by Fran Baker
In one act of fateful togetherness, the two enemies pushed the few pieces of furniture against the walls. With dreamlike clarity, Antiqua focused on the Viscount as he kicked the pewter bowl into a corner. Vincent, meanwhile, plucked up a rapier from the buffet. He stretched out an arm, testing its weight and balance. The other weapon was taken up by Balstone.
“Ironic, is it not?” he queried with a faint laugh as he faced Vincent. “That you and I should meet again for such a cause—for the Bonapartist fools and their fatuous dreams?”
“Was the other any better?” Vincent asked.
“More noble, perhaps,” Balstone replied. Quite conversationally, he went on, “It astounded me, you know, Jack, to discover that you did indeed love Susannah. Your challenged shocked no one so much as I, for I’d always rather fancied you ran off with her all that time ago simple to spite me.”
“Not to spite you, William.” Vincent studied the tip of his foil, then brought his gaze to meet Balstone’s. “Only to save Susannah from her own folly. Despite everything, she loved you.”
The intake of breath was audible. Slowly, Balstone released the draught of air. “But she chose your wealth.”
“Only because I convinced her that you did not care.”
“Damn you, I loved her!”
“You, William have never loved anyone but yourself. In time, you’d have destroyed her.”
The room rocked with hostile silence. Antiqua caught her breath at the hatred the two men bared, and took a faltering step back to lean against the supportive wall. Her movement caught the men’s attention. Balstone’s gaze raked over her with a leer.
“Perhaps, then, the lovely Miss Greybill can teach me otherwise,” he mocked. “To the victor shall go the spoils, eh, Vincent?”
At that, Vincent straightened and raised his rapier in an age-old salute. In tense fascination, Antiqua watched as the Viscount answered that salute and she knew a wild urge to call out for Fawkes, for Archie, for someone to come put an end to this madness. Then all thoughts were driven from her as her ears reverberated with the first sharp ring of blade crossing blade.
For a time only the scuff of their stockinged feet upon the bare floor and the rasp of the converging foils sounded within the room. But even the smallest noise echoed loudly, as if amplified by the drumbeat of death.
Wide-eyed, Antiqua followed the rapid thrust and parry, willing herself not to cry out each time the large man drove his point perilously close to Vincent, sighing with relief each time that point was neatly turned aside.
Suddenly, Vincent smiled. “You have practiced . . . since we last met,” he said between breaths.
Balstone replied with his cat’s smile. “With this moment in mind.”
After that, there was only the macabre dance of swordplay. The game began to make its mark. Beads of sweat damped each man’s brow. Breath came in hurried gasps. Still they fought on. There would be only one end to this match.
Antiqua’s heart stopped as Balstone sent a sudden, sure thrust beneath Vincent’s guard. With a swift flick of his wrist, Vincent eluded death and, with steady assurance, he began to press his opponent hard. Moving lithely, he drove Balstone backward with such superior skill, even Antiqua fleetingly wondered if Vincent had been merely toying with the Viscount.
Balstone’s arm trembled, his guard wavered as his strength seemed to be spent. A feint sent him stumbling into the back of the chair. He miraculously managed to repel the hard advance of Vincent’s blade. As he did so, he steadied himself with his left hand against the chair.
The Viscount’s cloak lay across the edge of the chair and Antiqua saw him rustle its folds. A hint of silver glinted against his rising palm. Instinct sent her flying forward as his hand came up, but her cry of warning came too late to check Vincent’s lunge. His point was forced through Balstone’s right side just as an explosive flash came from the Viscount’s left.
Like a bird arrested in mid-flight, Antiqua crumpled. Vincent wrenched his sword from the Viscount’s side, leaving Balstone’s face stamped with the supremest surprise as he pitched forward, pistol and foil clattering to the floor beside him. Vincent flung away his sword and dropped to his knee beside the suddenly too-still young woman.
“Antiqua, oh my God, Antiqua!” In one fluid motion, he scooped her into his arms and pressed his lips into her chestnut-colored hair. A rapidly spreading red stain on his full white sleeve brought him back to his senses. With a quiet urgency, he examined her and discovered the source of her bleeding to be her right arm. Lifting her easily, he carried her across to the old settee where he laid her gently down.
