will see her lands restored. Are you sure you want that?”

  “The wench and her remote castle are but pawns in my game, Campbell. It is you I am after. I cannot bear to see a coward like you passing himself off as a warrior in this life. All that Highlands business about which you prate is so much malarkey, and I mean to prove it to the world. You are as common as a guttersnipe.”

  “Save your insults,” Royce said. He turned to Sean Bloodwell. “Sir, would you be so kind as to serve as my second on the morrow?”

  “It would be an honor,” replied Sean, in a clipped, angry voice.

  “Then it is decided,” Royce said, turning on his heel as the Duke of Sussex chortled victoriously. “Come, Selena, let us go.”

  In the hotel that night, calm enough but burdened by a dark mood, Royce told Selena what had transpired in the past between him and Sussex.

  “The man and I met once in Bermuda,” he said, lying beside her in bed. “Eleven years ago. I was younger and more reckless than I am today. Or so I hope. And he was the same as he is now. We were in—I confess it—a house of unsavory repute, and happened to vie for the same woman at the same time.”

  Selena sighed. She would rather have been spared such specific knowledge of his past.

  “The situation was inconsequential in and of itself,” Royce continued, “and I proposed that we resolve the matter by a contest of knife-throwing. Whoever should hurl his dagger with greater accuracy at a small circle I drew upon the taproom wall would first enjoy the company of the woman in question.”

  “And you won?”

  “Yes, I won. But he would not accept the defeat. He threw an actual tantrum, I swear, and challenged me to swords at dawn, exactly as he has chosen to do again. He has now—and had even then—a great reputation with the blade.”

  “Did you—”

  “No. I did not fight. But I did not run from him either, as he claims. I sailed aboard the Highlander then, and that night a storm came up. We had to put out to sea, or else be washed up on shore by the wind. In the morning, I decided that prudence would keep us both alive, so I simply sailed away. He interprets my long-ago discretion as cowardice, which it was not. I let him live.”

  “But you said he was a great swordsman. Could you have defeated him?”

  “I believe so.”

  She asked a question far more important: “Do you think you can defeat him now?”

  “I suspect so.” The room was dark. She could not see his face, nor could she read anything in his tone. She put her arms around him and clung to him as closely as she could. “Let us flee now,” she pleaded. “The duel doesn’t matter. Coldstream doesn’t matter. If I lose you I lose everything.”

  “And if I flee, you lose Coldstream, which I will not permit.”

  “Death is not worth it.”

  “Neither is cowardice. That son of deceit must face the weight of his words, whatever befalls.”

  “Oh, darling, I’m afraid for us.”

  “Don’t be, Selena. Things are not as grave as they appear. In his rancor and haste, Sussex made a fatal mistake.”

  “What is that?”

  “When I return from the field at Kingston, I shall explain it to you.”

  “What? Return to tell me? No, I am going to be there with you.”

  “Selena, I forbid it.”

  “That is a power you may not claim over me.”

  There was a long silence, then he laughed softly.

  “Even if I did claim it, the power would not work. You would come to Kingston anyway, wouldn’t you? I might tie you to the bed, however.”

  “That you might, but not for long. Please, Royce. It may—God forbid—be our last time together.” She imagined the thin, evil face of Sussex gloating in triumph, Royce’s blood dripping from his blade. “Let us sleep now. Rest, and build your strength.”

  His hand brushed her nipples lightly. She felt the first waves of yielding heat. “Royce, no. I have heard that a man…that when a man has a great thing to do, it is best that he retain his essence.”

  This time he laughed outright, loud and long.

  “Darling,” he said, “there is something about men that you do not know.”

  Fog lay thick as coalsmoke above the streets and between the buildings of London. Royce and Selena, mounted on hired chestnut geldings, met Sean Bloodwell in the predawn haze. He sat on a nervous roan, and had strapped a long, leather case behind his saddle.

  The sword, she thought, shuddering.

  Wordlessly, they clattered out of London and into the rolling countryside. Selena bit her lower lip until she was afraid blood would come, but Royce seemed calm and quiet. Fate has two manifestations, one of which might be altered, the other not at all. He was about to confront the second form of fate, and there was nothing to be done about it.

  They rode like ghosts through the fog, which thinned to wisps and whorls as the sun rose. By the time they reached Kingston field, drifting tendrils of mist shimmered like pieces of rainbow above the green and brilliant grass. Two black thoroughbreds were tethered beneath an oak at the far end of the field, where Sussex and his second were waiting. The second was to arm and prepare his man for battle, to congratulate him in victory, to see to his body in the event of wounding or death. Sussex, Selena noted, had no doubts about the outcome of today’s confrontation. On a blanket beneath an oak was a bottle of brandy, a second bottle of wine, and a small basket of bread and cheese.

  “Do you think it was wise to bring the woman, Campbell?” goaded Sussex as the trio dismounted.

  Royce said nothing. Selena stood disconsolately beside her horse as the seconds conferred. Sussex unsheathed his long sword and slashed the air with it.

  “This is death, Campbell,” he grinned. “Have a look at it.”

