by Liana Lefey
“There is no need to do so! I will go to Uncle George tomorrow morning and petition against Herrington. He has no real proof!” She looked to David for support. “Tell him it isn’t necessary!”
David looked at her with sympathy. “It is absolutely necessary. He cannot be allowed to go unpunished.”
Darkness fell over the three as the carriage made the turn. Beneath its cover, Mélisande allowed herself the luxury of tears. Alessandro was going to leave England eventually anyway, but she would much rather it be later rather than sooner. If he killed Herrington—and she was sure he would—he would have to do so immediately.
There was also a risk that Herrington might kill him.
Either way, this duel meant that Alessandro would be taken from her far sooner than she was ready to accept.
When they arrived at her residence, the butler’s shocked exclamation made her run for the entryway mirror. For a long moment, she stared in frank dismay at the image in the glass before turning to face her companions.
Both men swore vehemently.
Her swollen cheek bore a small cut and a darkening bruise where Herrington’s ring had struck it high on the bone. It was plain to see where the beast had gripped her arms, as well, for his cruel fingers had left plum-colored, crescent-shaped marks in her flesh, and one of her wrists was ringed in deepest violet.
Alessandro held her in his arms as she wept. “Tomorrow morning, I will have satisfaction and make certain the bastard never strikes another woman again.”
A message arrived. Reggie had taken Charlotte to the house and requested that David delay his return until he could either make her see reason or arrange for other lodgings. The girl was hysterical and refused to calm herself.
“She was right,” David muttered. “How could I speak to her of love? Look at the way I’ve lived my life.”
Mélisande took pity on him. “Stay,” she offered, blotting her eyes and gathering her composure. “And you as well,” she told Alessandro firmly. “Please. I do not feel safe here alone with that animal on the loose,” she said for the benefit of the servants.
Wordlessly, David nodded.
Later that night, she tried to persuade Alessandro to retract his challenge, with the reasoning that revenge against Herrington wasn’t worth the risk of death. There had to be another solution.
Alessandro refused. “The man dared to lay violent hands upon you. How can I not demand satisfaction? I could never show my face in public otherwise.” He paused, caressing her hair. “Come, let us make the most of what is left of this night.”
She pushed his hands away for the first time since they had become intimate. “I will not be distracted!”
“Amora, do not deny me now,” he whispered, kissing away her objections.
He made love to her with tender skill, slowly building the fire between them. With adoring hands and lips, he erased one by one each of the hurts Herrington had inflicted upon her, replacing the memory of pain with fresh delight. The inexorable pull of desire dragged her toward release, and when the conflagration at last engulfed Mélisande, she welcomed its healing ecstasy.
“My heart!” he whispered, kissing her tears away. With a shudder, he buried himself within her and gave way before the storm.
With desperation born of both love and fear of loss, Mélisande clung to him. This man was part of her very soul. He could not, must not die!
As they lay drifting back to earth, utter peace filled Alessandro. His breathing grew deep and even, his mind clearing of everything but this moment. He remained so for hours, hovering just at the edge of slumber, savoring the quiet of the predawn hours.
Just as he was beginning to contemplate getting up and leaving for his own bed before the servants awakened, he heard a whisper.
“I love you,” Mélisande breathed.
Knowing she thought him asleep, he remained unmoving, a tender smile spreading across his face. At last. Elation mingled with dread. He’d faced death a dozen times, each with a fatalistic attitude. This time, however, he fervently prayed he survived.
DOUBLE DECEPTION
ANNOYANCE FILLED GEORGE. This was supposed to be a night of revelry, damn it all! Matters of state could wait until tomorrow. Late tomorrow. He waved the messenger away, returning his attention to his mistress.
Upon receiving a second urgent message, one stating that it was a vital matter affecting England’s security, however, he agreed to receive Lord Herrington. After all, he was a trusted counselor to the throne. If he said it was of vital importance, then it must be serious.
