The man snuffled. “He didn’t give a name.”
“What did he look like?”
“Didn’t see his face.”
Jamie knicked the man’s skin. “Do ye want to die?”
The man started to shake his head, but must have thought better of it, given where the knife was. “N-no,” he stammered. “I swear it’s the truth. He had his collar pulled up, his hat down, spectacles and a beard, gov’r.”
“How much did he pay you?”
“Two guineas each. One now, one after, gov’r”
“Where were ye to meet him to collect?”
“By London Bridge, gov’r.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow afternoon, gov’r.”
Jamie gave the man a shove and he lurched away, clutching his disjointed shoulder. “You ain’t gonna kill me?”
Jamie shook his head and the man turned, running away before Jamie could change his mind. Jamie knelt by the second man and felt for a pulse. There was none. Slowly, he stood. He doubted the cutthroat would try to collect the second half of his payment. It would be too risky, knowing he’d failed. One gold guinea would sustain the man for a while, anyway.
But someone had tried to get Jamie killed. He had a sneaking suspicion that Nicholas Algeron was somehow involved, although the description did not match. If Nicholas were involved, then Mari might be in danger.
Jamie had not intended to go to Lady Jersey’s soiree, but this incident changed his mind. He wanted to see Nicholas’s face when Nicholas found out Jamie was very much alive.
But first, he would be at London Bridge tomorrow afternoon.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“Have I told you how lovely you look?” Nicholas asked Mari after Aunt Agnes left them to chat with her friends at Lady Jersey’s soiree. “That shade of pale peach silk accents your complexion beautifully.” He gave her a wink. “It is the same shade I used in your portrait, which I plan to unveil later.”
The wink really was improper, but it was the least of Mari’s concerns at the moment. Violetta and Amelia had given her scathing looks when she’d entered with Nicholas. Most of the other debutantes had merely stared in envy. All of the chaperoning matrons had smiled at her. Evidently, the word had gotten beyond the patronesses that Nicholas had offered for her.
“Have you shown the portrait to Lady Jersey?”
“Non. She was quite persistent, but I convinced her I wanted it to be a surprise to everyone. I especially wanted you to be the first to see it.”
“That is sweet of you.”
“You are the one who is sweet, my dear. I cannot wait to taste your lips again.”
A short month ago, Mari would have been thrilled at the thought, but that was before she’d spent the night in Jamie’s arms. Just the memory of Jamie’s kisses made muscles in her stomach clench in anticipation. The one kiss Nicholas had given her had not had that effect. Mari couldn’t really remember if she’d felt anything at all.
She should be ecstatic, both with the attention and with the prospect of serious courtship. Why was she not? Nicholas was what she had always wanted in a husband—he was cultured, refined, elegant and a talented artiste much in demand by the entire ton. Invitations to all important events would be assured. There would be future trips to the Continent—shopping in Paris, the chic cafés there, theatre and opera… So why was her mind conjuring up pictures of rugged mountains with snowy passes and deep blue lochs that did not freeze? And why, instead of appreciating Nicholas in his coat of superfine with its satin lapels, silver-threaded waistcoat and perfectly tied cravat, was she picturing Jamie in his kilt and sash over a simple linen shirt with the huge claymore slung over his back?
And where was Jamie anyway? She’d had a niggling concern that something was not right ever since yesterday.
“You look a bit disconcerted,” Nicholas said. “Is something wrong?”
“No, not really. I had rather expected Mr. MacLeod to be in attendance. I…I had wanted to ask him a question.”
A steely glint flitted in Nicholas eyes that did not match his smile. “Actually, I heard a rumor at White’s that the Highlander left town yesterday. Perhaps he finally realized he doesn’t fit in.”
Mari felt as though someone had poked a hard elbow into her stomach as the air left her lungs. Jamie was gone? He’d left without even saying good-bye? How could he? Her stomach felt like it had taken another blow. Jamie had not come around to the townhouse the three days they had been back, so maybe all her fond memories were nothing more than a silly girl’s foolish dreaming. She really should be grateful for the opportunity she had. Nicholas had offered for her. He wanted to marry her. Jamie had made it quite clear he did not. Mari affected a bright smile and placed her hand lightly on Nicholas’s arm.
