Silver-Tongued Devil (Louisiana Plantation Collection)
Page 32
“My word,” Renold said, and waited expectantly.
The other man laughed. “I think I would rather leave now and take Angelica with me. You can’t stop me. Try and I’ll kill her.”
“Showing a total lack of skill at negotiation,” came the answer in tones of contempt. “If she dies, there ends your hope of marrying her dowry; you lose by default. So why shouldn’t I force you to end her life and have done with it? I could then order you shot before you have taken two steps, and enjoy Bonheur as a happy widower, without the bother of a wife I never wanted.”
A wife I never wanted.
It was a bluff. Or was it? Angelica could not tell. The blood pouring through her veins felt as if it carried bits of broken glass. Her hands were cold, but her face was hot. The binding of her corset made her ribs ache and constricted her breathing so that the need to be free of it beat silently at the back of her mind.
Laurence appeared to have no trouble taking Renold at his word. The press of the pistol against Angelica’s side eased a fraction. In tones of malevolent frustration, he said, “Bastard.”
“That is hardly news.” Renold’s voice took on irritation. “Will you stay or go? Fight or run away? You had best be quick about your decision. There are others in the house who might take serious offense at finding you threatening Angelica.”
“Old Carew is not likely to stop me.”
“Not in his present condition, no.” Renold shifted a shoulder, his shirt front glinting in the dark. “But Michel Farness has appointed himself her knight-protector, and would welcome a chance to earn his spurs. And possibly a place as her next husband if we both should fall.”
Laurence relieved his feelings by a steady string of curses. As he shifted a little, the acrid smells of sweat and fear wafted from inside his coat. He said abruptly, “All right, then. Swords or pistols, which do you want?”
“The choice,” Renold said softly, “is yours by custom.”
“Yes, and just where are we going to find these weapons?”
Renold raised a hand. From the darkness beyond the nearest oak. Tit Jean stepped forward. He placed two wooden cases on the ground, one long and narrow, the other square. There could be little doubt about what they contained.
Laurence gave a rough laugh, staring through the darkness at the other man as if he could gauge his strength by his indistinct shape. “You’ve thought of everything, haven’t you?”
“It’s a habit.”
Laurence watched Renold a moment longer, as if weighing alternatives. His eyes narrowed and he gave a hoarse laugh. “You think I’ll choose swords because you’ve got that bad shoulder. But there are some who can handle a blade with either hand, and I seem to remember hearing that you’re one of them. Anyway, I’m not a New Orleans dandy used to practicing in Exchange Alley, so I don’t intend to fall for that trick. With pistols, now, it happens I’m a fair shot; I’ve met my man and put him down. But I heard the tales about you using a single shot to take the flame from the top of a candlestick. Shooting in the dark is something I’ve never tried, nor have I handled one of your fancy dueling pieces, so pistols would be a foolish choice.”
“Yet you must pick up one or the other.”
“Must I?” Laurence gave a snide laugh. “The people I’ve been around lately settle their differences with hog-skinning knives.”
“Crude sport, or so I found it.” In Renold’s voice was dry disdain. Angelica, with memories of a dark alley and a vicious, whining blade in the forefront of her mind, could only agree.
“It may be, but I have a knack for it,” Laurence said. “It’s what I favor. Of course, if you can’t lay hands on suitable knives, we might talk compromise.”
“Compromise? Rather like letting a rattlesnake bed up under the front steps, there are some things too chancy to risk. In any case, there is no problem with weapons. It happens that we took enough bowie knives off the men you brought to outfit a small army.” Without turning his head, Renold added, “Tit Jean?”
“At once, maître.” The big manservant melted away into the night
Renold turned back to the other man. “I take it,” he said, “that you have no objection to this as a dueling ground?”
“It will do,” Laurence said shortly.
“Well enough.” The reply was spoken with judicious calm. “I don’t like to suggest that you are unfamiliar with the dueling code, but you must know that no apology or excuse can be accepted on the field. The night before, yes, or even on the way to the meeting, but not on the field.”
