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Authors: Laurie McBain
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The effrontery of some people," Sir Jeremy complained. "Have you any notion who this villain is?"
The Duke drained his glass and smiled. "You have a certain way of dramatizing situations, Jeremy, but to answer your question, no, not for a certainty. I 've my fair share of enemies, so it could be any number of people, but most of them I know. This rascal would prefer to remain anonymous, and I can't effectively deal with a phantom."
He stood up and smiled at Sir Jeremy's worried expression. "Don't fret, Jeremy. I'm an obstinate fellow and insist upon having the last word. My only regret is having to rise so cursed early, so I'll bid you good night," he said, stifling a yawn as he left the room.
Sir Jeremy shook his head in bemused exasperation and pouring himself another drink sat down for further contemplation of the situation, grateful that it was not he who was meeting the Duke tomorrow morning at dawn.
It was quiet under the avenue of oaks as the first light of daybreak summoned the crow of a rooster and the answering chirpings of awakening birds. Crystal-like dew still clung to the leaves of the trees and the tall grasses in the fields. Sir Jeremy stood silent, Lucien's coat, waistcoat and stock across his arm as he waited along with those of the other guests who'd managed to rise so early. Most were still slumbering back in their rooms after the late night's revelry. Lucien's throat was bare and vulnerable, his shirt opened halfway to his waist, revealing the dark, golden hair on his chest. He'd shunned a wig and his thick, golden hair curled back from his temples and ears, gleaming richly under the sunlight.
Lucien flexed his sword experimentally, then turned to face his opponent, his face expressionless.
"On guard!"
Sir Frederick Jensen lunged wildly and the Duke parried the thrust of Sir Frederick's rapier expertly as he sidestepped. His wrist was firm, his hand steady, his feet agile as he lunged, meeting Sir Frederick's sword point at each thrust.
Sir Frederick was fighting offensively, constantly on the attack, using brute strength to beat down his foe, but Lucien's quickness and finesse withstood the assault and gradually reversed the positions and began to tire the stockier Sir Frederick, who was by now breathing heavily, his face red and perspiring from his exertions. Summoning what little reserves he had left, he charged the Duke like a mad bull, his sword swinging wildly as he tried to penetrate Lucien's guard and pierce the smooth column of his throat, just tantalizingly out of reach of sword point. But Lucien easily parried Sir Frederick's lunge and drove the point of his sword into the exposed shoulder of his aggressive opponent. Sir Frederick grunted in pain and fell back, his sword dropping from his hand as he clutched at the profusely bleeding wound.
Lucien stood back as the surgeon who'd stood readily available on the edge of the crowd ran forward and knelt down beside the fallen swordsman.
"Why didn't you kill him?" Sir Jeremy asked, as he held Lucien's waistcoat for him as he shrugged into it.
"No sense in it," the Duke answered matter of factly, his breathing coming quickly as he wiped his sword clean of Sir Frederick's blood with a white handkerchief. "He'll suffer enough with that shoulder wound. I don't want a fool's death on my conscience."
The Duke walked over to his coach and handed his valet his crumpled stock and accepted a freshly starched one in its stead, carelessly knotting it about his neck.
"I regret taking my leave of you so hastily, Jeremy, but I 've business to see to, and"—he paused, casting an amused glance at Sir Frederick who was being led away, surrounded by a group of commiserating friends—"Sir Frederick should be allowed to enjoy his convalescence to the fullest without my presence to distress him."
"He's lucky to be alive," Sir Jeremy replied disgustedly. "Not many are given a second chance as he has been. Now look at him. Lud, but I think he's fainted."
The
The Duke drained his glass and smiled. "You have a certain way of dramatizing situations, Jeremy, but to answer your question, no, not for a certainty. I 've my fair share of enemies, so it could be any number of people, but most of them I know. This rascal would prefer to remain anonymous, and I can't effectively deal with a phantom."
He stood up and smiled at Sir Jeremy's worried expression. "Don't fret, Jeremy. I'm an obstinate fellow and insist upon having the last word. My only regret is having to rise so cursed early, so I'll bid you good night," he said, stifling a yawn as he left the room.
Sir Jeremy shook his head in bemused exasperation and pouring himself another drink sat down for further contemplation of the situation, grateful that it was not he who was meeting the Duke tomorrow morning at dawn.
It was quiet under the avenue of oaks as the first light of daybreak summoned the crow of a rooster and the answering chirpings of awakening birds. Crystal-like dew still clung to the leaves of the trees and the tall grasses in the fields. Sir Jeremy stood silent, Lucien's coat, waistcoat and stock across his arm as he waited along with those of the other guests who'd managed to rise so early. Most were still slumbering back in their rooms after the late night's revelry. Lucien's throat was bare and vulnerable, his shirt opened halfway to his waist, revealing the dark, golden hair on his chest. He'd shunned a wig and his thick, golden hair curled back from his temples and ears, gleaming richly under the sunlight.
Lucien flexed his sword experimentally, then turned to face his opponent, his face expressionless.
"On guard!"
Sir Frederick Jensen lunged wildly and the Duke parried the thrust of Sir Frederick's rapier expertly as he sidestepped. His wrist was firm, his hand steady, his feet agile as he lunged, meeting Sir Frederick's sword point at each thrust.
Sir Frederick was fighting offensively, constantly on the attack, using brute strength to beat down his foe, but Lucien's quickness and finesse withstood the assault and gradually reversed the positions and began to tire the stockier Sir Frederick, who was by now breathing heavily, his face red and perspiring from his exertions. Summoning what little reserves he had left, he charged the Duke like a mad bull, his sword swinging wildly as he tried to penetrate Lucien's guard and pierce the smooth column of his throat, just tantalizingly out of reach of sword point. But Lucien easily parried Sir Frederick's lunge and drove the point of his sword into the exposed shoulder of his aggressive opponent. Sir Frederick grunted in pain and fell back, his sword dropping from his hand as he clutched at the profusely bleeding wound.
Lucien stood back as the surgeon who'd stood readily available on the edge of the crowd ran forward and knelt down beside the fallen swordsman.
"Why didn't you kill him?" Sir Jeremy asked, as he held Lucien's waistcoat for him as he shrugged into it.
"No sense in it," the Duke answered matter of factly, his breathing coming quickly as he wiped his sword clean of Sir Frederick's blood with a white handkerchief. "He'll suffer enough with that shoulder wound. I don't want a fool's death on my conscience."
The Duke walked over to his coach and handed his valet his crumpled stock and accepted a freshly starched one in its stead, carelessly knotting it about his neck.
"I regret taking my leave of you so hastily, Jeremy, but I 've business to see to, and"—he paused, casting an amused glance at Sir Frederick who was being led away, surrounded by a group of commiserating friends—"Sir Frederick should be allowed to enjoy his convalescence to the fullest without my presence to distress him."
"He's lucky to be alive," Sir Jeremy replied disgustedly. "Not many are given a second chance as he has been. Now look at him. Lud, but I think he's fainted."
The
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