Swept Away By a Kiss (24 page)

Valerie suspected five thousand pounds was a tidy sum to pay for information. It must involve the black market. Often enough her Boston cousins complained of how illegal trade undermined honest merchants’ work. Added to that there was danger involved in that sort of trafficking.

Then Steven Ashford was the perfect man for the job.

Valerie stood up and started out of the music room, but her steps faltered. An image arose in her memory, the Jesuit manacled and beaten for stealing laudanum, yet not vanquished.

He was a criminal. She’d seen the brand burned into his arm. But she had also touched him and felt warmth deeper than the temperature of his skin. And, at moments, she glimpsed the compassion in his eyes when he did not mask it with disdain or foolery.

Valerie paused, holding on to the doorjamb to steady her quivering hands. It must end. She could not bear these feelings of helplessness and confusion. And she would not stand being shunted aside. Not again.

What had he called her, naïve? At one time she might have been. But that was long past. Now she had information she suspected Etienne La Marque would dearly wish to possess. She knew precisely the price she would exact for it.

Servants carted away furniture, rolled up rugs, and swept the great hall in preparation for the afternoon’s swordplay. The medieval keep made a fitting backdrop for the fencing. Broadswords, longbows, lances, and other weapons of ancient lineage lined one wall. Footmen arranged chairs along the edges, and Lord March opened up an Elizabethan balcony above for the faint of heart.

Too agitated to sit, Valerie stood upon the ground level, only half an ear on Alethea and Cassandra’s murmurs of appreciation as the gentlemen, garbed in fencing gear and bearing weapons, took their partner assignments. With a smile, she watched Anna tie a discreet ribbon around Valentine’s arm.

Her pulse tripped as the Viscount of Ashford entered the hall with Lord Michaels and Sylvia Sinclaire. Lord Michaels offered a pretty bow to the golden-haired girl and kissed her fingers. Casting a tolerant glance at the flirtation, the viscount drew a leather gauntlet onto his right hand and started across the floor.

Valerie stared. He looked for all the world like Apollo consorting with mortal men. His gilt-embroidered tunic of pristine white and tight shirtsleeves fit him to perfection, the buff breeches hugging his muscular legs like a second skin. His blade flashed like sunlight as he tested it comfortably, and his hair shone gold beneath the chandelier.

Lord March announced the tourney under way, and the gentlemen commenced fighting. Valerie tried to be attentive to the other bouts, but her attention kept straying to the false priest. He fought well, besting two opponents before Lord Michaels, the recognized champion, beat him by a point.

When Lord Hannsley approached him, they greeted each other with casual interest, sweat-dampened hair and clothes marking their earlier efforts. But neither looked particularly weary as they drew their sword tips obliquely to the floor and raised the épées in salute to each other, then to the president of their bout, Lord Fredericks.

Ashford’s voice came across the floor, quiet and low. “Let the event be what it will.”

Lord Fredericks’s brow furrowed, and the marquess narrowed his eyes. Ashford’s cryptic words must mean more than they suggested.

Hesitantly, it seemed, Lord Fredericks spoke the ready alert, the fencers set their stances, and he gave the command to begin.

As with all the other bouts, the two opponents began by testing for openings with careful moves, swords sparkling in the light from the crystal chandeliers. Valerie willed her stomach to cease clenching. It was simply a game, played in the midst of dozens of people. What she had heard Lord Hannsley and Mr. Flemming discussing that morning didn’t matter. Nothing could happen here.

Still, she could not quite draw a full breath.

“That maneuver is called an
une-deux
,” Mr. Fenton said to Alethea after Hannsley dipped his sword tip toward Ashford’s chest. The viscount’s blade caught Hannsley’s with apparent ease.

“Ah, a conservative riposte,” Mr. Pierce remarked close by.

“Almost too casual, wouldn’t you say?” another gentleman replied. The marquess pressed forward in short, quick steps to capitalize upon the opening. The viscount gave way.

“They seem a little tired.” Alethea said. “Are you worn from your own contests, Mr. Fenton?”

“No doubt this will be a quick finish to round out the numbers. Ah, here come Michaels and March from their bout now.”

Valerie’s gaze slipped to the other pair of fencers as they shook hands to end their bout. Metal clashed and her gaze swung back.

Silence echoed throughout the hall. Hannsley and Ashford stared at each other from less than an arm’s-length apart. Their swords, joined at the hilts, locked in a V pointing to the crystal chandeliers above.

From the direction of Lord Fredericks’s frown, it was clear Hannsley had dealt the illegal hit. As he opened his mouth to reprimand the marquess, Ashford’s lips curved into a one-sided grin. With a graceful step back, he disengaged.

“Brave and fierce is their action and their movements quick and light. At least mine had better be, hm, Clifford?” he called laughingly across the floor, winning a scowl from Hannsley. But he had also adroitly deflected Lord Fredericks’s reprimand away from the marquess. There could not be a simple reason for it. He and Hannsley must have a grudge to settle. Valerie couldn’t doubt it.

“Lord Ashford, maintain silence,” Lord Fredericks commanded. The viscount offered an apologetic nod to the president and another swift smile to his opponent. The spectators seemed to relax.

He engaged the marquess anew, this time with a series of swift, simple thrusts to Hannsley’s chest that the marquess seemed to anticipate with equally rapid parries and ripostes. Lord Fredericks called the points. Hannsley was already far in the lead, yet the viscount’s fighting continued light, nearly insubstantial.

Valerie darted a glance at Hannsley’s face, the effects of his opponent’s insouciant approach clear. His lips were compressed, his deep-set eyes intensely focused, and his color heightened. He was furiously angry.

