My Pleasure (36 page)

She looked up into his eyes, clear, concerned, without a trace of suspicion or mistrust. “Flora, Lady Tilpot’s niece. She secretly married a wastrel and a pauper and a fool named Oswald Goodwin. I have been acting as a courier between the two of them. That is why I was at Vauxhall.

“But Flora loves him. She loves him, and she is carrying his child, and Oswald, the idiot, has gone and borrowed a small fortune and wagered it all that you will win this tournament so that he can claim Flora as his bride. Otherwise, Flora fears her aunt will have the marriage annulled and the baby taken from her and Oswald will be sent to debtor’s prison for the rest of his life.”

He regarded her soberly. “And what do you think?”

Helena smiled apologetically. “I think she is correct.”

“And this is important to you?” he asked quietly.

“Yes,” she said.

He grazed her cheeks with a feather-soft touch. “Then I had best go win this bloody tournament, hadn’t I?”

SUPINATION:

a hand with the palm facing up

“MILORD!” Figgy Figburt shouted anxiously. “Please!”

“I have to go now,” Ram said, his gaze concerned and his touch a caress. “I have to get ready.”

“I know,” Helena said. He hesitated again, but at Figburt’s impatient plea finally swung around with a muttered curse and strode away down the alley.

Helena hesitated, uncertain from where she would watch the duel. By now Lady Tilpot would be considering the most brutal and public manner in which to humiliate Helena and send her packing. Helena no longer cared, but she certainly wasn’t going to give Lady Tilpot the satisfaction of dismissing her. Which meant she would likely have to stand at the door of the kitchen if she was to see anything of the final bout.

She had no regrets. She had done what she could for Flora and Oswald. Whatever fate awaited them, she would no longer be involved in trying to control it.

She started down the alley. A crumpled piece of paper caught her eye. It lay near where Ram had been when DeMarc had sliced open his shirt. She retrieved it, glancing down at the signature. Arnoux. That was the name of the man Ram had been going to meet tomorrow night. With a twinge of guilt, she read the note, at once realizing the implications.

This is what Ram had meant when he’d said he couldn’t fight. It had nothing to do with wounds or exhaustion. He’d meant he couldn’t fight because he had to meet Arnoux. Because this would be his one chance to learn the name of the man who’d betrayed him and his companions in LeMons dungeon. Instead, he’d elected to fight.

Because it had been important to her.

My God, what had she done? Years of searching come to naught so Flora and Oswald could have their happily-ever-after. And what about Ram? What about his need for a finish to his story, begun years ago with four lads bonding together as a brotherhood? What of his need for understanding, for answers?

She looked down at the note. It said the meeting was to take place in an hour. It must be nearing that now. There was no time to find Ram and release him from his pledge. She must go in his stead.

She headed toward the stables and went inside. It was quiet, vacant of the workers who’d snuck into the amphitheater for the final bout, most of the lanterns dimmed. The soft nickering of horses greeted her alongside the sweet smell of fresh hay and well-oiled leather.

She moved deeper inside, passing the shifting, shadowy forms of horses in their rows of stalls, chance light glinting on polished harnesses and metal bits. Someone was here. She could feel him.

“Arnoux?” she called softly. “Monsieur Arnoux?”

“Here!” a low voice whispered. “Back here!”

She hurried toward the voice, wanting to be done with her business so she could return to Ram. At the far end of the stable she saw a figure sitting on the ground, leaning against the door of a stall.

“Monsieur?”

A shadow moved just beyond where the man sat with his head on his chest, as if asleep.

“Monsieur?”

The shadowy figure materialized out of the gloom, medium tall, lean, and graceful in an oddly familiar way. He moved like Ram, she realized. He came closer, and she saw that he was dressed all in black, his face concealed by one of those basket masks duelists used to protect themselves in practice. In his hand he held a smallsword. With a dawning sense of horror, she realized that blood dripped from its edge.

“Ah, Miss Nash,” the man purred. “Such a stalwart lass. I never imagined you would come in his place. I suppose I should have. Your sense of duty is all sorts of impressive. But then, ’twas that quality I have played upon from the beginning.”

She took a step back.

“Please. Do not run. It will only make things messy, and I like you. I really do. Almost as much as I hate you.”

