by Darcy Burke
"Don't be ridiculous. I had no idea Robert had a sister. But I do know Robert, and it takes no stretch of the imagination to assume a beautiful woman wandering his house to be his mistress."
"Now you insult my brother as well?"
"I doubt that he would consider it an insult. Perhaps even a compliment."
"Well, I do not take your walking off this field of honor as a compliment, I take it as an insult. But I suppose we can just add it to the insults you have already done me."
"I do not mean to insult you."
"First you dishonor me by calling me a Cyprian and now you disrespect me by not allowing me to defend that honor. In what way are you not insulting me?"
Quince set his jaw. "This has all been entertaining, I'm sure, but I will not be dueling you this morning."
"Oh, wait," she said, her eyes widening. "Are you… are you afraid that I might best you?"
"Of course not."
She looked contemplative. "No, that makes sense. My reputation is very good among certain circles. The Little Dervish and all."
"You're the Little Dervish?"
"You've heard of me?" She looked pleased.
Quince narrowed his eyes. He had indeed heard of the Little Dervish from some of his fencing partners but none had indicated that it was a woman. They had, in fact, said boy and there was nothing boyish about Miss Bittlesworth in these clothes. "Are you deceiving me again, my lady? So soon?"
"No deception here, your grace," she said, offended.
He walked around her, looking her up and down. "You aren't built for fencing. Too many curves and no length."
She sneered at him. "And now you plan to dismiss me out of hand, justifying your decision with yet more insults?"
"Well, then show me what you can do."
"Salute and fight me."
"No, show me your practice drills." He stood back, watching her keenly.
"I will not dance for you like a pet monkey. Fight me or the Little Dervish will spread word of how the Duke of Beloin was afraid to take up the sword."
Quince glowered. "That's ridiculous. And no one would believe you. Provided you are the Little Dervish after all, which I highly doubt."
"I am, and I refuse to fight a man who won't defend himself."
"You assume I won't defend myself?"
"You're still holding your sword behind your back."
He smiled at her. "And?"
She paused for a moment, then nodded. "I see. As you wish." She saluted again and slid into prime position for attack so quickly that he barely had time to step back and raise his own sword in parry. Within seconds it was clear that she had trained. Quickly thereafter it was clear she was among the best he had faced. After that he was absorbed in the dance. Footwork. The flash of the swords. The sound of steel on steel. What the Little Dervish lacked in reach or strength she more than made up for in speed.
Sabre could see the moment when the duke transitioned from arrogance to concentrating on the duel. Knowing that he was fully engaged she pressed harder, faster. Attack, parry, counter-attack. While the duke's attention narrowed into the focus of a master, Sabre found it difficult to concentrate. His form was flawless. She wished she could be watching this match, could behold the beauty of it. She knew that her own style was frenetic, capitalizing on her speed and energy. The duke, in comparison, was grace personified. He was slower but anticipated every move she made well in advance. She did a flurry of attacks that always conquered her opponent's guard and he parried her as though they had practiced this particular exchange a thousand times.
She misjudged his coupé and was open on the left side for mere moments. But those moments were all the time he needed to get past her guard with a simple extension. She felt the steel bite into her arm with the gentleness of a mere brush. But she knew that an injury from a sharpened edge could be deceptively painless. It was clear that the duke's blade had scored true because of his reaction. As she drew back into salute position again he threw his own blade down and stepped forward to inspect her arm.
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
She looked up and saw the concern in his eyes as he gently peeled back the edges of her rent shirtsleeve to evaluate the wound. "I'm not," she said. "Tis not but a flesh wound."
"Gideon!" he called out in a demanding tone. "Why do we not have a doctor in attendance?"
The earl had bent to retrieve the duke's sword as he approached them. "I wasn't expecting anyone to get hurt."
Sabre laughed. "That was rather dense of you."
The earl looked affronted but the duke chuckled, unexpected amusement crinkling his eyes at the corners. "She has you there, Giddy."