Herrington entered the private chamber, bowing and scraping. All in a rush, he proceeded to explain how he’d stumbled upon a Jacobite plot involving the Countess of Wilmington during his last diplomatic visit to France. Evidence of the lady’s true ancestry had been discovered: a portrait of the king’s mother that had looked exactly like Lady Wilmington, right down to the mark on her breast—the same mark borne by the Bourbon king. She was his get, brought up by a Frenchwoman who’d surely instilled French Catholic loyalties in her child. She could only be a Jacobite spy.
George kept his expression placid. He’d known Melly her entire life. She’d been born in Kensington House, and he’d seen firsthand Wilmington’s excitement at her arrival. His had certainly not been the reaction of a man greeting a cuckoo.
His thoughts ranged back to that day. It had been a little over seven months after Isabelle had first arrived. At the time, he’d thought nothing of it. But if Melly was the French king’s bastard...
Did she know it? Had Wilmington known? He gestured at Herrington’s face. “How did you come by your wound?”
Herrington looked him directly in the eye. “I inquired of the lady regarding the matter, seeking only to ascertain whether or not she was aware of her lineage, and I’m afraid she took it rather badly. She became violent,” he said, touching his lip with a look of chagrin. “She knew, Your Majesty. It is the only possible explanation for such a reaction.”
George chuckled drily. “In the midst of a public celebration, you informed a woman that you believe her to be illegitimate. Her less than favorable response seems quite reasonable to me.”
Frustration flickered across Herrington’s face. “Your Majesty, even if she turns out not to be a Jacobite spy, the fact that an English title has passed into her hands by subterfuge cannot be overlooked by your beneficence, especially given her lineage.”
George could not help but snort at the preposterous idea. “What can she possibly do?”
Herrington drew himself up importantly. “I assure you her ladyship is quite aware of her origins, Your Majesty—and that puts her loyalty in question. One also cannot help but note how frequently she associates with foreigners like Philipp Stamma and Friedrich Kesselman—both Papists. And now she is in league with that Gravina fellow, of whom we know very little, save that he is an Emissary of Rome and welcome in Versailles. It all seems rather suspicious to me, Your Majesty. You must admit it is not inconceivable that she could be spying for the rebels, gathering and passing along sensitive information to her contacts.”
“I see. And where is your supposed spy now?” George inquired.
Herrington shrugged. “I know not. She fled the palace after striking me. She could be anywhere by morning, Your Majesty.”
George eyed him circumspectly. There were at least two layers to this conundrum. The man had withheld his suspicions for months following his return from France. If he’d been truly concerned about Melly supporting an uprising, he should have brought it to his attention immediately, allowing the Crown to take charge and place watchful eyes on her. That the fellow was only just now experiencing a patriotic impulse told him that he’d failed to gain her cooperation in some other matter and was now resorting to another means.
George did not like the idea of being used. Still, he had to at least consider the possibility that the man had stumbled upon something. With the French supporting the Stuarts’ claim and Rome watching England’s every move
, he would be a fool not to look into every potential threat.
“Treason is a serious charge.” He pinned Herrington with his gaze. “One which would require significant and irrefutable evidence to substantiate. Until such evidence is produced, I should be quite cautious in whom I spoke with regarding this matter. Much unnecessary damage can occur due to an unfounded rumor. We certainly hope no such gossip causes damage to the countess’s good name.”
“Of course not, Your Majesty,” Herrington replied with haste.
Things are not unfolding according to his plan, George thought, noting his nervous fidgeting. He decided to draw him out a bit further: “We shall investigate your claims—quietly. If she turns out to have aided the rebels, we will deal with her according to the law. If not, and it turns out that only her legitimacy is in question, we expect you to provide adequate evidence to support your claim. In the event you are able to produce it, we should like your recommendation as to how the matter might be resolved.”
Herrington’s eyes brightened. “It might be possible to solve the dilemma with a strategic union,” he ventured. “What she needs is an English husband to provide legitimacy for the next Wilmington heir.”
