The Mask Revealed (The Jacobite Chronicles Book 2) (34 page)

 She moved out of arm’s reach before she lost control and struck him, and threw herself down in a chair. It was not Angus who deserved to be hit. “Sit down,” she commanded. “You’re not going anywhere until you’ve told me what’s going on.”

He remained standing.

“I canna,” he said helplessly after a moment. “He tellt me not to. He’ll explain it to ye himself later. I have to get back. I’m sorry.”

He moved to the table, picked up the key, went to the door.

“Angus,” she said coldly. He stopped. “If you lock that door, I swear by Christ that I will scream the place down until someone comes to let me out, and then I will go straight back to the palace and cause such a scene it will be the talk of Versailles for years to come.”

He looked at her. She meant it.

“He…”

“Tellt ye to,” she finished for him. “And he’s your chieftain, so you do as he says. Well, he’s my chieftain too, I suppose, but if I haven’t earned his trust, then he’s not earned my loyalty. You do as you’re told, then. You’ll see me back at the palace later. Or hear me, anyway.”

He swore, in Gaelic, at who she wasn’t sure. He stood for a full minute by the door, torn.

“He doesna want ye to go back to the palace,” he said finally. “He’ll be angry if I dinna lock the door.”

“And I’ll be angry if you do. Which puts you in an impossible position. If it’s any help to you, I’ll tell you this. I have no intention of going back to the palace tonight, Angus. Unless you shut me in like a naughty child. Then I’ll behave like one, and we’ll all be sorry.”

He came to a decision, threw the key back down on the table and opened the door. Behind him she inhaled sharply, as though in pain. He turned back again. The fact that he trusted her, when his brother clearly did not, had dissolved her anger, making space for something else. She was sitting in the chair, face turned up to his, lovely, delicate, blue eyes brimming.

“Why, Angus?” she cried in sudden anguish. “What cause have I given him to distrust me?”

At that moment he hated his brother with a vehemence that shocked him. He clenched his fists instinctively, then forced them to relax in case she should notice, should think he intended to do her violence. The comforting platitude he had half-thought to utter remained unspoken.

“None,” he said instead. “I’m sorry. For what it’s worth, I dinna agree wi’ him.”

He went out, closing the door quietly behind him. Free to leave, she did not do so. Instead she sat for a time staring into space, unseeing. Then she stood, took off her shoes, turned up the lamp, replenished the fire, poured herself a glass of wine, drank it in one, poured another, then sat down again and settled herself to wait for her husband to come home.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

At one a.m. there was a light knock on the door. Beth, still in the chair, still wide awake, nevertheless started. No doubt he knew Angus had not locked her in, and thought she had locked the door from the inside.

“It’s open,” she said. “Come in.”

The door duly opened and a head popped round it.

“Are we intruding?” Lady Winter asked. Her voice had the trembling eager tone she adopted when she had great news to impart. Her eyes sparkled.

Yes.

“No,” said Beth. “I wasn’t sleeping. Come in.” She did not stand up to greet them, as propriety demanded.

The rest of Lady Winter appeared, followed closely by Anne, whose eyes were not sparkling, but deeply anxious. If the two women noticed Beth’s lapse in manners, they did not comment on it.

“We have just returned from the palace and saw the light burning under the door. We thought we would see if you were feeling any better,” Lady Winter said. “Your servant told us you had left the concert early as you were unwell.”

“Yes. I am much better now,” Beth said calmly.
Tell me what he’s done; you are dying to,
a voice in her head screamed. “I am waiting for Anthony to come home.”

“Oh, is he not here?” cried the lady, looking round as though expecting the baronet to emerge from behind the curtain or under the chair. “He left before us. I thought he would have been home by now.”

But she had hoped he wouldn’t, that was clear. She wanted to be the first to impart the news, whatever it was.

“Oh, Lady Elizabeth, it’s terrible!” cried Anne unexpectedly. “Sir Anthony has challenged Monsieur Monselle to a duel! What can he be thinking of?”

Lady Winter scowled blackly at her companion, thereby missing Beth’s initial reaction to the news. The colour drained from her face and she jerked forward in her seat, almost tumbling to the floor. White flashes sparkled in front of her eyes.
I am going to faint,
she thought remotely.