Jack had joined them, unwinding a bandage. "Don't worry, Quince. She's had worse."
SIX
Although the cut to Sabre's arm was shallow, Jack thought her friend seemed to be in shock. As such, she bundled her into the carriage to take her to the Harrington townhouse.
"This certainly won't look good with your new gowns," the countess commented.
Sabre was looking out the window as the carriage set into motion. "I can wear shawls," she murmured.
Jack wasn't quite sure what to think about her friend's distracted behavior, but as the carriage rolled forward, Sabre knelt on the carriage seat to look out the back window. Jack joined her to see that the only thing she could be looking at were Quince and Giddy, still standing in the field and apparently arguing.
"Isn't he wondrous?" Sabre whispered.
Jack looked at her friend and realized that what she had thought to be shock might actually be the rapt absorption that Sabre rarely displayed, but usually signaled the beginning of a grand obsession. Fortunately her obsessions were usually confined to objects and experiences, such as shoes and being allowed to do a tour of the continent. The idea of her developing an obsession over a person worried Jack immediately.
"Who are we talking about?" the countess asked cautiously.
"The duke, of course. You saw the duel. He was magnificent."
"He's certainly among the best you've fought."
As they had lost sight of the men Sabre turned and flopped onto the bench and Jack seated herself opposite.
"Not among the best, he is the best. I'm going to marry him."
"What?" Jack felt her heart still in her chest.
"I shall marry him. Then I will be a duchess. And I will be able to watch him any time that I want. Duel him any time I want."
"Sabre, these don't sound like reasons to marry," Jack cautioned.
Her friend gave her a speaking look. "Says the woman who married for no reasons whatsoever."
"My reputation! You know what could have happened to Sam and my mother if it had turned into a true scandal."
"Of course I do. I'm just saying that other than that you had no reason to marry the earl. You didn't admire him. Quite the opposite. And you had never shown any interest in marrying for a title."
"That's true," Jack said carefully.
"At least I have reasons."
Jack recognized the look in her friend's eyes. Sabre would have the duke at any cost. God save Quince.
Sabre pinned Jack with a shrewd look. “I assume that I can count on your assistance with this?”
“Well, what do you need?”
Her dark haired friend looked out the window again. “This isn’t a war, it’s a hunt.” She smiled. “That’s your providence, Artemis.”
Jack thought she had best tread carefully. “When Gideon and I met he suggested seeing seduction as a war. That’s your expertise, Athena.”
Sabre returned her attention to Jack. “Really? Well, I suppose who would know more about seduction than Lord Lucifer?”
Quince and the earl faced off in the middle of the field after the ladies left. The duke didn't know the last time he had been so angry. Wait, yes he did. And Gideon Wolfe had been the cause of that, as well. He couldn’t decide if this was better or worse than the earl undermining the first bill Quince had tr
ied to raise in Parliament. "Gideon, what on earth were you thinking, allowing this to happen?"
Gideon, wiping down the duke's sword as part of his duties as second, asked, "What do you mean allowing?"
"I asked you to stand for me here because I trust you. I can see that is yet again a mistake."
"About that, I've been meaning to tell you that you were right."
"I…" Quince realized what Gideon had actually said and it pulled him up short. "What do you mean I was right? About what?"
"If you calm down a bit perhaps I will tell you."
Quince stopped and focused on his breathing. He could feel the tension throughout his body, irritation prickling under his skin. But what was done couldn't be undone. And short of wresting the sword from Giddy, who seemed intent on polishing it to death, in order to run his irritating friend through with it, there wasn't much he could think of that would satisfy his unease.
"Feeling better?" the earl ventured.
"Just a moment," Quince said, closing his eyes. He could hear the horses shifting in their gear as they and his coachman patiently waited. Birds were singing in the nearby trees, content with the early morning Spring sunshine. The scent of blooming flowers carried on the light breeze. Bluebells, if he wasn't mistaken. That made Quince smile. He had sent Gideon's wife a bouquet of bluebells once, as a sign of gratitude when she had made him laugh. Few people were capable of that anymore, it seemed. Feeling calmer he opened his eyes and saw that he had been correct. A blanket of bluebells bloomed under the trees that bordered the clearing.
