In the Brief Eternal Silence (33 page)

“And have you slit my throat, Effington? I
think not,” St. James said as he put his chin up and, staring into
the looking glass, the red hand-print on his cheek obscenely
noticeable, ran the first stroke up the column of his throat.

“I swear I shall wrestle you for it, milord,”
Effington threatened, at the very end of his patience. “It is my
rightful duty, as is dressing you, and you utterly refuse to do as
is expected of you! Now give me that razor, or I shall resign
immediately.”

St. James glanced at him from the mirror, his
gold eyes dancing. “Oh, you can not do that, Effington. However
shall I dress properly for Almacks tonight?”

“Almacks?” Effington whispered in uncertain
hope. “Buckingham Palace last night and Almacks tonight?”

St. James turned, handed him the razor.
“Quite, Effington. A rare boon for you, and one I would have
wagered would never happen. Now if you promise not to slit my
throat over my misconduct of dressing myself as every other able
man, I shall allow you to shave me.”

Effington sniffed. “You are only frightened
that I shall best you in the wrestling, milord,” he paused before
adding in a snide tone, “as you so evidently lost last night.”

St. James chuckled. “You had better hand over
my drink, Effing-ton, for I was bested by a female last night and
am threatened by my valet this morning. It is a sorry state,
indeed, for me to be in.”

Effington positioned his lordship's head
before beginning and observed, “You seem uncommonly happy about it,
if I dare say so, milord.”

“Do I?” his lordship asked, staying
Effington's hand that was poised with the razor and meeting his
valet's eyes in the mirror. “That is the damnedest thing I have
ever heard you say.” He released Effington's hand. “Get on with it,
Effington, and some silence would be appreciated. Can't take this
incessant chitchat of yours so early in the morning.”

“Yes, milord,” Effington replied, feeling as
usual that just when he was beginning to finally understand his
employer, he said or did something that made him understand him
even less. But his movements were sprightly, all the same, as he
shaved the duke, humming and dabbing with a towel at any water or
shaving soap that dribbled from his lordship's neck to his narrow,
steel cage chest. In his mind danced a single word: Almacks.

When the duke was at last presentable, he
bypassed breakfast and went instead to the stables to order a
mount. Then he rode out alone with quite another matter than
Almacks on his mind altogether.

He arrived some fifteen minutes later at the
London home of Lord Tempton, and upon dismounting, bade the groom
that came out to hold the horse in readiness there, as he should
not be long, and asked the butler upon his entrance if young Ryan
Tempton was yet in residence.

“Indeed he is, milord Duke,” the butler eyed
the duke's red hand-printed countenance with disapproval, “but I do
not know if he has come below stairs yet.”

“Well, rouse him if you must. I would like
his opinion on something to day.”

The butler showed St. James into a receiving
room. He returned a few minutes later, saying that young Mister
Tempton would be happy to accommodate his lordship if he could but
wait a few minutes, and then he inquired if there were anything he
could bring him.

“A cup of coffee would do nicely,” St. James
told him, and was sipping it with satisfaction when Ryan half
bounded into the room.

“I say, St. James! Hardly have known you to
be up and about so early,” he exclaimed with pleased surprise. St.
James turned to him at his entrance, and Ryan gave a little fumble
in his eager walk. “Good God! Are you aware that you have the most
blatant hand print I have ever seen upon your face?”

St. James smile rather thinly. “As I was
there when I received it, yes, I am very much aware of it.”

Ryan seemed diverted by this happenstance and
stared at the mark, grinning. “I only hope you got something worth
the slapping!”

“Let us just say I would take my chances
again.”

Ryan shook his head. “You stir up more
trouble in three days than most people do their entire lives,” he
commented, but he seemed quite taken with the idea of the
intimidating Duke of St. James evidently having trouble with some
uncooperative female.

“I have a matter to take care of to day,
Ryan,” St. James began, growing bored with the stir his besmirched
cheek was causing with everyone he had so far encountered. “I
thought you may wish to help me with it as you have made known your
good instincts on horse flesh.”

“I should be happy to do so! Are you in the
market for something for your racing stable?” Ryan asked with
eagerness.