A circle of garish crimson soon marked the faded cushions beneath her. The continued loss of blood urged him swiftly to work. He ripped the shot-torn sleeve away from her arm. To his great relief, the wound he bared was superficial, the bullet apparently having grazed only the flesh of her upper arm. He fashioned the remnant of cloth into a crude compress, then set about searching for his discarded cravat. When he returned, Antiqua had opened her eyes. She focused on him and a gradual understanding crept into those big, brown pools.
“He—he had a pistol,” she murmured dreamily. “I think he shot me.”
His fear, his anger at her folly found expression in a cold voice. “You were a fool to run into his aim.” He collected her arm and began to wind the cravat around the compress, binding it to her wound.
“I only thought to—”
“You did not, as usual, think at all.”
Antiqua subsided, feeling the force of his chilling tone and hard expression like a blow. Her eyes closed against the tears spilling into them, only to fly open again as his lips brushed hers.
“Oh, my little fool! You might have been killed!”
“But you were not,” she said simply.
She was rewarded with a crushing embrace. For a moment their lives became fixed on a single kiss, a kiss that merged their joy into a single unit of love. At the back of her consciousness Antiqua felt bemazed that a man always so composed, so emotionless, could be so passionate. Then thought was suspended as she surrendered herself completely to the exhilaration of loving and being loved in return.
Finally, reluctantly, he released her, and firmly pressed her against the cushions of the settee. With a last casual kiss on the top of her hair, Vincent strode across the room, catching up a Holland cover as he passed by. Antiqua disobediently sat up and twisted around to see him shroud a body with the sheet.
“The Viscount—is he . . .?” she asked with a slight falter.
“William Allen is where he should have been sent a year ago, my dear—in hell. He won’t be mourned, except perhaps by those who employed him for their own nefarious dealings.”
It was said without pity. Antiqua was stirred to object. “Not even by Susannah?”
“Least of all by Susannah Aylward. Mrs. Jagger came to know him for what he was and mourned for him long ago. Or for the memory of her lost dream, I cannot say which.”
“How sad you make it sound.”
“It was sad.”
His tone was enigmatic, his face turned away so she could not read his expression. Antiqua suffered a pang of jealous doubt. “Do you—do you still care for her?” she asked on a quivery.
“I do wish,” Vincent sighed in the tones of one goaded beyond endurance, “that people would quit believing me to be or ever have been in love with Susannah Aylward. She was young, lovely and sweet—and meant no more to me than a chance to be chivalrous, before, of course, I discovered that chivalry was dead.”
Joy, pure and heady, burbled up unrestrained from within her and the melody of Antiqua’s laughter brought a brilliantly loving smile to Vincent’s face.
Seeing it, Antiqua experienced a surge of consummate emotion. She knew this love would never be equaled and the knowledge sent a thrill of excitement rushing through her. Her left hand reached out, Vincent stepped toward her and the door crashed open.
Chapter 19
“I sa
y, what the deuce’s happened?” a peevish Lord Rosewarren inquired. One hand tenderly patted the top of his head while the other steadied his stance in the doorframe. A short length of severed cord dangled from his wrist.
“Well, now, Master J.,” Fawkes said as he pushed unceremoniously past the Marquis, “just when do you want to set out for the continent?”
“Continent?” Antiqua and Archie sang out as one.
“I don’t feel quite up to traveling this time of year, Oliver,” Vincent drawled.
The old servant shoved a paw of a hand through his shock of hair and ran a telling eye from the shrouded figure on the floor up to Vincent’s face. “That’s as may be, sir, but there’s some as may not care what you feel up to.”
Archie followed Fawkes’s gaze. His aching head was forgotten. “My God! Have you killed Balstone?”
“Don’t be tiresome, Archie,” Antiqua admonished. “Of course he killed the Viscount.”
“And what did Jack do to your arm?” Rosewarren queried, fixing his astonished gaze upon her.
“Nothing whatsoever,” she answered in icy tones designed to quell nonsensical questions.
Fawkes was at her side. “May I, Miss?”