Gideon cleared his throat and Quince glanced over to see that the earl had finally finished polishing the sword, having sheathed it to hold loosely in his off hand.
"Would you like to go?" Gideon asked.
"I recall there being a mention of an early breakfast," Quince looked up at the sky. "Perhaps not so early, but there is certain to be plenty at my sideboard if you care to join me."
Gideon grinned at him. "Angry as you were, I thought you would shake me loose at the earliest opportunity."
Quince grabbed the sword from Gideon and started toward the carriage. "Then you started telling me how right I am about everything."
"I didn't say everything."
"Hmm. I definitely heard everything."
"Yes, I've noticed you tend to hear what you want."
"Better than you and never hearing anything at all."
"I'm sorry, what was that, old boy? I didn't hear you."
Quince grinned to himself as they boarded. Perhaps everything would turn out all right after all. But his grin faded as he thought about the blood on young Miss Bittlesworth's sleeve.
SEVEN
Gideon looked across the breakfast table at the duke and could tell that although Quince was attempting to behave normally, something was still a bit off. His motions were stiff, his reactions delayed as though his mind were elsewhere. Although Gideon preferred to deal with things straight on, he knew Quince was quite different. The duke had been his friend for twenty years, since long before either of them had ascended to their titles. In all that time he had only seen Quince truly upset three times. The day they had met, again when Quince's father died, and today. As much as Quince liked to tease that Gideon was dense and unobservant, and Gideon would admit that there were many vagaries of daily life that he considered beneath notice, no one knew Quincy Telford, Duke of Beloin, like Gideon did. And based on what he knew, Quince's behavior had him worried.
"So," Gideon asked with a grin, "did you still think Sabrina Bittlesworth was mistress material after seeing her in breeches with a sword?"
That sufficed to rouse Quince from his distraction. "Seeing her in that clothing was… intriguing. She filled it out in a most fascinating way."
Having Quince actually talk about a woman was intriguing. The duke was usually more pious than a vicar on the subject of women. This one he had propositioned to be his mistress and now thought she looked well in men's clothing. "But," Gideon said, "with a figure like that she's like as not to run to fat."
Quince shrugged. "I can't see any danger of that, considering her interest in fencing."
"Jack is very strict about what can and cannot be served with tea when Sabre is in attendance."
"I notice you speak of Miss Bittlesworth very familiarly."
"She stayed with us for almost a fortnight at Kellington. As she and my wife are always in each other's pockets, if I wanted to spend any time with Jack it was a surety that Miss Bittlesworth would be there. Well, unless we were in the bedroom, of course."
Quince stopped buttering his toast. "You're not going to use this as an opportunity to tell me about your bed sport, are you? This is the breakfast table."
"Worry not that I will spoil your digestion, Quince. I don't want you thinking of my wife in that way."
The table lapsed into an awkward silence again and Gideon began to wonder if he should press his friend to find out what was wrong. Although Quince was obviously upset over hurting the girl, it seemed a bit much to be this put out over it. But if it was something else then Gideon didn't know what it could be. There had been some rough times getting the duchy put to rights after the elder duke had died, but things seemed to be going well now. Gideon himself reviewed the books at least quarterly to make sure of that. Quince had no vices to speak of. If it wasn't money then Gideon didn't know what the issue might be.
The one thing he did know was that Quince had to be handled very carefully or he would withdraw into himself, refusing to talk about what was bothering him. Gideon found himself wishing Jack were here. Jack, who had a finer sense of people, and who seemed to have a bit of a talent for drawing Quince out. They shared a quick wit, something he laid no claim to for himself. Quince stared vacantly at his plate, pushing food around with a fork and distracted by his own thoughts, as Gideon contemplated what to say. If Gideon couldn't ask directly and couldn't cajole an answer out of the duke, then he wasn't quite sure what to do.
