Page 120 of The Captive Duke
“I was naked, Stoneleigh, bathing in the same river the soldiers on both sides used to water their horses and wash their clothes. My uniform was in sight, spread on nearby bushes to dry, had the French bothered to look, and the ducal signet ring graced my finger.”
“So you were out of uniform.”
“What is your point?”
“In the next day or two, you will get yourself killed or do premeditated murder,” Stoneleigh said, his air patient, as if he were instructing a dim junior clerk. “One seeks to understand how exactly your honor was slighted, that one might explain it to the countess when your death adds to the misery that has already befallen her. I assume that is what this letter is for?”
When Christian remained silent, Stoneleigh flicked a glance at the missive Christian had spent hours composing.
“A maudlin exercise in futility, to be visited on the woman in the event of your death?”
A barrister knight errant. Tedious, but at least Stoneleigh was Gilly’s barrister knight errant.
“That letter includes a substantial bank draft, made out to her, along with a few lines of apology and encouragement.”
I love you. I will always love you.
Stoneleigh steepled his fingers and said nothing. He didn’t have to speechify further, for Christian already understood that anybody who considered himself Gilly’s henchman could not approve of this duel.
“I will pass along the letter should I hear of your death,” Stoneleigh said, “and return it to you if you prevail. You’re confident of prevailing?”
“I’d be a fool to call myself confident against a man of Girard’s cunning. I’ll do well enough with pistols. If he chooses swords, a few prayers for my soul might be in order.”
“Your Frenchman isn’t stupid. A stupid man might have tried to hide.”
“He’s not stupid, but he’s arrogant and given to histrionic displays and—unless I miss my guess—weary to his soul.”
If a soul he indeed possessed.
Stoneleigh rose and busied himself moving pots of violets around so the most flowers benefited from the sunlight pouring in the window. “You’ve chosen your seconds?”
“We have.”
“Well, then, I have nothing more to say except bestof luck. Where is the match to take place?” He lifted one blue ceramic pot sporting a cluster of deep purple flowers and sniffed.
Gilly had been denied even the pleasure of the gardens. Would she tend Christian’s burial plot if Girard should prevail? She’d probably plant nettles over Christian’s grave and water them frequently.
“St. Just will offer three locations in reverse order of my preference.” He went on to describe them, two being in London’s environs, one in a secluded corner of Hyde Park, and all surrounded by dense woods to ensure privacy. When Christian left an hour later, he was confident that Stoneleigh would deliver the missive to Gilly if the need arose, and keep his mouth shut about the business generally.
When Christian returned to St. Just’s town house, St. Just’s mouth was busy swearing heartily in what Christian suspected was Gaelic.
“Calm down,” Christian said, closing the door to a surprisingly well-stocked library. “You met with the second, and the details are resolved. If you can recall the King’s English, you might consider sharing those details with me.”
A volume of Blake sat near a reading chair, opened to the very same damned poem Christian had quoted for Gilly. She’d known much more about being mocked in captivity than he’d understood.
“He’s chosen foils,” St. Just spat. “The bloody Frog wants foils.”
Well, of course. “To the death? Hard to kill a man with a foil.”
“Not hard,” St. Just said. “Time-consuming, for you must pink him over and over, or try for a lunge to the heart or lungs or windpipe—some damned organ that will shut him down. Messy business, foils, and not the done thing.”
An odd notion flitted through Christian’s head as he shoved Blake into a desk drawer: captivity came in many forms. A marriage being one, a dungeon being another,a quest for vengeance another, though far preferable to the variety Girard had traded in.
“Perhaps among the French, foils are the done thing.”
St. Just left off pacing long enough to move a carved white pawn on a large chessboard that sat under a tall, curtained widow. The set was marble and had to have cost a decent sum.
“If you’d like to spar, Mercia, I can accompany you to Angelo’s.”
