The Pride of Lions Page 6

  Harriet moved up beside her. “Men call us proud and vain, but I daresay everything we learned, we learned from them.”

  Catherine was only half-listening. Colonel Halfyard had apparently been chosen to act as adjudicator, for he was walking solemnly into the center of the lighted ring and holding a hand up for silence. The window was open enough to hear the hush fall over the crowd and the colonel’s voice when he called the principals forward.

  Hamilton strode confidently toward his commanding officer. Montgomery drew deeply on his cigar one last time and dropped it onto the cobblestones, grinding it beneath his heel before he took his sword from Damien. He wore a curious smile on his face, but there was nothing amusing in the way he carved an invisible Z through the air with the slim steel-blue blade.

  “Gentlemen.” The colonel’s voice boomed out through the dampness. “I am bound by convention to appeal to both of you to settle this affaire d’honneur without bloodshed. Lieutenant Garner … will you accept an apology if tendered?”

  Hamilton shook his head. “A mere apology is insufficient.”

  “Mr. Montgomery.” The colonel glared at him from under beetling white brows. “Do you believe there is any other way of settling this dispute?”

  “The lieutenant seems to have his mind made up, sir. I can but oblige.”

  “Very well.” The colonel nodded brusquely to the seconds. “If everything is in order, we shall proceed. Is there a doctor in attendance?”

  A barrel-shaped, bewigged gentleman stepped forward importantly and raised his hand. “Dr. Moore, at your service.”

  The colonel looked gravely at each combatant. “At the command en garde, you will take up your positions. I understand first blood has been waived by both parties? Very well. God have mercy on your souls. Gentlemen, take your marks.”

  Hearing this, Catherine backed away from the window, her face as pale as wax. “They have waived first blood?” she whispered in horror. “That means … the duel is to the death?”

  Her heart pounding painfully against her rib cage, she turned and ran for the door.

  “Catherine! Where are you going?”

  She did not stop to answer. Flinging the door wide and gathering the voluminous folds of her skirts in her hands, she flew along the hallway to the stairs, then down and through the double oak doors as if a demon were snapping at her heels. She ran along the fine gravel of the drive and onto the manicured lawns, slipping on the dew-laden grass and giving her ankle a painful wrench in the process. She did not stop. She kept running toward the rear courtyard, and long before she rounded the corner of the house, she could hear the angry bite of steel on steel, the shrill metallic screech of offense and defense.

  The duelists faced each other, left arms bent and raised for balance, right arms in straight thrust, parrying, engaging, counterthrusting without a break in the stride or rhythm of their movements. It was like a ballet—a lethal, deadly ballet that had the crowd holding its collective breath, knowing from the first few strokes that these were no fainthearted academy duelists who would be worried more about the art of their footwork than the presentation of their blades. Each step was precise, calculated for the most efficient use of speed and strength. Each thrust and riposte was effected with a terrifying grace and beauty; a less experienced swordsman meeting one or the other would have been dead after the first pass.

  Hamilton had been pleasantly surprised by Montgomery’s level of skill. It meant he could display his own without fear of censure for having taken advantage of a lesser opponent. With that in mind, when they came together, their blades sliding to the hilts, Hamilton spun away, feinting to the left while he cut an agile backhand low across Montgomery’s exposed thigh. The crowd gasped as first blood was drawn, and, as was the custom, the men parted and paused a moment to acknowledge the point of honor.

  Montgomery waved away the physician with an impatient gesture, then raised his blade in a mocking salute. His face was hard, his jaw squared, his eyes catching the glow of the lanterns and smoldering like embers in a fire.

  At the call to encore, Hamilton went on the full attack, his teeth bared in savage delight. A slash. A stinging whip of steel on steel, and Montgomery was pressed briefly back into the shadows. Instinct found another opening, and the tip of the lieutenant’s blade sliced the flesh from Montgomery’s temple, just above his right ear. A dark red ribbon of blood spilled from the wound, running down the smooth-shaven jaw to splash the front of the white silk shirt. He barely registered the injury or the further cries of approval from the crowd of onlookers. He bared his own teeth in a snarl and launched himself at his adversary, the power of his counterattack driving Garner from one side of the ring to the other, their swords scattering the guests like leaves in a strong gust of wind. Montgomery forced him all the way into the lee of the stable, where a thundering riposte reversed the impetus again, carrying it back into the circle of yellow lantern light.

