Heiress in Love (46 page)

*   *   *

Jane was hardly aware of Rosamund’s voice inviting the ladies to leave the table.

No. No. No.
Denial beat in her brain until she could scarcely think around it. How could he do it? How could she let him fight? Trent was maddened enough to make this a duel to the death. She didn’t think his fury would be satisfied with a nice pink on the arm.

And what if Constantine killed Trent? He’d have to leave England. Oh, God. She’d held out such hope for this evening and now it lay in shards at her feet.

She watched Constantine eat with a heartier appetite than he’d displayed for the first part of the evening. Every now and then, he bent his dark head toward his dining companion, smiling as if he hadn’t a care in the world. He didn’t meet Jane’s gaze. Not once.

She needed to speak with him privately, but would he leave before she had the chance? If he had a meeting at dawn tomorrow, he was unlikely to stay for the ball.

A gentle hand came to rest on her shoulder. She gave a start and looked up to see Rosamund’s mouth forming words, but she couldn’t seem to make out what they were.

Then she glanced around. Besides Rosamund, she was the only female left in the room.

“Oh.” Taking Rosamund’s proffered hand, she rose and turned to go.

Suddenly, she looked back to see Constantine’s gaze burning on her, a fierce longing written there, plain for her to see. But there was grim determination in the hard line of his jaw, in the set of that stubborn chin. It showed her without words that he would not be dissuaded from meeting Trent.

She wanted to go to him, to try to make him understand. She tugged at Rosamund’s hold.

“Jane!” Rosamund whispered sharply. “Come away.”

She would have ignored her but Rosamund tightened her grip. Jane had enough presence of mind left not to struggle with her cousin in a room full of aristocratic gentlemen. She lowered her gaze and allowed Rosamund to lead her from the room.

When they gained the hall, Rosamund pushed her into the empty bookroom and shut the door behind her. “What did you think you were going to do, Jane? Leap across the table to him? Jane, I’ve gone along with all of this for your sake. The ball, the gown—all the things you might get away with. But making a spectacle of yourself like that! How
could
you?”

Jane bit her lip. “I was desperate. I love him!”

Rosamund stared at her. “You risked your reputation on a gambit. Do you know how serious that is? Jane, your reputation is your life! Cecily is to make her come-out next Season. What if she were to be tainted by your actions tonight?”

“She won’t be. Besides, he said he’d marry me, didn’t he?”

“After you’d bludgeoned him into it. Take care what you are about, Jane. Men don’t like being trapped.”

Silently, Jane shook her head. Bludgeoned? Trapped? Was that what she’d done to him? Was that how he’d feel?

Rosamund studied Jane for some moments. Her expression softened. “Poor darling. You’re in no state to come to the drawing room. Why don’t you go upstairs and prepare yourself for the ball?”

The ball. Oh, God. This evening was a very long way from being over. “Yes,” said Jane. “Yes, I’ll do that.”

She watched Rosamund drift out of the library, so graceful and elegant. Unlike Rosamund’s innate poise, the confidence Jane displayed earlier in the evening had been assumed. Now, it seeped out of her like air from a balloon, leaving her anxious and sick.

On reaching her bedchamber, she rang for Wilson to attend her. How could she contrive a private conversation with Constantine? Would he go home after dinner? If he did that, she might have to sneak out at some point during the night. Cecily would help her, of course, though the thought of borrowing Diccon’s livery did not appeal. Surely there was some other way …

Wilson tidied Jane’s hair and arranged a filmy red shawl to drape artfully over her elbows. Jane touched a little more rouge to her lips. Then she smoothed on her long white gloves, picked up her fan, and surveyed herself in the cheval glass. Looking one’s best always seemed to bolster one’s courage. She’d need every ounce of fortification she could dredge up tonight.

Jane turned to go down and rejoin the ladies, but a rumble of male voices and footsteps tromping up the stairs made her pause. She opened her door a crack to see the gentlemen from dinner filing up the staircase and turning left, heading away from her bedchamber in the direction of the long gallery.

Something told Jane they were not going to view Montford’s art collection.

“What is it, my lady?” Wilson asked.

“Hush!” Jane made a shooing motion behind her with her hand.

Her heart thumping with fear, she watched until there was no one on the stairs and the landing was clear. Then she stole out of her bedchamber.

“Jane!” The whisper came from Cecily, down the corridor a way. “What’s happening? What are they up to?”

“Nothing good,” Jane said grimly. “Let’s go and see.”

The long, narrow salon was a two-story affair, with a gallery above. Jane grabbed Cecily’s hand and they flew up the stairs to the next floor, where they might observe the proceedings unnoticed. On the way, she gave a brief explanation.

“What are you going to do?” whispered Cecily. “My goodness, Jane, for someone who has led a quiet life, you are getting excitement in spades now, aren’t you?”

“What
can
I do?” Jane wasn’t stupid enough to try to stop the duel. Men never listened to reason when their blood was up, and Constantine’s honor was at stake now.

However stupid she might think it, men set a lot of store by how well a fellow conducted himself in a fight. If Constantine tried to be conciliating now or refused to go through with the duel, he would lose every bit of ground he’d gained tonight.

Of course, he would still be alive, but that consideration would not weigh with him.

“Men!” muttered Jane in disgust.

“Say something!” Cecily hissed. “If it were me, I’d go down there and pink him myself so he couldn’t fight.”

“No, you wouldn’t, Cecily.” Jane gripped her hands together. “You would let him go through with it. You’d allow him to defend his honor.”

As she was going to do.

If Constantine knew she watched, it might affect his concentration, so she remained silent, straining to see what was happening without letting anyone catch a glimpse of her.

