Treasured Vows (18 page)

She couldn’t wait for them to return home.

The maestro rapped upon his music stand, signaling for the attention of his musicians and the dancers. Grant gave her fingers a reassuring squeeze as, with a dramatic sweep, the maestro’s arms came up, ready for the downbeat—

“Morgan!” a man’s voice bellowed. “Grant Morgan, where are you?”

Phadra didn’t recognize the voice. She looked around in confusion. The crowd buzzed with excitement. Grant obviously recognized the voice. He pulled Phadra to stand behind him while he turned toward the door.

Captain Duroy, dressed in his regiment’s colors, his blond head bare and his hair disheveled, pushed his way through the crowd, flanked by two of his fellow officers. The men did not look prepared to enjoy a ball.

Grant stepped forward. “William, I’m pleased that you could join us.” His voice sounded carefully controlled.

Swaggering onto the dance floor, the handsome young officer’s face broke into an angry grimace. “This isn’t a social call, Morgan.” He advanced with several slow, unsteady steps and then stopped. “You knew I was going to offer for her. I
trusted
you.”

The guests in the ballroom had fallen into complete silence. The man’s words carried as if he’d shouted them. Grant reached his friend in three long strides and said something in a low voice. Every ear in the ballroom, including Phadra’s, strained to hear what it was.

Suddenly Duroy shoved Grant in the chest, pushing him away. “No, damn you! I demand satisfaction!”

“William—”

“Name your seconds!”

“Listen to
reason
—”

“Name your seconds!”

“William—”

“Are you a coward, Morgan?”

Grant’s back slowly straightened. In a voice so cold that Phadra barely recognized it as his, he answered, “Very well. But let us step outside to somewhere more appropriate—and we’ll make the arrangements.”

For one brief moment Captain Duroy’s gaze moved to focus on Phadra. Then he turned his eyes back to Grant and agreed with a curt nod. He turned on his heel and left the room, the crowd backing away to create a path. Without so much as a word or backward glance to Phadra, Grant followed. The two other officers fell in behind him.

Phadra stood rooted to her place on the dance floor in stunned confusion. Slowly the reality of what she’d witnessed came home to her. With a cry of anger, she lifted her skirts and ran after the men, her merry little toe bells jingling with each step.

Miranda stepped in front of her. “Phadra, are you leaving so soon?”

“Get out of my way,” Phadra demanded.

Miranda smiled, malevolence burning brightly in her eyes. “It’s amazing. I didn’t even have to say or do anything. You have a penchant for ruining things all on your own, don’t you?”

Red rage engulfed Phadra. She doubled her fist, ready to swing at Miranda. Suddenly a hand slid under her arm. At the same time the smug expression on Miranda’s face faded and she fell back. Dame Cunnington, her face schooled in careful nonchalance, pulled Phadra closer. “Don’t make a scene.”

“Don’t make a scene?” Phadra practically choked on the words.

“Do you want to help him or hinder him?”

“Help him.”

“Then stay and act as if nothing untoward has happened.”

“I can’t. It’s impossible!”

“By all means, then, fly out the door and let everyone in this room assume the worst,” the dowager answered tartly.

Phadra looked over her shoulder at all the faces watching her avidly. “And how will I help him if I stay?”

“You’ll quell their tongues for the moment and, if your young man is as smart as he is handsome, he’ll manage to talk his way out of this challenge. There will be those here tonight who will think nothing has happened—provided you don’t make a scene.”

“I don’t know if I can!”

“Yes, you can.” Dame Cunnington’s words were slow and deliberate.

It went against all of her principles, but slowly Phadra straightened her shoulders and turned back toward the crowd in the ballroom.

“That’s a good girl,” the dowager whispered approvingly in her ear before raising her voice and saying, “Maestro, let the dancing begin!”

G
rant did not return to the ball.

After two of the longest hours Phadra had ever spent in her life, one of the Evanses’ footmen approached her with a message on a silver salver. Immediately recognizing the black slashing handwriting as Grant’s, she reached for it.

Dame Cunnington leaned close. “Don’t open it here,” she ordered out of the side of her mouth.

Phadra looked up and realized that she was the center of attention for all the guests standing close to them. She nodded and murmured, “If you’ll excuse me…”

“Not without me!” Dame Cunnington declared, and followed Phadra from the ballroom and into Sir Cecil’s study, haughtily staring down anyone who thought to follow them.

When she tried to break the seal, Phadra discovered her hands were shaking too badly. With a snort of impatience the dowager took it from her and
broke the wax. She would have read it as well if Phadra hadn’t quickly grabbed it back.

“So? What does he say?” Dame Cunnington demanded over Phadra’s shoulder.

Phadra refolded the note, feeling no better now than before she’d received it. “He said that he will not be returning. He’s sent the coach back to take me home when I’m ready.”

“That’s it?” Dame Cunnington frowned.

“That’s it.” Phadra closed her eyes and placed a hand to her forehead. Something was wrong. “Well, I’m ready to leave now. I’ll have the coach ordered to the front door.”

The dowager’s hand on her arm stopped her. “You’ll do no such thing. You’ll stay here until midnight and not leave a moment before.”