“Hate me?” She took another step back and another. He followed her, but casually, as if he had long ago anticipated her every movement. “Why? Who are you?”

“Don’t you recognize me? I’m hurt. But then”—a low chuckle emerged from behind the mask—“I admit I am somewhat gratified, too. I own I feel sinfully proud of my talents at masquerading. But I’m sure you are just as proud of yours.”

“Who are you?” She edged her way toward the door.

“I know. We’ll play a game. I was always good at games. Here’s a clue: ‘My dear Miss Nash, would you be so kind as to fetch me another sweet? I am entirely fond of sugarplums!’ ”

“Mr. Tawster,” she whispered.

He laughed and pulled off the mask, revealing the bald pate and benign features of the vicar. Only he didn’t look so benign now. Animation revealed a vitality and handsomeness she’d missed when his mouth had been pursed and his eyes lowered humbly or squinting worriedly.

“Yes, the Reverend Mr. Tawster. Quite amusing, that, but I don’t suppose you could appreciate the irony. No? Ah, well. You know,” he leaned forward confidingly, “I don’t even like sugarplums.”

“But your figure, your voice!”

“Padding and mimicry.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Of course you don’t. But I shall tell you because I truly do think highly of you, and I think to die without understanding is a terrible thing. I shouldn’t want it to happen to me, and, as they say, do unto others…”

She was at the door now, moving through it into the yard. Still he kept stalking toward her, slowly, unconcernedly. “Tell me.”

“If you stop trying to escape for a minute, I will. It’s too good a story to relate while stomping about.”

He’s mad, she thought, but kept retreating. It was darker out here. And empty.

“Let me put it this way,” he said, a touch of steel entering his subtly accented voice. French? “If you don’t halt I shall kill you at once. Now.”

She stopped, her heart pounding in her throat.

“There, that’s better. Now, where were we? Ah, yes. Why I hate you. Because you are the whelp of the terribly untimely Colonel Nash. If he hadn’t barged into LeMons ten times heroic and insisted on trading his life for…well, I’m sure you know who”—his eyes twinkled—“I wouldn’t have to conspire at their deaths now.”

Even terrified, Helena noted the odd choice of words.

“Why do you want to kill them?”

“I would never kill them.” His voice had gone from playful to deadly serious in a heartbeat, and the look he bent on her now was filled with loathing, as if she had said something depraved. “I love them. Like brothers. Like sons. Even though they always set me apart.” He grinned.

“But I won’t kill them. No. They’d win then, you see. They’d be better than me. That would be a sin. But that doesn’t mean I won’t arrange for their deaths as I have already arranged a very nice death for Ram.”

“How?” Helena asked, her focus at once honed.

He looked gratified by her question. “I knew about the pledge to your family. I knew you were alone in the world, without protection or friends. So I put you in danger, suggested that you find someone to extradite you from that danger, and let matters play out.

“Of course, I encouraged the danger,” he smiled modestly, “well, rather a lot.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Of course you don’t,” he said. “The entire point of the orchestration was that no one was supposed to know of my involvement. You see, I met DeMarc upon my arrival in London and realized early on his predilection for obsessions. The viscount was really quite unbalanced by the unfortunate episode with his former fixation, Sarah Sweet. He came to me for absolution. I gave him something else: you.”

“You encouraged him?” Helena repeated, amazed that one man could set out to manipulate another to such dire purposes.

“Oh, yes. Often and strongly. I was the one who encouraged his belief that you reciprocated his rather nasty feelings. Then, I told him you ‘betrayed him.’ ’Twas I who sent him to Vauxhall after telling him you went there looking for men to seduce.

“He wasn’t the perfect dupe, of course. They never are.” He sighed heavily. “Ram listed the viscount’s failings to a nicety: ‘No creativity. No imagination. No style.’ So sometimes I helped matters along.

“Who do you think accosted you in the rain in White Friars? DeMarc?” He scoffed. “As if DeMarc would be caught dead in a mask.

“And the roses? A nice touch, that, don’t you think? And Lady Tilpot even gave me a key to the house…”

“You are mad.”

