Chapter 19
Richard regretted it the moment he walked into White’s.
Instinct had told him not to go, this afternoon. He’d noticed Evangeline’s mood dim the moment he said Allen’s name; too late he remembered what Allen had said about her, four years ago. It was idiotic to think she didn’t know how the man felt about her.
But she’d told him to go, and he, riven with indecision, had gone, because not going would have meant telling Clemency and having to endure her pestering about why.
She knew about his infatuation with Evangeline, obviously, but he hadn’t gone out of his way to tell her how much time he spent with his lover. His love.
The line between lover and love was becoming thinner and fainter with every hour he spent with her.
She’d told him not to fall in love with her; how could he help it?
She was beautiful. She was clever, and funny.
She would argue with him about topics both trivial and weighty, and then burst out laughing at the end.
She was kind, especially to animals—Richard lived in daily expectation that he would wake to find Hercule had slipped out of his house and gone to live with her and Louis—and warm and so sensual in bed that he would swear his skin grew electrified when she touched him.
And here he was, dining with a man who didn’t like or respect her.
“Is it too late to reconsider?” he muttered to Gerhard, whom he had pressured into coming with him.
“He has seen us,” reported Gerhard, peering over Richard’s shoulder as they relinquished their coats to the footman. “It is too late.”
“Damn,” he said under his breath, straightening his shoulders and striding grimly into the club. It was old-fashioned and stuffy, to his eyes, the sort of place where men whose families had been indolently wealthy for generations would feel at home.
“Campion!” cried Allen, beckoning with his free hand. His other hand already held a glass of wine. “Marvelous to have you join us, what? And Rieger! Welcome, welcome! Come, I’ve taken a private dining room this evening.”
Allen introduced them to his friends. Sir Paul Brentwood.
Lord Arthur Dunstan. Mr. Edward Parker-Philips, and Viscount Halesworth.
They all seemed particularly English to Richard, with their schoolboy nicknames and casual arrogance.
Brentwood was called Woody, Parker-Philips went by Stumps, and Halesworth was Swole.
Dunstan apparently had the ridiculous title of Nimblesticks.
Allen alone seemed to have escaped. Richard didn’t look at Gerhard, who would find it all as ridiculous as he did.
But they had done this before. Granted, he had been more enthusiastic several years ago, talking about his travels and where they hoped to go next, mindful of the fact that sponsorship would be immensely useful, but he had not forgotten how this game was played.
He summoned a cordial smile and greeted each of them as if they were destined to be real friends.
Sir Paul was keen to hear about their journey into Mongolia, while Parker-Philips kept asking about their improvised flight through Russia, when Napoleon had invaded virtually on their heels.
He was very disappointed when Richard told him they had been able to move much faster than the French army, and had only seen Moscow burn from a safe distance.
“A bit less dramatic than I expected,” he complained. “Not having to exchange fire with the damned French.”
“But far more beneficial to our health, not to be shot on the Russian steppe,” replied Gerhard.
“A principal goal of every expedition is to return home whole and well,” added Richard with a smile. “Gunshot wounds are a great hindrance, even if not fatal.”
“Have you ever been shot?” asked Halesworth. He’d been quiet so far, listening and watching with a faintly patronizing expression.
Richard didn’t like him, and it was a stupid question. Still, he looked evenly at the man. “Twice with a bow, once with a pistol. Those did not unnerve me so much as the time a Gurkha nearly cut off my head, though.”
Halesworth’s amusement faded. He looked back stony-faced.
“Decapitation!” Parker-Philips was delighted. “That’s adventure, right there! Don’t you say so, Woody?”
Brentwood nodded. He’d listened, rapt, to Richard’s story.
“India, was it?” Parker-Philips pressed. “Quite a lot of brutal savages running around there.”
Richard inhaled deeply. “Yes. You can know them by the red coats they wear.”
There was a moment of stunned silence, then Allen broke out in guffaws. “Well, we did send a load of rabble to India, Stumps,” he said jovially. “Campion must have run into them. If Wellington’s men were the scum of the earth, I daresay the Company’s men were virtually savage.”
“How did you escape decapitation?” Dunstan wanted to know. “The Gurkhas are reputed to be beastly in battle.”