“I can’t do that! Midnight’s another hour away.”

“You can and you will.” She pulled Phadra closer and dropped her voice. “Obviously he couldn’t talk that young hothead out of the challenge—”

“No!”

“Lower your voice and keep your wits about you,” Dame Cunnington commanded. “Don’t think for a second that any and all of those fine people out there are above putting an ear to the keyhole.”

Phadra lowered her voice but protested, “This is all so ridiculous. I barely know Captain Duroy.”

“There were no promises between you?”

“I can count on one hand the number of words either of us has ever said to the other. This is a complete surprise.”

“Your husband didn’t act surprised.”

That acid observation forced Phadra to think, to remember. “Well, yes,” she said slowly, “Grant did
mention once that Captain Duroy wanted to offer for me, but I didn’t give the matter a great deal of weight. I barely know him, and then Grant and I were forced into marriage—”

“Aha! The rumors are true. You were forced to tie the parson’s knot,” Dame Cunnington said triumphantly. “I knew that Evans wouldn’t spring for an affair like this ball for someone else unless his arm was being twisted. What’s the real reason Evans is involved? Knowing that coxcomb, there is something afoot!”

Alarmed, Phadra stepped back.

“Oh, don’t go missish on me, dear. I can’t stand Evans. He’s little better than a crook, but I haven’t ever been able to find out what his methods are, and then lo and behold, the man announces that he’s marrying his daughter off to a man reputed to be the son of Satan—”

“Grant is nothing like his father!”

“He’s not?” The dowager seemed disappointed with the revelation. She frowned. “Well, more’s the pity for you. His father cut quite the figure in his day. I’m almost sorry there aren’t more blackguards like Jason Morgan around. They liven things up.” She narrowed her eyes thoughtfully. “I bet your Morgan knows Evans’s secrets.” She raised her eyebrows as another thought struck her. “I only hope he’s around tomorrow after the duel to answer my questions.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Certainly. Pistols at dawn. Matters of honor are always handled expediently. Men don’t diddle around like women. Furthermore, that young cavalry officer appeared anxious to make you a widow.”

Those words sent Phadra reeling toward the door.

“Now where are you running off to?” Dame Cunnington asked.

Phadra turned. “I’m going to find Grant. I’m going to do everything in my power to stop this!”

“You can’t do that,” the dowager said as if Phadra had just been spouting gibberish. “Only the participants can stop an affair of honor.”

“Then I will convince one of the participants to back out of it.”

Dame Cunnington gave Phadra a shrewd look. “You are a green one, aren’t you?”

Phadra was in no mood for sarcasm. “Good evening to you, Dame Cunnington.”

The dowager swiftly moved to the door and placed her palm against the wood to stop Phadra from opening it. “You can’t leave yet.”

“Whyever not?”

“Where have you been all of your life—rusticating in a convent? I told you, the ball’s in your honor. You don’t just walk out the door.”

“Watch me.” Phadra started to pull the door open again, but Dame Cunnington held it closed. Phadra turned to her with a defiant lift of her chin. “Dame Cunnington, I am not about to bow to silly social conventions when Grant’s life is at stake. If that offends you, I beg your pardon, but get out of my way.”

For a long moment the two women took each other’s measure. Then the dowager’s wide, generous mouth curved into a smile. “Damn me if I don’t admire your style.” She took her hand off the door. “You remind me of myself when I was younger. You can leave, but I’m going with you. This ball will turn into a dreadful bore without you!”

Popov was pleased to ride in the fancy hired coach instead of running beside Dame Cunnington’s sedan chair. However, the dowager expected her footmen to run behind the coach carrying the sedan chair.

Popov and his patroness kept up a lively conversation on the way home, although Phadra didn’t hear what they said. She was in her own world.

When the coach pulled up in front of her house, she opened the coach door and hopped out before Popov or the coachman could move. “Don’t you want us to go with you?” Dame Cunnington asked.

“No.”

“Killjoy,” the older woman muttered.

Phadra reached up and gave the dowager’s hand a grateful squeeze. “Thank you,” she whispered.

“For what?” Dame Cunnington asked, sounding truly surprised. “Bringing you home? You did that yourself. If you’d listened to me, we’d all be back at the party at least until midnight to keep vicious tongues from wagging.”

“If I have my way, they’ll have nothing to wag about.”

She started to pull her hand away, but Dame Cunnington held it tight. The gentle humor was gone from her eyes as she said soberly, “You can’t stop a duel. You’re a fool if you even try.”

A coldness gripped Phadra’s heart, and she shook her head. “Good night.”

With a heavy sigh Dame Cunnington sat back in the luxurious coach. “Home, Alexei.” The coach took off with a lurch.

Wallace stood waiting at the door in the lamplight. Racing up the steps, Phadra suddenly realized that she wasn’t even sure if Grant was there or not.

Wallace evidently read her mind, because he said in a quiet voice, “He said he wanted to be alone.”

“Where is he?”

“He went up to the attic.”

“The attic? What would he be doing up there?”

“He goes up there sometimes to practice his fencing…and whenever he wants to be alone.”

