Lady Vixen (73 page)

Christopher
could hardly choke back the gust of laughter that shook him at Simon's
outrageous words. With barely disguised amusement in his voice, he replied,
"Ah, yes. That point of view had not occurred to me. Perhaps it is even
fortunate that things have fallen as they have."

Simon
glared at him. "Yes. Yes, it is! And now if you're going—get!"

Hearing
the raw pain in Simon's tone, Christopher's amusement fled, and reaching over
the desk, he extended his hand, and as Simon grasped it tightly, he said
simply, "Good-bye, grandfather. Look for me come summer."

"I
will—and you had damn well better be here!"

Neither
man spoke of the dangers involved in the long sea journey, nor did Christopher
allow himself to think of Simon's age. Christopher said softly, "I will
be. Depend upon it!" The clasped hands tightened a moment longer and then Christopher
was gone.

The
night was growing colder, Christopher thought to himself, when at last he urged
his horse in the direction of Rottingdean. If everything went as planned, in
less than two hours he and Higgins would be on their way back to New Orleans.

Nicole's
whereabouts vexed him not a little, and even though there was probably a
reasonable explanation for her continued absence, he would have liked to know
precisely what had happened to keep her from returning home. There were dozens
of reasons that occurred to him, but none of them found any favor with him. He
was beset with a nagging premonition that Nicole was in some kind of danger,
and no matter how often he told himself that she had gone for a ride with
Robert and that they had probably lost a wheel or stayed overlong visiting with
friends, he was never quite satisfied. And because he was worried, a fact he
would not admit to himself, he was also blazingly angry with Nicole for acting
in such a reprehensible manner. Baggage! he thought cynically, running about
the countryside with two men, just like a common little trollop! He'd not waste
another moment on her. Let Edward Markham and Robert fight over her— he was
getting the hell out.

***

Having
followed Robert's gig to the house, Edward had hovered about outside for
several minutes, unable to decide precisely what his next move should be. He
had not yet discarded murder, and he was searching for an entrance into the
house, when he saw Nicole and Robert through the glass doors of the drawing room.
Outside in the darkness he had watched intently the scene being acted—Robert's
writing of the note, Nicole's dash across the room, and eventually her
departure. A wolfish smile on his lips, he undid the sword cane. Such a little
actress his cousin, he was going to enjoy her performance when he at last drove
this blade through her black heart. But first there was Robert. Gently testing
the glass doors, he discovered to his delight that they were unlocked. Silently
he opened them and slipped into the room while Robert was momentarily gone.

Hearing
approaching footsteps, Edward quickly hid behind a pair of russet drapes and
watched with satisfaction as Robert returned and seated himself before the
fire. His back was to Edward, and taking instant advantage of that fact, Edward
crept across the room, until with the blade pointed at Robert's neck, he said
softly, "Don't move! If you do, I'll kill you!"

Robert
stiffened, but remained perfectly still. "Is that you, Markham?" he
asked at last, having recognized the voice.

Edward
chuckled with malicious satisfaction. "Is that you, Markham?" he
mimicked. Keeping the blade on Robert, he walked around in front of him.
"Of course it is! Who else did you think it was? Did you really believe
that I would let Nicole escape me so easily?" Drunk with success, the blue
eyes almost feverish, he taunted, "Not so eager to meet me now, are you? I
heard what you said to Nicole out there on the Brighton Road—said I needed to
meet a man. Well, I've met a man and what does he do, but sit there!"

Coolly
Robert eyed him, taking in the bloodstained coat and the occasional slight sway
that told of a loss of blood. Almost politely he asked, "May I stand? If
we are going to talk for any great length I would prefer to be nearer the
fire."

Suspiciously
Edward stared at him. Deciding it seemed a harmless request and feeling
magnanimous in his power, he graciously assented, watching with an owllike gaze
as Robert, a glass of wine in one hand, stood up and walked to the fireplace.

