The Price of Deception (30 page)

“Seven, eight, nine . . .”

Robert faced his countdown to eternity. He focused
upon Suzette and his beautiful son, who looked so much like
him.

“Twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen . . .”

In a few more seconds, it would be over. One way or
the other.

“Eighteen, nineteen, twenty . . .”

Robert turned on his heel, lifted the gun to aim, and
heard Philippe’s pistol discharge. He pulled the trigger almost
instantaneously in return, and waited for the bullet from
Philippe’s pistol to lodge in his heart.

His eyelids closed anticipating the blow. Then he
heard a piece of wood blow off from the bark of the tree behind
him, followed by a fleshly thud, a surprised moan, and a body
dropping to the earth with such force he felt the tremor underneath
his feet.

His eyes shot open. At first he could not see through
the cloud of smoke spewing from the end of his pistol; but there
Philippe lay on the ground, holding his shoulder, and clenching his
teeth in pain. Robert lowered the gun and walked over to his
wounded nemesis.

“You son-of-a-bitch!” Philippe growled. He
impulsively felt the ground for the gun that had fallen from his
hand. Once back in his grasp, he aimed it at Robert and pulled the
trigger in a desperate attempt to kill him anyway.

“You goddamn bastard!” he roared.

Click
.

Everyone stood silently by, watching Philippe writhe
to and fro, after his unscrupulous and foolish second attempt.

“Sir, it’s only a single shot,” Pelletier said,
coming up and removing the pistol from Philippe’s clutches. Robert
reached out and handed the other pistol to him as well.

“Let it be over, Philippe. I promised Suzette I would
not kill you, though plainly you had planned otherwise for me. Why
you missed, I shall never know, until the good Lord reveals the
reason why He spared my life.”

“You fucking bastard!” he spit in his direction, with
sweat pouring down his forehead. Philippe moaned.

“I’ve won,” Robert reiterated. “Suzette and the boy
are mine.”

He spun around on his heel and headed toward Giles.
Color began to rush back into his assistant’s face. He came over,
grabbed him heartily, and patted Robert on the back.

“Well done, sir. Well done, indeed.”

“Perhaps.” Robert ruefully glanced back at Philippe,
who had risen to his feet with the help of his assistant. His
wound, though painful, appeared minor. He would recover fully
within a month or so, after the removal of the bullet.

Robert recognized the painful defeat written across
Philippe’s sorrowful face. Remorse flooded his soul for what had
transpired between the two of them. Yet through it all, he took
solace. It could only mean that he and Suzette were meant to be
together.

As they strode toward their waiting carriage, Robert
wondered if Jacquelyn knew of the morning affairs. If she had, her
silence beforehand was understandable. Certainly, she had wished
for his demise many times over.

He patted Giles on the shoulder. “Come my friend, and
let us retrieve what this day has awarded me.”

Giles’ face radiated with a relieved smile.

Chapter Twenty
Five

Philippe lay on the ground, his white linen shirt
soiled from grass stains and dirt. The shot hit him with such
force, it knocked him off his feet, and he fell hard to the earth.
His shoulder felt as though it was on fire with excruciating
pain.

As he watched Robert depart the scene with his
assistant, his eyes narrowed into dark slits. The pat of
camaraderie between the two brought a flurry of curses spewing from
his mouth.

“Monsieur, let me help you up.”

He held onto Leroy’s hand and wobbled to his feet.
The movement sent searing pain through his shoulder. Philippe
allowed Leroy to pull back his shirt to inspect the wound,
grimacing over the slightest touch.

“You are very fortunate,” Leroy assured. “There is
minimal blood loss. It appears the bullet should be fairly easily
removed. It was a clean shot.”

“Yes, I’m fortunate, I suppose, to have been only
wounded. I would have rather blown the heart out of that bastard’s
chest instead.”

Pelletier walked over and stood in front of Philippe.
“My services have been concluded, and since you have already paid
my fee and there are no bodies to be removed, I shall take my
leave. Good day,” he remarked, with no emotion. He tipped his hat
and departed.

Philippe gritted his teeth. He hadn’t the strength to
reply one way or the other.

