Chapter 11 #2
The surgeon’s mouth flapped as if he were trying to recapture his words. “My lord, I’m sorry if I’ve offended you. I didn’t mean…I mean, I only meant…” He was still scrambling to make amends when the carriage door swung open.
The footman holding the door handle was a wiry little man in shockingly ill-fitting livery.
“Jervis,” Rafe said, a hint of amusement in his voice. “I was unaware your duties included my stables.”
Jervis Jones, his manservant of fifteen years, flashed a wealth of missing teeth.
“You didn’t think I’d miss this, did you, Captain?
No, indeed, I wouldn’t.” He patted his coat pocket.
“I brought along some of my remedies, just in case you might be needing them. Not that I’m expecting you’ll be needing them or him.
” He nodded dismissively toward the surgeon.
“But I figure you’ll fight better knowing you’ve got sure hands standing behind you. ”
The corners of Rafe’s mouth twitched at Jervis’s enthusiastically mixed metaphor. “After your last potion—tree fungus, wasn’t it?—I’ve no doubt the knowledge that one of your home remedies awaits me, should I falter, will bolster my fighting arm.”
“It worked, didn’t it?” Jervis protested.
Rafe turned his attention to the company in the coach. “Gentlemen, shall we proceed?”
Cole slid a leather case out from under his seat and followed Rafe into the damp dawn air. The surgeon scuttled behind.
James nodded as they approached. His second, Lord Grenville, greeted them. “Good morning, my lords.”
“And good morning to you, my lord.” Rafe turned to James. “Dinsmore, so good of you to show.”
“Far too early to visit my tailor,” James replied pleasantly.
“No need to hurry.” Rafe handed his hat and coat to his coachman. “Indeed, after this morning, most likely he’ll be measuring you for a different sort of suit.”
“Are you so certain?” James asked, removing his own jacket and hat and handing them to his coachman. He shook out the ruffles of his sleeves.
“Gentlemen.” Lord Grenville cleared his throat. “Shall we begin? No doubt, it is well understood by both parties why we are met this morning. Lord Moreham believes he has been offended by Lord Dinsmore’s attentions to his sister.”
Rafe stiffened at the use of the word attentions, but said nothing.
“Lord Moreham, I must ask you, is there nothing Lord Dinsmore might offer that would satisfy your honor and the honor of your sister?”
“An abject apology to my sister for laying hands upon her person, an admission to the ton that he is a loathsome scoundrel, exile to some far-flung corner of the Continent with a promise never to see Elizabeth again.”
Lord Grenville cleared his throat.
James paused as if considering Rafe’s words, then he shrugged. “I regret, my Lord Moreham, that I cannot agree to all of your terms.” He did not offer to explain and Rafe did not ask him to elaborate.
Lord Grenville cast both men the briefest look of disappointment. “Very well. We shall continue. My Lord Davenport, have you brought the weapons?”
Cole stepped forward, offering the leather case.
Lord Grenville opened it. Three finely fashioned Spanish blades lay in a bed of black velvet.
He examined each one in turn, testing the sharpness of the blades, the balance, the strength of the grips.
Assured the swords were in order, he offered the case first to James and then Rafe.
Each man having chosen a blade, they stood at attention as Grenville explained the rules that would be followed, the distances that must be observed, the conditions under which either man might claim victory or admit defeat.
“It is understood, then?” he asked. “Should one man call for mercy, the other shall grant it and claim victory?”
James and Rafe both nodded. Somewhere in the trees beyond the flower beds, a bird called and another answered. The mists had begun to thin, diluted by the first rays of the morning sun.
“Very well. You may salute.”
James and Rafe faced each other, simultaneously drawing their swords up, hilt to chin, then down in a graceful arc, to end in position with blades pointed directly at one another. They paused. Blue eyes met hazel. Neither blinked.
Grenville’s voice cut through the stillness. “En garde.”
The two men circled, assessing the other’s position, looking for an opening. Rafe lunged low; James caught the blade and turned it, then lunged at Rafe’s hip. Rafe twisted his body away from the blade and thrust upward. James dodged back, parried the blade, circled, and thrust.
Steel clattered against steel, the only conversation now possible between them.
“Can we not stop them now?” Grenville murmured to Cole. “Surely His Lordship’s desire for satisfaction has been quenched with so much blood?”
Rafe and James circled each other in the morning sun, their breath as ragged as their blood-spattered clothes.
James had a slash to his arm and several cuts on his left hand.
Rafe’s left hand, too, bore several cuts and blood stained his hip where James’s sword had glanced him.
Where blood had not glued their clothes to their bodies, sweat did.
Cole shook his head. “Where Elizabeth is concerned, Rafe is not a reasonable man. Do you think Dinsmore will cry mercy?”
“I cannot say, but I doubt it.”
“He’s fought bravely today.”
“More bravely than you expected, you mean.”
“I did not say so.”
“Ah, but you thought it.” Grenville raised his hand. “It is what everyone thinks of James, that he has no thoughts but for fashion, exerts himself only for a glass of wine or to try on a new waistcoat. But, there is more to him than that.”
“I have not seen it,” Cole said blandly.
“You have not looked for it.”
“Fair enough.”
There was a grunt as Rafe’s blade bit into James’s leg.
James staggered back, drew up his sword.
Rafe met it, grabbed his wrist, knocked him off balance, and threw him to the ground.
With a rush he was on James, muddied foot on his chest, bloodied sword at his throat. “I should kill you, you bastard.”
“Then do.” James’s words were strained, but defiant.
“Don’t, Moreham,” Grenville and Cole cried simultaneously.
“Beg, Dinsmore,” Rafe said coldly. “Tell me you are not worthy of a woman such as my sister. Tell me you’re sorry you ever laid so much as a hand on her.”
“I am not worthy of your sister,” he said hoarsely.
Rafe’s arm did not move, but with his wrist he teased the blade across James’s neck. “And—” he prompted.
James swallowed hard.
“Apologize for touching her, Dinsmore.”
“No,” he whispered, “I cannot.”
Rafe’s eyes narrowed. “Cannot?” He pressed the point of his sword and a bright spot of red appeared at its tip. “Come, come, man, you will not.”
“I cannot say I regret making love to Elizabeth.” He lifted his chin and the spot at his neck lengthened into a scrape. “I will not die with a lie on my lips.”
Rafe assessed the bloodied figure beneath his blade. An expression that might have been understanding, perhaps laced with pity, flickered across his face. “Do you fancy yourself in love, Dinsmore?” he said softly.
James closed his eyes.
“She is not for you,” he added, even more softly.
With a flick of his wrist, he brought his blade up, opening James’s cheek.
“So she will never again be cozened by your pretty face.” The deep gash on James’s face ran blood. “So that wherever you go, people will know you for the dishonorable cur that you are!”