Thunder & Roses

by Mary Jo Putney

  At first there was a stunned silence. Then a single voice raised a wild cheer. More and more people joined in to produce a roar that rattled the rafters of Candover House.

  Adding his own exhilarated shout to the din, Nicholas pushed his way toward Clare; kissing her was a perfect way to celebrate. To his intense disgust, Lucien, who was closer, beat him to it with a jubilant embrace that swept Clare from her feet.

  After Lucien returned her to the floor, Nicholas gathered her into his arms, saying to his friend, "I suppose it would be churlish to cut out your liver, but next time find a girl of your own."

  Grinning, Lucien pounded him on the back. "The war that has been going on since we were in short coats is over! By all things great and wonderful, we've done it!"

  Giddier than he'd ever seen her, Clare wrapped her arms around Nicholas and kissed him exuberantly. When she came up for air, she said with awe, "Even though Napoleon's forces have been on the defensive for the last year, it's hard to believe that the end has arrived. Finally, finally, we'll have peace."

  Nicholas thought of the war-ravaged areas of Europe he'd seen, and his arms tightened around Clare. "Thank God the fighting never reached British soil. Our losses were light compared to what most of the nations of Europe have suffered."

  Still beaming, Lucien said, "With luck, I'll never have to do a blessed useful thing in my life."

  Nicholas laughed. "After all you've done for your country the last few years, you're entitled to spend the rest of your life lying around like a turnip."

  Similar scenes of exultation surrounded them. Nearby stood an older man in a Guard's uniform with an empty sleeve. His remaining arm circled his wife while both of them wept unashamedly. Even the "statues" abandoned their roles and jumped to the floor to join in the celebration. A cheer went up for Wellington, then for his troops.

  Nicholas glanced up at the musicians' gallery again, then stiffened. "Isn't that Michael up there talking to Rafe?"

  Lucien peered upward. "So it is. Probably wanted to learn if Rafe has any details. God knows that from the look of him, Michael has paid a higher price for victory than most."

  "With luck, the announcement has put him in a good mood."

  Taking Clare's hand, Nicholas threaded his way through the rapturous crowd, Lucien right behind them. Clare almost had to run to keep up. They climbed the entry hall staircase, then turned left into a long, dimly lit corridor that must parallel the upper wall of the two-story ballroom.

  At the far end of the corridor, the duke and a tall, rangy man emerged from a door that led to the musicians' gallery. Behind them the orchestra struck up a triumphal march that was muted when the duke closed the door.

  As the duke and his companion came down the corridor, talking earnestly, Clare studied Major Lord Michael Kenyon. Lucien had described him as lean and wolf-like, and it was true that his recent illness had left him thin almost to gauntness. Yet the strong bones of his face were still ruggedly handsome, and he moved with an athlete's sureness. He seemed like a worthy addition to the Fallen Angels. Especially, she thought with amusement, since his glossy chestnut hair fitted nicely between the black or blond extremes of the other members.

  With his quarry in sight, Nicholas slowed his pace. "Congratulations, Michael. As one of the men who fought for this victory, you have more reason to celebrate than most."

  Lord Michael froze, the animation in his face dying as he swung about. His eyes were a dark, haunted green. "Trust you to ruin a happy moment, Aberdare," he said harshly. "Under the circumstances, I'll forgo what I swore I'd do if I ever saw you again, but get the hell out of my sight before I change my mind."

  Nicholas still held Clare's hand, and she felt his fingers chill. She realized, with painful empathy, that in spite of Lucien's warning, Nicholas had not truly believed that his old friend had become an enemy.

  Even now he must not believe it, for he said mildly, "That's an odd greeting after years of separation. Shall we try again?" He stepped forward and offered his hand. "It's been too long, Michael. I'm glad to see that you've survived the Peninsula."

  The other man jerked back as if he was faced by a viper. "Do you think I'm joking? You should know better."

  The duke said sharply, "If there are matters to be discussed, my study is a better place than this hall."

  By sheer force of will, he shepherded everyone into a room just down the corridor. As he lit several lamps, Rafe said, "Tonight is a time for beating swords into plowshares. If something has been festering over the years, Michael, now is a good time to settle it."

