A Regency Christmas Pact Collection (13 page)

Hélène sighed when the last card was dealt.  Even if the remaining two gentlemen wished to play, she would not.  She must get home.  She still needed to return to Juliette’s house, change her clothing, and return to Acker’s before the morning was too far gone.  Besides, she had already won far more than she needed and, if her calculations were correct, she’d be leaving with one hundred pounds. 

The older gentleman clapped her on the back in congratulations.  It was all Hélène could do to hold her seat and not fall forward.  Why weren’t gentlemen’s backs bruised from such manly affection?

She rose to find the younger gentlemen at her side. “Congratulations.”  Stanwick, the owner of this establishment, approached. “Might I have a word with you, Mr. Mirabelle?”

Hélène blew out a silent sigh.

Stanwick stared at her, feet planted apart, fists anchored at his hips.  He jerked his head towards the hall. “In my office.”  He turned, and Hélène followed him down a dim hall, leaving the other two gentlemen at the table.  Hélène glanced out the window. It was still dark, but she had lost all track of time. How late was it, anyway?  Had she been here all night?  Hopefully, Mr. Stanwick would make this quick.

Stanwick closed the door and moved to the other side of the desk.  Hélène remained standing, anticipating leaving with the fortune.  Stanwick’s dark eyes narrowed and studied her.  Surely he hadn’t seen through her disguise. Hélène was confident she played the part of a gentleman perfectly this evening and never once made a mistake. 

Despite the lateness of the hour, Stanwick didn’t even appear tired. All she wished to do was crawl into bed. The night had been exhausting, and she was ready to be rid of her disguise.

His dark evening wear was without a wrinkle, his cravat knotted neatly, as if it had been tied just a short time ago instead of hours. Not even a hair of his black as midnight hair was out of place.  Yet his jaw was tight.  Though clean-shaven earlier in the evening, there was masculine, dark stubble shadowing his chin.  Why did he seem angry?

“I don’t allow cheaters in my club.”

She straightened. “I did not cheat.”

“It is not honorable to count cards.”

She had no intention of ever coming back here, but his insult was too much.  “Everyone counts cards,” she said. “How else can you determine if you’ve reached a number between two and twenty-one?”

His eyes narrowed. “That is not what I meant. You counted and remembered each card played.”

“All gentlemen do the same, I can assure you.”  They did, didn’t they? “How else does one calculate the odds?”  She needed to not say as much. The longer she spoke, the harder it was to hold her tone low.  She could just pray her French accent disguised any feminine tones.

Stanwick’s nostrils flared with his breath.  “Many have tried, but none with the success you showed tonight.”

Hélène bit the inside of her lip to keep from smiling at the compliment.  He was angry enough already.  Perhaps Stanwick simply didn’t like to lose. Yet he hadn’t lost tonight. He made a blooming fortune.  She had glanced at the play taking place at the other tables. Time and time again, gentlemen miscalculated and lost the money they came here with. While he may have lost to her, Dagger’s Haven made a nice profit this evening.

“I don’t know how you managed to do it, and I still find it impossible that you could count and calculate so quickly.” He leaned forward. “When I determine how you cheated, I will be asking for your winnings back.”

Hélène’s mouth popped open and she gasped.  He couldn’t take her winnings. She needed those funds to return to Milan. “I do not appreciate my honor being called into question.” She huffed, sticking out her chest and raising her chin.  Then remembering that she had breasts, even though they were currently bound, Hélène quickly relaxed before he saw through her disguise.

Stanwick simply lifted an eyebrow and looked down at her.  A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, which incensed her further. How dare he accuse her of cheating and then find humor in her indignation? She wanted to slap the smirk off his face.  Hélène glanced about the room trying to think of a way to extract herself from this situation with her pride intact, as well as the winnings.

What would any normal gentleman do in this circumstance, where honor was at stake?

Then she spied the case of weapons.  That was it.  “Swords.”

Stanwick straightened as his eyes widened for a moment. In a snap, his condescending attitude was gone. “Pardon?”

Hélène lifted her chin a notch. “You’ve called my honor into question.”

A chuckle emerged, and Stanwick openly smiled. “You wish to challenge me?” 

“Yes,” she announced and she would happily slice the arrogance out of him. She had heard pistols were the thing when issuing a challenge, but Hélène had never shot a gun and didn’t wish to have a bullet put in her.  However, she knew how to fence and was quite confident she could beat him, despite Stanwick having a longer reach.

“Have you ever fought a duel before?” His eyes had lightened to a warm brown and filled with humor.

She planted her feet and crossed her arms over her chest.

“I didn’t think so.”  He sat into the chair behind his desk.  “First, the person being challenged, which is me, chooses the weapons.”

