Lady Vixen (52 page)

Simon
nodded. He was under no illusions about his youngest son but felt he had to say
some word in his defense. "Robert didn't want to marry that pale-faced
little thing, but I insisted upon it. It was," he said with a painful
smile, "an excellent match. I forced him into it, thinking I was doing it
for the best." His face suddenly sad and haunted, he glanced at Mrs.
Eggleston. "You would have thought I'd have learned better, considering I
had done the same thing myself."

Mrs.
Eggleston smiled mistily at him. "Don't let it distress you, my dear, it
is
in the past."

Regina
watched them, torn—retreat and let them work things out or stay and fight for
Nicole, even if the little baggage didn't want her to? Fighting won, simply
because any fool could see that it was only a matter of time until Letitia and
Simon worked out their own future, something, she acknowledged with a faint
pang of regret, that they could do without her help, whereas Nicole . . .

"That's
all very well and good!" she said briskly. "But it still doesn't make
Robert a proper husband for Nicole."

"Hmm,
no, it don't. But I'll not have that young filly forced into marriage with my
grandson, simply because we three think it a capital idea. If she wants Robert,
I won't stand in her way," Simon said heavily.

Regina
could have shaken him. Of all times for Simon to turn romantic! People of their
station had been marrying without love for centuries, and here he was objecting
just as if she were intent upon thrusting the girl into marriage with a man
half in the grave and repulsive as a toad, instead of a fine healthy animal
like Christopher.

"Very
well," she said coldly. "If you are not willing to help, there is
nothing I can do." Then her icy front melted instantly, and she wailed,
"But, Simon, Nicole doesn't want Robert, she only thinks she does! Even
Letty believes that Nicole and Christopher are in love, but too stupid and
proud to admit it!"

Simon
glanced at Mrs. Eggleston. "That true, Letty?"

Mrs.
Eggleston nervously pleated her pale blue satin gown. She wouldn't look at him
as she said softly, "I believe so. We were once as they, and let our pride
blind us."

Simon
paled, for it was the nearest they had ever come to discussing their own
abortive love affair. But first things first, he thought determinedly.
"I'll compromise. I will not deny, nor confirm to Robert that there is an
agreement between Nicole and Christopher, and I will withhold my consent for
the time being for a match between Robert and Nicole."

It
was the most Regina could hope for and with it she had to be content. At least,
she thought comfortingly, Simon would not, for the moment, allow an engagement
between Robert and Nicole to take place.

***

Christopher's
day started simply—a morning's fencing at Angelo's. Christopher had spent
several hours over the months boxing at Gentleman Jackson's salon at Number 13
Old Bond Street, but while he enjoyed the gloves, his real love was the sword.
He was frequently found at Angelo's with a rapier in his strong hand as he
worked off some of his pent-up energy.

This
particular morning he had stopped in with Captain Buckley and Lieutenant
Kettlescope for an hour or two with the foils. Perhaps a dozen or so gentlemen
were in the studio, several watching the little Frenchman Angelo as he revealed
the intricacies of a rather involved parry.

There
was an exchange of greetings, and Christopher and Captain Buckley walked to the
changing rooms. Lieutenant Kettlescope, a slender young man with sleepy blue
eyes, decided suddenly that he really didn't feel like exerting himself after
all and ambled to a seat in the box window that overlooked a courtyard.

Captain
Buckley cast a merry smile at Christopher. "Anthony, I fear, is truly a
lazy fellow. I wonder how he manages to fulfill his duties when on board
ship?"

Christopher
merely shrugged, not in the mood for idle conversation. He was still struggling
with his conscience over using Buckley and Kettlescope for his own ends, and he
sometimes found it difficult to respond to their careless, lighthearted
conversation. Today was no different, but some of his moroseness vanished when
they met in the arena a few minutes later.

Christopher
was already a formidable opponent, an accomplished swordsman few would care to
meet in a real contest of skill. Captain Buckley, a few years Christopher's
senior, was no novice himself, but shorter, just under six feet, and more
compactly built; what he lacked in height, he made up for in fury.

They
bowed mockingly at each other, then the tips of their buttoned foils kissed
briefly, and
"En garde!"
During the next half hour they filled
the air with the whistle and clash of expertly handled steel blades.

Captain
Buckley, breathing heavily and powerless against Christopher's blade,
eventually called a halt. "Damn you, Chris, why don't you ever lower your
bloody guard? I thought I had you with that
flanconade,
but you were too
fast for me—blast it!"

The
two of them were at the moment the only ones using the wooden-floored fencing
arena, and they noticed that all the gentlemen, including Angelo and some
others, were gathered near the front of the building, laughing and exchanging
jests.

Captain
Buckley, never one to be behind the times, immediately strode toward the group
and demanded good-naturedly, "What is so interesting that you are all
clucking like a gaggle of geese over a crust of bread?"

"It
is Daventry! He has the drollest story about Brummell and the regent. Come
listen!"

Christopher,
not overly interested in the latest conflict between Prinny and his greatest of
dandies, remained standing where he was. He paid little attention to the story
being told; his gaze wandered over the group—and suddenly fell on Robert.

Robert
was lounging at the edge of the circle, evidently having accompanied the
gossipy Daventry, for Christopher was certain his uncle had not been there
earlier. Apparently Robert was also uninterested in the current story, for as
their eyes met he sauntered slowly toward Christopher.

It
was an accident that Robert was here at Angelo's this morning. Past the age of
wild, youthful spirits, he seldom felt the need to exhaust himself in any such
activities. But he was an excellent swordsman and had watched intently the last
few minutes of Christopher's exchange with Buckley.