Quince finally said, "I plan to go out to the country for a few weeks."
"Do you need company?"
The duke looked up in surprise. "You would leave London while Parliament is in session? Surely you jest."
Gideon shrugged in what he hoped was a casual manner. "We spent the better part of March at Kellington."
"The countess spent March at Kellington. I happen to remember you were in London a good bit of that time."
"How was I to know that coming into Town for the vote on the Corn Laws would trap me here? I certainly couldn't anticipate Napoleon's escape."
Quince looked as though he were going to say something and thought better of it. Gideon felt his worry edge into mild panic. Where was the sarcasm, where was the arrogance? Even at eight years old, Quincy Telford had always had a way of looking down his nose at everyone. It was, in a roundabout way, how they had met. But at the moment the duke was lacking his usual pomp. He seemed sad, hollow. Quince was probably right, he needed time out in the country to clear his head. Gideon would just wait until the duke mentioned something that could be done. The earl knew himself to be at his best when he could do something.
Not knowing what else to say, Gideon ventured, "If you do want company, just send us an invitation, old boy."
"You would die of boredom within a day."
"That's not true."
"When is the last time you spent a whole day doing absolutely nothing?"
Gideon smiled and Quince held up his hand. "Spending all day in bed with a woman doesn't count."
"True enough, probably not."
"The answer, which you are trying to avoid giving me, is never. You have never done so. But that is precisely what I'm going to be doing. Nothing. Most likely for an extended period. So no, you are not invited. I do not wish to interrupt my nothing in order to entertain you."
Not sarcasm or wit, but a harsh and direct set down. If anyone else had taken such a tone with him, Gideon would have laid him out on the floor, duke or no. But this
was Quince. And more importantly, this was Quince not acting like Quince at all.
The men finished their meal in silence.
EIGHT
Quince stared out the window as his carriage sped toward his estate closest to London, Belle Fleur. When he had gone into his bedroom at the townhouse there had been another letter. On his bed, as though perhaps he himself had tossed it aside earlier in the day. Innocent eggshell colored paper. Folded over and unsealed. But he had recognized it immediately because the first letter had been delivered in just such a way. It inferred that someone in his household was delivering them, which was both disheartening and vaguely threatening. Rather than read it he had tucked it into his coat pocket and set his staff to packing for the country. Now he could hear the paper crinkle in his pocket whenever he shifted in his seat. It didn't really matter what the latest letter said, did it? He could still recall the first missive, word for word.
My dearest duke,
I hope that this letter finds you well. It has come to my attention that you are in possession of papers from your father that you have been discussing with others. If you surrender those papers to me then I will not find it necessary to share some interesting facts that I have discovered about your mother. I will give you a fortnight to gather them. Await instructions in my next letter.
Sincerely,
Your father's friend
That first letter had gone into the fire the night he had received it. No need for the information to get into the wrong hands. Now he had the second letter. Part of his reluctance to open it was that whatever instructions were contained, he could not follow them. He had no idea what papers from his father he supposedly had in his possession. He, of course, had many papers from his father. But nothing incriminating. Nothing that would inspire this veiled but menacing threat. Everything he did have was related to the running of the estates, so unless something was in code it was hard to believe that any of it was causing this reaction. It was beyond low to be threatening his mother, but he knew the former duke had run with an unsavory crowd, men who would not hesitate to threaten even the most innocent and unprotected. The stories that his father would tell over the supper table had made Quince cringe. Honestly, if his father had documented his group's exploits half as well as the forty years of grain reports, then it was no wonder why someone would want to ensure that those papers never saw the light of day. But he had never seen evidence that such was the case. Not one note, one letter, one piece of paper hinted that his father had written down the salacious tales he had enjoyed telling. Even in the stories the elder duke had told names had never been used. Quince had very few clues about the identities of the men his father had run consorted with, save for one whose identity he had learned by accident. For the rest he only knew that they were of an age with his father, were lords, and seemed capable of almost anything.
