Germaine looked at them over her daughter’s shoulder. Her voice thick, desolate, she said, “Leave her to me, I beg of you. Just — leave her to me.”
“Come.” Ryan turned Elene toward the door. Her muscles were rigid so that it was difficult to move. It seemed, still, that there must be something to be done. A part of her mind stood aghast at the swift turn of events. She had not meant to precipitate anything like this; she had not meant it at all.
Durant stepped forward, blocking their way. He paid no attention to Ryan, speaking only to Elene. “I have to talk to you.”
“There is nothing to be said.” Elene started forward, but he would not step aside. She stopped again.
Ryan’s voice held a hard rasp. “This is not the time, Durant.”
The other man looked at him. “When is? We may kill each other in the morning.” He turned back to Elene. “I know I am at fault. I should never have let the business with Mazent go so far. But I needed the loan of his money, and didn’t realize how tightly the strings were attached until it was too late; he was an old fox, though basically an honest one. Since I had been fooled, I felt no need to hold myself bound by a pact with a dead man.”
“You owe me no explanation,” Elene said, trying to stop the flow of words.
“I do. I have to tell you. I swear I didn’t know what Flora had done, what she would do, to get what she wanted. My thoughts were always of you. You have been like a dream before me since we left Saint-Domingue, a vision of happiness just out of reach. I have lived for the life we had planned together, you and I. I have tried to be patient, to wait until you were ready to begin. Why can’t it be now?”
How desperately people needed love. There was not much they would not do to achieve it from those they desired. Desire, however, was a poor exchange for the love they professed to crave. Some never seemed to understand that to be loved, one must first love. Even then, love could not be forced in return, did not come with guarantees. She had learned that much.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“That isn’t enough. You have to—”
Ryan moved forward. “She doesn’t have to do anything, not now, not ever. This has been a trying evening. If you have any concern for her, you will let her go home.”
“I have to make her understand.”
“Wait until tomorrow. If you are the victor in our meeting, you will have all the time in the world to convince her. If not, it won’t matter.”
Ryan pressed past Durant, taking Elene with him. The other man gave way, though there was bitter enmity in the glare he gave Ryan. Then they were out of the rooms, out of the hotel, out in the clean, cool night air.
Devota was waiting for them, her face creased with anxiety, when they reached the house. Behind her Benedict stood as impassively as ever, but his hands were twisted together in front of him and he started forward before he could catch himself as he saw Ryan.
There was some mention of coffee to warm them, but the very idea made Elene shudder. They had small glasses of pale gold sherry instead, while they sat around the small fire burning in the bedchamber and Ryan told the other two what had taken place.
When he had finished, Devota shook her head. “Poor confused girl.”
“She was a murderess several times over for nothing more than her own protection, her own gain,” Ryan said harshly. “So sure was she of her own superiority that no one else mattered.”
“You are wrong, M’sieur Ryan,” Devota said. “So doubtful was she of her worth, she could see value in the life of no one else.”
He lifted a brow as he considered it. “You may be right.”
Elene entered the conversation, her gaze on the man at her side. “What I don’t understand is how you, or Durant either for that matter, came to be at the inn. When I left the house you were asleep.”
“The commotion when Devota discovered you were gone woke me — you and Devota were so quick to rid me of the arsenic, both before and after I swallowed it, that there isn’t much wrong with me a fair-sized meal won’t cure.”
What he meant, but would not say, was that his strength was such he had recovered quickly. Elene permitted herself a smile, but did not comment as he continued.
“You said in your note you were going to see Flora Mazent, but Devota was afraid it was a ruse, that you were going to try to persuade Gambier to stop the duel. I knew where the Mazents had been staying, since I had met him there once to discuss a business venture that didn’t materialize — the proposition you assumed was a proposal. I went on ahead while Benedict went to check with Gambier. At the inn, I was intercepted by Germaine. I think Gambier may have guessed more than he admits, for he joined us shortly, looking as if he expected to see a corpse. Germaine led us into the bedchamber where we could hear. Neither of us liked our position as eavesdroppers, but in seconds we were too involved in what was being said for it to matter.”
Devota shook her head, frowning. “Germaine is a strong woman, stronger than I could have been. What will be her punishment for this? Have you any idea?”
“I think Flora’s death will be an unfortunate accident, the last in a series of dangerous deaths involving arsenic. For my part, I feel that for Germaine to be forced to so terrible a deed is punishment enough. There is no need to involve the authorities during this time of changing power.”
Benedict, gazing at Elene who was valiantly smothering a yawn with her fingertips, nudged Devota and tipped his head in her direction.
Devota took one look and got to her feet. “I think it’s time, chère, that you were in bed. Let me help you off with your dress, then I will bring you, perhaps, a glass of warm milk?”
“There is no need for your services,” Ryan said in lazy contradiction as he lifted a hand in restraint. “I’ll do whatever she needs.”
“She needs rest.” Devota’s brown gaze held concern.
“Really, Devota,” Elene said in quiet reassurance, “I’ll be all right.”
“I’ll see that she gets rest,” Ryan said, rising and moving toward the door which he held open.
