Page 124 of The Captive Duke
The journey to the Sheffield Arms passed in silence, and like most mornings as autumn approached, saw a layer of ground fog in the low-lying areas of the terrain.
“The air is still,” St. Just said. “A mercy.”
“With swords, the wind hardly matters as it would have with pistols.”
St. Just scrubbed a hand over his face. “Bloody damned farce, swords.”
“My friend, we are soldiers. We did not sit at the ancestral pile like spiders in our webs and dally with our prey. We fought. As officers, we led the charge. We set the example. We gained the victory.”
St. Just stared at the shadowy hills and fields. “But this charge is not for King and Country. This is a bloody damned duel, and I do not trust that Frenchman to acquit himself honorably.”
“He will.” Of this Christian was certain. “His arrogance and whatever idiosyncrasy passes for his conscience ensure he will behave honorably.”
St. Just said nothing, and the coach rolled into the yard of the Sheffield Arms. Christian climbed out as the sun was nearly peeking over the horizon, and made his way through the trees to the appointed location. Girard had arrived before him, a pair of foils in an elegant case open on a folding table under the trees.
“Good morning, Your Grace.”
“Girard. Or do we address you now as Lord St. Clair?”
The Frenchman looked pained, but Christian no longer had to hear every piece of drivel the man spouted, so he turned his back and waited for St. Just to join them.
The seconds conferred, and the principles limbered up with their weapons, but the surgeons were not yet on the scene.
“You can start without the surgeons,” St. Just said. “I don’t advise it.”
“Another five minutes then,” Christian replied.
As a soldier, he’d seen many sunrises that might have been his last. As a prisoner, he’d gone for weeks without sight of the sun, only to find it too painfully bright when he had been given liberty from his dungeon.
A soldier accepts the possibility of his death, particularly when he’s in captivity.
But Christian was a soldier no longer. He was Mercia, with a responsibility to his people and to his title. He had a daughter who’d seen far too much loss and confusion in her short life.
And he had Gilly.
She was the still place inside of him, the utter conviction that he could not fail. She was the bright light of reason, the warmth of hope, the promise of wisdom sufficient for all the troubles a lifetime could present.
And from her perspective, what Christian undertook with Girard was a betrayal of her.
Quite possibly from Christian’s perspective as well.
“The surgeons are here,” St. Just said. “You can still apologize.”
“Remind me of that again, and I will challenge you, St. Just.”
“See if I’ll volunteer to be your second twice.”
St. Just conferred with his counterpart, a tall, broad-shouldered blond whom Christian recognized as the jailer, the last person to see Christian in captivity.
The man who had, on Girard’s orders, freed the lost duke.
Christian exchanged a nod with the fellow, the jailer looking better fed and better dressed, but as twitchy as ever—and not particularly apologetic.
Upon the signal of Girard’s second, Christian took a position opposite Girard, saluted with his weapon, accepted Girard’s answering civility, and gathered his focus for the moment when St. Just would give them leave—
“Wait!” A female voice broke the morning stillness, and four male heads swiveled back toward the Sheffield Arms. “For the love of God, you must not proceed.”
“Thank Jesus and all the holy angels,” St. Just said. “Your countess has come to rescue you.”