  As crosscurrents of emotion surged through the room, Clare realized that she had become almost invisible. These men had met in the harsh conditions of a public school and had grown up together. Like all groups of friends, they would be connected by a web of shared experiences that had developed over many years—memories of joy and sorrow, of conflict and support. Now one of them was threatening to tear the fabric asunder.

  The major had withdrawn behind the duke's desk, and his raging gaze made Clare think of a predator at bay. "This is not your affair, Rafe. Nor yours, Lucien." To Nicholas, he said with what sounded like genuine sorrow, "When I heard that you'd left the country, I thought you'd have the decency to stay away."

  Voice tight as a drum, Nicholas replied, "Would you mind telling me what you think I've done?"

  "Don't play the innocent, Aberdare. The others may believe you, but I don't."

  Rafe started to speak, but Nicholas held up his hand to stop him. "Forget my alleged wrongdoing for a moment, Michael. I need to talk to you about a matter that is strictly business. Your mine in Penreith is being run in a highly dangerous manner. Not only is your manager endangering the workers, but there have been suggestions that he's skimming the profits as well. If you haven't the time or inclination to deal with it yourself, sell the company back to me so I can do what is needed."

  After an incredulous moment, the major gave a laugh that sent chills down Clare's spine. "If Madoc is irritating you, I should raise his salary."

  Clare knew that her own anger was mirrored by Nicholas, but he kept his voice admirably even. "Don't turn the mine into a bone between us, Michael. The men whose lives are at risk are innocent of whatever you're holding against me."

  "You've turned into an old woman, Aberdare," the major said coldly. "Mining has always been dangerous, and it always will be. Miners know and accept that."

  "There is a difference between courage and foolhardiness," Nicholas retorted. "In the last couple of weeks, I've inquired about accidents and deaths at similar mines. The Penreith pit is four or five times more dangerous than the others, and there's a potential for major catastrophe. I've seen it with my own eyes."

  "You've been in my mine?" The green eyes narrowed. "Keep the hell out in the future. If I hear that you've trespassed, I'll have Madoc set the law on you."

  "I'm beginning to understand why you left him in charge—you talk exactly like him," Nicholas said dryly. "If you don't believe what I say, investigate yourself. I guarantee that unless you're the sort of officer who enjoyed seeing his men slaughtered, you'll admit that the mine is in dire need of improvement. You're the only one in a position to make changes quickly, so damn it, live up to your responsibilities."

  Michael's face twisted. "There is no way in hell I will do anything to oblige you."

  "Remember that I own that land—if you refuse to improve conditions, I'll find a way to break the lease. I'd rather not take it to the law, because lives might be lost while the courts decide, but if I have to, I will." Nicholas's voice hardened. "And by God, if men die needlessly while you're sulking, I'll hold you personally responsible."

  "Why waste time waiting for a crisis?" Michael pulled crumpled gloves from his pocket and stepped around the desk. Before anyone realized what he had in mind, he slapped the gloves viciously across Nicholas's face. "Is that clear enough? Name your seconds, Aberdare."

  In the shocked hush that followed, the distant
sounds of revelry were clearly audible. Clare felt the numbness of nightmare. This couldn't be happening—Lord Michael couldn't want a fight to the death with a man he hadn't seen in years; a man who had been a close friend.

  Nicholas's cheek reddened from the force of the blow, but he did not strike back. Instead he scrutinized his old friend as if seeing him for the first time. "War can drive men mad, and that's obviously what has happened to you." He turned to Clare, and she saw anguish in his eyes. "I won't fight a lunatic. Come, Clare. It's time to go."

  He took her arm and led her to the door. As he raised his hand to the knob, Lord Michael's bitter voice snarled, "Coward!"

  A hissing sound cut the silence, ending in a hard thunk! as the tip of a wicked-looking knife buried itself in the door between Clare and Nicholas. She stared at the quivering haft, horrified at how close that lethal blade had come.

  Quietly Nicholas said, "Don't worry, Clare. If he had wanted to hit me, he would have." He took hold of the knife and wrenched it from the wood, then turned to face the other man. "I won't fight you, Michael," he said again. "If you want to kill me, you'll have to make it cold-blooded murder, and I can't believe you've changed that much."

