My Pleasure (35 page)

“But he despoiled you. He stained you.” DeMarc’s voice lowered, grew dark and angry. “A man has his pride, Helena. A man, a real man, does not stand for another man poaching on his land, does he?”

“Am I a parcel of land, milord?”

“What?” DeMarc sounded confused. An excellent feint, Ram thought. Keep him distracted, off balance. He had reached a point where could see them now. DeMarc’s sword pointed at Helena’s heart as he slowly backed her into a corner of the twisting alley.

“How much land?” Helena asked. “An acre? A hectare? Or more of a kitchen garden plot?”

“You are mocking me!”

“You are insulting me.”

“You can’t insult a slut.”

Ram slipped along the shadows in the alley, looking around desperately for something to use as a weapon. There was nothing.

“I am surprised a man of your discrimination should have been inveigled by the likes of me.”

“You weren’t always a slut,” DeMarc said sullenly. “But just like Sarah Sweet, you thought you could leave me. Throw me over for that black-haired bastard. Why?” His voice rose, shrill and infuriated.

Helena blanched. Damn it! Ram thought. Still too far away. DeMarc might lunge at Helena before he could get to him.

“Don’t worry. I know what to do,” the viscount said. “I know how to save you. We discussed it. You must die.”

“How will that save me?” She had no bluster left. Ram could see it in her eyes. Her momentary hubris had died, leaving only fear.

“You won’t be able to sin against me anymore. No more betrayal. No more lies. Just like Sarah.” His voice had grown gentle, almost musing. He reached out with the tip of his blade and let it flirt with her décolletage. She closed her eyes and trembled. “You were so perfect. I shall weep for you, my dear.”

“Save your tears for yourself, Viscount,” Ram said, stepping into the light.

DeMarc spun away from Helena, his sword’s tip grazing her bosom. Ramsey stood with customary poise, bare headed, sans coat, sans waistcoat, sans gloves. Sans sword.

“Munro!” DeMarc exclaimed. “How kind of you to join us.”

“How could I refuse such a charming invitation, Viscount?” Ramsey countered.

“What? What nonsense are you talking, Munro? No matter. You are here. Just in time to die.”

“I had rather hoped that that time would prove later rather than sooner.”

DeMarc shrugged, trying to adopt Ramsey’s supercilious ease. “You are doomed for disappointment.”

“As opposed to you, Viscount, who are simply doomed.”

“Am I?”

“Indeed, yes. You injured Miss Nash, and that I will not tolerate. How seriously are you wounded, Miss Nash?”

“’Tis a scratch,” Helena called out hastily. Despite his seeming insouciance, Ram’s concern for her might distract him. “I swear it.”

“Thank you, my dear,” he said quietly, and now the expression he turned on DeMarc was enough to make her blood run cold. “I think Miss Nash ought to leave now. I do not think it necessary that she witness this next bit of nonsense.”

“What’s that? Your death?” DeMarc replied, smiling with terrible confidence. “But I would rather she stay. Indeed, if she moves; I shall skewer her straight through her heart. Then I will kill you.” His gaze flicked for a second toward her.

“You get back in that corner. Now! Or die,” he told her, and because she must pass within the striking range of his sword to do otherwise, she edged back toward the corner.

“Now, Munro, ’tis time to make a pretty farewell and die.”

He advanced toward Munro with his sword held slightly down, palm up, as if in invitation. Munro did not move. With the speed of a striking snake, DeMarc lashed out, and Munro arched away just in time.

“Very good, Munro. One would think you’d been used for target practice before. But then, if the rumors are true, you have!” He chuckled, the tip of his blade describing little circles in the air.

He struck again. This time Ram could not completely avoid the lethal tip. It slipped through his shirt, laying it open along his ribs and exposing a welling red line.

Helena bit down on her lip until she tasted blood. She mustn’t make the slightest sound or smallest movement or do anything that would distract him.

“What?” DeMarc sneered. “Nothing to say?”

Ram looked down and up, angling a black brow insouciantly. “Why do people keep insisting upon ruining my perfectly good shirts?”

“Munro!” The sudden shout caused both men to look around. Lord Figburt stood in the alley a half-dozen yards away, clutching a sword. “Your weapon!” he called as he flung it forward.