  The crowd was cheering now, wagering among themselves as both men, drenched in sweat, began to show signs of strain. Hamilton bore cuts to his arm and neck; the front of his shirt was slashed open from shoulder to waist. Montgomery’s thigh was bleeding profusely, and the entire left side of his face and throat was wet with blood. Garner suspected the merchant’s last attack had cost him in stamina—such a sustained onslaught could not help but weaken the wrist, deplete the reflexes. He could even detect the subtle shifting in the fluid stride as Montgomery began to compensate for the wound in his thigh. He willed aside his own fatigue, for he knew his victory would come at any moment. He could feel it, taste it, smell it in the damp, dark air as they fought and slashed a wide, furious circle around the stone fountain.

  The opening came with the next double touch, when both blades struck exposed flesh and came away red. Montgomery flinched and retreated, but Garner followed through, putting every last ounce of strength he possessed into the thrust. Montgomery appeared to fall, to stumble off balance, but at the last unlikely moment he shifted his weight forward in a maneuver that should have been impossible to execute. For a certainty Hamilton had not expected it, not this late in the contest. The two blades careened sharply together, the sparks exploding from the steel as Montgomery forced two, three inconceivably swift turns along Hamilton’s saber, causing the lieutenant’s wrist to roll and break tension. A further twist tore the hilt of Garner’s sword out of his numbed fingers and sent it cartwheeling across the cobblestones.

  In shock and disbelief Garner watched as Montgomery recovered his stance and brought his saber lunging forward for the coup de grâce.

  The tip of the blade, aimed unerringly for a point at midchest, veered, in one blink of the eye to the next, to plunge instead into the soft flesh between two ribs. The impact of the cold steel punching through muscle and tissue took his breath away, and Hamilton staggered back, his gaze fixed with a kind of fascinated horror on the blade as it sank hilt-deep into his flesh, piercing clean through to the other side. There was no pain, not immediately, only a curiously shrinking, sucking sensation that was more pronounced as Montgomery leaned back and pulled the saber free. It was smeared with blood, glinting red in the lantern light, and the lieutenant stared at it, waiting, knowing it would be piercing him again as Montgomery drove for the heart. Hamilton stood his ground, steadfastly refusing to give way to the urge to sag to his knees, although on the next gasped breath he had no choice. His limbs folded beneath him, bringing him down heavily on the damp cobblestones, the crunching of his tall leather boots the only sound in the otherwise hushed courtyard.

  Hamilton folded his hands over the rapidly spreading bloodstain and raised his eyes to Montgomery.

  “What are you waiting for?” he demanded hoarsely. “Finish it, you bastard.”

  Montgomery straightened, the unnatural glow fading slowly from his eyes. He stared at his sword for a moment, then, as if it had suddenly become something repulsive to him, threw it aside and took several steps back toward the flickering row of lanterns. />
  Hamilton’s seconds rushed forward and grabbed him beneath both arms to offer support. Montgomery was dimly aware of Damien pressing a wad of folded cloth into his hand, then guiding the hand up to staunch the flow of blood from his temple while someone else poked at the cut on his thigh.

  “Come on,” Damien urged quietly, aware of the goodly number of Hamilton’s fellow dragoons in the crowd. “I don’t think you have made any lasting friends here.”

  “Montgomery!”

  The London merchant stopped and turned. Garner was on his feet again, swaying against the efforts of his men to lead him to the side of the ring.

  “Don’t you walk away from me, you bastard!”

  Montgomery’s eyes narrowed. “I have no further quarrel with you, Lieutenant. Take your life and leave it at that.”

  “Leave it? I’ll leave nothing.” He shrugged off the hands holding him and lurched forward, the spittle tinged pink as it foamed on his lips. “You think this makes you the better man? You think this makes you any less of a coward? You were lucky, that’s all. Lucky.”

  “As you believe, Lieutenant. I’ll say good-bye to you now, however, with sincere wishes that we never meet again.”

