by Kruger, Mary
The man gave ground before him. “I—I—my lord!”
“So you said. Oh, bloody—oh, dash it.” For he could see into the room now, and the sight was not heartening: Blythe, facing another woman, both with swords drawn. What was she doing?
“Careful!” a man across the room called, as the other woman lunged forward in a flurry of strokes, which Blythe seemed barely to parry. “Those were my grandfather’s swords.”
The woman ignored him, but Blythe smiled. “He chose well, sir,” she called. “They’re well-balanced—oh, no, you don’t!” Blythe danced backward, away from the sword weaving toward her. The other woman had the advantage of height and reach, but, as he remembered, Blythe was light on her feet. He prayed it would be enough.
“Oh, yes, I do,” the woman retorted, and lunged, the point of her sword catching Blythe’s upper arm and leaving a long, jagged tear in her sleeve. “First blood.”
“Oh, lord, Blythe,” Simon groaned, and one of the maids looked up at him. As the butler had, she, too, looked again, and nudged the maid next to her, both of them turning to stare at him. Simon ignored them.
Blythe suddenly darted forward, and her blade clashed with the other. For a moment the two women struggled, sword to sword, and then the other woman broke free, spinning about, as Blythe had during her mock battle with him. She came back with the sword held in two hands, poised to strike, her breath coming hard, and once again Blythe had to dance away.
By now, all the servants who had been watching the duel were staring at Simon. He couldn’t imagine why. “Who is the other woman?” he asked.
The maids looked at each other. “The one in black? We don’t know,” a maid said, finally, timidly. “She’s a missionary of some sort. Sir, are you—”
“Not her,” Simon said impatiently. “The other one.”
There was silence for a moment. “The viscountess, sir,” the maid said, staring at him, and at that moment there was a crash of glass shattering inside the room.
“My Venetian crystal!” the man standing across the room howled. “Honoria, do have a care!”
“Do you know,” the viscountess ground out, all the time pressing Blythe back in a volley of motion nearer and nearer to the wall, “how tired I am of hearing about your Venetian crystal and your grand tour and any of the other things you prose on about? Ha! Got you now.”
“No, you don’t,” Blythe said, and scrambled sideways, onto the gold satin sofa. She stumbled, making the spectators gasp, but then righted herself, bouncing easily on the soft cushions, sword held in both hands. Sweat streamed down her face and stained her gown; there was also a darker, more ominous stain at the rip in her sleeve. Terrified though he was for her, Simon thought he’d never seen her look more magnificent.
Honoria laughed, a short, angry sound. “You don’t look any too steady,” she sneered, circling about with her sword held ready. “Be careful you don’t fall.”
“Be careful of yourself,” Blythe snapped.
“Oh, I will, my dear, I will.” And with that, she too, clambered onto the sofa, hampered by her shoes and full skirts, but bringing her weapon within close reach of Blythe. Both women stood still, swords at the ready, measuring each other. Then, with only a quick glance to the side to betray her intent, Honoria climbed again, first to the arm of the sofa, and then to the table behind it, as easily as climbing stairs. She had regained the advantage of height, and in addition was on a steady surface. Blythe backed away, waved an arm for balance, and regained her footing. She looked, Simon thought, a little shaken.
“Have a care, Honoria!” the viscount called. “That table is Elizabethan!”
“And I’ve always hated it,” Honoria retorted, and, quite deliberately, lowered the point of her sword to scratch an “x” in the polished oak.
“Can’t he stop this?” Simon asked the butler, indicating the viscount with a jerk of his chin.
“There’s no stopping her ladyship when she wants something,” the butler said dolefully. “I hope your friend can handle herself.”
“I hope so, too.” Simon’s face was taut with tension. Neither of the women had moved, but instead stood facing each other on their precarious perches, eyes locked, breath rasping. Blythe was in trouble. He had to do something.
