Moonstruck Masness

by Laurie McBain

  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 win 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 his 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 convalescence 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. Of course, 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 Con-tessa 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, Contessa."

  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 1 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.

  Laughing, 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.

  "Maria, silenzio!" the Contessa ordered, a quiver of laughter still in her voice.

  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'ltalia i 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 further 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.

  "Caro, we should pay a visit to this little house," the Contessa suggested, then turning to the Duke explained, "You see, I am the Marquis' third wife, and as yet I have not met his family. How many bambini do you have, caro?" she demanded with a frown. "Two or three, n'e vero?"

  Lord Wrainton shrugged carelessly. "Three, I think."

  "You obviously haven't seen your children in some time," the Duke commented sardonically.

  "This one has not been the proud papa, but soon," she smiled knowingly, glancing slyly down at her waistline, "he shall be, and he will not run off and leave this one as he has these other poor bambini."

  The Marquis turned a dull red under the lash of her tongue, shifting uncomfortably at the truth.

  "And you, Your Grace?" she asked Lucien, gaining his wandering attention. "You are married and have a family?"

  Lucien smiled derisively. "No, not yet, Contessa," he re­plied shortly.

  "Ah, you suffer from the broken heart, si? This is too bad, but I think you have many amores just the same." She glanced at the Duke provocatively, her gaze lingering on his face. "You seem the cool one, but I think you are like Lucifer the fallen angel with your scarred face—a warning, perhaps, for one to beware?"

  The Marquis looked nervously at the Duke. "Please ex­cuse Luciana, Your Grace, she is Italian and inclined to speak her mind without thought," he apologized, sending
a quelling look to the Contessa who merely smiled teasingly at him.

  The Duke laughed. "I think your wife keeps you very busy, Lord Wrainton, and I am too well used to sharp-tongued females to allow the Contessa's words to trouble me."

  They traveled throughout the afternoon, the rain contin­uing to fall lightly as the team of horses pulled the coach swaying and lurching down the road, becoming bogged down in numerous potholes and streams.

  "We are to arrive soon, I trust? I never thought to find myself seasick in a coach," the Contessa remarked impa­tiently and then gave her maid a shake. "Wake up, Maria! You begin to snore."

  The coach began to slow down, and as it came to a complete halt the Contessa leaned forward expectantly. "Bene, we are here at last."

  The Duke frowned and made to look out the curtained window when the door was thrown violently open and a breath of cold, wet air rushed in. "What the—" Lucien began.

  "Stand and deliver!" a voice called from outside and be­fore Lucien could reach for the pistol strapped to the side of the coach, the other door was swung open and a large man holding two pistols pointed them threateningly at the occupants of the coach.

  "Dio miol" the Contessa cried, cringing backward as Maria screamed in terror and fell across her lap in a dead faint.

  "Ah, we've ladies present, have we now?" the voice speculated with amusement. "If the gentlemen will remove themselves from the carriage for just a moment, we won't keep them longer than it takes to relieve them of their purses," the highwayman invited politely.

  The Duke looked at the pistols pointed at his heart, and shrugging at the Contessa's frightened face and Lord Wrainton's outraged one, he climbed from the carriage, pausing briefly as he saw the tartan sash of the highway­man before stepping carefully into the muddy roadway.

  "Well, well, if it isn't my scar-faced friend from the party. You do have the misfortune of being in the wrong place at the right time for me," Bonnie Charlie laughed.

  The coachman and grooms were standing nervously on the other side of the road, their weapons in a pile in the middle of the road and under guard of the highwayman's other large companion. In the growing twilight it was be­coming difficult to distinguish details, everything turning palely indistinct in the fading light.