The Captive (31 page)

“Cold bugger,” St. Just muttered as he and Christian gained the street. “One would think he expected you, he left such a clear trail.”

“He’s thinner,” Christian said. “He’s aged since last I saw him.” And yet, Girard was the same too, dark hair worn fashionably long, green eyes that could convey humor, indifference, and even respect without a word, and a coldness beneath every gesture and word that suggested no human soul had ever inhabited that big, lean body.

St. Just kicked a loose chip of cobblestone into the gutter. “Now is not an easy time to be a former French army officer. What does Lady Greendale make of all this?”

“You think I’d tell her about a duel, for pity’s sake? Gillian does not look favorably on male flights of violence.” And if she’d loathed Greendale’s vile temper, what would she think of murder?

Premeditated,
scheduled
murder, conducted while sober witnesses stood by, ensuring the rules of ritual homicide were punctiliously observed?

“You and the lady seemed close,” St. Just said, finding another pebble to send skittering to the gutter. “I’m often surprised at what Moreland tells his duchess behind closed doors.”

“Gilly has enough on her plate, and she is a lady.”

St. Just held his thoughts until Christian settled beside him in the privacy of the ducal town coach, but only until then.

“You withheld your plans from the countess to spare her sensibilities, of course, but you also anticipated she would disapprove of you taking another’s life.”

“Not exactly, but close. She would disapprove, she would worry, and she’s fragile right now.”

“Interesting word coming from a man who couldn’t find an hour’s respite from his nightmares.”

“Silence, St. Just. Girard needs to die, and there’s an end to it.”

St. Just said nothing more on the subject, and really, what more was there to say?

The next day, when the colonel took himself off to Ambrose Court, Christian traveled to the City to pay a call on one Gervaise Stoneleigh.

“Your Grace, this is an unexpected pleasure,” Stoneleigh said after offering a perfectly correct bow.

“Unexpected, I will believe. You will make some time for me regardless?”

“Lady Greendale would require it of me.”

“Direct,” Christian said when he’d been shown into a surprisingly elegant office. Potted violets grew on the windowsill, and one wall held framed sketches of a smiling lady with two small, chubby children. “Bluntness saves time, I suppose, but one always expects lawyers to prevaricate on general principles.”

Stoneleigh nudged a clay pot an inch to the left, so the small, tender green plant sat in direct sunlight.

“As one expects the nobility to be arrogant on general principles. Please have a seat, Your Grace.”

“I can see why Gillian hired you,” Christian said, taking one of two opulently cushioned armchairs.

“That would be the Countess of Greendale.”

Stoneleigh did not make his comment a question, though neither was it
quite
a scold, and he did not ask permission to sit in his own offices. Christian was pleased for Gilly that this dark, unsmiling man had her custom.

“She is Gillian to me, and she, alone among all others, calls me by my given name.”

Stoneleigh’s brows rose then settled, surely the lawyer’s equivalent of an exclamation of surprise.

“Shall I ring for tea, Your Grace, or would you like something stronger?”

One could tell a lot about a man by the drink he served. “Something stronger, if it’s not too much bother.”

When they’d enjoyed fine libation indeed, Christian withdrew a sealed letter from his pocket and passed it to his host. “I will transact some business in the next several days that might result in my death or legal incapacity. That epistle is for the countess in the event of such an outcome.”

Stoneleigh set the letter aside without even glancing at it. “The rumors are true, then? The clubs were all a-chatter last night because you’d challenged the man responsible for your ordeal after being taken captive.”

Such delicacy. “
I
was responsible for being taken by the French,” Christian said. “At the direction of his superiors, Girard exploited the technicality of finding me out of uniform and treated me to months of torture.”

“Ah, so we’re now killing soldiers who follow their generals’ orders,” Stoneleigh remarked, topping up Christian’s drink. “And
were
you out of uniform, Your Grace?”

Any officer captured out of uniform was presumed to be a spy, and spies were regarded by gentlemen and scoundrels alike as beneath contempt.

Stoneleigh’s willingness to lawyer that point now was not helpful.

“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 best of 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.”

“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 a
sword
?”

“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 best him, 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 parted on 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’d
watched
her, and Gilly was afraid did she remain in his company, she’d start blurting out questions.

Did he
know
?

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.

“He’s a scheming bounder,” George hissed. “Beggin’ your ladyship’s pardon, but what Greendale was sayin’…”

“Hush, George. I need to think.”

George and John exchanged a look while Gilly’s mind whirled.

Marcus
had conspired with that awful Frenchman?
Marcus
had tried to woo Helene from Christian’s side?
Marcus
had threatened Lucy into complete silence?