Blythe chose that moment to lunge forward, an attack which Honoria parried easily, and which left Blythe fighting for balance again. As if time had slowed down, Simon saw it all happen in excruciating detail: saw Blythe’s arms flailing; heard the viscountess’s hiss of triumph; watched as Honoria pressed forward, the tip of her sword aimed directly at Blythe’s heart; and held his breath as Blythe, in a movement of unexpected strength and grace, brought her sword back up in defense and deflected the blow, pushing Honoria back.
This time it was the viscountess who fought for balance, the unyielding polished oak not as forgiving as the upholstered sofa cushions were. Her arms windmilled, her feet shifted, and suddenly her foot shot out from under her. With a shriek she toppled off the table and hit the floor hard, her sword beneath her. And then there was only silence.
Lord Stanton broke through the shock first, rushing across the room to his wife. Over his head Blythe looked at Simon, the first indication she’d given that she knew he was there. Her face was so pale, her eyes so wide and stricken that he acted from instinct. Breaking free from the group of stunned, murmuring spectators, he rushed across the room to the sofa where Blythe still perched, hand to her mouth. From the corner of his eye he could see something dark and wet seeping out from under the viscountess, who lay very still. Bloody hell.
“Is she hurt?” Blythe demanded, voice high and thin. “Is she—”
“I don’t know, princess.” Simon caught her about her waist and swung her to the floor, and she clutched at his shoulders.
“I didn’t want to hurt anyone,” she went on, still in that thin voice. “I just wanted to get free—”
“Honoria!” the viscount’s voice broke in. Simon, his hand holding Blythe’s head against his chest, looked quickly down. Lord Stanton had turned his wife over. Her eyes were closed, her face pale. The sword sprang upwards, swinging back and forth as on a pivot. Its point was embedded in the viscountess’s breast.
Simon swallowed hard. “Princess—”
“Honoria. Oh, God,” the viscount said.
Again Simon looked down, catching the other man’s gaze. Brown eyes, much like his own, he noticed detachedly, but the hair was darker. “Is she—”
“She’s dead,” Lord Stanton said, dazed. “She’s dead.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Simon sat on another sofa in another room of the big house, the viscount’s study, judging from the huge leather-topped desk and the tall bookcases, holding Blythe close against him. From the hallway outside they could hear muffled sounds—voices, quiet footsteps, a thump of something hitting the paneling. Blythe flinched, and he tightened his grip on her. The viscountess was dead, and Quentin Heywood was leaving the country. The people who had so completely disrupted his life were gone. He was free now, free to claim Moulton Hall and all that came with it as his. And yet, all he really wanted was what he held in his arms.
The door opened and the viscount walked in, looking older than he had just a little while ago. Simon asked a question with his eyes; the viscount nodded. “She’s gone,” he said, crossing the room to splash an amber fluid from a heavy crystal decanter into an equally heavy tumbler. This could be his, Simon thought again.
“I’m sorry.” Blythe sat up, brushing at her face and leaving streaks of drying tears. “I really am. I never meant—”
“I know that.” Shaking his head, Lord Stanton dropped heavily into a leather wing chair. “What a mess.”
Odd way to put it, Simon thought. “Will there be an inquiry?”
“There’ll have to be. The way she died...” He grimaced, leaving the sentence unfinished. “But I have the highest rank in the neighborhood. Whatever I say will be the end of it.”
/> “I was defending myself,” Blythe began.
“I know that.” Stanton seemed to see her for the first time. “My apologies to you, for having to go through it.”
Blythe shook her head. “I never meant it to end so.”
“I know.”
“Believe me, sir, I’m terribly sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you.” He leaned his head back, the bones of his face standing out stark and gaunt. “It wasn’t a happy marriage. Still...” He gazed across the room, and then straightened. “I knew she was plotting something. She usually was, but this was different, her and Heywood—”
“You knew about him?” Simon interrupted.
“Oh, yes.” Stanton’s smile was bitter. “I am not nearly the fool my wife thinks—thought—me. Of course I knew, and about her other men. And the gambling was a problem from the beginning. But never did I think she’d—I heard the whole thing.”