“You aren’t likely to get either.”
“My mistake. It must have come from your mention of compromise.” Renold went on lightly. “You are allowed a second to see to your interests while you are actively engaged, but I don’t believe Angelica qualifies; women are usually exempt, besides which, she is hardly impartial. You could, of course, keep her in front of you as a shield, but I feel she would be more handicap than asset.”
Laurence snorted. “You want me to let her go now so you can snatch her for yourself. Then for all I know, you may have some of your hands set to take me.”
“Your sort of maneuver, I believe. I assure you I will let nothing interfere with our meeting.”
“Fine talk. I’d rather be safe.”
Renold shrugged from his coat and threw it aside, then began to unfasten the cuffs of his sleeves. His gaze on the other man, he said with derision, “The phrase having to do with hiding behind a woman’s skirts has just taken on new — bloody hell!”
His abrupt descent into ill temper was caused by the appearance of his half-sister on the gallery of the house. Silhouetted by the lamplight spilling through the open door behind her, she scanned the darkness. As she caught sight of them there under the trees, she snatched up her skirts and hastened down the steps. Michel, stepping from the front door just behind her, followed with swift strides.
“It seems,” Renold said with considerable annoyance, “that we are not to be allowed decent privacy. Poor Laurence. Now there’s no telling who may snatch your prize.”
He spoke more accurately than he knew. Michel had barely cleared the gallery steps when another man emerged from the house. His form was bent, his gait less than strong, but there was determination in every hard-won step. Angelica caught an uneven breath. It was her father.
“Renold!” Deborah cried as she came closer, “what in the name of heaven is going on? One of the house boys said Tit Jean came for dueling pistols.” She stopped abruptly, her gown swaying like a bell, as she noticed Laurence, saw the pistol in his hand that turned toward her heart.
“I wonder,” Laurence drawled with a sidewise glance at Renold, “how blasé you would be about my ending the life of this one.”
“Not very,” Renold said tightly.
“Nor I,” Michel said, approaching with slow care. He gave Renold a direct look. “You might have told me about the party. I resent being left out.”
“There was a reason for it,” came the grim reply.
“Yes,” Deborah said, “to keep me from following and maybe going into convulsions. It didn’t work, did it?”
Before Renold could answer, Edmund Carew called out, “Laurence, boy, what are you doing?”
“God,” Laurence said, his face twisting. “This is—”
“Ridiculous?” Renold supplied. “The element creeps in. Even in New Orleans there are those who drive by the dueling oaks like going to the theater to see a fine tragedy. Therefore, sangfroid, literally cold blood, is part of the duelist’s code. He ignores the spectators. If he can.”
“Shut up,” Laurence growled.
“I assume,” Michel said to his friend, “that you require a second?”
Renold’s smile was wry. “It seems a useful precaution, though not necessary among men of honor. If Carew will stand for Eddington, we will be even in civility if in nothing else.”
Angelica’s father drew himself up, then ducked his head in a stiff bow. “Honored.”
Edmund Carew cleared his voice of a tendency to quaver. “No need to spout the tenants of the Code Duello to me, my boy: I’ve had my share of dawn meetings, been second more times than I can remember. My duty is to keep things fair for my principle in the fight and check his weapon. Oh, yes, and to hold myself responsible for preventing any act of — dishonor on his part.”
A long look passed between the older man and Angelica’s husband. Renold gave a brief nod as he turned away. “Just so,” he said.
Tit Jean, breathless with haste, returned at that moment with his big hands full of knives. The meeting then took on a different, more official pace. A glaze, of polite behavior attended the scene while the actors prepared for their roles. The audience contained its restlessness while it waited for the show to begin.
