Chapter Thirteen
The sun had long since slid below the line of trees in the park, casting shadows that stretched across the ground until they merged into the darkness.
Three figures stood, silhouetted against the moonlight reflected in the Serpentine—Sir Heath Moss, his second, and the referee.
Sir Heath had managed to persuade the Duke of Dunton to act as his second.
Portia would have recognized Dunton’s portly frame anywhere, not to mention the stench of sour brandy and unwashed garments that followed him like a thick fog wherever he went.
Why Sir Heath saw fit to pay Dunton’s expenses made little sense, apart from Dunton’s title, which rendered him attractive to men such as Sir Heath who sought to collect titled friends.
And other men’s wives.
Nerissa at her side, Portia adjusted her mask then drew her cloak about her.
Despite the warmth of the day, a chill had descended since the sunset.
Each time she exhaled, her breath formed a mist. It was fortunate that Sir Heath had insisted on the duel taking place at dusk.
By dawn, the ground would be covered in frost. And with a frost came footprints, the pattern of which would declare to the whole world that a duel had taken place.
“Will you not come closer while we wait, Mr. Farthing?” Sir Heath said.
“My master’s not here to engage in conversation,” Nerissa said.
“You’re not going to bolt, are you? You’ve my fifty pounds in your pocket.”
“My master’s fifty pounds,” Nerissa said. “According to the terms of the contract—”
“Yes, yes,” Sir Heath said, irritation in his voice. “According to the contract, the client pays whether his opponent shows or not. That damned contract exists for your benefit, not mine.”
“Only if you place little value on your life.”
“Well, it seems as if your life is not at risk tonight,” Sir Heath said. “I always said Francis was a coward—in addition to being unable to satisfy his wife.”
“No man is enough for that woman,” Dunton said, his voice slurred. “I’ve had her.”
“That’s nothing to boast about,” Sir Heath said. “I doubt there’s a man in London who’s not had her. Lord Francis had to dismiss his entire body of male staff after catching her in flagrante delicto with three footmen last Christmas. I even hear he’s jealous of the stallions in his stables.”
“Which proves my point that all women are whores,” Dunton said.
“Give a woman an ounce of freedom and she’ll spread her legs for anything that moves.
” He let out a coarse laugh. “And several things that don’t,” he added.
“I suspect she’s a patron of Madame DilDoul’s establishment.
Not that I object, of course. Madame has the most delectable items for her more discerning customers—carved out of ivory, don’t you know! I myself have used—”
The referee cleared his throat, and Dunton let out a laugh.
“Squeamish, are you, Johnson?”
Before the man could respond, footsteps crunched on the gravel and Portia turned to see two men approaching, Lord Francis and…
“Sweet Lord—Adam!”
“Hush!” Nerissa whispered.
Lord Francis approached Sir Heath and extended his hand. “Well met. Dunton, I didn’t expect to see you outside at this hour. That must be a great loss to the bawdy houses of London.”
“I might say the same for your friend there,” Dunton said. “I’d have thought you’d be buried inside that slut of yours at this hour, Foxton.”
Portia’s brother approached Dunton, then he paused and turned toward her, his eyes glittering with distaste. For a heartbeat, brother and sister stared at each other, and she bit her lip to stem the cry of fear.
“Have a care,” Nerissa whispered, taking her hand.
Then he resumed his attention on Dunton.
Portia exhaled, but the knots in her stomach failed to loosen. She curled her hands into fists to stem the shaking, but she couldn’t temper the tremors.
“He’s not recognized you,” Nerissa whispered. “And he won’t if you stay silent. I’ll do the talking.”
“He might recognize you.”
“I doubt that. Your brother wouldn’t recognize any of his servants out of uniform. He can’t tell one from the other.”
“What’s that you’re saying, Mr. Farthing?” Sir Heath said.
“Nothing to concern you, Sir Heath,” Nerissa said. “My master is merely eager to proceed.”
Lord Francis turned toward Portia. “Oh, fuck.”
“Precisely,” Sir Heath said, triumph in his tone. He gestured toward Portia. “My friend’s reputation precedes him.”
I am not your friend.
“I don’t suppose you fancy calling it a night?” Lord Francis said. “I’ll stand you a brandy at White’s for your trouble.”
“Ahem,” Dunton said.
“And Dunton too, of course. I appreciate the effort it must have taken to tear yourself away from Mrs. Green’s bawdy house to come here tonight.”
“Good God!” Adam said. “Is Mrs. Green still alive? She must be sixty at least.”
