The Wagered Widow (24 page)

Glendenning put in, “You give him an advantage, well enough, Treve.”

“I rather doubt it will prove of any moment,” drawled de Villars.

Bristling, Boothe snapped, “Did each of you hear that piece of braggadocio? I want no whining afterwards that I set him under a handicap.”

“Nor I.” De Villars yawned. “I cannot abide whining. I find foolishness much to be preferred, so do by all means remove your shoes, Boothe.”

Boothe ground his teeth, and tore the shoes from his feet.

Glendenning met FitzWilliam's glum look, and shrugged. “Best get started, Forty.”

Fortescue offered the box first to de Villars, who took the weapon closest him, flexed the blade between his hands, and nodded approval. Boothe took the remaining sword and made a pass or two, testing the heft of it.

“If you are satisfied, gentlemen,” said Melton quietly.

They were satisfied, and walked to the selected ground, side by side. The seconds, also with swords drawn, took up their positions.

The salute was brief. With typical impetuosity, Boothe wasted no time in feeling out his adversary, but at once opened in
carte.
His thrust, lightning fast, was parried at the last instant. De Villars' blade glittered as it then whipped into a
flanconade,
the flat slapping hard against Boothe's hip. His eyes flaring, Boothe got out of distance and threw up a hand.

Mr. Melton stepped forward. “What is it, Boothe?”

Ignoring him, Boothe fixed his antagonist with a piercing stare. “What do you think you are playing at, de Villars?”

De Villars answered with a patient smile, “I believe we are playing at a duel, my dear Boothe.”

“Then let us do so in a dignified fashion. We are not oafs, sir.”

“Boothe,” sighed Mr. Melton, “have you a foul to claim? I saw nothing unethical.”

“He slapped me!” Boothe asserted with considerable indignation. “You blind, George?”

“I saw a
flanconade,
merely.”

“He struck me with the
flat
of his blade. I did not come here to have my arse spanked, and so I tell you, de Villars!”

De Villars, his eyes dancing wickedly, bowed. “Thank you for clarifying your wishes, Boothe, for I was certainly labouring under a wrong impression.”

Boothe flushed scarlet. His lips gripped tightly. Then he snarled,
“En garde!”
And the duel resumed.

Boothe was all too aware of the furtive grins that had been exchanged by the seconds. De Villars' sarcasm was added to the dastardly affront to Rebecca, and, seething with the fires of vengeful fury, Boothe fairly leapt to the attack, his need to wipe out the insults suffered at this man's hands driving him to set a punishing pace. The seconds became sober and intent; the treacherous minutes slipped past, the steel flashed and rang, the antagonists displaying excellent footwork and balance as they moved dexterously in and out. Boothe continued to carry the offensive, de Villars contenting himself with a defence that seemed haphazard, yet brought a glow of admiration to Glendenning's eyes, and caused Boudreaux twice to whisper an awed “By Jove!” But then Boothe ventured a parade. De Villars' wrist turned in a blur of speed. A
glissade
sent his sword singing down Boothe's blade, and Boothe's sword spun from his hand. For a split second, de Villars' weapon still quivered to the attack. Fortescue's heart seemed to stop. He jumped forward to strike up the sword, but there was not the need: De Villars had already moved back, eyes glinting, and his blade held down and to the side.

Boothe rubbed his wrist, looked thoughtfully at the impassive features of his opponent, and took the sword George Melton handed him. “Damn,” he muttered.

“It is difficult to fight well when … one is tired,” observed de Villars, parrying a rather weak lunge. “You would have done better to get to your bed.”

His foot stamping, Boothe thrust in
tierce,
was blocked, and in turn parried a flashing riposte. “Aye,” he grunted. “And … I might have done so had not your cousin … driven me from it.”

De Villars tensed. Boothe's attack in
carte
was countered by a sizzling return and the resultant
volte
again all but tore the sword from his hand.

“I'll have an explanation of that remark, when we are done,” de Villars said curtly.

Talk ceased. The fast pace of the duel became even more accelerated. The clearing was hushed and still, save for the murderous flash and flurry of steel in seeking thrust and defensive parry; the stamp of feet; the sway of lithe bodies, each in perfect condition; the quick, tense breathing of the duellists. The seconds shifted about, their narrowed, alert eyes missing no facet of the furious battle. Glendenning cursed under his breath as, for the third time, de Villars held back a logical attack, and a moment later Boudreaux exclaimed, “Jupiter! That was close! Boothe nigh had him!” Not a little astounded, Fortescue said, “I'd not have dreamed Snow could last this long! He's giving a good account of himself, eh?” Melton said nothing, but his eyes were worried.