  “Bastard.” Hamilton’s jaw clenched through a shudder of pain. “Bastard! You’re damned right we’ll meet again, and when we do you’ll regret you turned your back on me. Do you hear me, Montgomery? Don’t you walk away from me!”

  His seconds caught him as he collapsed under a wave of pain. His eyes rolled back so that just the whites showed, and he slumped unconscious into their arms. Two men hurried over with a long plank; he was placed on it and carried into the house, the doctor issuing anxious orders by his side.

  Damien, meanwhile, led Montgomery to the tack room at the rear of the stables, where he was induced to remove his shirt and breeches. The cut on his temple required some patience to staunch the bleeding; the thigh wound was deep enough to warrant stitches, but Damien thought it prudent not to wait on the doctor and sent instead for the groomsman who usually tended the Ashbrooke horses. The stitches were put in place slowly and painstakingly, and when the actual sewing was done, Damien sent him away and helped wrap the wound himself in tight cotton strips.

  “The sooner you are away from here the better,” Damien muttered. “Goddamn, I should have known something like this would happen.”

  Raefer bit the end off a fresh cigar and lit it. “Because of me or because the lieutenant is an arrogant sonofabitch who likes to play cock of the block?”

  Damien glared. “You may think all of this is amusing, but Garner meant what he said. He doesn’t forgive and he won’t forget.”

  “You’re saying I should have killed him?”

  “It might have saved us both a lot of trouble.”

  Montgomery’s response was delayed as he leaned over the water barrel and rinsed his face and throat. When he straightened, his gaze was drawn to the door of the tack room, where Sir Alfred Ashbrooke stood, his multiple chins quivering in the lamplight.

  Damien turned. “Father!”

  Sir Alfred ignored his son. “Mr. Montgomery. I felt obliged to come and compliment you on your skill. I do not believe I have seen such fine swordsmanship in all my days.”

  Montgomery finished drying himself and pulled on a pair of clean breeches. “It is not the kind of compliment I seek on a day-to-day basis, but I thank you nonetheless.”

  “I thought you might also be relieved to know the wound in the lieutenant’s side, while certainly serious, is not likely to be fatal. The doctor feels it was quite a precise cut, missing most of the vital organs, and he anticipates a full recovery in time.” He paused a moment and clasped his hands behind his back, swaying slightly against a wave of alcoholic vapors. It was obvious he had been drinking heavily, his usual belligerence heightened by the effects of strong brandy. “I am encouraged to see your own wounds are minimal. Your … wife and family will be grateful to get you home in one piece.”

  Montgomery’s eyes flickered again as Colonel Halfyard loomed up in the doorway behind Sir Alfred, his nose just as red, his eyes just as bleary. “I appreciate the sentiment, but I am not married.”

  “Ah.” Sir Alfred smiled crookedly and nodded to the colonel, who in turn gave a signal to someone standing out of sight. That “someone” proved to be six armed dragoon officers, their uniforms tinting the shadows scarlet.

  Montgomery scanned the hostile faces before arching an eyebrow warily. “Have you come to arrest me, then?”

  “The duel was fairly fought,” Colonel Halfyard declared. “Fairly won. No need for an arrest.”

  Montgomery shrugged his big shoulders into a clean shirt. “In that case, I assure you the escort is unnecessary. I have no intentions of overstaying my welcome.”

  “The escort, sir, is to ensure your cooperation in fulfilling the rest of your obligation.”

  “The … rest of my obligation?” Montgomery frowned. “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “Neither do I,” Damien said. “Raefer was challenged, he met the challenge, and won—honorably, as Colonel Halfyard has already noted. What else is expected of him?”

  Sir Alfred pursed his lips and rocked back on his heels like a lecturing prelate. “You were challenged for taking liberties with my daughter. You accepted the challenge. You won. These men are here to see that you assume your full responsibility.”

  Montgomery retrieved his cigar, but it did not quite reach his lips. “My … responsibility?”

  “Indeed. Your exact words were, I believe, I saw something I wanted and I took it. You fought for my daughter, sir, and you have won her fairly. Both she and the Reverend Mister Duvall have been taken to the library to await your cooperation in this matter.”