The men seemed to have divided into camps, the deVeres ranged firmly on Trent’s side against the Blacks. Oliver, Lord deVere, was acting as second to Trent despite his earlier condemnation. Montford acted for Constantine. Jane took some small comfort from that. The duke would ensure there was no foul play.

Constantine must have chosen swords, because a pair of gleaming, deadly-looking rapiers was brought for the seconds’ inspection, while footmen helped the combatants remove their coats and boots.

Without his coat, Constantine’s muscular body seemed even larger. His frame was relaxed and loose. A smile touched his lips as he made some remark to one of the bystanders. One might have thought he engaged in a friendly bout at Galliano’s rather than a treacherous duel with a man who wanted to kill him.

Trent might be half mad with self-righteous fury, but there was no denying his physical fitness. He had the look of a swordsman, lean and limber. His sandy hair gleamed angelically in the candlelight but his face had lost none of its fury.

Jane’s stomach clenched. She couldn’t make herself believe that Trent would show restraint.

The word was given; the duelists saluted. Jane jumped as their blades rang together.

*   *   *

As they readied for the fight, Montford muttered to Constantine, “I thought you said you were no swordsman.”

“What I said was that I don’t fence.”

“I happen to know that Trent
does
fence. Why the hell didn’t you choose pistols, man?”

“Because if I chose pistols, I’d have to kill him or risk death myself. This way, he stands a chance of survival.”

Montford narrowed his eyes, but said no more.

Constantine was rusty from lack of practice these past months, there was no doubt. It took him almost too long to find his feet. A skillful pass from Trent and the blade flashed up Constantine’s arm, ripping his shirt and searing like fire into his flesh.

It was his sword arm, but no matter. The pain seemed to jolt his senses, sending the message to his body to find its pace damned quick or he’d wind up dead in a pool of blood on Montford’s highly waxed floor.

He knew Trent for a swordsman; the fellow had been mad over the pastime when they were youths. He fenced in the French style, where Constantine favored the Italian. They were fairly evenly matched in skill, but Trent was a little drunk and very angry; he made mistakes. Constantine kept a cool head, played the long game, intent on tiring his opponent.

He fought on, his mind divorced from the blood that soaked his shirt, the pain, the rage. When any thought of Jane intruded, he banished it. He needed all of his mind, all of his will to survive.

And he needed every ounce of skill to find the right opening in Trent’s guard, the exact moment where he could disable the man’s sword arm without killing him.

It was much harder not to kill Trent than he’d thought.

Luckily for Constantine, Trent’s stamina didn’t match his skill. Soon, Constantine’s eagle eye picked up a misstep, a slight falter here and there.

It was time. He stepped up his own pace, drove Trent harder and harder, until he’d retreated half the length of the gallery. Trent’s guard faltered for a bare moment, but that was all it took. Constantine thrust in a powerful lunge straight through to Trent’s shoulder.

Trent’s rapier clattered to the floor. He stumbled back, clutching his arm, his eyes startled, his face draining of color.

A shout went up. DeVere strode forward to tend to Trent’s wound.

Constantine threw down his sword and turned to collect his belongings. He did his best to suffer the congratulations of his peers with grace, but he seethed inside. He hated senseless fighting. Something in his nature would always rebel against such meaningless ritual; yet, sometimes it was necessary to teach a man like Trent a lesson in language he’d understand.

Having donned his boots, Constantine draped his coat over his good arm. Untying his cravat, he wadded it up and pressed it against the wound that was sluggishly dripping on the floor.

He walked over to the couch where Trent lay, chalk-faced and bleeding.

Quietly, Constantine said, “You’ll live this time. But if I ever hear filth about me or a certain lady from you again, you
will
die.”

He bowed to the duke. “My apologies. I must return home to change.”

When Constantine reached the landing, he saw Jane flying toward him.

“Take care,” he said sharply, before she had the chance to fling herself into his arms. “I don’t want to get blood on your dress.”

She halted, her eyes searching his face. “You haven’t forgiven me.”

“Yes, of course I…” He closed his eyes. Suddenly, he felt exhausted, as defeated as if Trent had run him through.

He
had
forgiven her, somewhere in the middle of that brave, reckless speech she’d made in the dining room.

She touched his good arm. With a tremor in her voice, she said, “At least let me bind your wound. I’ve sent Cecily for supplies.”

She drew him into a spare bedchamber off to the right of the stairs.

“It’s barely a scratch,” he muttered, but he went with her, longing to be near her after starving of her company for far too long.

“Well, then, you must let me make you look more presentable. You can’t attend the ball looking like that, can you?” she said briskly.

“I wasn’t going to.” More than anything, he wished to go home to bed and take her with him. But no, he had to attend the ball, didn’t he? For Jane’s sake. And for his own pride, of course. Constantine Black would never fight a duel and then tamely go home.

“I’ll have to send for a new shirt.” He looked down at the wad of bloodied linen in his hand. “And a new neckcloth, too.” His waistcoat had suffered a little down the side, but his coat would hide that.

“Yes, I’ve already done so. One of Beckenham’s shirts will be bound to fit you.” With quick efficiency, Jane took the basin of water and cloth from the maid who brought them and set them on the dressing table.

“Sit here, if you please.” She indicated a low, padded stool.

He obeyed her, smiling a little at the way she took charge of him. A warm feeling spread in his chest, a feeling of coming home.

When Cecily arrived with bandages and fresh linen for Constantine, she was clearly agog. “I saw the surgeon go up to the gallery. You truly are the Wicked Baron, aren’t you? I hope you have not killed Trent or you’ll be obliged to kidnap Jane and fly the country.”

“No, he’ll live.” Unless an infection carried him off. Best not to think about that.

“Thank you, Cecily.” Jane’s tone dismissed her cousin.