Page 121 of The Captive Duke
“Generous of you, but if I did not acquit myself well, my confidence would suffer, and if I bested you, I might become overconfident.”
“Tell me you’ve at least been practicing,” St. Just said, walking around the chessboard and fingering a bishop, as if he’d oppose himself.
“I’ve been practicing.”
“With asword?”
“You fret over details,” Christian said. “I must meet the man, St. Just. For the sake of my own sanity, I must meet him, and the outcome is in God’s hands. If I besthim, he’s dead. If he kills me, he will be tried for murder and executed. Either way, a just God will see a period put to the man’s existence.”
“Not God,” St. Just said, shifting the black bishop half the width of the board. “Don’t bring the Almighty into it. That good fellow thought twenty years of mayhem at the hands of the Corsican was merely entertaining. Half a million men dead in the 1812 campaign to Moscow alone, and you want God to determine the outcome of this duel?”
“St. Just, must I get you drunk?”
“Tonight, yes,” he said, scowling at the board once again from the white perspective. “You’re to meet your man the day after tomorrow, at daybreak in the copse a quarter mile distant from the Sheffield Arms. We’ve arranged for two surgeons, as the choice of weapons was—Blessed Virgin preserve us—foils.”
“St. Just, calm yourself. All will be well.”
“Forgive me. My mother was a Papist. She was a fallen woman, but a fallen Papist woman—they are the most pious of all.” He shifted a white knight, so the blighter was imperiled but closing in on check. “All will be well once you get me roaring bloody drunk.”
Seeing no alternative, Christian proceeded to do just that.
Two nights without Christian in her bed had left Gilly unrested and unsettled. She told herself they’d partedon a positive note, they’d made progress, but progress toward what, she could not say.
She couldn’t bring herself to garden, she couldn’t embroider, she couldn’t wander the house for fear of running into Marcus. He’d been polite enough over dinner the previous evening, but he’dwatchedher, and Gilly was afraid did she remain in his company, she’d start blurting out questions.
Did heknow?
How much did he know?
Had it ever occurred to him to assist her?
Had Greendale threatened him?
Had Greendale ever raised a hand to his heir? A buggy whip? A riding crop?
They might have said a great deal to each other, but considering Gilly could barely endure what Christian knew of her past, the less she saw of Marcus—and the less she smelled of his wretched cigars—the better.
By contrast, she was specifically charged with spending time with Lucy, who’d grown listless indeed, so although the hour was early, Gilly left her sitting room intent on heading for the nursery. She was surprised to find both George and John waiting for her in the corridor.
“Good morning, gentlemen.”
“Milady.”
“Did Lord Greendale set you to following me?”
“Nay, milady,” George answered. “’Twere the dook. Said we was to stick to you like flies to honey, and it would be worth our Christmas pudding to do as he bid.”
“Then we’re for the nursery,” she said, relieved it was Christian spying on her and not Marcus. “And possibly a stroll in the gardens.”
They looked resigned—the gardens again—as they fell in step directly behind her. She was half thinking of a nooning picnic with Lucy when she paused at a faint whiff of tobacco in the third-floor corridor, where it had no business being. The playroom door was a few inches ajar, and Marcus’s voice came from behind it.
“Even your nurse and your governess haven’t heard you speak,” he said, his tone musing. “I must applaud your diligence, child. When I said you must not speak one word of what you’d overheard, I hardly thought you’d take me so literally. Your mama is gone now, and no one would believe it did you accuse me of trying to persuade her to leave your papa.”
A pause ensued, the length of time it took a man to puff on a cigar.
“As for the rest, your papa is about to meet his demise on the field of honor at the hands of the very Frenchie who was delegated the matter more than a year past. Justice delayed is justice denied, eh? Justice for me—and expensive justice, too, I can tell you.”
Silence, while Gilly’s blood ran cold and the scent of a burning cigar threatened to upend her breakfast. She put her finger to her lips and shook her head, lest John and George fall prey to heroic notions. Without making a sound, she motioned for them to follow her back down the stairs and into her parlor.
