Dilemma in Yellow Silk (27 page)

Alconbury glanced at Viola, but said nothing. He returned his attention to Marcus. “That hardly matters, does it? You seem to be accusing us of attacking your father-in-law.”

Yes, of course. Had he lived, Gates would have been so. But had he lived, Marcus wouldn’t have married Viola. He would have taken one of the society maidens his mother had been throwing his way. He’d almost settled on Lady Myra, a cold but beautiful woman who knew her business well. She would have made a perfect marchioness. But Marcus had never wanted perfection. He’d just thought he did.

“If not you, who?”

“You know the answer to that,” the duke said softly.

“Then I suggest you ask him if it is of his doing. Otherwise, I will be forced to hold you responsible.”

“And that is supposed to—what, put the fear of God into me?” the duke asked. The smile returned. “Better men than you have tried. However I am, as you see, unmoved. My dear…” In one smooth change of tone, his voice turned low and caressing as he turned to Viola. “At any time you may come to me. If you need help claiming your birthright, I will help you. I wish you had sought my help before you considered such a drastic step as marrying an Emperor.” He made a scornful sound at the back of his throat. “Emperors of nothing. But he may be your consort one day.”

She laughed, such a joyous sound in this grim atmosphere. “I’m only the daughter of a estate manager, sir, as half of London will tell you. All of it by now, I suppose.”

“And reputation is all, is it not?” He sounded so gentle now. This man had such a seductive, persuasive tone. That was why he had escaped the fate of so many others of his kind. The rebels in the forty-five had lost their land, their titles, and their good names. But not this man.

“Sometimes it can be.”

“Unless one has evidence to the contrary,” Northwich continued.

Ah. Did he have evidence? Had he somehow found one of the documents, the copies of the birth certificates, or the marriage certificate? The latter would be the most devastating paper for him to have found. But not the original. In some quarters only that would be accepted. Certainly if he wanted to persuade the House of Lords to his side.

That alone led Marcus to believe he did not have the all-important paper. If he had—but he needed a child, too. One of the legitimate children of James Stuart, to press the claim. Preferably a presentable one. Preferably a son, but a girl would serve.

Not this girl. Never this one. Marcus did not ask the question the duke had all but invited. He had never concerned himself with getting too close to this man before. He’d been content to avoid him, while the problem of the children did not belong to him. He would support his cousins, but at a distance.

No more. He would die rather than allow this man to gain control over Viola. He would break her and then discard her. The man took wiliness to a new level of competence.

The duke leaned back, resting his hand on his cheek. “Tell me why you are so opposed to legal attempts to restore the succession. Nobody is discussing illegal moves any longer. Obviously, war is not possible. But can you not see the family has a claim?”

“You wish to usurp the throne?”

“No.”

“Then perhaps you wish to conquer?” Marcus said icily.

“No. Merely restore the rights of those who were usurped in their turn. I believe the Stuarts would agree to make peace, so long as they are acknowledged.”

Viola added her mite. “So that they can force the royal family into exile?”

“The Hanover king is ailing, his son is dead, and his grandson but a child,” the duke said. “Britain is headed for another war. Added to which, I have heard young George is only of moderate intelligence. If that.”

“He’s far from an imbecile,” Marcus put in. “He will cope with kingship very well. The first of the Hanovers to be born here and to speak English as well as he does German, if not better. Is that what concerns you? That he will prove the most popular of monarchs?”

“Or the most compliant,” Alconbury added. “Do you really want King Bute to run the country?”

Bute was the Princess of Wales’s trusted advisor, and rumor had it, her lover. He was a Scot and a Tory, and most of the House of Lords opposed him. And a great number of the House of Commons, too. “He’s a Stuart,” Marcus said. “I would have thought he was an agent for the disgraced royal family.”

Northwich sneered, his upper lip lifting slightly. “He has not enough intelligence nor the strength of character. There are many Stuarts in Scotland. Not all of them are loyal.” He did not say to what.

They made treason sound reasonable. Marcus had had enough.

“You obviously have no intention of answering my questions.” He stood and extended his hand to Viola, drawing her up to join him. “Our business is done. Come after me or anyone under my protection, and I will make you very sorry for it.”

