The Pride of Lions (7 page)

“No claim?” Damien cursed under his breath. “They’re engaged to be married, for God’s sake.”

Hamilton’s gaze broke away from Montgomery’s long enough to cast a startled—and even angrier—glance in Catherine’s direction. She felt her cheeks blush a hotter, more humiliating red, and she had to blink hard to keep the sting of tears from blinding her.

“Well, daughter?” Sir Alfred’s voice came down on her like a gavel. “We’re all waiting. Did this gentleman insult you or not?”

She looked helplessly around the ring of hostile faces, wishing she had never ridden into the forest that morning, never learned to dance a gavotte, never been born eighteen years ago this night.

“At least tell us the nature of the supposed insult,” her father insisted, his patience nearing its limits.

“He … he …” Her words were barely above a whisper, and she needed to swallow to make any sound at all. “He kissed me.”

“Kissed you?” Sir Alfred leaned closer and peered into his daughter’s face. “He
kissed
you? Against your will?”

“I …” She curled her lower lip between her teeth and bit down savagely on the fleshy pad. What could she say? If she said no, she would lose Hamilton as surely as if she slapped his face in public. If she said yes, his damned code of honor would require him to defend her reputation. “I … One minute we were dancing, and the next …” She
faltered again and lowered her eyes. “I did nothing to encourage the liberty.”

Colonel Halfyard sucked in a deep breath and glared at Montgomery. “Explain yourself, sir!”

Montgomery’s attention remained fixed on Catherine’s face a moment longer, then switched indolently to the colonel. “There is nothing to explain. It is a beautiful night, I had a beautiful woman in my arms; I saw something I wanted and I took it.”

The colonel’s nostrils flared through a hot gust of indignation. “Insolence, sir! It appears Lieutenant Garner was justified in taking offense. By God, in his place, I’d likely do the same.”

Hamilton’s mouth flattened into a sneer as he glared at Montgomery. “Will you or will you not give me satisfaction?”

Raefer exchanged a dark look with Damien before he answered the lieutenant’s challenge. “Where and when?”

“Tomorrow. Dawn. Kesslar’s Green.”

Montgomery smiled faintly. “I have pressing business in London. By dawn tomorrow I plan to be well on my way down the road. I would as soon have this over with by then, if you don’t mind.”

Garner’s expression became whiter, more pinched at this additional mockery. Even Sir Alfred stared at the tall merchant, surprised by his audacity.

“Then you shall meet here and now,” he declared. “The courtyard in front of the stables, in one half hour. Damien—since Mr. Montgomery is here by your invitation, you shall act as his second. Weapons, gentlemen?”

“The lieutenant seems to be comfortable with sabers,” Montgomery said wanly. “I have no objections.”

“Hamilton—” Catherine raised imploring eyes to him one last time. “No, please. He has already apologized.…”

“Daughter! You are a little late with your concerns.” Sir Alfred took her roughly by the arm. “I have no doubt you were more than slightly at fault here—if, indeed, not entirely to blame.” He started to propel her toward the
door, leaning close to hiss in her ear as he did so. “I warned Lady Ashbrooke we should have married you off years ago. I warned you as well, young lady, that I would tolerate no further scandals. You will take yourself to your room at once, and there you will remain until I decide what is to be done with you!”

Catherine could no longer hold back her tears. They brimmed over her lashes and streaked down her cheeks, dripping dark stains onto the rose silk of her bodice.

“Father—”

“Now! At once! Do not even dare ply me with any of your missish tricks. Your days of having your own way are over. Over, do you hear me!”

Catherine heard nothing over the frantic beating of her heart. She fled the terrace, fled past the startled, staring guests in the ballroom, and did not stop until she was safely locked away in her room, with her head buried in the muffling blindness of her bed quilts.

4

A
ring of brass lanterns had been set up in the courtyard. Light fog had drifted in from the river, no more than a haze, but enough to blur the yellow posts of light and distort the ghostly shadows on the damp cobbles. Word of the impending duel had spread through the party like a bushfire, and every man worth his salt was present, forming a second murmuring ring around the lanterns. Some of the more daring women, cloaked and hooded to preserve a semblance of modesty, huddled in small, excited groups by the stables. Servants, liveried coachmen, and grooms perched on the carriages, hung from window ledges and doors, eager anticipation on their faces.

Two stories above, her hand clutching the sheer lace curtains, Catherine stood at the window of her bedroom, grimly watching the scene unfold below. Her face was damp with tears, her eyes polished and red. Harriet stood behind her, twisting a lace handkerchief to shreds.

“Someone has to stop this madness,” Catherine whispered. “I never meant it to go this far. I didn’t want anyone to be hurt. Oh, Harriet, you do believe me, don’t you?”

“I believe you,” Harriet murmured, giving the lace another savage twist.

The truth was, Catherine often hurt people—herself included—simply because she acted without thinking and worried about the consequences when it was too late. There was goodness in Catherine, and kindness, but she
was too stubborn to admit she was vulnerable, too proud to reveal to anyone that she wasn’t nearly as strong or self-sufficient as she professed to be.

“Did Lady Caroline say anything when she came to see you?” Harriet ventured to ask.

“Mother?” There was a derisive sigh. “She was more irritated at having her tryst with Lord Winston interrupted. I don’t think she listened to a word I said. Perhaps I should have told her Montgomery raped me; that might at least have roused some curiosity.”

“Oh, Catherine …” Harriet bit her lip, not knowing what to say to comfort her friend. One of the reasons they
were
friends was that they understood the loneliness of growing up in an empty household. Harriet’s mother had died giving birth, leaving her to be raised by indifferent nurses and nannies. Catherine might as well have been an only child—and an orphan—for all the attention her parents had given her. “You shouldn’t speak so harshly of your mother. She cares for you, she just … doesn’t know how to show it.”