“With age comes experience and a wealth of talent,” Sir Heath said. “That thing she does with her tongue—I’ve never had the like. Not even Lady Fra…” He trailed off and cocked his head to one side, staring at Lord Francis.
“So it’s you she learned that from,” Lord Francis said. “I ought to be grateful.”
Sweet Lord! Portia swallowed her nausea. No matter what Lady Francis’s faults might be, she was Lord Francis’s wife and his duty was to defend her honor.
“Perhaps you ought to charge for your wife’s services, Francis,” Adam said. “It would help settle your debts.”
“That’s not a bad idea, Foxton,” Lord Francis said, with a chuckle. “What say you, a guinea a time? She’s been lusting after you since her first Season.”
“I doubt that,” Adam said. “I was still in the cradle back then. Perhaps you mean my grandfather? By all accounts, members of the weaker sex couldn’t resist his talents in the bedchamber.”
“Bloody hell, Foxton, I ought to call you out for that.” Lord Francis glanced in Portia’s direction. “Though doubtless you’d hire this fellow to do the deed for you.”
“Hire him yourself,” Adam said, wrinkling his nose in a sneer, and she shivered at the loathing in his voice. “I wouldn’t stoop to dealing with such an underhand creature. Worse than a whore you are, Mr. Farthing—or whatever your name is.”
He stepped toward her, and Nerissa squeezed her hand.
“Have a care,” she whispered. “Say nothing, lest you reveal yourself.”
“Steady on, Foxton, old chap,” Sir Heath said. “The Farthing may be a whore, but he’s a damned useful one. His aim is as useful as Lady Francis’s cunny, which we’ve all enjoyed to the full. I’d rather he were left unscathed.”
“But perhaps not anonymous,” Adam said. “We should reveal his identity.”
Portia’s gut tightened with knots of fear, and she stepped back.
“I say, old chap,” Lord Francis said, “there’s no call for that sort of talk. A gentleman would never act so dishonorably.”
Despicable creatures, all of them! They thought nothing of making bawdy remarks about Lady Francis and sharing her among themselves as if she were a cut of beef—but the notion of unmasking a duelist was considered dishonorable?
It would serve them right if she revealed herself, let them know they’d been bested at their own game by a member of the so-called weaker sex.
Adam paused, his gaze fixed on her. He narrowed his eyes and tilted his head to one side.
“Do I know you?” he said.
Portia dug her nails into her palms to stop the tremors in her body. Then her brother let out a snort of derision.
“Most likely you’re some footman eager to earn a few extra coins. Does your master know where you are?”
Portia shook her head. Her brother grinned, revealing sharp white teeth. She’d always known him to be a rake, but how had she not noticed until now how much of an air of menace he carried about him?
Heaven help the women who fell for his charms.
As to the woman who became his duchess, whoever that unfortunate soul would be… Not even the Almighty and all His angels would be able to help her.
Was this how all men behaved? Whitcombe, Staines…
Surely not Stephen?
No…
Adam gave a slow, lazy smile, his savagely handsome face giving a predatory air that women found irresistible, though it was a manifestation of the blackened soul within.
“Do I discompose you, Mr. Farthing?” he sneered. “Perhaps my friends and I ought to rouse our households on our return tonight to see who’s missing?”
Using her fury to conquer her fear, Portia stared her brother straight in the eye.
His eyes were the same shape and shade of blue as hers, enough to cause a jolt of recognition, as if she were looking into a mirror.
But the similarity ended there. In them she saw a predatory air and degree of confidence that only a man of his rank could possess—the confidence that came from knowing that the world would bow to him in everything, that he had the power to destroy the livelihoods, reputations, and souls of others at the merest word or casual flick of the wrist.
A thread of ice rippled through her veins as he continued to glare at her, his eyes glittering with dominance.
Sweet Lord! Many times had she been on the receiving end of his anger, his disappointment, but never before had she faced such ice-cold fury, delivered with such control.
The corner of his lips twitched into the ghost of a smile, as if, like a predator, he relished the terror in his prey at the moment before he tore her apart.
But, as Stephen had once told her, the best generals only stepped into battle when they were assured of victory—sometimes the battle was won before a single shot had been fired.
By staring down his opponent, Adam was attempting to triumph even before he made the first move.
Doubtless he expected her to turn tail and flee.
Her fingers itched with the urge to challenge him, and she curled her hand, imagining what it might be like to aim a pistol at her brother’s head. Would he blubber like a toddler, as Viscount de Blanchard did when he faced the end of the Farthing’s pistol, or soil his breeches like Dunton?