“I think I would like some punch,” she said.
The afternoon had been a waste of time. Jamie cursed—something he’d been doing a lot of the past three days—as he jerked the hated cravat into some semblance of what it was supposed to look like, buttoned an equally oppressive waistcoat and slipped on the topcoat. He’d thought of wearing his sash with a plain shirt like he usually did, but all this English attire gave him the opportunity to hide weapons. Swords, even the shorter sabers the English favored, were not allowed at evening social events, but no one would know about the half-dozen knives he wore on various parts of his person. After the attempt on his life yesterday, Jamie was taking no chances.
He thought about that as he rode the short distance to the Jersey townhouse. He had gone to London Bridge quite early and waited in the shadow of the churchyard that afforded him a view of anyone crossing the bridge. No one matching the description the cutthroat had given him had appeared. Not that Jamie was really surprised. There was a slight possibility the cur had sought out the man to warn him, but it would have meant giving back the gold guinea. More likely, whoever had hired him had donned a disguise and never intended to pay the rest of the money.
Nicholas? The cutthroat hadn’t mentioned a French accent. Who else would want Jamie out of the way? Or was it someone who resented Ian for receiving an English title and, by relation, wanted no MacLeod in town? Nothing had been heard about Wesley Alton since his escape from Bedlam, and they’d assumed the man had gone back to France. Perhaps the next time Shane crossed the channel, he could put out inquiries.
The party was crowded by the time Jamie arrived. He tended to his horse himself, which gave him the opportunity to slip in through the kitchen. He wanted no announcement of his arrival. His presence created quite a stir with the serving girls, one of whom slipped her blouse off her shoulder in invitation, but Jamie just gave her a smile and kept going. Given different circumstances—and not having spent a night with Mari that he could not put out of his mind—he might have taken the maid up on her offer. She was a comely lass, but his cock had not stirred. Jamie caught himself before he cursed again. Besides the grey hair Mari was undoubtedly putting on his head, he was also developing a foul mouth and, even worse, a lack of desire for any other woman.
Jamie spotted Mari immediately as he tried to make himself inconspicuous by a set of potted palms. Standing near the punch bowl, an overhead chandelier bathing her in shimmering light, Mari looked like an angel with ivory arms and pinkish gown, golden curls piled high on her head. He grinned. Angelic was never a word he’d associated with the little vixen. Then he sobered. Nicholas Algernon was carrying a cloth-covered easel that he placed beside her.
The crowd grew silent as Nicholas babbled something about having the opportunity to paint the most beautiful woman in the world, and then there was a collective gasp as he drew off the cover. From where Jamie stood, he couldn’t see the portrait or what had caused such a reaction.
Jamie moved forward, one hand on the hilt of dirk inside his topcoat. If Nicholas were foolish enough to make a move, he’d be ready.
The stunned look on Nicholas’s face as Jamie emerged from the crowd gave Jamie his answer. The Frenchman ha
d not expected to see him alive. A scant second later, shock rolled over Jamie like a tidal wave as he saw the portrait.
Nicholas had painted Mari in a scandalous pose, wearing a flesh-colored gown that made her appear nude, but what caught Jamie’s eye was the unusual birthmark near where her right nipple partially showed.
It was just where Jamie had seen it himself.
Nicholas was watching him like a hawk intent on its prey. Aware the now-silent crowd was closing in, eager to see what would take place, Jamie resisted the urge to plant his fist in the Frenchman’s face. There was not enough room to fight without someone else getting hurt. Jamie glanced at Mari. She kept her eyes downcast, her face ashen except for two spots of color burning brightly on her cheeks.
Nicholas looked at her and then at Jamie, a slight sneer on his face. “Is there something you wish to say, Highlander?”
“Aye. How much do ye want for the portrait?” Mari gave him a startled glance and then she looked down again, clenching her hands together. Fury swept through Jamie knowing that Mari felt publicly humiliated. He forced himself to sound calm. “I wish to buy it.”