  Eyes burning, the major said, "Your faith is misguided, Aberdare, but I'd rather kill you fairly. Fight, goddamnit!"

  Nicholas shook his head. "No. If you want to think me a coward, go ahead. I am supremely indifferent to your delusions." He took Clare's arm again.

  Michael began drumming the fingers of his left hand on the mahogany desk. "Does your little whore know that you killed your grandfather and your wife?"

  In a blur of movement so swift that Clare couldn't follow it, Nicholas raised his arm and hurled the knife back across the room. It sliced into the desk a quarter inch away from Michael's fingers. "Clare is a lady, something you are obviously incapable of recognizing," he said in a voice that was no longer even. "Very well—if you want to fight, so be it. But since you're the challenger, the choice of weapons is mine."

  Lucien started to speak, but Michael cut him off. Voice gloating, he said, "Any time, any place, any weapon."

  "The time—now," Nicholas said flatly. "The place—here. And the weapons—horsewhips."

  The major's face turned a dull red. "Horsewhips? Don't mock me, Aberdare. The choice is between pistols and swords. Even hand-to-hand fighting with knives if you want, but not with something as trivial as a whip."

  "Those are my terms. Take it or leave it." Nicholas gave an ice-edged smile. "Think how satisfying it will be to horsewhip me—if you're good enough, which I don't think you are."

  "I'm good enough to flay your hide off as you deserve," Michael growled. "Very well, let us begin."

  Rafe exploded, "This has gone far enough! You've both lost your minds. I won't allow this on my property."

  Lucien said quietly, "If Michael is determined on violence, I'd rather it took place here with both of us present."

  Lucien and Rafe exchanged a long look. With deep reluctance, the duke said, "Perhaps you're right."

  Nicholas said, "Will you act for me, Luce?"

  "Of course."

  The major turned his ire on Lord Strathmore. "The Arabs have a saying: the friend of my enemy is my enemy. Let him find someone else."

  Face set, Lucien said, "I count you both my friends, and the most important duty of a second is to try to resolve the dispute without bloodshed. You can start by telling me what your complaint is so that Nicholas has a chance to answer it."

  Michael shook his head. "I will not speak of what happened. Nicholas knows, whether he admits it or not. If you insist on acting for him, we are no longer friends."

  "If so, it is by your wish, not mine," Lucien said gravely.

  Michael looked at the duke. "Will you act for me, or are you also going to side with that lying Gypsy?"

  Rafe glowered at him. "Damned irregular to have an affair of honor where a man doesn't know why he has been challenged."

  The major repeated, "Will you act for me?"

  Rafe sighed. "Very well. As your second, I will ask if there is anything Nicholas can do—an apology, some other way of addressing your grievance—that will resolve the dispute."

  Michael's lips stretched in a humorless smile. "No. What he did can never be rectified."

  Rafe and Lucien exchanged another glance. Then the duke said, "Very well. The garden behind the folly should be suitable, and it's cool enough that there shouldn't be any guests in the shrubbery. I'll get two matched whips from the stable tackroom and meet you there."

  They filed out of the study and followed Rafe down the hall toward the back of the house. When Clare came with them, Lucien frowned. "You shouldn't come. A duel is no place for a woman."

  She scowled back. "Every aspect of this ridiculous duel is abnormal, so I doubt that my presence can make anything worse."

  As Strathmore hesitated, Nicholas said, "Save your breath, Luce. Clare can keep a score of small children in order, so she can certainly outface any of us."

  Clare thought he looked less perturbed than any of them. Having seen his skill with a whip, she knew that he could more than hold his own, but Lord Michael's attitude chilled her. He was a man possessed, and if he couldn't kill Nicholas in a duel, heaven only knew what he would do instead.

  They went down a narrow back staircase, then outside. Clare shivered as she stepped into the cold April night. Nicholas took off his coat and dropped it around her shoulders. "Here. I won't be wearing this."

  She nodded and pulled the warm wool folds around her. It was hard to remember that half an hour ago she had been having a wonderful, thoroughly frivolous time.