Tawster pondered her words. “No. I am clever. I set DeMarc on a collision course with Ram. He was supposed to have killed him tonight. I sent you the flower, then I sent Ram word that you wanted to meet him here. But first I sent DeMarc word that Ram and you were meeting here for an assignation. But then that wretched boy—Figburt?—arrived with Ram’s sword and…Well, you were here, weren’t you?”

He sighed and then, as if recalling something delightful, said, “Happily, I am a man who always prepares a contingency plan. But until all of them are dead, I shall, at least for a while, have to stay in one disguise or another.

“Mustn’t let the boys know whom they’re dealing with, eh? Which is why, of course, I had to kill old Arnoux back there. And, of course, why I have to kill you. Sorry.”

“What do you mean, a contingency plan?”

He pursed his face up in lines of concern that recalled Reverend Tawster’s worried mien. “It is disgusting, the degree of poverty and desperation in which we allow the citizens of this great city to live. Why, that young boy I sent to you and Ram—do you know he lives in a room with eight other people? It’s appalling, isn’t it?”

“What are you saying?”

“For half a crown, he was willing to loosen the button protecting the tip of the sword Vettori was, or rather”—he glanced at the night sky—“isusing, and spread an ointment I gave him on it. It’s poison. Not that the boy knows this. But then, for a half crown, he wasn’t asking many questions.”

Oh, no! Realization of what he’d done swept over her. The button loosened, the final bout, heated and violent. The smallest cut—

She turned and ran.

He was after her at once. She lifted her skirts, stumbling down the dark alley, knowing she could not outdistance him, waiting to feel the bite of his blade in her back, and then she saw it, still lying glinting on the ground: DeMarc’s sword.

With a sob she threw herself down and seized it by the hilt, swiveling as she rose to face her pursuer. He was trotting after her without any real haste, and his face, dear God! His face was filled with a near-blissful relief.

“Thank you, my dear! I was hoping you would do that. Brave, lass! Brava!”

Her hands were shaking so hard she needed both of them to lift the weapon, and when she did the point bobbed and dipped erratically.

His smile was kindly, even sympathetic. “As illogical as it is, I really was having a hard time bringing myself to kill you when you were so absolutely defenseless.”

He walked up to her, easily within striking distance, and with terrible gravity, took the en garde position. “After you, my dear.”

With a sob she swung the blade two-handed, trying to find her nerve. Her bowels felt on the verge of loosening, her vision danced, and her arms felt heavy and weak.

He knocked away her feeble blow and sighed. “Please. Can you do no better? You don’t know the first thing about swordsmanship, do you?”

The only advantage you have, young sir, is your apparent unfamiliarity with your weapon. No one who sees you thus could take you seriously.
Ram’s words, spoken to Figburt that first night in Vauxhall, whispered like a calming wind through her chaotic thoughts.

The only advantage a vulnerable person has when being attacked is that he
is
vulnerable. His attacker will not expect him to fight.

Tawster regarded her in disappointment. “Well, I don’t suppose I can stand here all night hoping you’ll suddenly develop some skill.” With a sigh, he stepped forward—

“Bastard!” She lunged, twisting, her hand slamming into the ground, body stretching, her arm extending in one smooth motion up and out—And felt the point plunge into a dense, heavy substance, felt the end snag on something hard buried therein. With a cry she let go of the sword and fell back, scrambling away on her hands and feet.

Tawster stared down at the blade protruding from his ribs. “Begad,” he said faintly, the color leaching from his face. “Passata sotto.”

He looked at her, quaking just out of reach. “Damn you.”

He took a step forward, but the unexpected pain caused him to falter, to look down again, this time in real fear. His gaze swung around and he dropped his own sword. He clasped the embedded blade with both his hands and yanked. “Ah!” His stricken gaze rose to hers, and his lips curled back in a hideous smile. “Tell Ram that Dand sends his regards!”

Helena did not wait to see what would happen next. She shot to her feet, her mind already set on Ram. She had to get to him, warn him! She had to get to him before it was too late!

Desperately she ran down the alley, plunged through the door to the amphitheater, and flew along the corridor to the entrance to the main arena. A roar rose from within. A roar of pandemonium. Dear God! No!

Terrified, she pushed her way through the howling crowd overwhelming the center arena.