“Mmm, a sort of restoration of pedigree.” George nodded, humoring him. “And whom would you recommend for such a task?”
Herrington pursed his lips. “The man who weds her will be tied to her for life, bound to her tainted blood and required to watch her at all times lest she act treacherously. I’m loath to suggest that another man sacrifice himself. Thus, I can only offer myself.” He kept his eyes downcast.
“How altruistic of you,” George commented, not buying into the humble martyr act. “But why should you be willing to do such a thing? Was it not you who suggested she might be part of a long-range plan to subvert England’s throne by infiltrating the peerage?”
Herrington paled slightly. “I cannot hide the truth from you, Your Majesty. I must confess that I find her desirable. For all her tainted blood, she is a beautiful woman. I desired her before I discovered her true identity, and it is with great shame that I admit to still desiring her. If I were a man ruled purely by logic and reason, I should be glad to see her stripped of her ill-gotten gains and thrown into gaol. But as a man of flesh and blood, I find myself unable to make such a recommendation. Thus, I propose to become her guardian and sentinel, and to forever relinquish my line’s claim to England’s throne.”
“You would give up your peerage?” George asked, surprised. “Are you immune to corruption, then? Do you not fear she might seek to subvert you with her feminine wiles?”
Herrington squared his shoulders. “I shall never be ruled by a woman, Your Majesty. A wife submits to her husband, and I assure you that as my wife she will know her place and obey me in all things. My vigilance will know neither sleep nor rest.”
“And what of young Miss Stanton?” George countered. “Word has reached me that the two of you are very nearly engaged. And, speaking of engagement, the countess is already engaged to the Duke of Gravina.”
“A farce, Your Majesty!” Herrington scoffed, indignant. “The man has made several offhand comments insinuating that his time in England is drawing to an end. I myself heard him say this very night that he would soon cut his ties to this ‘dismal place’ and return home—likely to deliver information she has given him to aid the Pretender.”
He couldn’t resist. “And how do you explain their engagement if she turns out not to be a spy?”
“If such is the case, then one can only surmise that Gravina has duped the countess and is using her as a means of gathering information. Even if she is not a spy, he most certainly is.”
George searched the duke’s peculiar eyes for a long moment. There was something very disturbing about Herrington’s fascination with Melly. He resolved to get to the bottom of this mystery. “We will take your information and recommendations into consideration. In the meantime, you are not to discuss this matter with anyone.”
“Of course, Your Majesty,” replied Herrington.
George watched as he bowed and departed, noting the man’s thinly veiled excitement. As for Melly, he doubted she was a spy, but if the strange tale of her ancestry was actually verified, it presented a real problem.
The sound of giggling awakened Alessandro. He smiled at the warm weight on his shoulder, turning his head to nuzzle the mass of soft, inky hair. His bedmate stirred at the motion, groaning just as another titter floated on the air.
The laughter had not come from Mélisande.
Cracking open a bleary eye, he saw a maid standing beside the bed, a lamp in her hand. He flinched, causing Mélisande to let out a muffled sound of protest as her head rolled off his shoulder.
“M’lady,” called the servant softly.
“Mmm. What is it?” Mélisande flung an arm over her eyes to block the unwelcome light.
“You gave orders to awaken you at the fifth hour.”
Alessandro, now fully awake, gently shook his fiancée.
Shoving aside the thick, straggling locks of hair obscuring her vision, Mélisande stared at the maid in confusion.
“It’s the fifth hour, m’lady,” the girl repeated. Her gaze was now respectfully aimed at the floor.
“Thank you, Martha. I shall dress myself this morning. You may return in half an hour to arrange my hair. And Martha, understand that you’ll be dismissed at once, should you speak to anyone regarding what you have just seen.”
“Yes, ma’am,” the girl answered, again ducking her head.
Alessandro waited until the door closed before he began chuckling.