The blade flashed in the air, glinting in the half-light. Ramsey caught it by the hilt, the blade making a sweet whooshing sound as he wheeled back and around. “Ah,” he said with gentle pleasure. “Just what I was looking for. My thanks, Figburt.”

The boy blustered, backpedaling quickly. But Ram was not looking at him. His gaze was fixed with lethal calm upon DeMarc. “Viscount. Make your pretty farewells.”

With a roar, DeMarc charged, his attack striking Ram’s blade. The sound rang out sharply in the closed confines of the alley.

Ram parried the attack, but DeMarc’s strength obviously surprised him. DeMarc’s footwork carried him in close. His blade flashed and darted, making little glyphs in the air. But no matter what line he sought, Ram closed it off; no matter what attack he made, Ram parried it.

She should have run, Helena knew. DeMarc was far too occupied now to heed her. But she stood frozen, afraid that any movement she made would catch Ram’s eyes and allow DeMarc’s gleaming point the sheath it sought.

“My God!” she heard a voice say from down the alley. “It’s DeMarc! And it looks as if his point is bare!”

The unknown man was right. The thick wad of bunting that cushioned the sharp tip of competitors’ swords was missing from DeMarc’s blade. She looked around at a small group of young men gathering in the doorway that led to the alley. She wanted to shout, to scream at them to get help, to stop this madness before Ram was hurt, but once more the thought of distracting Ram muted her.

“Who’s that he’s fighting?” one of them asked.

“It’s Munro!”

“But Munro is set to fight the final bout!”

“It’s Munro, I tell you! Go get the others!”

Please, God. Keep him safe, she prayed as the battle continued. This was no orchestrated match. It was ugly, deadly, and in earnest. DeMarc fought like a madman, passion and vitriol lending his usual skill uncanny strength and force. Ram’s counters, in contrast, were light, almost delicate, a hissing displacement of DeMarc’s killing line, a feint that led DeMarc’s attack an inch wide. His movements were economical, but he did not press for openings, he did not follow DeMarc’s retreats.

“The same low line again, DeMarc? How many times is this? Five? Six? That was ever your weakness, all technique and no artistry.”

“I’ll promise to paint a picture with your heart’s blood if you like.”

“Ah, subtle. Like your change of engagement. You have tried a change of engagement, haven’t you? I can’t quite tell.”

A moment of silence as the blades clattered, and then both duelists dropped back, eyeing each other warily.

“My God! It is Munro and DeMarc!” More voices, this time from the windows overlooking the alley from the second floor of the amphitheater.

Helena glanced up. Men and women crowded several of the windows. As she watched, more were flung wide. She glanced around and saw that people filled the end of the alley now, shifting and craning their necks to see better. Two middle-aged ladies had managed to climb a loaded dray wagon to sit atop the crates in their silk gowns and feathered headdresses as if they were still in their box seats.

By God, didn’t they understand what was happening? That Ram’s life was at stake?

“Bastard!” Her head snapped round at DeMarc’s frustrated cry of fury. He’d marched Ram down the alley, trying to corner him behind a row of barrels. But Ram had defeated his intent by springing atop one of them and kicking over its companion, sending it careening toward DeMarc. The viscount swore viciously as he dodged out of its path.

With a cavalier laugh, Ram leapt to the ground.

“Why don’t you just let me kill you, Munro?” DeMarc demanded, striving to regain his aplomb.

“Now where would the art in that be? And without art, what satisfaction in the win?”

“Your concern for me is most touching.”

“I swear, Viscount,” Ram said conversationally as his blade slipped along the length of DeMarc’s, “you have improved since last we exchanged pleasantries. Whatever have you been doing?”

DeMarc, his arm supple and wicked, executed a short, rapid series of flicks that landed on Ram’s forearms, tearing open the skin. “Practicing for your death!”

Ram retreated, making a quarter turn away from DeMarc’s attack, exposing his side, inviting a hit. DeMarc accepted. He lunged forward, but at the last moment Ram twisted, plunging the point of his sword into the viscount’s extended bicep.

“Ah!” The viscount jumped back.

Ram smiled grimly. “Your time would have been better served practicing your remiss.”

“I’ll feast on your grave,” DeMarc swore.

“So morbid, Viscount. You used to have more pleasant manners. Like all those roses you showered on Miss Nash. I own I was surprised at so romantic a gesture.”