Her hesitation vanished as Vincent nodded. The makeshift bandage was discarded, and the compress removed. Fawkes scrutinized her wound, and though his examination was both quite gentle and brief, Antiqua whitened and bit her underlip as he probed.
“’Tis only a minor bit o’damage,” Fawkes pronounced with what she thought was extreme callousness. “But we must have it cleaned and bound proper.”
“But what is this about the continent?” Antiqua demanded.
“’Twould be unwise, Miss, for the murderer of the Viscount Balstone to linger in England,” Fawkes explained.
“But Balstone wasn’t murdered!” she protested. “It was a duel!”
“Duels aren’t legal, Miss.”
The simplicity of Fawkes’s statement drove the last hint of color from Antiqua’s face. “Oh, Jack, you must fly! Go now before you are arrested!”
“My foolish, adorable girl,” he said on a laugh as he started toward her.
His path was abruptly blocked by the Marquis. “I think, Jack,” Rosewarren said belligerently, “you owe us an explanation.”
“I fear the bump to your head has severely addled your wit, Archie,” Vincent said on a sigh as he began to move forward.
Again he was accosted by a determined Archie who clasped his sleeve and said heatedly, “You can’t just ignore me!”
“Take care, little brother,” Vincent advised as he detached Archie’s hand from his arm. With a casualness belied by the steel in his eye, he continued, “I do not owe anyone—least of all you—any explanations. Now I suggest you remove yourself before I must do so.”
“But why did you shoot Antiqua?” the boy demanded loudly.
On the echo of his words, the door once again snapped and a shriek rent the air from amidst the swarm of bodies crowding into the room.
“Hélas! We are too late!” cried Mme. Tallien shrilly as the sound of her scream faded away.
A babble of conjecture rose like a swelling tide to die away to sudden stillness when the newcomers took in the shrouded form which lay across the floor’s bare expanse. Abandoned swords and discarded pistol fueled the speculation aroused by the disheveled, angry appearance of the Marquis and his elder brother. But it was the ashen face of Miss Greybill, her enormous eyes still reflecting pain and fear, which drew the attention of them all. Then Oliver Fawkes came slowly to his feet, stood aside and revealed the bloodied slash on her arm.
“Oh, Giles!” Lady Julianne sighed mournfully. “He has taken to shooting young females! It’s too bad of you, Jack, really it is!” she added, sweeping across to enfold Antiqua in a protective embrace.
Not to be outdone, Yvonne Tallien dashed to Antiqua’s other side and exclaimed dramatically, “Ma petite! I shall see he pays for this outrage!”
“Oh, Miss, whoever’s gone and shot you now?” screeched a white-faced Lucy Summers.
“I demand, Vincent, that you explain yourself instantly!” the Duke of Sedgwick bawled. He did not carry his usual walking stick, but nonetheless pumped his arm as if he were thumping it upon the floor.
“That’s just what I was saying, sir,” Archie put in.
Sir Giles intervened in the lone calm voice. “I think perhaps that before we carry on with accusations or explanations, we see that Miss Greybill is attended to.”
Vincent, who had borne the torrent of verbal assault with a mixture of annoyance and amusement, flashed Winthrop a look of gratitude. His sister, at the same moment, agreed wholeheartedly.
“Yes, Giles, though we didn’t come prepared for something like this.” She raised a hand in a fluttery command and the tearful maid ceased to hover in the doorway. Lucy carried a small cloth bag, which Julianne indicated as she said to Antiqua, “We’ve brought you a change of clothes, my dear.”
“But, truly, Lady Julianne, there’s no—” Antiqua began.
“Ah, ma petite courageuse! Do not worry, ma chérie, I shall take you back to Paris, away from this madness.”
Tante Yvonne’s assurances only succeeded in further agitating her niece. Pushing aside the protective arms of both women, Antiqua tried feebly to rise. With one sure step, Vincent closed the space between them. In a low voice that yet ripped through the noise of the buzzing company, he directed Antiqua to sit down.
“Oliver, do what you can for her arm until we can get her to a doctor,” he instructed before addressing Antiqua’s aunt. “Madame, forgive me, but I must ask you to stop spouting hysterical nonsense.”