“Everything?” Blythe said.
“Yes. Everything.”
“How?” Simon asked, quietly.
“This room connects to the morning room, which she very rarely used, by the by. When I heard her voice I knew there was a reason. So, I eavesdropped.” He grimaced. “Not a very honorable thing, I admit, but ‘tis what I’ve been reduced to.”
“Sometimes life forces us to make choices we wouldn’t otherwise make,” Blythe said, softly.
“I know.” He looked at Simon. “Do you know who you are?”
Simon nodded. “Yes. Christopher Vernon.”
Blythe looked up. “Christopher?”
“Yes. And my cousin,” Stanton said. “The rightful viscount.”
“There’s no proof,” Simon said. “My mother never had her marriage lines.”
“It matters not. We both know the truth, and that is enough for me.”
Simon nodded again, aware of Blythe staring up at him, aware of the man across the room, who had already lost so much, and was prepared to lose more. All this, Simon thought, a quick glance taking in the ormulu clock on the marble mantel, the mahogany desk, the fine Oriental carpet—all this could be his. “You would give all this up?”
“I would have to.” Stanton leaned forward, hands clasped, in his intentness looking somehow familiar to Simon, like someone he knew. Like himself. “It isn’t mine.”
Simon pursed his lips. Money, the fine estate, the power that came with the title—all was his for the taking. For a brief moment he imagined himself in the role, Lord Stanton of Moulton Hall, and then the image faded. A role was all it would be. “It is, if I give it to you.”
Beside him Blythe stiffened in surprise, and Stanton straightened. “What?”
“If this is mine, then I can give it as I wish.”
“Moulton Hall?” Stanton said, sounding dazed.
“No. The estate, the title—everything.”
“Good God, man, you can’t just give up a title! It isn’t done.”
“Why not?” Simon regarded him. “No one knows who I am.”
“I know. Do you think I want to cheat you?”
“But you’re not, you know. What do I know about being a viscount?”
“You’d learn.”
“Mayhap. And mayhap I wouldn’t.” Simon, too, leaned forward, releasing Blythe. “I know nothing of farming, of running an estate. Of speaking in Parliament. Of getting along in society.” He counted them off on his fingers. “By all I’ve heard, you’re a good man, well-liked. You’ve been raised to this life. I haven’t.”
“You are Christopher Vernon! The rightful viscount.”
“I am Simon Woodley.” He spoke quietly at first, his voice gaining strength and conviction. “Simon Woodley, an actor, by God, and glad of it! Christopher Vernon never really existed.”
“My God.” Stanton was staring at him. “You’re serious.”
“Yes.”
“My God.” He sat back, looking dazed. “But what of your family?”
“My family is the Woodley family, and as fine a one as a man could have. As for the rest.” His face softened. “I’ve learned my father didn’t abandon me, that he loved my mother enough to marry her. I’ve learned I’m not a bastard. ‘Tis enough.”
Stanton was frowning. “You are a very strange man.”
“Of course.” Simon laughed. “I’m an actor.”
Stanton rubbed a hand over his face. “Well. This is a fine mess. If you will not take the title, sir, then who will?”
“Why not you?”
“It isn’t mine. Miss Marden, can you not do something to help?”
Blythe, who had been quietly listening, looked up. “Your wife said you are an honorable man.”
He grimaced. “Perhaps the only good thing she ever did say about me.”
“She was right.” Extricating herself from Simon’s arms, she stood. “I’m certain you’ll do the honorable thing now. If you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll see how Joseph’s doing.”
The men rose, Simon resisting the urge to pull her back into his arms. So precious she was to him, and so lost, now that the adventure that had kept them together was over. “I won’t be long.”
“It matters not.” Smiling, she whisked herself out the door.
“If you can do anything,” Simon said, staring at the closed door, “then restore that woman’s good name.”
“What of your own?” Stanton asked, sitting down.
Simon shrugged. “As I said, I’m an actor. My reputation matters little.”
