Page 89 of Miss Desirable
“My affairs are in order. Catherine is my heir. Goddard will manage the wineries for her in exchange for reasonable remuneration, which he does not need and will spend on his urchins. A sum has been set aside for the widows and orphans of other émigrés and another sum put in trust for my daughter. Kettering, Casriel, and Catherine are her trustees. Custody and guardianship of my daughter goes to Catherine. A duplicate original of my will has been sent to my lawyers in France.”
“You have been amazingly thorough for a man who intends to prevail.”
“I am always amazingly thorough.” From the sound of the murmurings at the edge of the clearing, the Dorning brothers were being amazingly thorough as well.
“I’ve held Lord Fart’s vowels since Yuletide,” one fellow muttered. “He owes my brother even more.”
“He borrowed my phaeton,” the man next to him replied. “Lamed my cattle and sent the vehicle back to me with a dented wheel. No sort of gentleman does that.”
“My mother won’t invite him to our house parties,” a third man volunteered. “The maids would quit en masse, and the footmen would defend them for doing so.”
“If his father weren’t a marquess…” the first man said.
“That ought not to matter where debts of honor are concerned,” a fourth spectator observed. “Why have we left it to a Frenchie to see Armbruster put in his place?”
“A Frenchie who makes good wine, by the by.”
A series of bets followed, and Sycamore returned from his errand. “Armbruster is ready, or thinks he is. You aren’t wearing even a shirt?”
Fournier pulled his shirt over his head and passed it to Ash. “Clothing can become entangled in the blade, and accidents result. Besides, that is a French shirt.”
“I have a fiver on you. Fence in the altogether if that’s what it takes to win.”
“Don’t encourage him,” Ash muttered, folding the shirt neatly over his arm. “Let’s be about it, shall we?”
Armbruster, wearing both shirt and waistcoat, took his place opposite Fournier. At the signal, the fencers saluted, and then the circling and feinting began.
“Armbruster knows how to wield a blade,” Ash muttered as a slashing riposte nicked Fournier’s forearm.
“That was on purpose,” Sycamore said. “I used to let you older brothers get the first hit in, because then you got all cocky and dropped—”
Fournier’s return opened a long cut in the sleeve of Armbruster’s shirt.
“—your guard,” Sycamore said. “This promises to be interesting.”
The crowd grew silent as Armbruster did appear to become confident. He attempted a slashing attack, but somehow in the middle of his advance, his other sleeve was torn. Within minutes, his shirt was hanging about him in ribbons, and he was in a heaving sweat.
Fournier, by contrast, half naked with blood trickling along his arm, looked utterly composed.
“What the hell are you about, Fournier?” Armbruster called. “My shirt is not your opponent.”
“Your shirt isn’t fit for the rag-and-bone man,” somebody retorted. “Just like your promises to pay your debts.”
That started up a murmur, and Armbruster reengaged Fournier, who allowed himself to be backed around the clearing in a wide, slow circle.
“Tiring Armbruster out?” Sycamore whispered.
“Up to something,” Ash replied. “Mark me on this, Fournier has simply been playing with him.”
Armbruster pinked Fournier again on the same arm, but that somehow resulted in a rip down the front of Armbruster’s breeches. A length of pale thigh showed, though Armbruster wasn’t bleeding.
“What the hell, Fournier? These are new breeches.”
“I beg your pardon. Most clumsy of me.”
“Damnedest bit of clumsiness I ever saw,” the fellow with the dented phaeton said. “Do it again, Fournier, and you can have my matched bays. I want Lord Fart’s gray though. Poor beast deserves a decent home.”
Fournier again sliced Armbruster’s breeches without drawing blood, saluted to the crowd, and reengaged, until offers of vehicles, riding horses, boots, and saddles were flying in all directions. The mood shifted to include calls for vengeance.