The affronted Frenchwoman opened and shut her mouth in wordless resentment as Fawkes tore one Holland sheet into strips.
The rest of the party was miraculously silenced as Vincent continued to rap out a series of orders. “Winthrop, see if you can locate some brandy, wine or other spirits. Water, too, if you can find a source. Lucy, Julianne, do what you can to help Fawkes.”
“Oh, Lucy, you weren’t seeing hobgoblins after all!” Antiqua said as she affectionately hugged her maid. “It was Viscount Balstone you saw in Dover—at a glance, he looks amazingly like his brother, though in truth, he looks nothing like Thomas Allen. That is, I mean, looked.”
This astounding revelation had the effect of riveting attention upon the veiled figure on the floor. His Grace thrust forward. With the toe of his boot, he flicked the sheet away from Balstone’s form, then as quickly covered it again.
“Humph! So you’ve gone ahead and killed him after all, eh? Confound it, boy, must you ever be killing someone?”
Without even turning to look at him, Vincent threw his father a pledge. “You shall have your explanation, sir, but not until Miss Greybill has been settled.”
Sir Arthur, meanwhile, stared, as he had done since their arrival, at his granddaughter. Pushing his white hair back with a pudgy hand, he spoke gruffly at last. “So you’re what came of my son marrying that Frenchwoman.”
Running her gaze over the length and breadth of his stout figure, Antiqua wondered what there had been about this man to cause her parents so much grief. She answered calmly. “If you are Sir Arthur Greybill, then, yes, I am your granddaughter.”
His broad chest expanded at her tone of disinterest and he replied on a huff, “You look a decent enough chit.”
His words drew a sharp breath from Mme. Tallien, who rose to the defense of her family honor. “Pah! It is all of a piece with you, such a stupide one!”
“You, Madame, are precisely what I expected of the family my son unfortunately allied himself with,” Sir Arthur returned in condemning tones.
Each of Yvonne’s three chins shook with rage. “And you, Monsieur, are what I expected of a man who closed his doors to his own flesh and blood!”
“Either the two of your cease behaving like schoolchildren or I shall insist upon your removal from the room.” Interrupting ruthlessly, V
incent brought the skirmish to a swift halt upon seeing a dangerous flush mount Antiqua’s cheeks.
Before either of them could respond to this arrogant display of authority from one who had no notion of how to behave as a remorseful villain should, Lady Julianne drew her own conclusions and said clearly, “But you didn’t shoot Antiqua, did you, Jack?”
“Of course he did not shoot me,” Antiqua replied. Throwing a look full of withering scorn at Rosewarren, she said stoutly, “I don’t know how you could have been so idiotic, Archie.”
Flushing, he said defensively, “You always insisted he did before—and when he sent me out, he looked so murderous. I just thought—”
“Well, you were quite wrong and so was I,” she broke in. “It was the Viscount who shot at me outside Dover. He meant to capture me because of the papers, you see, but then he thought he’d killed me, like he killed his brother Thomas.”
“There must be an explanation for all this gibberish, but I’m damned if I can see what it is!” Sedgwick exploded.
Sir Giles re-entered, holding an opened bottle. “This was all I could find, Vincent. I should imagine it’s pretty nasty.”
Taking it, Vincent first sniffed, and then tipped the bottle to his lips. “Blue Ruin,” he announced with a grimace. “From your two wardens, I collect. I’m sorry, Brown-eyes,” he said, holding it out, “but you’re going to have to drink some of this.”
Their eyes met over the bottle-top.
“Will it be so very awful?” she asked.
“Not if you open your throat and let it run down.”
She did as she was told, but choked as the scorching liquid scalded her to the pit of her stomach. Pounding her back, Tante Yvonne vented a stream of animadversions on l’Anglais and their habits to which only Sir Arthur paid the least mind.
The clear liquor next was used to cleanse out the open wound, causing Antiqua to grit her teeth and grip Vincent’s hand tightly. His “Good girl!” murmured into her ear did much to mitigate the sting and she managed a tremulous smile for him. Fawkes very expertly wrapped the torn strips of cloth about her arm and at last pronounced her satisfactory.