“Do you think I am unaware of that? Or your father has not made the same threats in his time?”

“Not a threat, but a promise.” With his wife’s hand tucked in his, Marcus took his last look at this man. He would destroy everything that made the country stable to gain power for himself. “As you might discern, I have a more personal stake in this matter. I will not hesitate, and I will not necessarily use the law to achieve my ends.” He turned to lead Viola from the room.

“Devil take it, what a bloodthirsty youth!” were the duke’s parting words. “I wish you were mine, and I never thought I would say such a thing of any Emperor!”

Marcus did not stop to address the parting shot, but strode from the room. He was eager to put this house behind him, for good, if he was lucky.

“A word.” He had been so intent in leaving, he had not noticed Alconbury had followed them out.

Sighing in exasperation, Marcus released Viola’s hand and turned around.

Alconbury regarded him from under heavy-lids, a characteristic he had seen before somewhere, although the similarity eluded him.

Marcus resisted the urge to push Viola behind him, but gripped her hand tightly.

“I understand you frequent Domenici’s,” Alconbury said.

He met the man’s stare. “I am a member, yes.”

“So am I. I merely wanted to inform you I plan to go there tomorrow afternoon. You might want to remember that.” He glanced back at the door to the room from which they had just emerged. It was closed. He lowered his voice. “Although if you do go, I’d appreciate testing your mettle.”

He sketched a bow and walked away before they could respond.

Viola held her peace until they were inside the carriage and on their way home. “What did he mean?”

Marcus sighed. “I have no idea. But I will go.”

“Not alone.”

“No, not alone.”

Accordingly, the next day, having ensured Viola was fully engaged on a round of visits with his mother, Marcus made his way to Domenici’s. He had not thought to grace the establishment so soon, having decided to allow the furor to die down. But if he wanted to know what was going on, he would have to go. He prevailed on Darius to accompany him, as a witness, and because Darius was less of a rattle-pate than his brother. Not Julius. Julius and Alconbury hated each other. Even had they not been from feuding families, they would have hated each other. If there was more history there, Marcus had no idea what it was, and he had a strong feeling he did not wish to know.

The hush in the conversation going on when they entered the academy told its own story. Nobody had forgotten the sparring or Marcus’s unusual behavior. They could hardly have done so, when town was not teeming with new scandals. He was stepping into the building for the second time in a week.

Conversation started up again. Someone called, “I expected you to arrive with your new sparring partner, Malton!”

Marcus chose to ignore the sentiment.

Someone else did not. Alconbury, already in shirtsleeves, stepped forward. “Malton has a new opponent today.”

Without warning, he tossed a sword across the space between them. Not a small sword. A saber. “Do you use daggers, Malton?”

“I have been known to. I thought that was your weapon of choice?”

“Sometimes.” Alconbury served him the same trick with a dagger. Marcus showed his teeth, baring them in a simulacrum of a smile.

He handed the weapons to a silent white-faced Darius, while he stripped off his coat and waistcoat. They were too fashionably tight to help him in this fight. Alconbury tilted his head to the padded jackets on the wall. He was not wearing one.

Impatiently, Marcus shook his head. “The day is too warm for one to be of use.”

If Alconbury tried to kill him now, he would do it with half society watching and bearing witness. Was this his intent, to push a duel on to him? Marcus determined to defend himself, and no more. Alconbury would not find him rising to the challenge.

Alconbury performed the salute, his saber slicing through the air with a lethal hiss. Cold-faced, Marcus returned the favor.

At least the tips of the swords were blunted. If they had not been, Marcus would have chosen the vest, because a “fencing accident” could clearly prove fatal and have no serious consequences. With his father, Alconbury could probably get away with murder. But not from a man whose father was the Marquess of Strenshall. Marcus’s father would not rest until he had justice for his son.

Alconbury must know that.

With a gleam in his eyes, Alconbury tested him, struck his sword away, and went in for an easy dagger thrust. Marcus fended him off with no trouble. Marcus took his turn, trying a sideways sweep. Alconbury laughed as he slid his dagger down Marcus’s, with a swirl that threatened to push Marcus off-target.