“Help me back to the carriage.” He leaned upon Leroy
for assistance. “I need to take care of this arm immediately at a
physician and retrieve my daughter from Duchess Holland.”

“Of course, Monsieur, straight away,” replied
Leroy.

After they climbed inside, Philippe lifted his shirt
to view the wound himself. Leroy put pressure against it with his
clean handkerchief to stop the blood until they reached the
doctor’s home. His face etched with concern over his employer’s
welfare.

Philippe occasionally moaned in discomfort, while he
mulled over his defeat. Angry that he lost the challenge, he found
the outcome far too bitter to swallow.

He had arrived confident that morning, feeling
fearless beforehand. Though his mind had already relished in his
victory, subconsciously his body responded to the inherent
possibilities of death just prior to the duel. Copious beads of
sweat had formed on his forehead before the pace-off. By the time
they reached the count of twenty, perspiration had trickled
downward from his hairline.

The stinging of the salty liquid, as it rolled into
his eyes, caused him to blink profusely from the discomfort. He had
squeezed the trigger prematurely, sending the bullet to its target
before a clear aim had been gained through his blurred vision.
Philippe, confident he would hit Robert somewhere on his body,
uttered a profanity the moment the projectile hit the bark of the
large oak tree instead.

At the same time, the hot, searing arrival of a
bullet tearing into his shoulder sent him crashing to the ground.
He could not accept the unfinished outcome of Robert’s demise and
tried to shoot him once again. The moment he pulled back the
flintlock and squeezed the trigger, his anger gave way to the
reality it was only a single-shot pistol. He felt like a foolish
ass for attempting to murder his nemesis with an empty gun, but his
point had been made.

Philippe could bear the pain of a fleshly wound, but
found bearing the shame of losing face and honor a thousand times
more painful. Leroy stayed supportive throughout the matter.
Burdened with the heavy weight of failure, Philippe refused to lift
his head while the driver sped toward medical treatment.

They arrived and were quickly spirited into the
examining room. Since dueling was against the law in France, the
physician had agreed, at the price of a bribe, to keep the visit
confidential.

“I can see the bullet,” he reported, poking about
Philippe’s wound site. “It’s lodged against your upper arm bone.
You are lucky it did not break the bone, but it may be
chipped.”

“Goddamn it, man!” Philippe roared when the physician
inserted a surgical instrument into the injury and quickly pulled
out the round ball.

“You see?” he said, holding it up proudly. “You will
be fit in no time.”

The doctor dropped the lead projectile into a metal
bowl with a
clang
, and Philippe watched the horrid thing
roll back and forth, taunting him over his loss. The gaping wound
was stitched close, and Philippe gritted his teeth through the
whole process. After the removal of the bullet and bandaging of the
wound, Philippe stood to his feet and slipped his arms back into
his bloodied shirt.

“You should wear your arm in a sling, Monsieur, to
keep it still. Movement will cause great pain for at least the
first week, and then you can slowly work it about.” He washed his
hands in a basin of nearby water and continued giving instructions.
“Come back to me if you see any sign of infection around the wound,
especially if it turns red or produces puss. Otherwise, it should
heal nicely on its own.”

“Thank you,” Philippe mumbled, grateful the ordeal
ended.

“Do you wish to return home and change before picking
up your daughter?” Leroy asked, thinking he looked like a
fright.

Philippe balked at the idea of returning to his
residence where Suzette stood ready to run away with her blackguard
of a lover.

“Damn, no. Direct the driver to proceed to the
Holland residence, so I can see the Duchess.”

They arrived at the townhouse a short time later,
much to Philippe’s relief. Anxious to see Angelique and bring her
back into his custody, Philippe pulled his jacket over his soiled
shirt and then headed to the door. He picked up the knocker and
slammed it a few times, but no one answered. Finally, after a few
more persistent shoves of the brass ring, a maid opened the door.
She stood in the threshold with an uncomfortable look on her
face.

“Philippe Moreau to see Duchess Holland. Please
announce my arrival.”

The young maid looked at his bloody state. Her eyes
opened wide, and then slowly she slipped her hand into the pocket
of her apron and pulled out an envelope.