Mélisande shot him a black look. “I fail to see the humor in this situation, especially at such an ungodly hour,” she snapped sourly. Then her expression became contrite. “Oh, Alessandro, I can’t bear it! There must be another way!”
“I must, amora. I will come for you as soon as it is finished,” he promised, holding her tightly.
Pulling back, she regarded him with flinty eyes. “I’m coming with you,” she insisted. “This duel is being fought on my behalf and I will witness it, whatever the outcome.”
He shook his head, but she cut him off.
“No! I refuse to be left behind! If you won’t allow me to go with you, I’ll follow on my own. You cannot force me to remain.”
Arguing with her was pointless. Alessandro sighed, releasing her. “Very well,” he conceded. “But you will stay in the carriage,” he ordered firmly, staring at her until she nodded agreement.
The air outside was heavy as they departed. Every sound seemed magnified in the predawn hush: the horses’ hooves against the cobblestones, the occasional rumble of a cart as the morning deliverymen went about their rounds. A morning mist rose from the ground in hazy wisps as they neared Tothill Fields. The first rays of sunlight caught in it, making it appear flame-like amid the dew that shimmered on each blade of grass.
Herrington’s carriage had already arrived.
“I will return as soon as it is done,” Alessandro again promised her as the driver opened the door.
Pelham took up a leather satchel, two sheathed rapiers, and a flat wooden case. “Let us get this over with.”
Alessandro kissed her once more, and then followed his second out onto the wet grass.
Mélisande watched from the window as the two men crossed the silvered green, the golden mist swirling at their feet.
Herrington and his second, a slight, pale-haired gentleman named Sir Charles Bittle, waited.
With grim determination, Alessandro unfastened his cloak, handing it to his second. A familiar, detached calm washed over him as he observed his enemy. Emotions receded as his mind flowed into a state of hyperawareness. Every flicker of the eyelids, every facial twitch, every tiny tremor of his opponent’s fingers seemed etched in clear light. Breathing deeply, Alessandro relaxed, focusing solely on bringing down his adversary in order to survive.
Pelham brought forth the weapons and presented them. �
�Choose,” he commanded.
Herrington tapped the wooden case and Pelham opened it, revealing a pair of finely crafted Jover pistols.
Bittle, as the challenged party’s second, bent to examine them. Carefully, he lifted each by its grip and inspected it. Proclaiming the weapons satisfactory, he then took one, loaded it, and handed it to Herrington. Pelham removed the other and loaded it, then passed it to Alessandro.
“Six paces,” Alessandro said. Turning his back, he cocked the hammer, waiting.
On Bittle’s count they measured out their steps, the distance between them widening with each pace. Birds sang from the trees surrounding the peaceful meadow, unaware that violence was about to erupt.
When the two men stopped and turned to face one another, Pelham raised a silk kerchief high in the air and released it. With the speed of lightning, both combatants raised their firearms. Two shots rang out almost simultaneously, startling the birds into panicked flight.
A sharp pain lanced Alessandro’s left arm, but he kept his eyes trained on his opponent. Herrington crumpled to the ground, clutching his midsection. In his hubris, the Englishman had faced his enemy full on, not turning to the side as he ought. A foolish mistake.
The instant he saw the scarlet blossoming across the man’s belly, Alessandro knew the man did not have long. A gut wound almost always assured an opponent’s demise either through loss of blood or infection. It would be a miracle if he survived. Fast footsteps approached, and he turned to see Mélisande running toward him, her face ashen. He dropped the now useless pistol to embrace her.
Pelham ran over to where Herrington lay on his back, still gripping his spent weapon. Shouting for Bittle to come quickly, he took off his jacket and pressed it against the wound.
Releasing Mélisande, Alessandro ran over to help, though he knew it was no use. It would bleed out internally and nothing could be done to stop it. Still, he must make every effort, even if only for appearance’s sake.
Herrington coughed, spewing pink froth as he brought up a hand to clutch his enemy’s where it pressed down into his midsection.