Time ticked away, and still Boothe strove passionately but vainly to penetrate that deceptively lazy guard, his thrusts parried by a defence often so tantalizingly tardy as to lure him on to the next, useless effort. The excitement of those watching was intensified. Glendenning swore. “They cannot keep up this pace! It is madness!” But the pace did not slow, although both men were now breathing hard. Boothe's lungs were agonizing, his hand wet with sweat. He was bedevilled by the awareness that he was slipping very gradually from attack to defence, and it was borne in upon him that he might have been run through several times. The suspicion that he was being played with, that the jeering de Villars was laughing at him, sent his ready temper flaring and brought a surge of renewed strength. He swept into the offensive once more, with the fast and hard thrust under the wrist known as
seconde.
Not expecting this sudden revival, de Villars retaliated instinctively with a prime parade, that dangerous manoeuvre bringing gasps of excitement from the watchers. In the nick of time, he checked the following riposte that would have finished the duel, but might very well have also finished Boothe. His hesitation was minuscule, but almost fatal. Boothe's sword flashed at him in a full thrust in
tierce.
De Villars disengaged but he was a split second slow, and the point of Boothe's sword raked across his chest. Angered, de Villars' reaction was quicksilver. The disengage completed, he drew in his arm a little and his blade whirled, the steel becoming a dazzling blaze in the light of the rising sun. Boothe was conscious of a blinding flash. Something smashed violently against his sword. A flame shot up his arm, and he clutched his wrist as his weapon for the second time fell from his numbed hand. The point of de Villars' sword was at his throat. Melton leapt to strike it up, even as it was once more withdrawn.

“Fool!” said de Villars, glaring at him.

Not in the least dismayed, and ever the fine sportsman, Boothe cried breathlessly, “Jove, what a … beat! Jolly well done, sir! Jolly well done!”

Panting, de Villars stepped back and paid Boothe the honour of a salute before handing his sword to Boudreaux. The other seconds and the surgeon, who had stood in a state of petrified stillness through these last breathtaking moments, now rushed forward with shouts of acclaim.

The surgeon hastened to Boothe and grasped his arm, drawing a yell from his patient. A swift examination, then he turned to de Villars, who attempted to deal with the enthusiasm of the men gathered about him. “He caught you in the chest, I think, sir,” said the surgeon, unbuttoning the slashed shirt.

“Nothing of consequence,” said de Villars, cheerfully. “Are you badly hurt, Boothe?”

“No, save that you damn near broke my arm.” Boothe grinned. “A fine lot of seconds I have, to allow my sword to be struck with a sledgehammer.”

They all laughed. Boothe came over to watch as the surgeon set de Villars' fine linen aside, revealing a shallow gash across the muscular chest, directly above the heart. His eyes darting to de Villars' impassive face, Boothe said an aghast, “By Gad! I might have killed you, man!”

“You were curst slow to parry, Treve,” said Boudreaux solemnly. “My poor fellow, that must burn like the very deuce!”

Glendenning proffered a brandy flask. “You were far off your form, dear boy. What ailed you? I swear I never saw your defence so careless.”

“Took too dashed many chances,” Boudreaux agreed.

Watching de Villars, Boothe's expression became thunderous. “I know what ailed him. Though I'd not suspected it until that brilliant riposte at the finish. You could have had me—how many times, and did not, sir?”

“I counted seven,” murmured George Melton, as de Villars took a swallow from the flask. “A dangerous game you played, Trevelyan.”

“Nonsense.” De Villars slanted a covert glance at his erstwhile opponent. “Boothe's a dashed fine swordsman, is all. Gave me a run for my money.”

Boothe cursed savagely. “Never! It was those confounded girls! I collect they wrung a promise from you to spare me?”

De Villars' brows arched into the familiar look of boredom. “Your imagination is, I see, as fertile as your sister's.”

“Oh, no, it ain't! Don't try to gammon me! I know, all too well! What Miss Boudreaux put me through last evening! I was so demoralized I wonder I could even
hold
a sword this morning!”