  Selena turned away and looked out over the gorgeous, flower-filled field. She was overcome by the beauty of new day, and by the contradictory presence of strife and death.

  Sean Bloodwell unstrapped the case from behind his mount’s saddle.

  “According to the rituals of dueling,” he said softly, as the others watched him swing open the leather lid of the case, “the man who is challenged has choice of weapons.”

  Everyone looked. The cast contained two long-barreled blunderbusses. The duke’s jaw fell. Royce grinned.

  Too late, Sussex realized the error that his haste had caused him to make.

  “This is unfair!” he protested weakly.

  “Sir,” said Royce, “you know that it is not. I give you the right to refuse this duel, and go your way. I shall think no less of you.”

  “I could not think less of you,” he added mirthlessly.

  Selena’s heart jumped for joy. She had seen Royce shoot down a sparrow on the wing with a musket. The day turned even brighter than it was.

  “Permit me to inspect the weapons,” said the duke’s second, a youngish man who seemed quite nervous, and more so now than he had been a moment ago.

  Sean Bloodwell step
ped away to allow the inspection. “I have powder and shot with me,” he said. “You may, according to the rules, load your champion’s weapon, or he may do so himself.”

  “Guns are uncivilized,” cried Sussex. “Have you no honor?”

  “As much as you, I think, sir. I offer again. Withdraw. Forfeit. And apologize to Selena for what you called her at the palace yesterday, of course.”

  The duke stiffened. “I shall not.”

  “Then load your weapon, sir,” ordered Royce, his eyes cool slits of restrained fury.

  Selena noted that Sussex’s hands trembled as he measured out the gunpowder. Sean prepared Royce’s weapon.

  Royce came over to Selena and put his hands on her shoulders. “I hoped it would not come to this,” he said, “but it has. I deliberately remained in the antechamber when you addressed the lords, so that sight of me would not provoke the duke. But he had his heart set on some form of showdown, it seems.”

  “Still, darling, be careful.”

  “You need not advise me about that.”

  Then the weapons were ready. Sean and the other second carried them out onto the green field. Royce and Sussex followed. Royce wore a black, simple suit, and stood bareheaded on the grass. The duke was garbed flamboyantly in pink breeches and a ruffled shirt of powder-blue silk.

  “The combatants will stand back to back,” Sean commanded. “I will call out twenty paces. On the count of twenty, turn and fire. In the event that both shots miss, the contest is a draw. The challenger, Duke of Sussex, has then the right to demand a second chance. Wounding or death, however, will satisfy the requirements of this contest.”

  Royce and Sussex took up their positions. The seconds withdrew to one side. Selena remained beneath the oak.

  “One!” cried Sean. The combatants began to walk, pacing as the count mounted, inexorable as death. “…eighteen, nineteen, twenty!”

  Selena’s eyes were on Royce. She saw him turn quickly and raise the musket to his shoulder. She saw a look of amazement on his face, and turned toward the duke. Against all protocol, he had dropped to the grass and lay flat against the earth, taking aim.

  “Unfair!” shouted Sean angrily.

  Too late. Sussex’s weapon jumped in his hands. A bellowing explosion rolled across the field. Royce seemed to shudder a little, but remained on his feet.

  The lead ball had missed him.

  Sussex lay helpless on the ground.

  “Do you wish to stand like a man?” Royce asked. “It is against my principles to shoot a snake in the grass, much as I would like to.”

  Cowering, glowering impotently, the duke rose shakily to his feet, holding the musket as if he hoped it were a shield.

  “In return for an apology and a vote in Selena’s favor,” said Royce, taking aim, “I offer you your life.”

  “No,” replied Sussex, aware that his last shred of honor was at stake.

  “Don’t be a fool, man. Feel the sun. Smell the fragrant air. Imagine the taste of the brandy there in the bottle beneath the tree. That is yours, today and tomorrow and thereafter, just for an apology and a vote.”

  “No,” said the duke.

  “So be it,” shrugged Royce, his finger on the trigger. Sussex braced for his doom, closing his eyes.

  Explosion. Fire. Billowing smoke.

  The duke opened his eyes.

  Royce had fired deliberately into the air. “Let us end this foolishness now,” he said, lowering his weapon.

  But an expression of joy and resolve came over Sussex’s face. He believed that Royce’s shot had accidentally missed.

  “Second chance! Second chance!” he crowed.

  “Please reconsider, My Lord,” pleaded his anxious second.

  “God damn it, man, make haste and bring more powder and shot. I mean to win the day.”

  As the second hastened to comply, Royce motioned wearily to Sean Bloodwell, asking that he, too, bring a second charge of shot.

  While Sean reloaded the weapon, Selena walked over to her lover. “Please get it over with this time,” she said.

  His expression was grim. “It seems I have no choice, doesn’t it?”

  Sussex’s man was carefully measuring powder, but the duke, certain now that he would triumph and eager to get on with it, seized the materials and commenced his own reloading. “I note, Campbell, that you chose the wrong weapon. Fatal for you, I fear.”

  Royce did not reply.