Devota would have said more, but Benedict rose, touching her arm, and glided from the bedchamber. His gesture for her to follow was polite, but imperious.
Ryan smiled at Devota as the maid looked at him once more. “She will never take harm from me.”
Devota gave a hard nod, as if to say she would hold him to his word. Finally, the door closed behind her.
Ryan returned to the fire, turning to stand with his back to the flames. He looked down at Elene, at the flickering glow of the fire reflecting on her pale face and dancing in her hair, at the shadows of fatigue under her eyes. Bending with sudden decision, he scooped her up in his arms and moved with her toward the bed.
She should protest, should declare that she did not want to be in his arms. It would be a lie. Morning would come soon, and with it the duel. Against such a threat, what use were promises and pledges of future intentions? There might be only tonight for the making of memories.
He took down her hair, spreading it in molten gold splendor over her shoulders, and unfastened her gown before easing it from her with petticoats, stockings, and shoes. Stripping away his own clothing, he pinched out the candle flames and joined her on the mattress. She held out her arms and he drew her against him. Their bodies melded together, heart to heart, hollows and curves, legs entwined. Gently they rocked each other.
Home, he was home, Ryan thought, home to comfort and content in the arms of this woman who always smelled of flowers and who above all others could fill his soul. Whatever came, she had been his for a time, and was once more, at least for this night.
To Elene, the warmth and strength of his body was a haven, one she wanted to wrap around her and, at the same time, to encompass. Nothing mattered except this closeness. His lips tasted of wine and restrained desire. It was the restraint for which she had no need.
“Love me,” she whispered. “It’s been so long.”
He caught his
breath. “Are you certain?”
“Never so certain in my life.”
She touched him in wonder, in encouragement, in free exploration. Pleasure was a bright blossoming, familiar, yet strangely new. Love was effervescent in her veins, and she whispered it against the strong column of his neck. She was wild, she was wanton, she was out of control and did not care. She eased upon his hardness, taking him, giving herself. That the exchange was secret was her joy and her pain, and in the end, her solace.
She knew when he slid from the bed as dawn crept through the shutters. She heard the sounds as he gathered his clothing from the armoire and left the bedchamber. She lay still, staring dry-eyed into the dimness with one hand covering the ache of pain in her chest. The urge to leap up and follow was near unbearable. It would be best, however, if she remained here, waiting. She could not interfere in the duel without making a fool of herself, or else having the seconds pull her away from the two men with silent curses for hysterical females who did not understand the code of honor. For her to stand pale and distraught on the sidelines would be a distraction that could not be allowed. She should dress herself and sit on the gallery, patiently waiting for Ryan to return, or until news was brought that he would not be coming. That was the way of dignity and quiet, courageous acceptance.
She could not do it.
She threw back the covers and left the bed. Moving with care to keep from alerting Devota or Benedict to her purpose, she began to dress.
The duel would most likely be held in St. Anthony’s garden at the rear of the church of St. Louis. This was the traditional place for bouts with swords, she had heard, though those involving pistols were settled outside the town where the noise and pistol balls were less disturbing. The meeting place was no great distance from Ryan’s house. The street on which he lived ran directly behind the church.
Elene slowed her steps as she drew near. The garden was a large rectangle centered by a small statue of St. Anthony and enclosed by shrubs that had grown well above head height, though the lower limbs were sparsely leafed. She stopped behind this cover.
The men were already gathered on a grassy area in front of the statue. The seconds were measuring the swords for length, while the doctor checked his bag of dressings. There was a handful of spectators in evening dress, as if they were just winding their way homeward from the party given the night before by Prefect Laussat in celebration of the transfer. They talked among themselves in low voices, commenting on the affair, the identity and prowess of the two men. There was also the exchange of what had the sound of discreet bets.
Ryan stood nearby, with his back to her. He had removed his coat and was adjusting his shirt sleeves. Durant was directly opposite Ryan across the grass. Glancing at his opponent, he began to remove his coat also.
One of the tails of Durant’s coat swung heavily against his knee. He reached down to feel the bulge in the tail pocket, a look of puzzlement creasing his forehead. Putting in his hand, he drew out what looked to be a doll. He stared at it an instant, then uttered an oath and flung it from him.
The doll landed in the grass in front of St. Anthony’s statue. It was the small wax figure of a man. On its head was a patch of fur the exact color of Durant’s hair, and it was dressed in a miniature version of a black tailcoat. Protruding from its chest was a tiny brass sword that was thrust through the area of the heart. Durant stood staring at it, his face pale and his eyes fixed.
Elene stared at the figure also. Her throat was tight and her heartbeat throbbed in her ears as she thought of Devota’s promise, and of how Benedict had gone to Durant’s rooms the night before, supposedly in search of her. This was the answer then. How pathetic it appeared, lying there in the dew-wet grass, a gray lump with legs twisted and bent and its tailcoat all askew. But the small, sharp sword glinted in the first rays of the rising sun.