Robert's
pursuit of Nicole had made him willing to let his feud with Christopher wait
for a more opportune moment, but last night's exchange with Regina had pointed
out rather painfully to him that Christopher could still thwart his plans. The
thought that Nicole was to be Christopher's wife woke all his sleeping rage.
Seeing the object of his hatred standing negligently before him, so much nearer
Nicole's age than his, so tall and handsome, he experienced a terrible burst of
fury. He mastered it, but his eyes were hostile. "You handled that foil
rather well . . . for someone so obviously untrained," Robert sneered, his
jealousy driving him half mad.

Christopher
eyed him coolly. "Now how would you know whether or not I am trained? I
thought I did very nicely for myself."

Robert
shrugged his shoulders and reached carelessly for one of the many foils that lined
the walls of the studio. "Oh, no doubt you've picked -up a parlor trick or
two," he offered contemptuously, running a limber, deadly rapier through
one hand. "But I, my nephew, have killed my man in a duel."

"How?"
Christopher inquired derisively. "A thrust in the back?"

"Damn
you!" Robert snarled through clenched teeth. And not stopping to consider
his actions, he flipped the button from the tip of the foil and then, without
even giving the fencer's required warning
"En garde,"
lunged
at Christopher with the unsheathed blade.

Like
a cat, Christopher leaped away, swiftly parrying Robert's wild attack. There
was a savage flurry of rapid movements, but Christopher recovered quickly.

Concentrating
on evading Robert's naked blade, Christopher retreated unhurriedly before
several vicious feints, parrying them expertly, almost lazily. After a moment,
when it was obvious that Robert meant to continue this uneven fight,
Christopher commented in a level tone, "The button is off your foil, or
hadn't you noticed?"

Robert
smiled. "Really? I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about."
He lunged violently forward on his right foot, launching a flying attack, but
Christopher easily deflected the aim of Robert's blade.

Their
faces momentarily close, Christopher, his own temper rising dangerously,
taunted, "You'll have to do better than that, Uncle. Or is it only with
the weak and foolish that you appear to advantage?"

Robert
drew in his breath with a hiss of rage and disengaged their blades. "I can
promise you, you will regret that statement."

"Oh.
Another meeting with a press-gang, or did you have something more . . . ah . .
. honorable in mind this time?"

The
blades met with a clash, and Robert, his eyes cold and furious began a series
of deadly and deliberately false attacks, attempting to lure Christopher into a
premature parry.

Coolly,
Christopher assessed the situation. It was inconceivable that Robert was so far
from reason that he would attempt to kill him in a room full of gentlemen, but
something was eating at the other man, making him totally irrational.
Christopher spared a lightning glance at the oblivious chatting group at the
opposite end of the room, but for the moment no one was paying them any
attention. He could call for help, but he dismissed the notion the instant it
crossed his mind—his pride would not allow it.

As
they fought fiercely, Kettlescope suddenly shouted, "My God! Mr. Saxon,
the button is off your foil! 'Ware! 'Ware!"

Kettlescope
had been sleepily contemplating a fly on the windowsill when the furious tempo
of the exchange between Christopher and Robert caught his attention. It
happened occasionally that the buttons did come off foils accidentally, and
Kettlescope not unnaturally assumed that this was what had occurred, as did the
several other gentlemen who now looked in the combatants' direction.

Thinking
that Robert would cease his attack now that attention had been brought to them,
Christopher lowered his guard. Robert, unable to resist the tempting target,
allowed himself a spiteful and deliberate lightning thrust; Christopher's quick
and instant recovery deflected the aim, but the foible glanced along his arm,
leaving a bright, welling red slash.

Kettlescope
reached them first, and Buckley was not two steps behind him. The others, now
alarmed, were streaming across the wooden floor.

There
was, however, no doubt in anyone's mind that it was an accident—a terrible
accident that could have happened to anyone. It had looked as if Robert,
apparently unaware of his naked blade, had not stopped his last thrust. His
sense of self-preservation overpowering the hatred in his heart, Robert was
quick to take advantage of the misconception. Throwing his blade aside, a
tragic expression on his face, he cried in a loud voice, "Oh, my God! I
had no idea! Nephew, are you much hurt?"

It
was all Christopher could do not to skewer him as he stood there, but the wound
was not as slight as it appeared and he was losing blood at an alarming rate.
Kettlescope, efficiently whipping out his large white handkerchief, was binding
Christopher's arm, staunching the flow of blood, when Christopher said in a
low, taut voice, "I'll live! Unfortunately for you!"

Kettlescope
glanced up sharply, but Robert was already walking away and saying in a worried
tone, "I must find a physician. Angelo, where is the nearest surgeon? My
nephew must be seen to at once!"

Ignoring
the adjurations of the group, Christopher grimly proceeded to change into his
street wear, only consenting to remain still once the physician arrived.

The
physician pursed his lips and looked sour when he examined the long, deep
slicing wound in Christopher's muscled arm, but after dressing it with an
antiseptic powder and rebinding it in soft bleached muslin, he stated gloomily
that there was nothing wrong that a few weeks of rest would not cure. Giving
Christopher the further instructions that the dressing should be changed twice
daily for a few days and that the arm should be supported in a sling until the
cut was healed enough not to break open again, he repacked his leather bag and
departed.

Robert
had used the intervening time to good avail; his face wore such an expression
of avuncular concern that it set Christopher's teeth on edge. No one questioned
Robert's apparent worry, and once Christopher, accompanied by his two
companions, had departed, the incident was forgotten—after all, it was just an
unfortunate accident, wasn't it?

The
news of Christopher's wounding reached Cavendish Square before noon, and
hearing of it, Nicole felt a queer lurch in her heart. For the briefest second
it crossed her mind that she was in some way responsible for what had happened,
but then telling herself it had to have been the accident everyone said it was,
she was left with only the forlorn knowledge that Christopher still had the
power to move her, whether she wanted him to or not.