  Montgomery said nothing. Damien gaped at his father as if he could not possibly have interpreted his meaning correctly. “You can’t be serious.”

  “I assure you, I am very serious. Deadly serious, in fact, as are each of these six young men who are more than willing to see that Mr. Montgomery does the honorable thing to salvage your sister’s reputation … unto the death, if necessary.”

  Montgomery stared. Hard. Only the squared ridge of his jaw betrayed the control it was taking to keep his anger in check.

  “Let me get this straight,” he said through the grating of his teeth. “You expect me to marry your daughter? Here? Tonight?”

  “By your own admission, sir, having neither wife nor family, you are free to do so.”

  “You know nothing about me.”

  “I pride myself in being an excellent judge of character,” Sir Alfred countered smoothly. “And I judge you to be more than adequate to the task of managing my daughter’s somewhat headstrong tendencies. Further, as a businessman, I am sure you can appreciate the fact that a union with Catherine does not come without financial rewards. She was bequeathed quite a handsome dowry by her maternal grandmother—a dowry I am prepared to match, a pound to the penny.”

  Damien stepped forward, his face a tight white mask. “You’re talking about Catherine as if she were a commodity, a piece of dry goods available to the highest bidder. She is your daughter, for Christ’s sake. Your own flesh and blood.”

  Sir Alfred’s face reddened. “As such she should know I am a man of my word. I warned her—especially after the last escapade—that I would not tolerate such behavior, yet she seems determined to defy me time and time again. And unless you can produce irrefutable proof that Mr. Montgomery is a liar or a cheat, a thief, a murderer, or a carnivore, I can see no reason to deny him his just rewards! If he is any or all of those things, then these selfsame fine officers will be more than happy to escort him to prison where he belongs.”

  The muscles in Damien’s jaw worked furiously. “Does Catherine have nothing to say about this?”

  “Not one single thing,” Sir Alfred said bluntly. He looked at Montgomery and swelled out his chest. “Well, sir? What shall it be? Six more stout young duelists … or a quiet cerem
ony in my library?”

  “He could refuse to many her, and he could refuse to fight,” Damien persisted. “What would then be your recourse, sir? To shoot him out of hand?”

  Sir Alfred pursed his lips. “Nothing quite so drastic, I assure you, but his refusal would pose some difficulties, to be sure. Difficulties that could take weeks, perhaps months to resolve to everyone’s satisfaction. Mr. Montgomery would, of course, be detained in the colonel’s gaol until such time as the King’s court could be petitioned for a ruling—he seems to have a great deal of knowledge about black-market goods, for instance, and his references would have to be investigated thoroughly, including his business interests and associates.”

  “That’s blackmail!” Damien gasped and looked at Montgomery. “They can’t force you to do this.”

  Raefer’s jaw clamped down hard enough on his cigar to break off the end. “They aren’t leaving me much of a choice. Unfortunately, I have neither the time to waste rotting in their gaol, nor the inclination to fight any more of your sister’s misguided champions.” He sent the cigar hissing into the barrel of water and tucked the loose ends of his shirt into the waist of his breeches. “Let’s get it over with, gentlemen.”

  “Your waistcoat, sir. Your jacket?” Sir Alfred snatched up both as Montgomery brushed past him out the door.

  The tall Londoner stopped and cast a fulminating glance downward. “If you want me that badly, you’ll take me as I am.”

  He strode past Colonel Halfyard and walked angrily out into the courtyard. There were still some guests lingering in the mist-shrouded lantern light, talking excitedly among themselves, replaying every detail of the duel. They fell instantly silent when they saw Montgomery with his escort of dragoons, and most of them, picking up the scent of a new scandal, moved hurriedly to follow them into the manor house.

  Once inside, Sir Alfred’s much shorter legs had to scramble considerably faster to overtake the merchant and lead the way up the stairs and along the corridor to his library. He flung the doors wide and waited for Montgomery, Colonel Halfyard, and a dazed and disbelieving Damien Ashbrooke to enter before closing them again, leaving crisp orders with the dragoons that no one was to enter or leave without his express permission.