Page 125 of The Captive
“Lady Greendale, your duke would not want you interfering.” He passed her a finger of brandy, it being a canon of unwritten law that counsel keep the medicinal tot on hand for the occasional distraught client.
“My duke has no idea what he’s up against. Girard won’t offer a fair fight, and no one can warn him but me.”
“I can go.”
She shook her head. “I would not burden you with the details of Marcus’s perfidy. This is a family matter, truly.”
His curiosity was piqued, though he allowed her a moment to sip the brandy. “Another drop?”
“No, thank you.” Lady Greendale was distressed—sorely distressed—but composed. Greendale had no doubt taught her that trick, may the old blighter be cavorting in hell. “Please tell me what you know, Mr. Stoneleigh. I suspect a duel has been planned?”
He told her what he knew: that a contest of honor had been scheduled for the very next morning, though its exact location was as yet uncertain.
***
Unique among his peers, Christian had never met another on the field of honor. Dueling struck him as a chancy way to settle a matter of pride—honor usually didn’t enter into it—particularly for a duke with an obligation to a titular succession.
So he knew not how he should feel when he contemplated single mortal combat with a personal enemy. The exchange with Stoneleigh had put doubts in his mind, and doubts were a liability.
Technically, Girard had played by the rules of war, such as war had rules, but only technically.
Did that matter? To Gilly, it would matter a great deal.
Girard had tormented, but he had also protected. He’d seen to Christian’s welfare, and ultimately, spared Christian’s life—after holding him captive for months.
And he would delight in knowing Christian was afflicted with last-minute doubts.
St. Just sauntered into the breakfast parlor, impeccably turned out for five in the morning.
“You’ve been up all night?” Christian asked, for he’d turned in early and left a morose St. Just to the company of some excellent brandy.
“Nearly. Ran into my father, by the way, who’ll happily have Girard arrested and deported if you’ll let him know the location of this morning’s meeting. Said it has to do with courtesy among dukes.”
“Please give Moreland my thanks if I’m unable, but deportation won’t be necessary.” Nor would it be easily accomplished, if Girard indeed had an English patrimony.
“I doubt Girard would survive deportation. Word of this duel alone will mean his death, do you not see to the matter for him.”
“Girard might welcome death.” Could life itself be a form of captivity? Gilly had nearly reached such an impasse. “His emperor is taken prisoner, he has no cause to fight for, and all his machinations were in vain. Now he finds an English barony hung around his neck, if rumor is to be believed, while any number of British officers will relish his death. This is a failed life by any standard.”
And the notion of accommodating Girard with a tidy, quiet death did not appeal.
“A challenging life. My coach awaits.”
“Thoughtful of you.”
St. Just’s unmarked coach assured privacy—and convenience in the event a body needed transport back to Town. Christian put that thought aside and followed his second out into the predawn gloom.
The journey to the Sheffield Arms passed in silence, and like most mornings as autumn approached, saw a layer of ground fog in the low-lying areas of the terrain.
“The air is still,” St. Just said. “A mercy.”
“With swords, the wind hardly matters as it would have with pistols.”
St. Just scrubbed a hand over his face. “Bloody damned farce, swords.”
“My friend, we are soldiers. We did not sit at the ancestral pile like spiders in our webs and dally with our prey. We fought. As officers, we led the charge. We set the example. We gained the victory.”
St. Just stared at the shadowy hills and fields. “But this charge is not for King and Country. This is a bloody damned duel, and I do not trust that Frenchman to acquit himself honorably.”