Civilly
Robert asked, "Now tell me, Markham, precisely what it is that you
want?"

Edward
giggled, the blood he had lost making him light-headed. "I'll tell you
what I want," he said thickly, waving the sword cane about erratically.
"I want Nicole. You send for her!"

Unhurriedly
Robert took a sip from his wineglass and then, when Edward took a menacing step
forward, flung the glass and its contents into his face. As Edward bawled with
fury and surprise. Robert leaped for one of the swords crossed above the
mantel, quickly wrenching it free. Then Robert stalked Edward around the room,
the sea-colored eyes queerly bright.

The
situation had reversed itself so swiftly that Edward was still reeling with
shock as he stumbled away from Robert's steady advance. Haphazardly he parried
Robert's murderous attack; his short sword cane was useless against the long,
deadly blade the other man wielded so effortlessly. It was like killing a
rabbit in a trap, and Robert smiled to himself as he drove the sword into
Edward's unprotected throat.

There
was an odd little gurgle from Edward, and then he slid to the floor. Absently,
Robert wiped his sword clean and looked broodingly down at the corpse. Now what
the devil was he to do with a body? The sound of the sea caught his attention
and he smiled again. Of course, the sea.

But
as he reached down and began to pull Edward's body toward the open glass doors,
he heard the sound of an approaching horse. Tensely he waited for the animal to
pass, but it did not.

Christopher
had not meant to stop at Robert's house again that evening, but he could not
put aside the thought of Nicole. Where in God's name had she gone, and why?
Simon was right, though, he reminded himself grimly— where Nicole was at the
moment made little difference to his plans—she would return home eventually
whether he was there or not. That thought should have dispelled her from his
mind, but it didn't, and so when his horse approached Robert's house,
Christopher couldn't withstand the impulse to satisfy his curiosity.

Dismounting
and tying his horse to the post, he glanced over at the large coach horse
standing near the corner of the house and wondered idly what the animal was
doing here. The front of a gentleman's residence was certainly an odd place for
it to be.

Everything
was odd, he thought impatiently—Nicole's going off like that, Robert's walking
out in the middle of an important discussion with Simon, and now a horse with
no saddle, parts of its harness still strapped to the body, was calmly cropping
the sparse grass that grew near the house. His interest aroused, he walked over
to the animal and ran his hands knowledgeably over the broad back, feeling the
slight lingering dampness. Been ridden quite a distance, he concluded. He gave
the animal one last pat and started to walk up to the front door, when he
noticed the glow of light spilling out from the side of the house.

It
was obvious from the intensity and amount of light being shed that a door was
open, and after a brief hesitation Christopher went down the same path Edward
had followed, and halted just outside the pool of light, staring into the
drawing room.

Strangely
enough, when Christopher looked into the room, the first thing he saw was
neither Robert, nor Edward's sprawled body, but Nicole's pelisse, still lying
carelessly on one of the chairs near the doors. He recognized it instantly,
having selected it and paid for it in New Orleans. Little bitch, he thought
savagely, little goddamn bitch! He took an angry step forward and then in that
second realized that the room was not empty.

Robert
was there and Edward Markham too. A very dead Edward Markham, he discovered
without surprise, as Robert bent down once again and began to drag the body
toward the open doors.

For
a moment Christopher almost turned his back on the entire scene, revolted by
the ugly conclusion that flamed across his brain. Nicole was obviously with her
lover, and it appeared her lover had killed the rival for her affections. It
was so tawdry and sordid it sickened him, and was just the sort of thing that
Nicole's mother, Annabelle, would have reveled in. Nicole, it seemed, was not
much better. He took a step away but, remembering Simon's worried, apprehensive
face, decided to intervene not for Nicole's sake, but for his grandfather's—or
so he told himself. What Robert did with Markham's body he didn't care to waste
much thought on, but the apparent relationship between Nicole and Robert ate at
him like acid, and fondly he imagined Nicole's slender throat in his hands.

