Page 88 of Miss Desirable
“Fournier, we had a plan, and Marie coming to London doesn’t change the rest of that plan.”
He sighed, though in that sigh, Catherine heard a touch of humor. “Stubborn woman. Yes, we have a plan. I shall wield my rapier with my usual skill, and Armbruster will lose, though I shall not so much as pink him. I might allow him a few passing touches, the better to inflate his confidence.”
“You will enjoy the whole business. Armbruster is to be pitied.”
Fournier rose and drew Catherine into his arms. “He should be relegated to the heap of memories best allowed to fade. While I am teaching our daughter the wonders of winemaking, and you maintain your voluminous correspondence with the Dorning aunties, Armbruster will be alone, on foreign shores, with nobody to love him. Nobody to care when he suffers the penalty for cheating at cards, living beyond his means, or trespassing on another lady’s trust. One makes choices, and he has made his.”
“So you won’t wound him? He is the father of my child, Fournier.”
“He is not Marie’s father in any sense that matters.”
Catherine pondered that as a childish voice drifted down from the open nursery windows. Marie sang a jaunty tune about dancing beneath the moonlight on a summer evening.
“Do as you see fit, Fournier.Tu as raison. Armbruster is not Marie’s father in any sense that matters. I trust you, and I have missed you unbearably. Perhaps you would like a tour of the Dornings’ potting shed?”
“I have just now developed a towering fascination with potting sheds. Lead on,mon ange, and we shall invent new pleasures amid Sycamore’s seedlings and grafts.”
Fournier offered his arm, and Catherine allowed him to escort her across the garden at a decorous pace. When they reached the potting shed, she locked the door behind them and threw all pretensions to decorum straight onto the compost heap.
* * *
“I don’t understand,” Sycamore Dorning said. For once, Mr. Dorning had the sense to keep his voice down.
“I am not to draw Armbruster’s blood,” Fournier replied, slowly bending from the waist to touch his nose to his knees. Thank God he’d been bored enough at sea to maintain his stretches, and thank God the male half of polite society could not resist a good spectacle.
“How do you prevail in armed combat without wounding your opponent?” Sycamore asked, kicking an acorn across the grass. “Or will you lose in some convoluted plot to see Armbruster revealed as the opportunistic bully he is?”
Fournier rose on a slow inhale. “He is an opportunistic bully, also a cheat and a cad. I suspect those fellows,”—he nodded in the direction of the growing crowd ringing the clearing—“know him for what he is and have lacked the standing or wits to call him to account.”
“Then he’s cheated a bloody lot of younger sons and shopkeepers,” Sycamore said.
Fournier began a series of stretches that started from the lunging posture, one foot forward, the other back at a right angle.
“Kettering, Oak, Willow, Casriel, and the others are among the crowd,” Ash Dorning said. “They will follow orders to the letter. Fournier, are you concerned about the legalities?”
“Non.” His left hamstring was being its usual contrary self, so Fournier spent extra time coaxing the muscle to relax. “I will be off in France, where English authorities cannot reach me. That the first man to draw blood is technically the aggressor and the other fellow thus acting in self-defense is a silly affectation of English law.”
Sycamore grinned. “You promised Catherine you wouldn’t kill him, but if you pink him, you might get a little carried away.”
The hamstring eased, and Fournier remained in his stretch for an extra three breaths, because that particular muscle sometimes seized up at the worst times.
“I do not getcarried awaywhen trouncing a bully,” Fournier said, allowing himself a small smile. “Catherine has made her wishes known. I am not to wound Armbruster with my blade. The wounds will come from all the talk even now circulating among the spectators. I am not to scar him, nor even to draw blood.”
Ash refolded Fournier’s coat over his arm. “Then what are wedoinghere?”
“We are enjoying the fresh morning air.” Fournier unbuttoned his waistcoat and passed it to Ash. “I brought that back from France on this last trip. I would hate to see it ruined.”
“The workmanship is exquisite.”
“The work-woman-ship is French. If you would indicate to Armbruster’s seconds that I am ready to begin, we can see this matter concluded.”
Sycamore strode across the clearing, to where Armbruster was alternately nipping from a flask and bouncing into shallow pliés.
“He’s going to pull a muscle,” Ash Dorning muttered.
“Let us hope he pulls a muscle in his groin,” Fournier said, untying his cravat. “Though pulling a hamstring will leave a man lamed for ages. He accepted my terms?”
“Duel to the death or until a combatant concedes. Fournier…”