The sneer widened into a smirk. “I would not consider selling it.”
“It shames the lass.”
“Does it? She did not mind showing me the birthmark.”
Mari glanced up again, her face draining of all color while her eyes went huge and dark with shock. The crowd issued another collective gasp. “I did not—”
“Hush, my love. There is no reason to deny it since we will be officially betrothed once the banns are read,” Nicholas said smoothly.
“She is nae betrothed yet. Ye have nae right to embarrass the lass.”
“I have no wish to embarrass Marissa. Full nudes are quite the rage in France, part of the Romantic movement,” Nicholas replied in a condescending tone, “but I would not expect a northern barbarian to understand that.”
“Ye are trying my patience, Frenchman.”
Nicholas looked around the room at the now-twittering ladies and then back at Jamie. “Will you be throwing an uncivilized punch in front of these fine people?”
“Dinnae tempt me.”
Nicholas lifted an eyebrow. “Fisticuffs are hardly civilized. However, if you find my painting so offensive, perhaps you would be willing to meet me on the field of honor to decide which of us will own it.”
The room went silent.
“Are ye challenging me to a duel?”
An amused expression swept over Nicholas’s face. “I believe I am.”
“No!” Mari said. “I will not have someone killed.”
Both men ignored her while they glared at each other. The Earl of Sherrington broke through the crowd. “I believe this can be handled without killing,” he said.
Mari wrung her hands. “Please—”
Jamie instinctively reached for Mari, but the earl put an arm around her shoulders and drew her to him protectively. “Let me offer an opinion,” he said to Jamie, “since I was involved in a duel with your brother.” He faced Nicholas. “This is not a situation which needs to be fought to the death. The matter can be solved with sabers, not pistols. Whoever draws first blood has the right to keep the painting.” He looked from one man to the other. “Agreed?”
Nicholas’s face turned dark, but he muttered an assent.
Jamie folded his arms across his chest, his eyes on a tearful Mari. “Agreed.”
“Good,” Sherrington said, releasing Mari to the custody of her aunt who bustled her away. “Westminster Field. Tomorrow. One hour past dawn.”
For once, it seemed most of the ton managed to be out of bed and dressed before noon. An array of carriages was lined up near Westminster Field the next morning, the men standing about in corded breeches and Hessians, the ladies wrapped in furs and muffs. Jamie flexed the saber, checking the pommel’s counterweight to the blade, and found the balance acceptable. His eyes searched the ever-growing crowd for Mari. He had told her to stay home so she would not be held to more ridicule regarding the accursed portrait, but he doubted she had listened to him any more than she usually did.
Moments later, he proved himself right. Mari arrived in Sherrington’s carriage along with his daughter, Abigail, Maddie and her father, Baron Dunster, and Effie. From where he stood, Jamie could see Mari was pale, but Effie had a grip on her arm. The maid shot dagger looks at Nicholas, standing a short distance away by the uncovered painting of Mari. Jamie almost grinned. If someone gave Effie a weapon, she probably would not stop at drawing first blood.
Thankfully, Sherrington led them to a spot where they would have an obscured view. Mari looked as though she were about to argue with the earl, but Effie nodded, not releasing her hold, and Abigail took Mari’s other hand. Good. Jamie did not want his concentration broken once the fight began.
Another man joined Sherrington and the baron as they made their way toward him. “This is Thomas Price, a surgeon,” the earl explained. “A physician is required to be present at all duels, even though I hope this one will not be that bloody.”
“Aye. A wee nick is all I intend to do,” Jamie replied, although he would have preferred to settle the matter with a much greater show of force.
Sherrington motioned for Nicholas to approach. In a voice that clearly told the crowd to stay outside the perimeters, the earl asked each man again if they agreed to the terms of engagement. Jamie watched Nicholas’s eyes shift even as he said yes. The man would be a dirty fighter.
“En garde, then,” the earl said and backed away.