Capable hands took her by the shoulders, eased her back into the chair. The strong smell of ammonia assailed her nostrils and she jerked her head away, grimacing. Then her vision cleared and her senses returned to her, in a fashion.

“Really, Anne!” Lady Winter was saying crossly. “Such catastrophic news needs to be broken more gently than that!”

“I’m sorry,” said Anne, her brown eyes full of tears. She was kneeling at the side of the chair, holding one of Beth’s hands between hers. She was, at least, genuinely concerned.

“It’s all right, Anne,” Beth reassured the young woman. “I am fine now. It was a little unexpected, that’s all.” She looked up at the older woman, who was replacing the smelling salts bottle in her reticule. “So Anthony has challenged Monsieur Monselle to a duel. How utterly ridiculous. Did he say why?” She was amazed at how unconcerned she was managing to sound. In a moment she would have her mask back in place.

“He was somewhat excited, but it seems he suspects the Frenchman of attempting to assail your virtue, against your will. Is that why Monsieur Monselle contrived to get you out of the room during the interval, my dear?” She obviously had images of Sir Anthony interrupting the attempted rape of his wife by a dissolute foreigner. Was that what Alex wanted everyone to think?
To hell with him,
thought Beth. He could not expect her to read his mind. If he wanted her to play a part, he should have told her what that part was to be.

“No, of course not. He had a message for me from the king, as he said.” She did not elaborate on what it was, to Lady Winter’s obvious disappointment. “We merely went for a short stroll. The door was open when Anthony found us talking. He is over reacting, as usual. Monsieur Monselle has not the slightest interest in me, nor I in him, as Anthony will realise when he recovers from his hysteria. I am sure he will not risk his life for what is clearly a misunderstanding. Did Monsieur Monselle agree to this charade?”

“It would appear so. He would have to, or be branded a coward. Although I can reassure you that I doubt your husband’s life is at risk. Sir Anthony has agreed that he will be satisfied when first blood is drawn. I am sure a flesh wound is the worst that will result from the encounter.”

“I see. And do you know when and where this duel is to take place?” Beth asked disinterestedly.

“At dawn, of course, as is traditional. There is a small clearing in the trees to the south of the palace. Bartholomew tells me that is the normal venue for duels, although of course duelling is frowned upon, and so the meeting places are not made public.”

“Well, then,” said Beth, gently freeing her hand from Anne’s grip and getting to her feet. “I had better prepare.”

“Oh my dear child!” exclaimed Lady Winter, eyes dancing. “You are surely not thinking of intervening to stop the fight, are you?”

“Of course not,” replied Beth coolly. “If my husband wishes to spend the morning making a fool of himself, I will not prevent him. I merely intend to assemble needle and thread, and bandages, for when he returns.”

* * *

In the clearing, sheltered by overgrown shrubs, brambles and saplings, frost lay heavy on the ground, as yet untouched by the weak rays of the winter sun, which had risen only a few minutes before. The grass was crisp underfoot, the frost melting when stepped upon, and the men’s green footprints showed clearly as they moved quietly about the clearing. A few birds sang intermittently in the bare branches of the trees. The air was cold, clean, bracing. It was Christmas Eve. Today all over France, people would decorate their houses with evergreens, and later would go to confession in order to celebrate the mass of the Lord’s birth at midnight with a clean conscience.

Henri, who was not generally troubled by matters of conscience, had fought two duels when young and hot-headed, one to the death, and had never thought to fight a third. He made his preparations quickly and efficiently. He had dressed practically for the occasion, in dark woollen hose and breeches, and plain linen shirt unadorned with lace, which could snag a weapon. His shoes were of stout leather, his sword sharp, functional, and sheathed in a plain scabbard. He wore no wig, which could fall over his eyes and blind him, and his thick black hair was tied back and clubbed to ensure it would not come loose during the fight. He took off his coat, rolled up his sleeves and performed a series of stretching exercises designed to loosen the muscles, while he waited for his opponent to ready himself.