  Sussex used a thin ramrod to jam in the quantity of powder, then added the lead ball and tamped that in too, the movement of his arm jerky and pistonlike. He was in position for the second shot before Royce had readied his weapon.

  Once more, Sean Bloodwell counted out the paces.

  “One…seven…thirteen…eighteen…twenty!”

  Sussex, delirious with anticipation, whirled on Royce with preternatural speed.

  He took quick, sure aim.

  Royce had only begun to lift the weapon to his shoulder.

  Sussex fired.

  The explosion of his blunderbuss was much louder than before, its force sweeping over the field, frightening the horses, shivering leaves on the trees.

  A brief, pitiful howl of surprised agony followed the blast, then there was stillness.

  Sussex lay dead on the ground, one arm blown away, his face ripped apart. He had loaded too hastily, with excessive gunpowder. His weapon had exploded in his hands. Forty paces from his opponent, Royce Campbell stood unharmed. He hadn’t even fired.

  “Coldstream awaits you, Selena,” Sean Bloodwell said.

  28

  A Last Gambit

  It was not quite that simple, however. Sean informed Royce and Selena, as they rode together back to London, that he would immediately begin to canvass the lords, which would require at least a day. He advised them to remain at their hotel, so he would be able to notify them as soon as he had word. Prospects for a favorable vote were excellent, though, since the Duke of Sussex had been Selena’s primary—if not only—committed adversary.

  “Few tears will be shed over his demise,” Sean said.

  And so Royce and Selena spent the day together, breaking the tension with long periods of lovemaking. When darkness fell, with yet no word from Sean, they hurried out to a pub for a rushed dinner of meat pies and ale. Selena forced herself to eat, for her appetite was scant.

  When they returned to the hotel, a messenger awaited them, one of the young waifs of London who made a ha’pence here and a ha’pence there carrying letters and doing errands.

  “My lord, my lady,” he bleated shyly, “I bear you tidings from Lord Bloodwell of St. John’s Wood. He requests the company of Sir Royce Campbell at his lodgings at once.”

  Royce and Selena exchanged glances. “Me only?” Royce asked the boy.

  The youth nodded and withdrew.

  “That is bad news,” said Selena. “The vote has been against me, and Sean wishes to spare me the agony of having to hear the news directly from him.”

  “Do not give up hope yet,” Royce said, squeezing her hand. “It may be another matter entirely. Perhaps there has been some new trouble in the wake of my duel with Sussex. Go to our room and wait for me. I shall return as soon as I can.”

  He hired a hack and departed for St. John’s Wood. Selena went upstairs to the hotel room and sat there dispiritedly on the bed, trying to contain her tension. It did not seem fair, it did not seem right, after all she had endured, to suffer the loss of her great prize now. She poured herself a glass of brandy, thinking that it would make her feel better, but the effect was just the opposite. She began to brood.

  “Steel yourself for bad news,” she exhorted herself, many times. But strength did not come.

  At last she heard slow, heavy footsteps on the stairs—not the tread of a man bearing glad tidings—and a gentle, almost hesitant rap on the door.

  “Come in,” said Selena, who was seated on a chair near the window, next to a small table on which an oil lamp burned dimly.

 
The door swung slowly open.

  Light from the lamp was sufficient to glisten on Colonel Clay Oakley’s hideous bald pate.

  “Selena, my dear,” he hissed, in all of his frightening, single-minded malevolence. “How beautiful you look, as always.”

  He held a dagger in his hand, as if it were a paint brush, prepared to alter her features according to his tastes.

  She sprang to her feet, but he blocked the way to the door. The window was too high off the street; she could not jump without killing herself. Still, that was a better alternative than the blade. “How did you—” she began.

  “Escape from the Tower? It was not easy. It took a bit of time. But even a man like me has friends, after all the good I have done for England.”

  Selena fought to collect her wits. There was a murderous light in Oakley’s eyes, as if he had passed far beyond the pale of faintest sanity. He meant to even things with her now, and she knew it.

  “You have chosen an inopportune time to call on me, I’m afraid,” she said, as calmly as possible. “Royce Campbell will be here momentarily.”

  Oakley’s mustache lifted as he offered his eerie grin. “No, my dear. He won’t. He has gone to St. John’s Wood.”

  “How do you—”

  “Because I sent him the message to go thither.”

  “You mean Lord Bloodwell didn’t summon him?”

  “No, my dear. I wanted to have these special, final moments with you alone, don’t you see?” He took several heavy steps toward her, she took as many steps away from him.

  Her back was to the window now. The blade of the dagger glinted in his huge hand.

  Then he reached into a waistcoat pocket and withdrew something supple and glittering.

  “Here’s a message for you, though,” he chortled spitefully, and threw the object on the floor at her feet.

  It was Erasmus Ward’s cross. Hastily, and confused, she picked it up and looked at him.

  “What is the meaning of this? How did you—”

  “Your friends seem to have the unfortunate habit of dying,” he wheezed. In growing excitement now that his moment of revenge was so near, Oakley was forced to take out his scented handkerchief and inhale deeply. “That cross was intercepted at Dover today, when a mail pouch was inspected there.”