Lord Harry's Folly (26 page)

Hetty knew exactly what he wanted to do. She tried to save her strength, drew back and began to stalk him, lightly on her toes, dancing in a circular direction opposite from his, just as Signore Bertioli had taught her. He drew toward her to force a flurry, and in that exact instant, she lunged forward, her right arm extended to its full length.

He evaded her attack handily, giving ground to her. She followed, her blade dancing in the silent air in the brief seconds between clashes. Then she felt the power of him, unchecked for an instant, driving her back. She saw his powerful thigh muscles bulging in his knit breeches, and felt her own legs begin to tremble. That she wasn’t a man would bring her down. That she simply didn’t have his strength would mean her death. It wasn’t fair. She wouldn’t accept it. She would beat him because she was in the right. There had to be justice somewhere. That justice had to be within her.

She was sweating and quickly dashed her hand across her eyes. Her breath was coming heavily now, and she knew she had to retreat at least a moment from him.

She took three light jumping steps backward, disengaging her blade from his, gulping in the precious air. But he was on her in an instant, his lunge curiously shallow, yet clashing against her blade with such force that her fingers nearly crumpled on their grip. She met his eyes in that moment, saw that they were calm and coolly calculating, and felt a quiver of anger at her own weakness. With more anger than skill, she stepped into the onslaught of his foil with a furious lunge. The blades crackled together and he bore his hand upward, pulling her forward until the foils were locked at their base. She hated her own harsh breathing, for he was but inches from her face and could hear her weakening. Damn him, there wasn’t even a drop of sweat on his forehead.

Hetty managed to jerk free and leapt back, almost losing her balance. Her free hand clutched wildly at the empty air, in a frantic attempt to keep from falling. Even as she regained her balance, she was aware that the marquess could have been upon her in a second. Yet, he stood silently back, the look on his face curiously dispassionate.

“Damn you,” she yelled at him. “Damn you to hell and the devil.”

The marquess readied himself for a wild lunge, his eyes, this time, resting coolly upon the boy’s right arm. He was fighting bravely and with some skill. But he was tiring visibly. It was time to bring the duel to an honorable end. Odd that he wanted it to be honorable, for Monteith. He didn’t understand himself, save that he saw something of what he’d perhaps once been in the boy, a boy who would, nevertheless, give anything to run his foil through his chest. It was a disconcerting thought, but it held him nonetheless.

Hetty wanted to leap upon him, to tear the foil from his hand. It was the severe, rapped out words of Signore Bertioli spoken on a long ago afternoon, that held her back. “Young lord, he who loses his head will most certainly lose his heart. And not, young sir, to a lady.” She’d laughed, digested his words and proceeded to feint with such subtle skill that for the only time during his tutelage, she had nearly managed to break through his guard.

She became aware of the calm yet expectant stance of the marquess. He expects me to lunge wildly, she realized with a start. Very well, let him think it to be so.

She clumsily lurched forward, her foil extended its full length, its tip aimed for his heart.

The marquess saw his opportunity, for Monteith had forfeited his guard. He swiftly parried the boy’s blade to one side and lunged at his upper arm.

In that instant, Hetty executed the Italian master’s most difficult trick: she drew back her blade, jumped quickly to the side, deflecting his blade from her arm, and lunged with all her strength toward his shoulder.

From instinct born of long practice, the marquess whirled about, slid his foil under Monteith’s and threw the boy off balance. But he couldn’t temper the force of his lunge, and with sickening ease, he felt the tip of his blade slice into Monteith’s side.

Hetty jerked her head up, startled that she’d failed. She felt a prick in her side, then a strange cold sensation, as if a slap of frigid air had hit her skin. The marquess stood frozen in front of her, his face pale, set.

She saw that his foil was covered from its tip to almost a quarter of its length in bright red. It is blood, my blood, she thought, but she felt no pain.

She heard the earl of March’s voice. “Hold Monteith. Lord Oberlon has drawn blood. It’s over.”

Over? No, nothing was over. Was the earl blind? Did he and the marquess expect her to crawl away in dishonor because of a slight prick in her side? She cried out suddenly, her voice strong and clear, “Damn you, Jason Cavander. I’ve just begun with you! En garde!” She felt strong, confident, as if her body no longer existed only her mind and her arm, the foil its extension.