Christopher
must have made some sound, or Robert, his nerves already agitated by the
cold-blooded killing of Edward, sensed him standing there just outside the
drawing room and glanced up. For a long timeless moment their eyes met and
held. Then with a half-pleased, half-mad smile on his face, Robert dropped
Edward's arm and stood up.

"So,"
he said, "it appears we will meet at last."

There
was no need for explanations between them; each was aware that this night would
see the final deadly battle between them. All the old wrongs, the ugly hatred
between them would be settled... in blood.

Christopher
nodded at Robert's words and with a long, easy stride walked into the room. He
didn't look at Robert as he shrugged out of his greatcoat; instead, his
assessing gaze traveled almost idly around the room. Rolling up the sleeves of
his white linen shirt, he asked briefly, "What will it be, swords or
pistols? Here or on the beach?"

Equally
businesslike, Robert replied, "Swords. Yours is there above the mantel. I
already have mine. As you may not have noticed, it has served me well once
already this evening."

Christopher's
lips moved in something that might have been called a smile. "I had
noticed. But where do we. finish this farce? Here?"

"Why
not? The furniture can be pushed aside."

Both
men set to work with deadly amiability, shoving the heavy furniture against the
walls of the room until a large empty space was cleared. Still without
speaking, both men sat down and removed their boots and stockings, each wishing
for the extra balance and mobility afforded by bare feet.

His
boots off, Christopher strode over to the mantel and plucked down the remaining
sword, running it lightly through his hand, checking the perfection of the
blade, the weight in his hand. Turning to Robert, now also with a sword in his
hand, he said in a level tone, "Your choice in weapons is to be applauded.
This is an uncommonly fine blade."

Robert
bowed mockingly and answered with a sneer, "Did you ever know me when I
did not have the finest? Be it swords or women?"

A
cold light entered Christopher's gold eyes, making them glitter in the
firelight. Deliberately he murmured, "But do you have her, Uncle? Or
rather I should say . . . can you
keep
her?"

It
was a studied insult, and Robert's hand tightened around his sword, his mouth
thinning with fury. "By God, you'll pay for that!" he spat.
"En
garde!"

Christopher
met Robert's attack eagerly, their blades singing in the air. Instantly
disengaging his sword and leaping nimbly away from Robert's maddened thrust,
Christopher taunted, "Come now, Uncle, you'll have to do better than that!
After all, this time we are evenly matched. Or is it that you only show to
advantage when your opponent is relatively unarmed?"

Robert's
teeth ground together in rage, but he held onto his temper, guessing that
Christopher was consciously infuriating him. Smiling grotesquely Robert hissed,
"Brave words for a man who runs before my sword. Come closer, Nephew, and
we shall see the truth of your taunts."

Christopher
made no reply; his expression was deceptively lazy as almost contemptuously he
parried Robert's furious lunge and danced easily away from the older man.

"Damn
you! Come to me and fight!" Robert snapped, breathing heavily.

"I
will, Uncle, I will, have no fear of that," Christopher replied coldly,
and then suddenly reversing his defensive actions, he charged Robert, his blade
flashing in lightning strokes, driving the other man before him.

They
fought grimly and silently, except for the soft thud of their bare feet on the
carpet and the occasional clash of their swords, the firelight gleaming on the
flashing blades. There was a deadly atmosphere in the room that increased by
the second, as time after time, Robert was just able to turn aside the swift
and wicked thrust of Christopher's blade. But Robert was tiring and he knew
it—knew too that there was no escape from this attack, that this was no fencing
master's display, no polite duel with its punctilious niceties.

For
each of them nothing existed except the other, and the hatred they shared;
nothing was real except the other man's sword, always feinting, thrusting, and
parrying, each always avoiding the one little lessening of the guard that would
allow this inevitable meeting to end. They were two tall men, two handsome men,
evenly matched in many ways, and the rage both had contained for too long was
now in full blaze, racing uncontrollably through their veins.