Laughter lit the viscount’s eyes and shaped his mouth. But beneath his handsomely smiling façade gleamed cold, hard calculation.

Ice shivered up Valerie’s spine. She could not be imagining it. Didn’t everyone see it so clearly? The two men mock-fighting wished to kill each other.

Murmurs stirred through the group, but Valerie barely heard the comments over the sliding of steel and the din of her racing heart. After every few parries, without actually disengaging, Ashford effectively broke contact with the marquess, refusing to riposte and forcing Hannsley to continue one long, pressured attack.

“Ten to one he has a
botta segreta
up his sleeve,” Lord Michaels said to Mr. Fenton in a subdued voice. “Been all over the world. Must’ve learned some move he is waiting to use to impress us all. Why else would he let Hannsley carry the bout? He has the openings.”

Mr. Fenton’s response came upon an uncomfortable laugh. “Why would Ashford waste a coup for this sort of thing? This isn’t a duel. He won’t kill Hannsley.”

Valerie couldn’t draw breath. He would not kill Lord Hannsley. He
could
not. Their blades were blunted, and the rules of honor forbade it. Common sense should too. But there was nothing common about Steven Ashford. She wished she could trust her intuition, the voice inside her insisting that the man she once knew would not kill another when honor bound him to fight according to the rules.

But Steven Ashford was a murderer. She had seen him cut a man’s throat.

Hannsley quit his forward attack, casting wrist-driven jabs at the viscount’s chest, metal swishing and clanking as the blades met. Ashford reacted more carefully now, no longer allowing Lord Hannsley to monopolize the offensive, but his eyes sparked flintlike beneath the gold light.

Something had changed.

Hannsley’s blade whipped out from his elbow, slashing toward the viscount’s left shoulder. Ashford’s hand crossed his body, deflecting the cut as it flicked against his arm. Valerie’s gaze darted to Lord Fredericks. His eyes widened, but he remained silent. If the viscount’s parry had not succeeded, the blow would have wounded.

Still Ashford did not counterattack. Gasps sounded around Valerie as Hannsley lunged, his long legs carrying his blade point-forward to Ashford’s chest. The viscount jumped back, leveling a slap across the marquess’s protected ribs. Its impact rang throughout the cavernous chamber, and shouts of relief sounded from the uneasy spectators. But Ashford again did not press his advantage.

A metallic clink sounded upon the stone floor.

“Lord Hannsley, your blade is compromised,” Lord Fredericks called out. “Cease fencing, my lords.”

As though he did not hear, Hannsley’s feet left the ground, the splintered tip of his sword flying fast toward the viscount’s chest. Ashford’s wrist shot upward, his steel deflecting Hannsley’s thrust. Lunging again, the marquess leaped, propelling his body forward as his blade untangled from Ashford’s, arcing to swing close around the viscount’s head.

Lord Fredericks shouted, a lady screamed, and Ashford twisted around and drove his weapon back.

Chapter 23

S
word arm wide, the tip of the Viscount of Ashford’s weapon quivering against his throat, Lord Hannsley stood like stone. His eyes flared with impotent fury.

Slowly, Ashford drew his blade down.

With an odd calm, Lord Fredericks said, “The bout goes to Lord Ashford.” No one needed him to add that the marquess was disqualified for wielding a dangerously splintered blade. The day’s play was over.

As though shaken out of trance, the spectators seemed to breathe a common sigh. Applause filled the hall, conversation erupting among the party. Valerie watched Steven turn and extend his hand to his opponent. Lips tight, chest rising and falling heavily, Lord Hannsley shook it in silence then strode off the fighting floor.

Cassandra and Alethea talked in Valerie’s ear. She did not hear it. In the shock of relief, she saw only Steven Ashford watching his opponent leave the hall. He dropped his gaze and stared, long and thoughtfully, at his right hand, palm open upward.

Then he looked up and directly at her. Valerie shivered, meeting his gaze steadily. Finally he shifted his attention to several gentlemen approaching. She took in a fast, deep breath.

Anna’s slender hand slid around her cold fingers.

“Come, darling. Let us go dress for dinner.”

Nodding, Valerie followed.

“You two favored us with quite an exhibition today. I’ll wager you are both riddled with bruises.” Lord Fredericks spoke down the length of the dining table. A dozen gentlemen reclined around it. Smoke from lit cheroots circled through candle flames, the musty scent mingling with the aroma of strong wine.

No one had yet mentioned Hannsley’s broken blade. Steven assumed it seemed best among everyone present to pretend the marquess hadn’t known of it. Or to actually believe that. Astounding. But he’d never really understood the rules of the English aristocracy. One moment they were prosing on about honor, the next protecting villains within their exalted midst. The latter was the very reason Steven had to gather every piece of proof available before he publicly accused Hannsley. Without hard evidence, the marquess’s peers would never condemn him, a member of Prinny’s set, one of the wealthiest men in England.

“Ah, yes,” he said lightly. “One must continually strive to impress the gentle lords and set the gentle ladies’ breasts aflutter. What, hm, Clifford?” He raised a crystal goblet of port toward the marquess.

Hannsley bared his teeth in a grimace that might have been a smile. Steven laughed, flicking an errant fir needle fallen from the table’s centerpiece to the floor beneath his finely clad feet.

“Since the ladies are not present, I challenge these two to admit who could best the other when they were boys,” Bertram Fenton said. “You were schoolmates at one time, weren’t you? I’ll lay blunt upon the chance, Hannsley, that you beat this frippery fellow soundly every time.”

Steven raised a languid brow at the younger gentleman, then allowed his mild gaze to slide to the marquess. Hannsley’s eyelids were nearly closed. Smoke streamed from his distended nostrils.

“Memory fails at present,” Hannsley murmured.