Stanton leaned forward. “What has happened here today is shocking enough, but I’ll not let that stop me from doing what’s right. I’ll see to it your name is cleared.”
Simon’s eyes closed briefly. It was really over, then. “Thank you.”
“As for Miss Marden.” He frowned. “Unfortunately, people will be harder on her than you.”
“I know.”
“There is something you can do about that.”
Simon looked again at the door, and shook his head. “No. There isn’t.”
McNally had gone through his own ordeal, having been tackled by a groom not long after Blythe had gone inside, presumably to keep him from aiding her in any way. The viscountess had been thorough, Blythe thought, after looking in on Joseph, now resting in the kitchen and regaling the staff with tales of his theatrical career. She then rambled outside. Not thorough enough, though, or, perhaps, overconfident. With a shudder she remembered the moment when Honoria’s heel had slipped out from under her. It was an image that would stay with Blythe forever.
Outside, the sky was as blue as it had been earlier—could it only have been a few hours ago?—the sea as restless, the sun as bright. She blinked, not quite able to reconcile this peaceful scene with all that had happened. It was over. No longer was she on the run, helping an escaped fugitive hide from the law. Her life was again hers to do with as she wished. She wasn’t sorry that Simon would be proven innocent; of course not. In a strange way, though, she wished the entire adventure were beginning again.
A footfall made her glance around, to see Simon striding toward her. Silhouetted against the house, he looked strong, confident, in control, a man who had found his place in the world. “Is McNally all right?” he asked as he reached her.
“Yes. Just a bump on the head.” They began strolling together, the space between them almost tangible. “All this is yours.”
“Good God. Isn’t that amazing?”
“Yes.” She turned to him. “Simon, you’re a viscount.”
He shook his head. “I’m not taking the title, Blythe.”
“But how can you refuse?”
“It’s not who I am.” He held a hand out and then pulled it back, that gap still unbridgeable. “Look at me, Blythe! What do I know about being a viscount?”
“I imagine you’d do well enough in Parliament.”
“Mayhaps, but as for the rest of it? I can’t do it. And I won’t.”
He began walking again, and she joined him. “So what happens now?”
<
br /> “I’ve convinced him to keep the title, I think. It’s havey-cavey, but since there’s no proof of who I am, there should be no trouble. He’s not happy about it.”
“He’s a decent man.”
“Aye, that he is. Finally I said I’d hire him as steward.” He grinned. “Funny, for all his honor, I think that’s when he realized what he was giving up. I told him I couldn’t do the job he had, and to think of all the people who would suffer. That did it, I think.”
“Then nothing’s changed for you.”
“I have my name back. That matters. The charges against me will be dropped. And there’ll be money.”
She looked up, startled. “There will?”
“Aye. Stanton offered to practically beggar himself, but I think we’ll reach a fair agreement. Harry and Bess will be taken care of, too. And,” he added softly, “my son.”
“Of course.” She nodded, still reeling from the day’s events. “You can give them what you choose.”
“They’ll have to manage without me, I fear.”
“Why? Where will you be?”
He gazed out to sea. “In America.”
Her breath drew in sharply. “What!”
“‘Tis something I’ve thought of for a long time, and now...I don’t feel comfortable here any longer, Blythe.” The wave of his hand seemed to encompass all England. “There’ll always be doubt in peoples’ minds about my innocence, no matter what Stanton does. I don’t want to live like that. I can’t stay.”
“But you just found your family!”
“No. I learned I have family. I had a father, and he didn’t renounce me. ‘Tis enough. And”—he took a deep breath—“my son has a family to care for him. Yes. I think I’ll go to the colonies.”
“Oh.”
“What will you do?”
Blythe’s fists tightened. “I shall go home, I suppose.”
“Stanton will clear your name, too.”
“Kind of him.” She spoke in a monotone, staring fiercely out to sea with her eyes open wide, to hold back the tears, to face the truth. Simon didn’t want her.
“You’ll have a place to go, now. It will be as if all this never happened.”