  The garden was enormous for a London house, and at the far end the ball was almost inaudible. Behind the folly was a small courtyard intended for summer dancing. Torch holders stood around the area, and Rafe and Lucien proceeded to light and set an armful of torches brought from the stables. The wind whipped the flames, causing shadows to flare wildly across the garden.

  The major seemed calmer now that action was imminent. Like Nicholas, he stripped off his coat and cravat. Nicholas went one further by taking off his waistcoat, shoes, and stockings so that he was barefoot.

  With the field prepared, Rafe and Lucien solemnly examined the two carriage whips and agreed that they were substantially similar. When the whips were offered to the combatants, Nicholas took the one that was closest, gave it an experimental crack, then nodded acceptance. Michael did the same, his eyes blazing with anticipation.

  The duke said, "There are no codified rules for a whip duel, so we'll set them now. Stand back to back, walk eight paces each when I tell you to start, then turn. I'll drop my handkerchief. After it reaches the ground, strike at will." He turned a hard stare at both men, his gaze lingering on the major. "The duel is over when Lord Strathmore and I agree that it is. If either of you fails to stop when I call time, then by God, we'll stop you. Is that understood?"

  "Crystal clear," Nicholas said. His opponent didn't bother to reply.

  Lucien walked away from the other men and drew Clare back to the edge of the courtyard. "Stay back here," he said in a low voice. "A carriage whip has quite a range."

  She nodded silently, and tried not to think of what might happen. Though a whip might not be lethal, it could destroy an eye in an instant. She doubted that Nicholas would deliberately maim his opponent, but Michael might think that blinding his enemy would be a suitable vengeance for whatever grieved him.

  In eerie tableau, the duelists went through the required ritual, standing back to back, then pacing out the steps after the duke called "Now!"

  When the two men had turned to confront each other, Rafe raised his handkerchief, then threw it down. Clare stared at the light muslin square, mesmerized, as it floated earthward. Just before the handkerchief reached the ground, a puff of breeze caught the fabric and it skimmed sideways above the flagstones.

  Not noticing that the handkerchief hadn't yet touched, or perhaps unable to w
ait a moment longer, Lord Michael struck out. Caught off guard, Nicholas threw up his left arm to protect his face. The whip curled around his forearm with an ugly snapping sound, ripping through his shirt and scoring the flesh below.

  As crimson stained Nicholas's sleeve, the major's gloating voice announced, "First blood, Aberdare."

  "Next time I do this, I'll remember to start early, too." As he spoke, Nicholas slashed back. There was a faint, menacing whistle, then a thin red line blazed across his opponent's cheek and jaw. Michael couldn't suppress a gasp of pain, but it didn't stop him from striking again. This time he cut at the other man's feet. Nicholas leaped into the air like a dancer and the vicious leather thong passed below him. Even before he had landed, his whip snapped back. A ragged slit appeared across Michael's chest, and again blood flowed.

  Undeterred, the major struck again. As Nicholas twisted away, taking the lash on his shoulder, Clare pressed a fist to her mouth to stop herself from crying out. She had seen fights between schoolboys and once between drunken miners, but what she saw now had the primal savagery of war.

  With a snarl, Michael bounded forward so he could strike at closer range. "I've waited years for this, you bastard."

  Amazingly, Nicholas flicked his wrist and his thong intercepted the other man's. As the leather strips twisted around each other, he said, "Then you can wait a little longer."

  He jerked on his whip in an attempt to disarm Michael. The other man was dragged to his knees but managed to hang onto the handle of his weapon. For almost a minute, the men strained against each other, muscles knotted. Then the thongs abruptly separated, causing both men to lurch backward.

  Rather than strike back immediately, Nicholas crouched like a wrestler and moved sideways, his whip raised and ready. Michael fell into the same stance and they began circling each other, their smooth, gliding movements belied by the fierce concentration on their faces.

  Even in the uncertain light there was no confusing the two men. Nicholas the Gypsy was light-footed and swift, one step ahead of his opponent's probing lash, while Michael the warrior was aggressive and grimly determined to destroy his enemy. There was no sound except the faint scrape of the major's boots against the flagstone.