“I apologize, sir, but I am to inform you that the
Duchess has left the residence. She asked me to give you this
note.”

Philippe snatched it from her hand. “My daughter—I’m
here to pick up my daughter. I need not speak to the Duchess, where
is she?”

A fearful look spread across the maid’s face, and her
voice squeaked out a reply. “I’m afraid, Monsieur, that the Duchess
departed last evening, along with a baby and Dorcas, her lady’s
maid.”

“What?” Philippe cried in a violent panic. “What do
you mean they left?”

He pushed his way through the door into the residence
and began yelling at the top of his lungs, while he wandered from
room to room. “Duchess Holland! Angelique! Are you here?” His eyes
scoured the premises in a panic-stricken search for his
daughter.

The maid scurried behind him in a frantic state.
“Sir, I told you, they left last evening.”

Finally, Philippe stopped cold and looked at the
envelope in his hand.

“The Duchess has probably explained in her note,
Monsieur. Perhaps you should read it.”

His thumb lifted the lip of the envelope, breaking
the seal and tearing the paper in the process. Philippe pulled out
the parchment and read the neatly written pronouncement of
fate.

Monsieur Moreau,

I write this letter in the expectation that you have
triumphed in your challenge. My desire is that my husband is dead,
Suzette is destitute, and your honor has been restored.

In spite of the above, I must confess that I have
taken other matters into my own hands. You were quite right,
Monsieur Moreau, when you apologized for your wife stealing from me
something that I loved. Now, it is my turn to steal from her
something she loves.

“
An eye for an eye,” says the good
Book. Life is filled with principles that if one person injures
another, that person will receive the same injury in return. It is
my pleasure to confer that punishment upon your wife by taking your
daughter, Angelique. Hopefully, the pain I cause her through this
one act will be sufficient retribution to cause her grief for the
remainder of her life.

You, though innocent of your wife’s sins, are not
without guilt. You took from my husband his son and raised him as
your own. As much as I despise the bastard, it is still an offense
for which you must pay. Divine retribution is indeed harsh, and I
have come to execute it upon you both.

Your baby daughter now belongs to me. By the time
you read this letter, I shall be far away from Paris leaving my
past behind and starting anew. I will settle elsewhere, raise
Angelique as the child I never had, and love her with all of my
heart. She will never know her true parents. She’ll only know me as
her mother and whomever I take as a husband to be her father.

Forget her, Monsieur, as if she were never born. It
will make it easier for you to deal with the loss.

Jacquelyn Spencer-Holland

“
Oh, my God,” Philippe cried in
anguish. He dropped the note and fell to his knees with a
thud
on the wooden floor, barely able to breathe from the
shock. He wailed aloud like a lunatic in an insane
asylum.

Leroy ran to his side when he heard his cries from
outside the residence. The house maid merely looked at him in
astonishment, until Leroy picked up the letter Philippe had dropped
and read its contents.

“My dear, Jesus,” he muttered. “My dear, sweet
Jesus.”

He stuffed the letter into his pocket and knelt down
besides Philippe and held him by the shoulders, trying to bring him
back from the brink of insanity.

“Monsieur, you must contain your emotions and think
rationally. Perhaps we should not delay in calling the police. They
couldn’t have gone too far.”

Philippe wiped his face with the palm of his hands
and tried to stand upright. He swayed from the awful pain and
grabbed hold of Leroy’s arm to steady himself.

“Yes, you are right, we should go to the police. Take
me—take me now.”

Philippe could barely think straight as he exited the
residence and made his way back to the carriage. Life had dealt him
an unthinkable blow. In a few short hours, he had lost everything
of value—his wife, his honor, and his daughter.

* * * *

Jacquelyn woke to the slow, gentle rocking of the
train. She had purchased a ticket for herself and her companions on
a new long-distance passenger trained owned by the Compagnie
Internationale des Wagons-Lits, and named the Orient Express. She
thought the mode of transportation exotic and wonderful. The coach
would take her through Strasbourg, Munich, and onward to Vienna.
The train turned out to be everything she had hoped for—luxurious,
private, and destined to a city that had always captured her
fancy.