Phadra heard the gentle hint. She chose to ignore it. “Where are the stairs to the attic?”

For a moment the servant’s loyalties to his master and mistress seemed to war with each other.

Finally he said, “Up the back stairs and all the way up.” As if he’d said too much, Wallace backed away.

The silk sari fell from her head down around her shoulders as she picked up the candle left on the hall table and walked toward the back stairs.

She hadn’t had time yet to investigate and learn all the house’s nooks and crannies, but she did know where the back stairs were located. Lifting her skirt with one hand and holding the candle in the other, she climbed the steep, dark stairs. The jingle of her toe bells sounded eerie in the blackness. As she started up the last flight, the sound of movement told her he was there. She blew out her own candle and set it down on the step.

Her footsteps slowed as she reached the top, and then she came to a complete stop. In the wash of golden candlelight from the attic, Grant appeared like a demon god living on top of the world.

He’d removed his jacket and neckcloth, leaving his shirt open at the throat. A faint breeze from the open attic windows played with the lace of his cuffs and ruffled his hair. His black breeches and stockings made his bottom half seem to disappear in the attic’s
darkness. For a moment he stood poised, one arm in the air for balance, another outstretched. In his hand he wielded a sharp, deadly rapier with a swordsman’s grace.

When he moved, his actions were lighter, more elegant, than those of any dancer at the ballet. Candlelight caught and glinted off the rapier as the weapon silently slit the air, obeying its master’s command in a well-practiced move. He lunged, and his shadow stretched across the wall and up the attic’s low ceiling, dancing in ghoulish mimicry.

So complete was his concentration that she thought he wasn’t aware of her presence…and for a moment she allowed herself to believe that everything was fine, that there had been no challenge.

A beat later he proved her wrong. His attention never wavering from his imaginary opponent, he said, “I’ve written out my last wishes. The document is on my desk. If I don’t return tomorrow, then I expect you to deliver it to my solicitor.” The rapier sliced the air and then flashed in salute. “His name is James McGovern. He’s in Kensington, and he will ensure that your affairs are in order.”

His calm acceptance shocked her. Her heart pounding in her throat, she asked, “So, is it going to be with swords, then?”

The touch of sarcasm in her voice was not lost on him. He smiled grimly. “No, pistols.”

“Well, how convenient. The two of you won’t even have to get close to each other to resolve this argument like rational men.”

With a twist of his wrist he made the tip of the rapier whistle through the air. “Duroy won’t accept my apology.”

“Apology for what?”

“Our marriage.”

Phadra raised a hand to her forehead, trying to understand. “This doesn’t make sense.”

“I knew he was going to make an offer for you.” He picked up a rag and wiped off the gleaming blade.

“He doesn’t know whether I would have accepted his offer. I’d laid eyes on the man twice in my life, and we’d shared only a handful of words. This is not grounds for a duel!”

“He demands satisfaction,” Grant answered, as if those words explained everything. He tossed the rag aside and finally faced her. “Phadra, I’m going to delope.”

The solemn tone of his voice caught her attention. She took a step toward him. “I don’t understand.”

“I will not aim at Duroy. I’ll fire my weapon in the air. It’s a way of admitting that I wronged him.”

“And what will he do?”

The corners of his mouth turned up in irony before he answered lightly, “I imagine he’ll probably shoot me. William is known to be a crack shot.”

Shocked, Phadra demanded, “You’re joking, aren’t you?”

“I’m deadly serious, Phadra,” he said quietly. “That’s why it is imperative for you to remember my instructions. Financially you should be fine. In the letter you will turn over to McGovern are my last requests. I’ve stated that you are to receive this house and the majority of my holdings except for a small bequest left to my sisters. Right now my holdings don’t count for much because of the debt we paid off for the emeralds, but whatever you do, Phadra, do not sell off any of my investments. They will come
back, and if my calculations are correct, within a year you’ll find yourself well provided for—”

“No! I can’t believe what I’m hearing!” she cried, interrupting the flow of calm, rational words. She leaned a hand against one of the painted brick columns that supported the roof. “This is madness. It makes no sense. A man has challenged you for no other reason than because he fancied me—”

“He planned to offer for you.”

Phadra pushed away from the column. “But he didn’t. Nor would I have accepted his suit if he had!”

Grant didn’t answer, but she could tell by the set of his mouth and the resolve in his eyes that her argument bore no weight. She slapped her hand against the column, feeling a need to vent her anger…and her fear. “This is ridicul—”

“It’s an affair of honor.”

“It’s outright stupidity,” she snapped back. “And I’m going to tell Captain Duroy so! Now. This very minute!” She turned on her heel, prepared to charge down the stairs.

In a swift movement he blocked her way by pressing the tip of his sword against the column. The sharp blade stretched across her path.

“You’ll do no such thing.”

She heard the steel in his command and looked from the blade up to his face. “I can’t let you do this,” she whispered.

“And I can’t let you disgrace me.”

“What disgrace is there in making the man see reason?”

He stepped closer to her. “I didn’t make the rules of honor, Phadra. I don’t determine whether they are right or wrong. I merely abide by them.”

“Even if you die?” Her words hung in the air between them.