“What roses?” DeMarc snarled impatiently. “I gave her no roses. I gave her my heart! But she would rather have your—”

“Now, Viscount,” Ram chided, but his gaze was hard. “If that is an example of your address, ’tis no wonder Miss Nash would not have you.”

At the sound of Helena’s name, the viscount’s eyes narrowed. “Oh, I shall have her, Munro. Then I shall kill her. Like I did Sarah Sweet.”

“Viscount,” Ram said, falling back and taking his stance, “that was most decidedly the wrong thing to say. En garde.”

And now, finally, Helena realized what Ram had been doing these long minutes. Not only had he been allowing the viscount to exhaust himself with his lunges and heavy, bludgeoning attacks, but he’d been watching him, studying him, mentally critiquing DeMarc’s skills.

And now he knew them.

His attack was swift and lethal, so quick the eye could barely register it. DeMarc at once fell back before the initial assault. Ram followed him with supple, graceful footwork, taking advantage of his momentary imbalance, forcing DeMarc to give ground even as his blade beat away DeMarc’s increasingly agitated barrage.

It was over as swiftly as it had begun. One minute, DeMarc was lunging forward; the next, with lightning speed Ram’s tip circled round the viscount’s blade, sliding down it as he did so. The force of the move wrenched the blade clear of DeMarc’s hand, and the sword clattered to the ground. Nonchalantly, Ram kicked it away.

DeMarc crouched where he’d been when his sword left his hand. His eyes darted back and forth, like a rat looking for an escape from the dog pits.

Ram looked down at him. “I commend you, Viscount, on finally finding your focus.”

“What?”

Ram turned away from him, facing the massive crowd that surrounded them. There must have been three hundred people filling the alley and hanging from the windows overhead. “You all heard Lord DeMarc confess to the murder of one Sarah Sweet and his intention of doing the same to Miss Helena Nash, did you not?” he called out.

Angry sounds of assent and outrage rose from the sophisticated throng. Someone shouted for the constabulary. Another voice called out for someone to seize DeMarc.

Ram’s gaze turned toward Helena and his sangfroid vanished. She saw, as clearly as the light of the morning star, the relaxation of a terrible and desperate fear. “Helena,” he called softly and took a step toward her.

But as he came forward she saw DeMarc rise up behind him, his face twisted with hatred, his hand clenching the hilt of his recovered sword. With a snarl he plunged it toward Ram’s unprotected back.

“No!”

Ram wheeled around, dropping into an instantaneous lunge, his sword hitting DeMarc’s bellguard with the impact of a striking piston, shattering the tip and forcing the jagged end hard against the polished guard, the rest of his blade bowing under the pressure. DeMarc could not stand his ground against the force of the blow. He fell back and with the release of the pressure holding the jagged end in place, the bowed blade sprang free, whipping across DeMarc’s shoulder and slicing it to the bone.

With a look of stunned surprise, DeMarc collapsed. Ram kicked his blade away, but it was already clear that DeMarc would not be lifting a blade now or ever again.

“Someone get a surgeon,” Ram called. “And the magistrate.”

“But…’twas an accident!” someone called.

“Clear as day, ’twas an accident!” another voice added, and another and another. Ram looked around. “We all saw it!”

“By God, man, you have to fight in fifteen minutes. For the championship!” someone called out. “For England!”

“Best hurry.” A dignified older man followed by two tall young men in footmen’s livery approached DeMarc. “We’ll take care of this.”

Comprehension filled his face and, at the same time, Helena understood. England had never had its own great fencing master. This was its chance. And, Helena realized with a sickening lurch of her stomach, it was Flora’s only chance, too.

The crowd bustled out of the alley, leaving as quickly as it had arrived, hurrying to take seats for the final attraction. In a matter of minutes the alley was nearly empty except for the old gentleman, his servants carrying DeMarc from the alley, and Lord Figburt milling uncertainly halfway up the alley. And Ram.

Ram’s brows were locked together in a frown. “I can’t, Helena.”

“No,” she agreed. “Of course not. You’re exhausted and hurt and—You wouldn’t be able to win, anyway, would you?”

He frowned down at her, alerted by something in her voice. Something she could not mask from him. Then she realized that she had no desire to hide anything from him. Nor any need. He knew her, knew her as well as she knew herself.

She was sick unto death of masks. She only wanted to be with him.

“Why did you ask me to fight, Helena? What is it to you whether I win or lose?”