“We had engaged a young man from Kathmandu to guide us through the valley, and he cried out before the man reached me.” Richard shook his head ruefully. “They believed we were English, but once he assured them we were Swiss . . . They were happy to let us pass.”
Allen gave another bark of laughter, and even Halesworth smiled.
Dinner was finished and Allen had sent for cigars and brandy before things took a bad turn.
“I hear you’ve been slaking your thirst for adventure in another way lately,” remarked Halesworth.
Richard smiled. “That explains my presence here tonight: a desire to see the Englishman in his native surroundings.”
Allen and Brentwood chuckled. Dunstan grinned. Halesworth’s eyes gleamed. “No, no. Or rather, not the Englishmen, but . . . a particular English woman.”
Richard didn’t move, but the smile froze on his face.
Beside him, Gerhard shifted in his seat and made a soft tsk.
“One thing you must know about the Swiss, sir . . . Women are at once more delicate, and yet also fiercer, than any man, and I have learned to treat them all with cautious respect, rather than scrutiny. We will not discuss a woman.”
“Oh, but this one is exotic and fascinating to all of us,” said Halesworth, now openly enjoying himself.
“One can’t help but indulge in some scrutiny, or even, perhaps a little more .
. . intimate examination, if one dares.” Parker-Philips choked on a snicker, and Allen smirked a little.
“I merely wanted your opinion of the creature, since rumor holds you’ve been making a close study. ”
Richard imagined gutting him and leaving him staked on the ground for animals and insects to devour. He knew the man meant Evangeline, but he refused to engage. “I’ve no idea what you mean, Halesworth.”
“Why, my Lady Courtesan, of course.” Halesworth leaned forward, one elbow on the table, a malevolent twist to his lips. “The Countess of Cunny. Lady Lightskirt. You know the one.”
Richard turned his head toward Allen. “Of whom is he speaking?”
The question, asked so calmly and plainly, flustered their host. He cleared his throat and muttered, “Why, Lady Courtenay. I warned you about her, you know, years ago.”
Richard had an excellent memory. He remembered that. “Ah, yes. The lady you said you would like to fuck, when she was married to your own friend?”
Allen flushed purple. Halesworth chuckled. “Of course he wanted to fuck her. All of us did.”
“But only Swole here managed it,” put in Parker-Philips, who looked more eager than ever.
Halesworth had the smug smile of a viper. “That’s true.” He raised his brandy glass in Richard’s direction. “Man to man . . . It was worth it, wasn’t it?”
Richard glanced to his left, where Gerhard sat in apparent stunned silence. Gerhard caught his eye and gave the slightest nod.
Richard rose, sliding one hand inside his jacket.
“I thought you would all like to see a souvenir I brought with me from our most recent journey. You in particular may find it interesting, Swole. I shall call you that, since it is appropriate. Swelled and puffed up, I believe it means?” He unsheathed the knife with a faint, supple zhing.
Allen’s brows shot upward. Parker-Philips’s mouth hung open, as did Dunstan’s. Brentwood seemed rather drunk, so he just nodded earnestly, staring at the knife in unblinking fascination. Halesworth didn’t move.
“This is a khukuri,” Richard went on, turning the knife so the light gleamed along the razor-sharp curving steel.
“The weapon of the Gurkhali soldiers in the Kathmandu Valley, whom we discussed earlier. It likely began as the tool of a farmer, meant to clear brush and skin game, but it is also known as a fearsome weapon. There is an interesting legend that says it must draw blood before being sheathed.” He looked up at Halesworth, the candlelight still burnishing the blade. “Perhaps you will oblige me, Swole?”
“Put it away, please,” said Allen in discomfort. “For God’s sake, Campion!”
“So, you do think it was worth it,” said Halesworth softly. He didn’t look alarmed, but almost triumphant. “We should form a club, of all the men who’ve had her. She is a remarkably enthusiastic whore, isn’t she?”
Richard swept out his arm. The blade flashed and the candles wobbled, causing Dunstan to give a shout of alarm, but nothing happened. Allen put his fist to his mouth, eyes on the knife.