The weapons were spread out on Renold’s coat. It was a motley collection of blades with greasy or rusty shadings and stains which it seemed better not to inspect too closely. They sported handles made of wood and bone, of cow horn and deer antlers and carved stone. Some had grips and some did not, some had hilts forged of brass or copper or blobs of lead, and some had no hilt at all. One thing they all had in common: They were sharp and they were dangerous.
Renold, due first choice of the weapons, scanned the assortment and selected one of classic shape made of quality materials and with no particular embellishments. Laurence was more careful. He picked up first one, then another, holding them to the dim yellow light streaming from the house, testing them for heft and balance. His final choice fell on a knife much heavier than Renold’s, one with a bone handle, brass hilt, and a chased blade of enough extra length to give him a four-inch advantage.
Renold did not object. Michel frowned and opened his mouth, but closed it again after a quick glance at his friend.
Laurence removed his coat. The ground was cleared of debris. Some mention was made of lamps and lanterns, but Angelica’s former fiancé scoffed at the prospect of extra light.
Angelica saw her father frown and glance at Michel. She wondered if he suspected, as she did, some nefarious purpose behind the refusal. However, conditions for the duel were set by the challenged party, in this case Laurence, and so there was no further discussion.
The two men were ready. They faced each other, bowie knives in hand, while their seconds stepped back out of the way. Angelica edged from where Laurence had left her, joining Deborah well back under the oak so the wide skirts of their gowns would not block the little light shining from the house.
As she glanced back along the path of the light, she felt a pang of dismay. There was a slight figure standing on the gallery, blending with the shadows at the near end. Renold’s mother was there, watching. Had Renold noticed? Would it matter to him if he did?
There was no signal, no office to start. Renold, knife in hand, was adjusting the set of his shoulder bandage. Laurence scowled at him while he tested the sharpness of his blade with his thumb. Then, without warning, Laurence flung himself forward in a lunge.
Renold leaped backward, throwing his arms wide so the knife blade sliced past his shirt front with a vicious whine. He twisted away, his laugh short as he danced out of range. Laurence, his face flushed and mulishly grim, moved after him. Lithe and incredibly agile, Renold flowed into an attack. There was a brief scuffle, then they sprang apart, circling warily.
“I thought you weren’t a knife fighter,” Laurence said in rough accusation.
“I never said so,” Renold answered. “Duels are fought with many kinds of weapons, from sabers on horseback and island machetes to bullwhips, billy clubs, and boat paddles — anything one man can use to harm another. Preparation pays.”
“For what good it will do you,” Laurence said through his teeth, and tossed his knife to his left hand before slashing out with a hard, roundhouse swing.
Renold, as elusive as smoke, was not there. Laurence staggered with the force of his own attack, then whirled around with a bellow of rage as he found his quarry behind him.
“Anger,” Renold said pensively, “is not good form, you know. A duelist is always calm. His indifference to his opponent’s tricks is his hallmark.” With a slight smile and an easy, almost negligent movement, he drifted away from Laurence’s next stabbing advance.
“Stand still and fight,” Laurence said between his teeth.
“Now where is the finesse in that? Or the lesson? Any pair of idiots can stand toe to toe and slash at each other in glorious bloodletting until one of them falls from sheer weakness. No. The duel is derived from ancient law, the trial by might of arms, the right of the wronged to challenge the one who gave the injury. It permitted the robbed the right to accuse the robber, the violated to have redress from the violator, the relative of the murdered to contest with the murderer. Those who were weaker had the right to choose a champion who was then, of course, invested with the same might of right. The man who lost was guilty as sin, since God favors the just.”
“Idiotic,” Laurence said, breathless as he retreated, scrambling, from a sudden whipping extension followed by a savage thrust.
“Possibly, but the loser was just as dead.”
Renold recoiled as if the attack had been a mere object lesson, and stood waiting until his opponent recovered. He added, “Once upon a time, any man could appoint himself as champion of another. For instance, I could fight for Angelica. There is a prayer for the occasion: Dear Lord, gird my arm and guide my sword. You may share it, if you like.”