“No. Rather a lady's mount. Something
suitable for riding in the park and such, but that would be equally
suitable for country riding as well. I find to my dismay that I
have taken Miss Murdock's only mount and as I have already had it
taken to Morningside, I wish to acquire her a replacement.”

“Oh, jolly good!” Ryan said. “And how is Miss
Murdock? I daresay your attention has swayed rather quickly, but I
am hardly surprised. You were very drunk you know. Do you mean to
still keep her horse then?”

St. James' eyes widened at this stream of
artless questions. “Well, certainly I shall keep her horse. I still
intend to marry her.”

Ryan seemed taken aback at this
pronouncement. “Well, Bloody Hell, St. James, you can't blame me
for assuming otherwise with that—that mark upon your cheek!” He put
his hands upon his narrow hips as he continued in indignation.
“Rather in poor taste I should think, to bring your fiancé to town
one night and earn that the very next from Lord Knows What Female.
I certainly hope you will at least let it fade before taking her
down the marriage aisle.”

St. James rubbed a finger over his upper lip.
“Do you think so?” he asked with perfect puzzlement. “Hadn't
thought of it, I confess.”

Ryan, perceiving that the duke was deriving a
great deal of amusement from his outrage, accused, “You are having
me on, milord. You do not mean to marry Miss Murdock after all and
it only amuses you to let me believe it.”

“No, young Ryan. I am quite serious.”

“The devil you are!”

St. James gave an elegant shrug. “I have
determined to go to Almack's tonight in pursuit of that lady if
that means anything.”

The door opened to admit the stout figure of
Lord Bertram Tempton. “Here, St. James, thought that was your mount
I saw from my window above stairs,” he said in way of greeting. He
was still in his brocade dressing gown, and it swayed around him as
he walked across the room, making not for St. James or his brother,
but the tray of coffee and cups set on the low table between them.
“What ever has gotten you up and about at this time in the
morning?”

“I've come to ask Ryan to help me in finding
a proper lady's mount, as I was quite impressed with his previous
selection on my behalf,” St. James told him.

“Oh, I'm sure between the two—” Bertie
finished pouring his coffee and his gaze fell fully upon St. James'
face, and although he looked a little startled, he merely
interrupted himself by saying, “Oh, ho, St. James! Your true colors
are showing!”

“It is really that goddamned obvious?” St.
James pronounced more than asked, his patience wearing thin at this
final comment on his injury.

Bertie, looking very much entertained at his
old friend's discomfort, only said, “I can count all four fingers
and the thumb. What ever did you do to earn that!”

To which St. James gave him a single
aggravated look from his expressive gold eyes and returned, “Not
nearly enough.”

“Oh, ho!” Bertie repeated. “Someone has not
fallen for the lethal Larrimer charm. I must meet this young
lady.”

Somewhat pushed past the point of discretion,
St. James replied with dryness, “You already have.”

Bertie and Ryan each stared at each other for
a moment, perhaps wanting confirmation that they were each thinking
the same thing, and then in quiet unison they said in wondering
disbelief, “Miss Murdock?”

St. James shot them an inscrutable look and
took another sip of his coffee.

“Hardly up to your speed, St. James. I'm
surprised at you,” Bertie said.

“You as much as promised that you would not
sully her in any way,” Ryan pointed out with growing anger.

“And as you can see, I did not get the chance
to,” St. James returned. As Ryan did not seem in the least
mollified, he added with ill-disguised impatience, “She is to be my
wife, you know, young Ryan. It is not as if I were dallying with
her merely for my amusement.”

“You have others,” Ryan pointed out.

St. James' jaw clenched but with
self-control, he only answered, “When it was necessary.”

“If I find that you have hurt one hair upon
her head—!”

“Enough, Ryan!” Bertie broke in. “You know
nothing of what you talk about, either of the past or the present.
It is none of your business, you know. St. James has said he will
marry her and that is all that needs concern you.”

But St. James set down his coffee cup as
Bertie spoke and took two strides over to stand in front of Ryan,
looking up into the youth's face. “No, let him finish, Bertie. You
will what?”

“Well, I—” Ryan fumbled. “I should have to
call you out. I suppose.”