Ryan appeared to have his gaze fixed on the wax figure, as did one or two of the spectators. The seconds, Morven among them, were intent on their duties; none of them paid it the least attention. Moments later, their discussions and arguments completed, they turned and approached the duelists. The actor, taking the lead as usual, was their spokesman. With a masterly bow, he asked in formal language for the final time if there could be a peaceful settlement of differences between the two men.
Durant raised his gaze from the gray form in the grass. For a moment he looked blank, as if he had forgotten where he was, what he was doing. Perspiration beaded his forehead in spite of the cool morning. Finally, he shook his head. Ryan perforce, as the challenged party, did the same.
The swords were shown to the two men. They approved them. Ryan made his choice. The other blade was presented to Durant. The seconds stepped back out of the way, each pair gathering behind their man. Ryan and Durant took their stances, facing each other.
Quiet descended, broken only by the soft murmur of a breeze in the hedge and the low warble of pigeons on the eaves of the church rising above them. The sun, stretching higher, glittered on the grass, on the blades the two men held, and on the hilt of the tiny sword impaling the wax figure in the grass between them.
“Salute.”
The swords swept up then swiftly down again in unison.
“En garde!”
Ryan took the swordsman’s position, right leg forward, slightly bent, left hand back, sword presented in his right. Durant did not move. He looked from the doll in the grass to Ryan, then back again.
Ryan eased upright again with the grace of firm muscles. He turned to the seconds. “There seems to be trash of some kind here on the ground. Perhaps it could be removed before we stumble over it.”
Elene heard his words with a stifled moan of distress. Almost, she had begun to hope that Durant would withdraw because of the doll. Ryan’s action was scrupulously fair, and therefore admirable, but misguided.
Morven came forward. He picked up the wax figure, turning it over curiously. “Where did it come from? I assure you we checked the field for impediments.”
“It … fell out of my pocket,” Durant answered, his voice a croak.
Morven gave him a bright smile. “From my travels in the islands, I would say someone wishes you harm. Better you than me.”
The actor stepped back into his place behind Ryan.
Glancing once more at the doll, he fingered the small sword, moving it back and forth, then gave it a little push that sent it deeper into the soft wax.
Durant uttered a gasp and clamped his hand to his heart. His sword tip trailed in the grass.
Morven looked up with lifted brow, then with magnificent disdain, tossed the doll aside. Durant swayed on his feet.
“Gentlemen, are you ready to proceed?” the actor intoned.
Ryan gave his assent. Durant said nothing. He looked around the garden, as if searching for something, or someone. His gaze touched Elene, narrowing in recognition. A white ring appeared about his mouth.
A rumble of comment moved among the men gathered to watch. Durant looked back toward the seconds, to Ryan, to the clear morning sky overhead. He hefted the sword in his hand, then let it dangle again.
He moistened his lips. In compressed tones, he said at last, “I believe that we should postpone this meeting. I … I am not well.”
Durant’s seconds, men he played cards with on occasion, looked at each other with lifted brows for the irregularity of the request. One of them stepped toward Ryan, clearing his throat. “Is this acceptable to you, sir?”
Elene could not see Ryan’s face. All she could see was the straight set of his broad shoulders and the proud tilt of his head. She wondered what he was thinking, if he knew what she had done. She wished, suddenly, that she had not encouraged Devota to interfere, that she had shown her faith in his ability to best Durant. She knew he could, for she had seen him do it before. But that was before he had been weakened by poison, before she realized she loved him. There were chances that should not be taken.
Ryan was long in answering. His words wh
en they came were quiet and even. “It is not acceptable.”
Not acceptable. He was refusing Durant’s capitulation. The anguish of it was like fire in her mind.
“What is your pleasure, then, sir?”
“To begin again,” Ryan said in incisive tones, “from the presentation of the swords, and the question of settlement.”
Before the second could answer, Durant threw down his sword. His face twisted into a mask of fear and fury, he stared at Ryan. “Very well then. Let me stand as admitting myself at the fault in our quarrel and assert that honor is satisfied.”
“Thank you.” Ryan inclined his head in a bow. “Please accept my apologies for any injury to your self-esteem I may have caused.”
It was a gallant gesture toward Durant’s pride which Ryan had forced him to shed. Durant’s departure from the code of honor had been galling for him, that much was plain, but his fear had overcome his reluctance to make it, just as fear of poverty had overcome his reluctance to take money from Flora’s father.
Elene, hearing the echoes of Ryan’s voice dying away, felt the bursting surge of love and glorious relief. She wanted to run to him at once, to touch him, to be sure he was safe. Instead, she waited decorously until only Ryan and Durant and Morven were left in the garden before she joined them.
Durant, still facing her, watched her approach. His lips flattened and his dark eyes turned opaque before he said, “Did you come to gloat?”
“No.” Her voice was quiet as she answered. “Only to see what you would do to each other.”
“For your sake? Who has a better right to watch? I hope you were satisfied, as I must be now.”
“Yes, I think so.” Reaching Ryan’s side, she stopped. He looked at her as he shrugged in his coat. There were equal parts of concern and irritation in his eyes, and something more that warmed her to the center of her being.
“So you have made your choice? Or was it made for you?” Durant glanced down her still slender form. “Nature has a way of lending a hand in these affairs.”
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