“Those words do not become a gentleman,” Richard said calmly, holding up the blade to examine it closely. “I will overlook it, as you are clearly gone stupid with drink this evening. In the morning, surely, you will regret ever uttering them.”
Halesworth climbed to his feet. “I don’t regret it,” he snarled. “I meant it as a favor to you. Know what you’re getting! Forewarned, and all that.”
Inhale, exhale. Richard felt his breath like the force of the wind against a mainsail, straining under the pressure, driving him toward the man across from him. “Perhaps I should persuade you to regret them,” he said. “Tomorrow, at dawn.”
Dunstan goggled at him, and Allen gave an awkward laugh. “Now, no reason for that!”
“I’d like to see you try,” growled Halesworth.
With a loud sigh, Gerhard shoved back his chair and got to his feet. “Not again, Richard! Too many times have I done this. Duels are such an inconvenience, so early in the day. If you mean to kill him, do it now, please, and leave me to my sleep.”
“What, what? Again?” asked Parker-Philips, startled.
Gerhard turned toward him as a tutor might turn to a student who had asked a question.
“Three times . . . or is it four? I cannot recall them all now. I know he does not need my assistance with the actual shooting of someone, but I have found other seconds rarely manage well, with all the blood. One man wet himself and began weeping, he was no use at all. I could almost call myself a surgeon, after all the wounds I have tended.” He turned to Halesworth.
“Can you not apologize? Are you a complete idiot?”
Halesworth was furious. “I apologize for nothing!”
Gerhard threw up his hands. “Another idiot! Who is your solicitor? He will have a copy of your will, correct?”
Halesworth flushed, but his eyes flickered toward the knife in Richard’s hand. “You’ll see, Campion, you’ll see—”
Richard reached out and poked the top of the candles in the candelabra in front of him, one by one, with the tip of the khukuri.
The top two inches of candle, wick still burning, toppled to the table.
The second candle top rolled toward Dunstan, who instinctively seized it in his napkin to extinguish it.
The third candle top fell into the tray of cigars, causing Allen to yelp.
The fourth candle top landed upright and continued burning, a trickle of wax running down the side.
“Beeswax will do, for tonight,” said Richard quietly. He slid the long blade back into its sheath. “Shall we try again tomorrow, Halesworth?”
The viscount’s furious gaze jumped from the blade, to Gerhard, to the candle fragment still burning on the table. In the reduced light, the whites of his eyes stood out. “No.”
Richard kept a steady gaze on him, like a hawk watching prey. Gerhard cleared his throat. “A retraction, if you please.”
Halesworth clamped his lips together and looked mutinous.
“My pistols are in my carriage,” said Richard in an even softer tone. “We could settle it tonight. This very hour.”
Halesworth, with several glasses of wine and brandy inside him, hesitated. He glanced at Allen in appeal, but that man only shook his head emphatically. Halesworth inhaled, then closed his eyes. “I regret my earlier implication of any impropriety committed by Lady Courtenay,” he muttered.
Richard bowed his head. “Of course. Drink makes one rash and foolish, prone to misstatements. I accept your apology.” He turned toward Allen, who sat rigidly upright, his back pressed hard into his chair. “Good evening, Lord Allen. Thank you for dinner.”
He turned on his heel and walked out, Gerhard behind him, and just caught Brentwood’s gust of drunken laughter as a servant closed the door of the private room behind them. “Good Lord, Halesworth! I say, four duels! And not even a limp to be seen!”
Gerhard did not speak until their carriage had been summoned and they were safely alone in it. Then he asked, in his deceptively mild tone, “That may prove unwise.”
Richard glared out the window at the gaslit streets around them. “And yet I feel no regret.”
His friend heaved a sigh. “The man did deserve it. He is a cretin. But I suspect none of them are as discreet as they should be. What will you do if the lady hears of it?”
He closed his eyes. She would be mortified.
If she heard of it, of him threatening Halesworth with a dagger—in White’s, of all places—then other people would hear of it.
Clemency would hear about it. He didn’t care what people thought of him for doing it, but he quailed at the thought of his sister being scorned for it.
But he positively dreaded what Evangeline might do, now that he had exposed her to gossip and scorn yet again.
“I don’t know,” he told his friend, and didn’t speak again, his mind in torment.