St. James gave a tight smile but his gold
eyes were snapping. “Call a man out for courting his own fiancé?
That seems a little extreme, Ryan. Unless, of course, you have some
interest in that Miss yourself?”

“Egads, St. James. I only met her the once.
Twice actually. But she seemed a most, well, innocent thing, and I
just do not wish to see you hurt her in any way,” Ryan blushed.

But St. James, rather than being mollified by
Ryan's expressed concern for Miss Murdock's welfare, was more
annoyed. “Let me tell you something very plainly, young Ryan. Do
not ever suggest that you may call a man out. For many view the
mere suggestion as damning enough to then call you out. And you may
take it to your grave that I am normally one of those. Do you
understand?”

“I—I think so.”

“Secondly, the fastest way to get yourself
into a duel is to interfere with another man's wife. Miss Murdock
is to be my wife. Do

you understand this, young Ryan?”

“I do.”

“Thirdly, and I do not need to tell your
brother this, but it appears that I have rather overestimated your
good common sense, so perhaps I should tell you, if you speak of
how Miss Murdock and I met or the means in which our marriage was
brought about, or, for that matter, how I got this palm print upon
my cheek and from whom I received it, I will call you out.
Friendship or no friendship.”

“Of course, St. James,” Bertie interrupted
before Ryan could answer. “You have no need to remind him of that.
Even Ryan, young as he is, would certainly be aware of this.”

“I am merely making it clear. Ryan seems to
have the belief that I mean Miss Murdock some dreadful harm, when
for the past two days I have expended a great deal of energy seeing
to it that whatever becomes of me, that she will be very
comfortable indeed for the rest of her life. And if he could not
gather this from the fact that I am wasting precious time today
procuring her a horse when I have other pressing matters, then I
have misjudged him. Have I, Ryan?”

Ryan shook his head. “No, St. James. It is
rather I who have misjudged you.”

“Jolly good,” St. James replied in nearly a
snarl. “By God, I need a drink.”

“Help yourself,” Bertie said, seeming in no
way shaken by the duke's unexpected display of temper.

St. James turned and walked over to the
sideboard, selected a fine whiskey and poured into a glass, leaving
a rather stunned Ryan standing alone in the middle of the room. St.
James glanced at him, said in a much more normal voice, “Care for
one, Ryan, while I am pouring?”

“If—if you don't mind,” Ryan swallowed.

“I do not mind in the least,” St. James
replied, and after pouring the second glass, he poured a third for
Bertie. Then the duke turned, carried Ryan's glass over to him,
told him, “Do not look so chastised, Ryan, these are merely a few
things you must understand, you know, if you are to get on
properly.”

Ryan took the drink but before sipping from
it, he asked, “Is it really as you say, that if someone says they
should call you out, that it is as much as a challenge?”

“Indeed, it is,” St. James returned. “You
must remember that, for if someone ever says such to you, you can
not hesitate, but must immediately draw your glove and issue the
challenge that was insinuated.”

“Have any of your duels begun. . . in such a
way?” he asked as though someone still trying to follow a difficult
lesson.

“Yes.”

“And you did as you said, pulled your glove
and issued the challenge because of the insinuation?”

“I have.” St. James looked at him for a
studying moment. “The threat is only the beginning. If you leave
the threat go, the action will follow. No matter how much you may
try to appease. Do you follow me, Ryan?”

Bertie was standing patiently following this
bit of unorthodox tutelage.

“I'm not sure,” Ryan said.

St. James sighed. “I should hit you.”

Ryan stiffened, his face reddening in
confused anger. “What?”

“I said,” St. James repeated, “I should hit
you.”

Ryan balled his fist and if Bertie had not
stepped in hastily, he would have smashed it into St. James' face,
who had not moved or even blinked. But Bertie grabbed his arm, and
Ryan stood still, furious, and said through clenched teeth, “Let go
my arm, Bertie.”

St. James raised a brow and asked with lethal
softness, “Now do you understand, Ryan?” and as Ryan did not
respond, he continued. “It is very hard to explain. If someone
threatens to hit you, it is the same as hitting you. If someone
threatens to shoot you, it is the same as shooting you.”