“I brought a message,” Alconbury said, “But I could not resist the challenge.” He lunged.

Marcus retreated, only to advance when he reversed the attack with a twist of his wrist.

Neither man was out of breath.

Around them, the spectators shouted the odds and laid bets, the normal practice in this place when two adversaries engaged. “A messenger boy?” Marcus taunted him.

“A message from myself. First hit?”

One hit with those weapons would do the job. Marcus nodded. “By all means. I will try not to draw blood.”

Alconbury laughed. “You can try.”

The men circled each other, each looking for an opening. Alconbury stumbled, and Marcus took his chance. He drove forward, a flurry of clashes pushing Alconbury back. Unexpectedly, Alconbury regained his footing and struck. He’d been bluffing.

Marcus backed up, trying to regain the impetus. He engaged the sword, and as they came closer, Alconbury swept his dagger in a wide arc. Marcus whirled his weapon around and in, locking the two men together.

Their faces were close. Kissing close. Alconbury bared his teeth in a gesture of ferocity. He roared and then added,
sotto voce
, “We were not responsible for the attack on your wife or her father,” and sprang back.

That was the message? “Am I to believe your word?”

“Do what you will with it,” Alconbury said, and attacked again, beating Marcus back.

Marcus was ready for him this time and defended ably, meeting each blow with one of his own. They struck with bone-jarring force, trading attack after attack. Sweat dampened their shirts, the fabric clinging to their bodies.

They came close again. Both were breathing heavily. “Take care of your wife,” Alconbury murmured. “The other party has agents in the country. They can attack from anywhere.”

“Then it’s as well I do, too.” He would send more people searching for the agents. He tended to believe the man after the second warning. He would not want to see Viola dead, because he must know who Marcus would turn to first. And he would stop at nothing.

The notion of his wife’s death made him hesitate. Only for the fraction of a second, but enough to have Alconbury draw his blade along his sleeve. The sharp edge sliced through the fabric and touched his skin, delivering a long scratch.

Alconbury drew back, waiting for acknowledgment. Blood seeped from the wound, staining the already ruined shirt.

Marcus lowered his sword. “A palpable hit.”

Alconbury raised a brow. “But we are equally matched. I have no idea what made you falter, but I was watching.”

The thought of his wife dead. Would Alconbury know that? He’d spent most of the visit Marcus had paid him watching him and Viola closely. An observant man, then, and an intelligent one. A shame he was on the wrong side.

Marcus shoved back a strand of hair that had come loose, amused to see his erstwhile opponent doing the same. Like him, Alconbury wore his own hair tied back, a developing fashion among young men. Alconbury’s hair was a darker shade than Marcus’s own, nearly black, and his dark complexion indicated the time he’d spent abroad.

Darius helped Marcus. He folded back the rags of his sleeve and bound a clean bandage around the wound, which was not serious. Marcus was not sure how he’d explain it to Viola. Tell the truth, probably, since his wife seemed to see past every falsehood he tried to fool her with. Not that he had tried much recently. He knew when he was beaten. He thrust his arms into the sleeves of his waistcoat, and then his coat, as light as the tailor could make it, but still a substantial garment.

Alconbury took care of his person himself. He appeared to have nobody with him, although the family had its adherents.

He snapped a bow to Marcus and Darius. “An enjoyable bout, gentlemen. I have another appointment to see to, and I must go home and change before I do so. Good day.”

They returned the bow.

“Come and have a glass of brandy,” one of their acquaintances called across the room. “I won a hundred guineas on you, and I decided my man on the toss of a coin.” He patted his pocket. “A lucky coin.”

Nothing loath, Marcus crossed the room to the long range of windows, where a low table held a collection of decanters. He accepted a brandy. The fine-cut glass caught the sunshine, and he looked away, temporarily dazzled.

Outside, Alconbury was crossing the street, a crossing-sweeper industriously clearing the way for him. As he did so, Marcus’s cousin Helena emerged from the milliner’s, the same one Viola had been in that day. He smiled, remembering her fire, and watched Alconbury hesitate, bow, and then stride on. Helena stared after him.