Hélène swallowed. She didn’t know of this rule. Though it was always scripted as such, she never thought there was actual protocol.

“Have your second contact mine, and the time and weapons will be decided upon.”

She couldn’t afford to wait. The longer it took, and the more people who were involved, the more likely Acker would learn of what happened tonight. Or worse, her half-brothers could find out, and that would never do. “Are you afraid to face me now?”

He glowered at her. Apparently Stanwick didn’t like being called a coward.  “I will face you now or in a week.  The reason for a time delay is to see if cooler heads prevail.”

Hélène mulled over what he said but waiting wasn’t something she could afford to do at the moment. “I will not change my mind. So unless you choose to apologize, I see no reason why we don’t get it over with.”

Stanwick placed both hands on his desk and pressed down as he rose, studying her.  Hélène fought to keep her spine rigid and her chin out. She would not cower before him. 

There was no longer even a hint of humor in his eyes. She began to suspect she may have just baited a lion. 

Stanwick couldn’t believe the audacity of the pup standing before him.  There was something off about Mirabelle, but he couldn’t place it.  He was young, for one thing. Though he had nicely trimmed sideburns, there wasn’t even the hint of stubble on his chin.  Stanwick knew some gentlemen who couldn’t grow a beard even if they failed to shave for a month. The lack of stubble on Mirabelle’s cheeks shouldn’t concern him

No, there was something else, and in time he would figure it out, but at the moment, he needed to teach Mirabelle a lesson he would never forget. “Very well.” He sauntered past him and opened the case holding his various weapons and withdrew two rapiers.  “Come with me.” He turned, exited the office, and marched down the corridor and into the main room.  Servants were cleaning off table and carrying away used glasses.  Thorn and Carrington still remained in conversation.

At least they would have their seconds.

The two gentlemen glanced up when Stanwick entered.  Thorn looked from Stanwick to Mirabelle, then the rapiers. “Bloody hell,” he muttered, and Stanwick completely agreed with him.

“Mirabelle feels I’ve insulted his honor in questioning his skills at the gaming tables this evening.”

Carrington straightened. “He cheated?”

“No,” Mirabelle answered.

“He’s a card-sharper.”

Carrington turned to Mirabelle. “Is this true?”

“No,” he ground out.  “I played with skill.”

“Mirabelle doesn’t wish to wait for a dawn appointment, and as you two are still here, you will serve as our seconds.”

Thorn pulled Mirabelle to the side.  “You should rethink this decision.” His eyes bored into Mirabelle’s. At least he was trying to talk sense into the pup. “Sleep on it before something disastrous occurs.”

“I can’t wait, nor do I wish to,” Mirabelle argued. 

Thorn blew out a breath and pushed his fingers through his hair. He glanced at Stanwick and then back at Mirabelle. “And if you are hurt, or die, how will that be explained?”

Mirabelle had the audacity to grunt.  “It isn’t I who will suffer.” The pup smirked.

That young man needed to be taught a lesson more than Stanwick originally realized.

“Let’s get this done, and we will be on our way.” Mirabelle turned and walked back toward Stanwick.

“Thorn,” Stanwick nodded to the younger, dark-headed man standing next to Mirabelle, “you will act as Mirabelle’s second.  Carrington shall stand as mine.””

“Very well,” Thorn said before he took Carrington across the room to discuss the rules.  Stanwick remained in his spot and glared at Mirabelle.  Perhaps once the young man had a scar to remind him of this evening, he might not be so quick to issue a challenge again, and be very careful where he gambled and with whom.

Most men had more defined features, as well as the ability to grow facial hair before they participated in their first duel. Mirabelle couldn’t be above nineteen, or maybe younger.  His face was still youthful and somewhat feminine. If he’d been born female, he would be considered rather pretty.

Was he really going to duel with this boy? “How old are you?”

That damn chin went up again. “Two-and-twenty.”

Impossible! 

Thorn and Carrington returned. “We will hold the contest here,” Carrington announced.

Stanwick raised his eyebrows. This was unexpected. 

“It is too dark to be outside, and the ground in Green Park or Hampstead Heath will be wet with dew and offer an unnecessary danger,” Thorn added.

He had not considered the deterrent.  The last thing he or Mirabelle needed was to slip on wet grass in the dark and skewer someone, or themselves.  Besides, it wouldn’t be light for a few more hours, and Stanwick wanted this done so he could find his own bed.

“It will be fought to first blood, not death.”

Mirabelle blew out a sigh. Perhaps the young man had been rethinking his position and had begun to fear death.

He turned to his servants. “Clear the tables and chairs from the room.”

They hurried to do as he bid.  Stanwick didn’t need to tell them that what happened here tonight would not be repeated outside this room.  They had held many confidences over the years, and one slip of the tongue would leave them without a job.

