Page 100 of The Captive Duke
“I thought you’d want to know.”
“What I want…” Christian spoke again, less softly. “What Ineedis to kill him.”
Chessie moved forward without Christian asking it of him.
St. Just’s expression remained calm. He had, after all, led cavalry charges against the French. “Dueling isconsidered murder. Given your title and your history, not a magistrate in the realm would prosecute you.”
Which made no difference whatsoever. Girard was moving about freely in England, not three hours’ ride to the north. His proximity underscored his ability to bring harm to Gilly. “You’d serve as second?”
“And I’ve at least two brothers who’d do likewise on short notice, if need be, and their discretion is without fault.”
“Marcus might be offended if I didn’t ask him. He served with us.” And yet, Marcus was best situated to keep Gilly and Lucy safe, too.
“That is entirely your decision. You have adequate equipment?”
Christian didn’t see the stable yard; he saw the stone walls of the Château, usually damp, always malodorous. He saw a cat, lying in wait at the base of those walls.
“You don’t ask if I have adequate skill,” Christian said, satisfaction and anticipation twining through him in a peculiar combination of glee and dread, much like the sentiments of Wellington’s infantry when approaching the end of a siege.
“Girard was not reputed to have any skill with a sword,” St. Just said, “and the French pride themselves on such things. He’ll choose pistols, likely, and you have time to perfect your aim, though you were accounted an excellent shot.”
“I was good,” Christian said, drawing Chessie to ahalt. “I was quite good before Girard’s men mangled my better hand.”
“So practice. I will leave you my various directions as I travel about.”
Neither man moved to dismount, and the stableboys must have sensed something of the discussion, for they lingered nearby without intruding. “You’re not settled at the Moreland family seat?”
“I stay in the country, mostly, but make my obeisance before the family as needed. Moreland wreaks havoc in the lives of his legitimate offspring, and torments his heir incessantly regarding the succession. How Westhaven deals with it is beyond me.”
“You’re always welcome here.”
St. Just swung off his horse, ran up the left stirrup, and loosened the beast’s girth. “One anticipated such graciousness, hence the present imposition.”
Christian dismounted as well, prepared to get particulars from St. Just regarding the source of his rumor, when a thought intruded.
“You haven’t badgered me about my report.” And St. Just had barely mentioned it on his last visit, though Christian had every sense St. Just’s superiors wanted the document badly—nosy blighters.
“Nor shall I badger you.”
“I’ve written it. I haven’t parted with it.”
They fell silent until the stableboys led the horses away.
“You will,” St. Just said, “when you’re ready. If youdo go up to Town, you need to know you’ve acquired anom de guerreor two. They’re calling you
the Unbreakable Duke and the Silent Duke, also the Quiet Duke.”
“I appreciate the warnings.” All of the warnings. He turned toward the house, where his unbreakable, silent, and quiet Gilly waited. “And those appellations are rather an improvement over being the lost duke.”
Gilly was grateful to Devlin St. Just for keeping Christian occupied for the afternoon, grateful to him for providing most of the conversation at dinner, and yet still more grateful that the colonel offered to take his host off for a brandy in the library.
“Gilly, are you headed upstairs?” Christian addressed her as Gilly, not Countess, which should have been some reassurance, but she hadn’t been able to get her bearings with him all day.
“I thought to make an early night of it.”
His gaze moved over her, and she wished he didn’t have such intimate knowledge of her bodily cycles.
Or her past.