“She knows how to show it to her lovers. Oh …” She dropped the curtain and whirled around. “Why is this happening? Why? It was such a stupid little thing. A kiss, for pity’s sake. I’ve kissed dozens of men before tonight. Why make such a fuss now? And why could Hamilton be satisfied with nothing less than a duel?”

“Because he is Lieutenant Hamilton Garner of His Majesty’s Ninth Dragoons,” Harriet said on a gust of exasperation. “What did you think he would do, Catherine? What were you playing at when you let Mr. Montgomery take you out onto the terrace?”

“I didn’t
let
him take me anywhere. We were dancing and … and I didn’t even realize where we were until it was too late.”

“You didn’t realize where you were? It must have been some dance … and some kiss.”

Catherine felt her cheeks warming in response to
Harriet’s accusing tone, but how could she possibly explain what had happened? She couldn’t even explain it to herself. It was as if Montgomery had cast a spell over her, had swallowed her into his eyes so that she could not think or move or even breathe without his command. And the kiss.… Her lips still burned with the memory, but that was all it had been: a kiss. A simple kiss that was threatening to turn her whole life upside down. Undoubtedly it would cost her any hope of winning a proposal of marriage from Hamilton. And likely it would cost the London merchant his life. The lieutenant was a master swordsman, an instructor for his regiment. Catherine had heard stories about his instinct and agility, and despite Montgomery’s bravado—or perhaps because of it—Hamilton would take delight in cutting him to bloody ribbons.

“Oh, God.” She leaned her brow against the cool pane of the window and saw a new commotion below. Hamilton had emerged from the shadows around the courtyard and was walking with his seconds—two junior lieutenants—into the center of the lighted ring. He had removed his scarlet tunic and decorative white leather belts and wore only his nankeen breeches and collarless white linen shirt. He halted by the stone fountain while one of his seconds unsheathed his sword and handed it to him. He held it lovingly, running a finger down the gleaming surface of the steel before he held it in both hands and flexed the supple blade in a slight arc. He whipped it free almost at once, slicing the air with spirals and deadly swift slashes to warm his wrists.

A smaller stir rippled through the crowd at the opposite side of the courtyard as Raefer Montgomery and Damien approached the ring of lanterns. Montgomery had also removed his frock coat and satin vest, his fancy lace jabot and starched neckcloth. His shirt was silk, opened at the throat. The formal wig had been discarded, and his jet-black hair lay like splashes of ink against his neck and temples.

Catherine’s hand twisted into the curtain again. Hamilton moved like a dancer, preparing for the macabre performance ahead; Montgomery stood motionless, the smoke from his cigar rising in thin tracers above his head.

“Why didn’t he leave?” Catherine asked in a horrified whisper. “Why did he not just get on his horse and leave? He didn’t seem to care what anyone thought of him earlier; why should he care if they think him a coward now?”

Harriet moved up beside her. “Men call
us
proud and vain, but I daresay everything we learned, we learned from them.”

Catherine was only half-listening. Colonel Halfyard had apparently been chosen to act as adjudicator, for he was walking solemnly into the center of the lighted ring and holding a hand up for silence. The window was open enough to hear the hush fall over the crowd and the colonel’s voice when he called the principals forward.

Hamilton strode confidently toward his commanding officer. Montgomery drew deeply on his cigar one last time and dropped it onto the cobblestones, grinding it beneath his heel before he took his sword from Damien. He wore a curious smile on his face, but there was nothing amusing in the way he carved an invisible
Z
through the air with the slim steel-blue blade.

“Gentlemen.” The colonel’s voice boomed out through the dampness. “I am bound by convention to appeal to both of you to settle this
affaire d’honneur
without bloodshed. Lieutenant Garner … will you accept an apology if tendered?”

Hamilton shook his head. “A mere apology is insufficient.”

“Mr. Montgomery.” The colonel glared at him from under beetling white brows. “Do you believe there is any other way of settling this dispute?”

“The lieutenant seems to have his mind made up, sir. I can but oblige.”

“Very well.” The colonel nodded brusquely to the
seconds. “If everything is in order, we shall proceed. Is there a doctor in attendance?”

A barrel-shaped, bewigged gentleman stepped forward importantly and raised his hand. “Dr. Moore, at your service.”

The colonel looked gravely at each combatant. “At the command
en garde
, you will take up your positions. I understand first blood has been waived by both parties? Very well. God have mercy on your souls. Gentlemen, take your marks.”

Hearing this, Catherine backed away from the window, her face as pale as wax. “They have waived first blood?” she whispered in horror. “That means … the duel is to the death?”

Her heart pounding painfully against her rib cage, she turned and ran for the door.

“Catherine! Where are you going?”

She did not stop to answer. Flinging the door wide and gathering the voluminous folds of her skirts in her hands, she flew along the hallway to the stairs, then down and through the double oak doors as if a demon were snapping at her heels. She ran along the fine gravel of the drive and onto the manicured lawns, slipping on the dew-laden grass and giving her ankle a painful wrench in the process. She did not stop. She kept running toward the rear courtyard, and long before she rounded the corner of the house, she could hear the angry bite of steel on steel, the shrill metallic screech of offense and defense.

The duelists faced each other, left arms bent and raised for balance, right arms in straight thrust, parrying, engaging, counterthrusting without a break in the stride or rhythm of their movements. It was like a ballet—a lethal, deadly ballet that had the crowd holding its collective breath, knowing from the first few strokes that these were no fainthearted academy duelists who would be worried more about the art of their footwork than the presentation
of their blades. Each step was precise, calculated for the most efficient use of speed and strength. Each thrust and riposte was effected with a terrifying grace and beauty; a less experienced swordsman meeting one or the other would have been dead after the first pass.