Thunder and Roses (33 page)

“If so, it is by your wish, not mine,” Lucien said gravely.

Michael looked at the duke. “Will you act for me, or are you also going to side with that lying Gypsy?”

Rafe glowered at him. “Damned irregular to have an affair of honor where a man doesn’t know why he has been challenged.”

The major repeated, “Will you act for me?”

Rafe sighed. “Very well. As your second, I will ask if there is anything Nicholas can do—an apology, some other way of addressing your grievance—that will resolve the dispute.”

Michael’s lips stretched in a humorless smile. “No. What he did can never be rectified.”

Rafe and Lucien exchanged another glance. Then the duke said, “Very well. The garden behind the folly should be suitable, and it’s cool enough that there shouldn’t be any guests in the shrubbery. I’ll get two matched whips from the stable
tackroom
and meet you there.”

They filed out of the study and followed Rafe down the hall toward the back of the house. When Clare came with them, Lucien frowned. “You shouldn’t come. A duel is no place for a woman.”

She scowled back. “Every aspect of this ridiculous duel is abnormal, so I doubt that my presence can make anything worse.”

As Strathmore hesitated, Nicholas said, “Save your breath, Luce. Clare can keep a score of small children in order, so she can certainly outface any of us.”

Clare thought he looked less perturbed than any of them. Having seen his skill with a whip, she knew that he could more than hold his own, but Lord Michael’s attitude chilled her. He was a man possessed, and if he couldn’t kill Nicholas in a duel, heaven only knew what he would do instead.

They went down a narrow back staircase, then outside. Clare shivered as she stepped into the cold April night. Nicholas took off his coat and dropped it around her shoulders. “Here. I won’t be wearing this.”

She nodded and pulled the warm wool folds around her. It was hard to remember that half an hour ago she had been having a wonderful, thoroughly frivolous time.

The garden was enormous for a London house, and at the far end the ball was almost inaudible. Behind the folly was a small courtyard intended for summer dancing. Torch holders stood around the area, and Rafe and Lucien proceeded to light and set an armful of torches brought from the stables. The wind whipped the flames, causing shadows to flare wildly across the garden.

The major seemed calmer now that action was imminent. Like Nicholas, he stripped off his coat and cravat. Nicholas went one further by taking off his waistcoat, shoes, and stockings so that he was barefoot.

With the field prepared, Rafe and Lucien solemnly examined the two carriage whips and agreed that they were substantially similar. When the whips were offered to the combatants, Nicholas took the one that was closest, gave it an experimental crack, then nodded acceptance. Michael did the same, his eyes blazing with anticipation.

The duke said, “There are no codified rules for a whip duel, so we’ll set them now. Stand back to back, walk eight paces each when I tell you to start, then turn. I’ll drop my handkerchief. After it reaches the ground, strike at will.” He turned a hard stare at both men, his gaze lingering on the major. “The duel is over when Lord Strathmore and I agree that it is. If either of you fails to stop when I call time, then by God, we’ll stop you. Is that understood?”

“Crystal clear,” Nicholas said. His opponent didn’t bother to reply.

Lucien walked away from the other men and drew Clare back to the edge of the courtyard. “Stay back here,” he said in a low voice. “A carriage whip has quite a range.”

She nodded silently, and tried not to think of what might happen. Though a whip might not be lethal, it could destroy an eye in an instant. She doubted that Nicholas would deliberately maim his opponent, but Michael might think that blinding his enemy would be a suitable vengeance for whatever grieved him.

In eerie tableau, the
duelists
went through the required ritual, standing back to back, then pacing out the steps after the duke called “Now!”

When the two men had turned to confront each other, Rafe raised his handkerchief, then threw it down. Clare stared at the light muslin square, mesmerized, as it floated earthward. Just before the handkerchief reached the ground, a puff of breeze caught the fabric and it skimmed sideways above the
flagainstones
.

Not noticing that the handkerchief hadn’t yet touched, or perhaps unable to wait a moment longer, Lord Michael struck out. Caught off guard, Nicholas threw up his left arm to protect his face. The whip curled around his forearm with an ugly snapping sound, ripping through his shirt and scoring the flesh below.

As crimson stained Nicholas’s sleeve, the major’s gloating voice announced, “First blood, Aberdare.”