The marquess shot a helpless glance at the earl. He had time for naught else, for Monteith lunged at him with the fury of demons from hell. He leapt back, parrying the thrust. He saw the glazed look of purpose in the lad’s eyes and knew that his mind had closed itself to any pain. The lad would bleed to death before he realized how badly he was wounded. The small circle of blood that stained the loose white shirt was spreading rapidly, flattening the material against the wound.

He called out over the hissing of the blades, “Monteith, draw in! Look at your side.”

He might as well have spoken to the wind, for though Hetty heard his words, her mind refused to allow her to understand their significance. She heard herself laugh aloud, a strong, triumphant laugh. She pressed him, her blade cutting so swiftly through the air that he backed away and to the side to diminish the force of her thrusts.

The attack was unmeasured, wild. The marquess was very aware that there was no timing or skill in the frantic lunges. The boy’s mind keeps him from seeing the truth of the matter, the marquess thought with growing concern. If he didn’t quickly bring the duel to a halt, the boy would die. He knew Monteith was beyond understanding, and he swallowed back further words of warning.

For the next several minutes, the marquess gave ground, parrying thrust after wild thrust, his movements wholly defensive. The boy was tiring, his attack so awkward and ill-timed that the marquess could have easily slipped through his guard. Yet, he held back. He was waiting for the instant when he could catch Monteith’s foil high near his hand and rip it from his fingers. He watched, parried, his eyes alert, waiting for the perfect moment.

He is weakening and falling back, Hetty’s mind told her. Press him, press him harder. That’s right, he’s afraid now. He’s afraid of you, afraid of the death you will bring him. That’s right, send him back and back even more. Press him!

The marquess made a mistake. For the instant his eyes returned to the matted, now huge circle of blood that had spread upward toward the boy’s chest, he broke his concentration.

Hetty whipped her foil under his, and the suddenness of the impact, at the same instant as his attention wavered, jerked his blade from his fingers and sent it flying to the ground.

What a damned fool you are, he thought dispassionately. He felt the pressure of the boy’s blade against his chest.

She’d done it, she’d actually done it. You’ve won, you’ve won. She stood poised forward, her weight on her right leg, her foil extended its full length, the tip against her enemy’s heart. Why does he not say something? Why does he not plead for his life? The glazed shock that had held her in sway loosed its grip on her vision, and she stared at him. He stood quietly before her and she could see no fear in his dark eyes.

The earl of March forced himself to hold his place, even as he shouted, “For God’s sake, Jason, jerk away his foil.”

The marquess made no sign that he’d even heard the earl’s words. He couldn’t be certain why he made no move. There was something in the boy’s eyes that held him.

Hetty felt the powerful, single purpose of her mind begin to fall away from her, and in that instant, she saw herself as she used to be. She saw Henrietta Rolland before she’d discovered the marquess’s hand in her brother’s death. She’d been hollow with grief, hollow with the touch of death. Still, death had not claimed her, and she had savored the full consciousness of life, even in those months when she’d felt most alone. It had seemed so simple to her to plan the marquess’s execution, his death a just retribution, a full payment for the grief he’d brought to her. Yet, he stood before her now proud, arrogant but alive, just as she was alive. She realized that she’d used the idea of his death to assuage her own grief. But to run her foil through his heart, to rob him of life, to actually bring about another human being’s death, was beyond her. Her single-minded hatred, her pact of vengeance crumbled.

She gasped aloud, jerked back the foil from his chest, and clasping it in both hands, plunged it into the frozen ground with all her remaining strength. She jerked her fingers away from it as if it were evil.

She’d thrust it deep enough so that the handle swung back and forth, its gentle hissing sounding softly in the silence.

“Damn you, I can’t kill you! Oh God, Damien, forgive me, but I can’t do it. I can’t do it.” Her cry was filled with the deep pain of her spirit and the growing agony in her body. She looked into his face, the face she had hated even in her dreams. His face grew distorted, twisting into a mask of death Damien’s face. “I can’t kill you,” she said, her voice racked with sobs, wrenching cries tearing from her throat. Her body was taking her over now, closing off any control from her mind. Searing pain tore through her side and she doubled over, clutching her arms about her. She felt hot stickiness on her hands and looked down in dumb surprise at her blood-covered fingers. She looked wildly about her, but saw only blurred images. She heard loud voices, yet they came to her ears as unintelligible sounds. Her knees buckled beneath her and she fell heavily to the frozen earth, her head striking an outjutting rock.