Stanwick handed the rapiers to Carrington.  He and Thorn inspected the blades and compared the swords. They were identical, but he wanted them to be assured the two were exactly alike in grip, weight, and strength. He shrugged out of his coat and glanced at Mirabelle’s hands. They were smaller than his. The grip was always comfortable for him but it might not be for Mirabelle, but that was not Stanwick’s concern. 

Hélène took a deep breath and rubbed her sweating palms against her trousers.  What had she gotten herself into?  This was madness, but it was too late to back out now.  She shouldn’t have challenged Stanwick.  It was a foolish mistake, and one she would likely regret. At least it was to first blood.  She would have hated to kill such a handsome gentleman. 

Dark, intense eyes studied her as he removed his jacket. Hélène supposed she should do the same, but wasn’t as confident in disrobing.  What if there was a flaw to her disguise beneath the outer layers?  That was something she had not considered when dressing, but who anticipates removing clothing for a duel before leaving the house?  Still the jacket was tailored to perfection and thus too tight for what would be required for fencing.  She shook out her hands to hopefully rid them of the tingling that had developed, and then pushed her coat from her shoulders. 

Stanwick’s deft fingers worked at the intricate tie of his cravat. Soon it was loosened, revealing a strong-corded neck.  Hélène knew her cravat would remain or he would discover her thin neck. It was bad enough that with the padding from the coat removed he would see how narrow her shoulders were in comparison to the other gentlemen in the room.

He peeled his waistcoat away as he studied her.  She didn’t dare do the same.  The lawn of her shirt was thin, and he would be able to see the bindings of her breast and the lumpiness of the pillowing at her waist and stomach.  If he did manage to strike her first, which Hélène doubted, she hoped it wasn’t in the abdomen. It would be impossible to explain why she didn’t bleed without revealing the truth

He turned and tossed his discarded clothing onto the table shoved against the wall and Hélène’s mouth went dry. His shoulders were wide, and his back dipped slightly where his shirt was tucked into form fitting trousers.  The very male, strong buttocks was outlined and defined by the black material. Goodness, he was a fine specimen of masculinity.

Stanwick faced her once again. His head cocked to the side as he studied her. He rocked back on his heels and smirked. “Have you had a change of heart?”

Hélène took easy breaths to relax and locked gazes with him. “
Non
! Never.” He was not going to intimidate her.

Thorn approached and held out the two rapiers. Stanwick nodded for her to choose.  Hélène picked up one, tested the hold and sharpness of the blade before she did the same with the other. They were identical from what she could tell. She kept the one she was currently holding.  Stanwick accepted the other. 

Facing forward in the center of the room, Hélène fought the urge to wipe her sweaty palms again. She could do this. She had to do this, and win, so she could leave without him knowing the truth.

Thorn and Carrington separated, one standing on each side of the room.

“
En garde
,” Thorn shouted.  They brought the blades up and assumed the fencer’s stance with their weight balanced on the right, forward foot.

“
Pret
,” Carrington called, and then “
Allez
.” 

Neither moved. They studied their opponent. Hélène would force him to make the first move. It was a study of skill, and she wanted to see what the man was capable of. Stanwick lunged, and she danced out of the way. He sported the longer reach, but she could use this to her advantage. She would make him work and tire out.

He advanced. She retreated, preserving her strength. Letting instinct take over, withstanding her opponent’s offense for as long as she could, Hélène spun to the left so as not to get cornered by the wall.

Hélène’s sword lashed out in a brilliant flare, and she put Stanwick on the defense. But he barely broke a breath at the change of direction. This was nothing like stage fighting, and she began to feel a strain in her wrist. Again, he took the upper hand as they advanced backwards like a lover’s dance.

Perspiration broke out on her brow, and it trickled down her back.  Her breaths were coming shorter now, as were his. She needed to change her maneuvers and bring this to an end. It was just as tiring being on the defensive as it was on the offensive. Each time their swords connected, vibrations riveted through her arm at his strength.

As they reached the center of the room, Hélène took on the role of the aggressor once again, forcing Stanwick back a few steps before he adjusted and lunged.  His blade ripped through the bellow of her sleeve but did not touch skin.  That was a little too close, and she once again backed away, looking for another opening.  He would weaken and allow her the chance to draw first blood soon. He had to, because she was not going to lose this match.

Sweat beaded on Stanwick’s forehead. When he lifted an arm to wipe his eyes with his sleeve, Hélène took advantage of the opening and lunged.  He countered with enough force that the rapier almost flew out of her hand.

“That was unsportsmanlike,” Stanwick ground out.

“So is calling someone a cheat,” she retorted.