The baronet had clearly never fought a duel in his life. He entered the clearing as though for a ball; sporting full make-up and neatly curled wig, he still wore the magenta satin breeches and silk shirt of the previous evening, embellished with costly Brussels lace. His shoes were ridiculous smooth-soled pink satin confections. By the darkening of the material, Henri could see they were already soaked; the fool would skid about on the slippery grass as though on ice. Sir Anthony took off his coat and handed it to his servant, then arranged the lace at his wrists carefully over his cream leather-gloved hands. The young blond man who Henri found so attractive stepped forward, murmuring something in his master’s ear. The baronet smiled, foolishly.

“Ah. Of course,” he said. He rolled up his sleeve, no more than a couple of inches; his forearms were still covered. Henri had hoped to see his adversary’s bare arm; one could ascertain whether a man was a swordsman or not from the over-developed muscles of the right arm. Beth, had she been present, and Angus, if he’d had a mind to, could have told him that both of the baronet’s forearms, as well as his biceps and shoulders, were knotted with heavy muscle due to years of practice, not just with sword, but with dirk and targe, axe, and any other weapon that came to hand in an emergency. But Beth was not present in the clearing, Angus kept silence, and Henri had no reason to suspect that the baronet was other than he appeared to be. He felt no apprehension regarding this contest. The clumsy way he drew his ornate jewelled sword with difficulty from the scabbard told Henri that Sir Anthony carried it as decoration, no more.

Henri felt a mixture of pity and derision for the pathetic fool. What had prompted the Englishman to issue a challenge was beyond him. Maybe he felt his lack of manhood, and was hoping by this ridiculous display of misguided chivalry to gain his wife’s respect. All he would gain was a ruined and bloody silk shirt, Henri thought contemptuously. The right arm, perhaps, just below the shoulder. That would satisfy honour and prevent Sir Anthony from issuing any more hasty challenges until it had healed, by which time he would be safely back in England. It was a shame that the fight was not to the death. It would be a pleasure to release the lovely Elizabeth from her bondage to this moron.

The two men moved forward into the middle of the clearing and presented their swords to the scrutiny of their opponent’s seconds, who declared them to be acceptable. It was reiterated that they would fight only until first blood was drawn, after which the duel would be over. There would be no retaliation. The men agreed, and took their positions.

Sir Anthony was visibly nervous, and made no move at first to engage his adversary’s weapon. It was left to Henri to move forward and make the first thrust, forcing the baronet to parry. To Henri’s surprise the fop then suddenly sprang into action, charging forward, flailing wildly with his sword and causing the Frenchman to jump back in surprise. He fended off the other man’s panicked swings with insulting ease, although this was not any technique he recognised. It was not any technique at all. Henri continued to parry, allowing the baronet to tire himself. Then he would wound him and retreat to a very welcome breakfast in a warm room.

After perhaps a minute of this frenzy, Sir Anthony drew back, breathing heavily. Henri contemplated for a moment whether to allow the man to continue for a while longer, enabling him to boast to his lovely wife that although he had lost, it had been a close thing. No. End the tiresome affair now. It was cold and he had more important and interesting things to do with his day.

The point of the baronet’s blade was drooping downwards as he fought to regain his breath. Henri moved in to finish the duel.

He was within an inch of his target when the Englishman’s sword shot up with remarkable speed, screeching along the other man’s blade and wrenching it from his hand, sending it curving through the air. It had been a lucky blow, and Henri cursed himself for his carelessness. Sir Anthony smiled gleefully, danced forward, eager to deliver the winning blow, aiming for his opponent’s upper arm.

At least it was the left arm, Henri thought gratefully as he resigned himself to losing, against all the odds. This would take some living down. He smiled ruefully, watched the baronet skid at the last minute, slip and sprawl on the grass, throwing his arm out as if to save himself and missing the shoulder, the blade instead moving forward and down as he fell, driving into the Frenchman’s chest with all the force of Sir Anthony’s falling weight behind it. Henri staggered backwards, keeping his balance with difficulty.

A look of utter horror disfigured the painted face, and Sir Anthony, scrambling to his feet, pulled back his arm in panic, as if by removing the sword he could somehow turn back time, undo the terrible wound he had accidentally, certainly accidentally, for there could be no doubt of the man’s incompetence, inflicted.