Blackness flooded her.

The marquess was at the boy’s side in an instant, his hands tearing at the blood-soaked shirt. He had to stop the bleeding. Damn, but he wasn’t going to be Monteith’s murderer. He acted on instinct, not allowing himself to think about the incredible scene in which he had just played a part. He ripped open the shirt and tugged at the buckskin breeches to bare the wound. It was not bare skin that met his eyes, but a tight-fitting muslin wrap hemmed with blue ribbon. He had torn it apart before the significance of the garment hit him. Though side, ribs, and belly were covered with blood, the inward curving to a slender waist, the soft smoothness of the white skin hit his brain like a stroke of lightning. No, no, there had to be a mistake, he wouldn’t believe this, but he had to. He stared at that blue ribbon, at that white soft skin.

Oh God, Lord Harry Monteith was a girl.

“Jason, how badly is he wounded?”

In that instant, the marquess made a decision and acted on it. He jerked the shirt back over the girl’s side. “It’s bad, Julien. Quickly, give me your handkerchief. Harry, your neck cloth. We must stop the bleeding.”

“Mis Lord Harry. Dear God, Lord Harry.” The marquess glanced up at the valet’s frantic face. God, the man had nearly given all away. He looked Pottson straight in the eye and said firmly, “Lord Harry will be all right. Don’t say anything now. He will survive, I swear it to you.”

“Aye, your grace,” Pottson said, looking from his mistress’s bloody-soaked shirt to the silent warning in the marquess’s dark eyes. It seemed the marquess had taken the matter out of his hands. Why? Pottson didn’t know, but now there was nothing he could do. He stared down at his mistress. He felt helpless and paralyzed.

The marquess used his body as a shield as he pressed the wadded handkerchief against the wound. “Now your neck cloth, Harry, so I can bind Julien’s handkerchief.” Gently, he slipped the wide band of material under her back and knotted it over the pad.

He rose, lifting her in his arms. “Julien, I require your carriage. I very nearly killed the boy and now I intend to take care of him.” He turned to the valet. “You will accompany me to Thurston Hall.”

“Now, see here, your grace.” Sir Harry stepped forward, uncertain of what he should do, but knowing that somehow he was the only one left to do anything. He was Lord Harry’s second. Lord Harry was surely his responsibility. But the world had taken a faulty turn. Lord Harry had disarmed the marquess. He could have killed him but he’d not done it, and that made no sense. Lord Harry’s foil was still gently swaying back and forth in the early morning breeze. And now the marquess was insisting upon taking care of Lord Harry, who hated his guts. None of it made any sense.

“No, Harry,” the earl said quietly. He looked searchingly into his friend’s eyes, then said evenly, “Lord Oberlon will do what is best, Harry. You may depend upon his word. I would trust him with my life. Surely you can trust your friend’s life to him.”

As Pottson threw the heavy greatcoat over Hetty, the earl asked, “Thurston Hall, Jason? It will take you an hour and a half to reach. Shouldn’t you come back to London instead?”

“I know how long it takes,” the marquess said, meeting the earl’s eyes. “It doesn’t matter. Once the bleeding is stopped, it makes no difference whether Monteith is abed in London or at Thurston Hall. It is better for the lad to be out of London.”

“You will keep us informed of his progress, Jason?”

“You both may depend upon it. Now, we must be off. I would cover as many miles as possible before the lad regains consciousness.”

“But a doctor,” Sir Harry said. “Lord Harry needs a doctor. The best doctors are in London.” No one paid Sir Harry any mind as he trailed after the marquess who was carrying his friend as gently as he would a babe in his arms.

Jason Cavander turned as he stepped into the carriage. “Don’t worry, Harry. I suffered a like wound several years back and I assure you that I will provide Monteith the best care.” He mounted the carriage steps, and said over his shoulder, “Julien, you will see to Monteith’s horse, won’t you?”