With that, his instructions, like his indifference, were suddenly at an end. He moved in then with a flurry of motion from which drove a hard blow homing for Laurence’s heart. The other man sprang aside, but not fast enough. Renold’s blade sliced across the front of Laurence’s shirt and brought a streak of red at the level of his breastbone. Laurence wrenched backward frantically, scuttling for safety like a crayfish, as Renold recoiled with grace.
“First blood,” Edmund Carew called. “Is honor satisfied?”
It was Laurence who spoke in savage answer. “No! Only last blood will satisfy me.”
“The question,” Renold corrected dryly, “is mine to answer.”
“Then do it!” There was reckless fury spurred by stung vanity in the words.
Renold’s gaze, there in the dark, was level, considering. When he spoke the words were even. “Last blood,” he said.
They settled to it then.
The knives in their hands were like lethal, darting wraiths. The smell of crushed grass rose around them as their feet bruised the green carpet. The dim illumination shifted over them, sliding in a pale glow across their shirt backs, glinting in their eyes narrowed in fierce concentration, winking with points of fire at the end of their blades.
The two were better matched than had first appeared, being much the same in size and reach. What Laurence lacked in skill, he made up for in cunning and malevolence. Renold had patience and intelligence and the ability to think several moves ahead. The suppleness of body and lithe economy of movement Renold brought to the fight was countered by Laurence’s longer blade and his lack of old and weakening injuries. Laurence used every shadow and uneven patch of ground to trip, and every artifice as a screen for further deceit.
Dangerous, the dark was so dangerous. To judge the speed of a blow or the depth of a thrust was near impossible. The shadows hid the beginning of an assault, veiled the sudden stab. The jostling for position, the strained feinting and urgent withdrawals in the dimness were hideous reminders to Angelica of other contests she had been forced to watch. Yet this one was far more hazardous than the attack of Clem Skaggs in the alley or the grim meeting of Renold with Michel on the lamplit gallery. In those, death had been only a possibility. Now it was a certainty.
Angelica was shaking with ne
rves. Her chest ached with her shallow breathing and her head was pounding with the hard beating of her heart. She swayed where she stood, and her hands were clasped together with such tightness that her fingers were numb.
So intent was she on the terrible contest that she started as she felt a movement at her side. It was her father. He took her arm, holding it against him.
Was he supporting her, or she supporting him? She neither knew nor cared as she clung to him, holding tight.
The hard pace of the fight could not be sustained for long, not with death and injury being sought and evaded by inches. Both the combatants were tiring. Perspiration trickled from their hair and made their shirts cling with every lunge.
Renold made a slicing pass, stumbled on a drift of last year’s acorns, then recoiled in haste from a backhanded slash. A grimace of pain flashed across his face. The white of his shirt at the right shoulder darkened to black-red in a spreading stain. He staggered, and his right arm was slow to rise to guard position. The hole made by Michel’s sword had broken open.
Laurence, triumphant as a predator scenting blood, redoubled his efforts. Renold leaped and dodged, but his movements were growing clumsy, the wetness of shirt widening, shining red along his arm. Droplets of blood fell from his wrist as he slung himself aside from a reckless pass.
His recovery was sluggish. Laurence’s teeth drew back in a feral grin. He gathered himself and launched a charging attack. His long knife flashed with gold fire as it struck toward Renold’s heart. The defense was delayed, without power, a mere half turn as the blade slashed toward tender flesh protected only by thin linen, toward vital organs guarded only by bands of rigid muscle.
There was the hard thud of body against body. A muffled grunt of agony. The sound of tearing cloth. The two men caught each other in a mortal clasp, swaying, their lips drawn back and teeth clenched with effort.
Then Renold wrenched free. Laurence stumbled, staggered. There was a great rent in Renold’s shirt at the waist where the blade of his adversary had been allowed to pass harmlessly between body and arm. Laurence’s shirt had received a new decoration, the protruding hilt of a knife embedded between the middle buttons.