The doctor said despairingly, “Mr. de Villars, it appears to have escaped your notice, but your wound bleeds, sir. If you would just sit down for a moment, I might more easily come at your hurt.”

Glendenning waved for the surgeon's carriage, and the coachman touched up the horses and drove to the little group.

De Villars sat on the step and, suffering the doctor to remove his ruined garment, said, “Now, if you please, Boothe—what's all this about your bed and my cousin?”

“Not what you are thinking,” said Boothe, but without resentment. “I've been racking up at my sister Parrish's house while she's away—just to keep an eye on the place, d'ye see? At all events, there I trotted last night. Perfectly natural thing to do. And Miss Boudreaux was ensconced with m'sister. The pair of 'em turned on me like a pair of archwives because of our meeting! Most awful thing! Had to make a run for it!”

De Villars said with a grin, “I appreciate your predicament. I endured much the same scene, unless I mistake it.”

“You do mistake it! Unless you've far more backbone than I.”

Leaning back in response to the surgeon's request, de Villars glanced up at Boothe curiously. “Never say you were treated to tears—and all for my sake?”

“Worse. Your cousin fell to her knees before me!”

“My sister?
Letitia?
” put in the reverend, astonished.

The surgeon, attempting to bathe the cut across de Villars' chest, abandoned the effort as his patient threw back his head and uttered a shout of laughter.

“Fitz…” gasped de Villars. “Did—did you know naught of this Machiavellian ploy?”

Still unconvinced, the man of the cloth said, “Faith—I did not. Are you quite sure, Boothe? My sister ain't the type. Deuced calm and collected usually. I cannot conceive why she'd succumb to such megrims.”

“She didn't seem megrimish to me,” said Boothe meditatively. “Matter of fact, she struck me as being a dashed nice girl. Pretty, too.”

“Very pretty,” de Villars agreed. “And a perfect lady, Boothe.”

His eyes held a warning. Meeting them, Boothe stiffened and retaliated, “Just as
my
sister is a perfect lady, I'd remind you!”

“Never doubted it,” said de Villars, his cynical grin dawning. “Of course, your sister is a widow, my dear Boothe.”

“Be damned if that makes her fair game! Apologies, Fitz. My sister did not become Haymarket ware on the day her husband was killed! And furthermore, de Villars, if you imply I ain't fit to call on your cousin, you'll answer to me for't!”

Glendenning groaned and bowed his forehead against Fortescue's shoulder.

Mr. Melton smiled slightly and shook his head in disbelief.

The surgeon, looking from sardonic boredom to flaming wrath, said with dry disgust, “I take leave to tell you, Mr. Boothe, that you will engage in no more duels for some time to come. Unless I mistake it, your wrist is badly sprained.”

Boothe, who had suspected something of the sort, peered at the swelling wrist in dismay. “Is it, begad?” he muttered. “Well, if that don't beat the Dutch!”

CHAPTER
10

How Nature could have been so perverse to make this a beautiful morning was beyond understanding. The clear skies, the birds that sang with determined enthusiasm, the sun that shone with such beneficent warmth, all seemed to mock Rebecca's crushing anxieties. Wringing her hands, she turned from the parlour window to pace for the hundredth time across the snug room, then jumped, her heart leaping into her throat as the clock began to chime. Ten. It seemed an age since she had glanced at it, but only five minutes had passed. The duel was long over, of course. It would take some time for Snow to get back into Town, despite the fact that he always drove at so headlong a pace. Still, it was fully five hours since the sun had risen. Five endless hours. So—why were they not back? Snow knew how worried she had been, and, despite his carefree and rather selfish nature, he was not unkind and would have come at once. Unless …

She halted, closing her eyes. Dear God—do not let him be hurt. Do not let him be killed. Do not let Treve— Her eyes opened wide.
Treve?
Mr. de Villars, she corrected primly. That either of them should be slain was—

In her absorption she had not heard the carriage stop outside and was startled when the door was flung open. Whirling about, she uttered a sob of joy and relief. Snowden stood on the threshold, as handsome and devil-may-care as ever, and apparently unhurt. He staggered as Rebecca fairly hurled herself upon his chest and said an indignant, “No, really, Becky! I'd the very devil of a time to tie this cravat! Gad, what a pother you women make about these things!” But for all his grumbling, the signs of strain in his sister's face were so evident that he gave her a hug and dropped a kiss on her brow.