Jamie and Nicholas circled, each looking for the other’s weak spot. The Frenchman weighed a good two stone less than Jamie and he used his nimbleness to his advantage, appearing to thrust and retreating before he engaged, staying in perpetual motion. Jamie turned more slowly, allowing the Frenchman to think him somewhat of a laggard, but his weight was balanced and he was ready to strike.
Nicholas attacked finally and Jamie parried, their sabers pressed against each other as they turned in a macabre semblance of a dance. Jamie disengaged, passing his blade beneath Nicholas’ sword, throwing him off balance and then thrusting. To Jamie’s surprise, Nicholas recovered in time to parry and riposte. Jamie countered and then feinted left before cutting right. Again, Nicholas managed to avoid the hit by a quick cross step.
The man had obviously spent time learning how to fence. Jamie honed his concentration. Time to stop playing cat and mouse.
They circled again, intent now on the outcome. Had Jamie had his claymore, he could have made short work of this in one fell swing, but the much smaller and lighter saber made him measure his thrusts—the narrow blade was likely to break if he put his full strength behind it. Their swords continued to clash, the sound of steel ringing out in the clear morning air as the crowd grew restless, wanting some real action.
Jamie would have loved nothing more than to give it to them. Had this been real combat, it would have been over. Men on the battlefield did not use fancy footwork or engage in small jabs and thrusts. But this was not a battlefield, and Mari would not appreciate him doing actual harm. Still, it was time to end this.
Jamie took a step backward, pretending to stumble. If he were right, Nicholas would not be sportsman enough to allow him to recover.
With a feral grin, Nicholas lunged, the tip of his blade pointed right at Jamie’s heart.
So much for fighting fairly. Jamie rolled to the side, regaining his feet as Nicholas missed his mark. The man attempted a remise, but Jamie spun, bringing his blade down in a cut that pierced Nicholas sword arm, causing him to drop the blade.
Cheering ensued from the crowd. Jamie didn’t take his eyes off Nicholas until Sherrington and the physician came over. “I am all right,” Nicholas said through clenched teeth, his eyes cold as steel. “The bastard tried to trick me.”
“And you gave him no time to recover from his stumble,” Sherrington said. “This duel is over. The painting goes to Mr. MacLeod.”
Jamie walked ov
er to where the portrait stood on its easel. “Do ye wish to keep it?” he asked Mari when she and her friends joined him.
She shook her head. “I do not want to see it ever again.”
Jamie nodded and pulled his sgian dubh from his boot. In several swift strokes, he slashed the painting to pieces. “I will have it burned.”
Nicholas came up to them, clutching his now-bandaged arm. “You might have destroyed the painting, Highlander, but you cannot destroy what happened between Marissa and me.”
Jamie resisted the urge to put the man on his arse. “What do you mean by that?”
“How do you think I knew about that birthmark?” Nicholas sneered at him when he didn’t answer. “You might ask her,” he said, “and while you are at it, have her admit she already agreed to marry me before she left for Scotland.”
“Ye lie.”
“Non. I have witnesses.” Nicholas turned to Mari. “When I spoke of our marriage in front of Yancy Newell, Nevin Faulkner and your friend, Madeline, here, you agreed to the courtship. Am I wrong?”
Jamie looked at the women. Mari’s hands flew to her mouth as her face drained of color once more. Maddie’s eyes went huge and round. He had his answer.
Jamie dropped the strips of canvas at Mari’s feet. “Ye will have to decide whom ye want, lass,” he said and turned and walked away.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Tonight’s recital was the last Society event before Almack’s special ball Saturday night. Mari had lost much of her enthusiasm for attending anything since the fencing duel two days ago when Jamie had turned and walked away. If Maddie were not playing the first movement of Beethoven’s Third Symphony this evening, Mari would have pleaded a headache and stayed home. She was still tempted to do so anyway.
She would not be lying about the headache. Mari stared at herself in the mirror in her chamber and wondered what was wrong with her. Nicholas had called on her yesterday afternoon, bringing roses and talking enthusiastically about posting banns at the church on Sunday.
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