“Next time I do this, I’ll remember to start early, too.” As he spoke, Nicholas slashed back. There was a faint, menacing whistle, then a thin red line blazed across his opponent’s cheek and jaw. Michael couldn’t suppress a gasp of pain, but it didn’t stop him from striking again. This time he cut at the other man’s feet. Nicholas leaped into the air like a dancer and the vicious leather thong passed below him. Even before he had landed, his whip snapped back. A ragged slit appeared across Michael’s chest, and again blood flowed.

Undeterred, the major struck again. As Nicholas twisted away, taking the lash on his shoulder, Clare pressed a fist to her mouth to stop herself from crying out. She had seen fights between schoolboys and once between drunken miners, but what she saw now had the primal savagery of war.

With a snarl, Michael bounded forward so he could strike at closer range. “I’ve waited years for this, you bastard.”

Amazingly, Nicholas flicked his wrist and his thong intercepted the other man’s. As the leather strips twisted around each other, he said, “Then you can wait a little longer.”

He jerked on his whip in an attempt to disarm Michael. The other man was dragged to his knees but managed to hang onto the handle of his weapon. For almost a minute, the men strained against each other, muscles knotted. Then the thongs abruptly separated, causing both men to lurch backward.

Rather than strike back immediately, Nicholas crouched like a wrestler and moved sideways, his whip raised and ready. Michael fell into the same stance and they began circling each other, their smooth, gliding movements belied by the fierce concentration on their faces.

Even in the uncertain light there was no confusing the two men. Nicholas the Gypsy was light-footed and swift, one step ahead of his opponent’s probing lash, while Michael the warrior was aggressive and grimly determined to destroy his enemy. There was no sound except the faint scrape of the major’s boots against the
flagainstone
.

When Nicholas successfully evaded another slash, Michael panted, “You’re good at running, you filthy Gypsy.”

“I’m not ashamed of what I am, Michael.” With a powerful snap of his wrist, Nicholas slashed another hole in the other man’s shirt. “Can you say the same?”

His taunt ignited an explosion of rage. The major launched a wild assault, flailing his whip back and forth to produce a continuous torrent of lashes. As the ugly sounds of leather striking flesh echoed across the courtyard, an agonized gasp escaped Clare. Why didn’t Nicholas slide away again instead of enduring so much punishment with no more than a raised arm to protect his head?

She learned why when Michael stepped forward into a lunge that put most of his weight on one foot. It was the moment Nicholas had been waiting for. He struck out with lethal precision, and his hissing thong curled round and round Michael’s booted ankle.

Though the lash itself did little damage, when Nicholas yanked his whip with both hands the other man fell hard, too off-balance to catch himself. His momentum sent him rolling across the ground and his head cracked audibly against the
flagainstones
.

Suddenly it was over, leaving Michael lying still as death in a frozen silence broken only by Nicholas’s harsh breathing. Clare spent an instant giving t
hank
s that Nicholas had won. Then she darted across the courtyard and knelt by the fallen man. She had tended her share of schoolyard injuries, which stood her in good stead as she gently examined his bleeding head.
     

Nicholas dropped down beside her. His shirt was in ribbons and blood oozed from at least a dozen slashes, but a quick glance assured Clare that his injuries were superficial. He himself paid no attention to them, for all his attention was on the unconscious man. Voice shaking, he asked, “Is he hurt badly?”

Clare didn’t answer until she had checked Michael’s pulse and breathing as well as the head wound. “I don’t think so. Concussion certainly, but I don’t think his skull is fractured. Head wounds always bleed freely, so they look worse than they are. Does anyone have a handkerchief?”

One with an elegantly embroidered C was thrust into her hand. Firmly she pressed the folded cloth to the wound.

Nicholas murmured, “T
hank
God it isn’t worse. I wanted to slow him down, not kill him.”

“Don’t blame yourself,” Lucien said soberly. “He forced this quarrel on you. If you’d chosen pistols or swords, one of you would be dead now.”

“It was stupid of me to let myself be drawn into any kind of fight,” Nicholas said, his anger at himself obvious. “You saw how Michael behaved earlier. Do you think he’ll accept this as a final resolution of his grievance?”

The silence that followed was answer enough.

When the first handkerchief was saturated, Clare used another, this time with a Strathmore S on it. Fortunately the bleeding had almost stopped. Nicholas retrieved his cravat and she used it to tie a crude bandage that held the second handkerchief in place. Glancing up, she said, “He should be moved as little as possible. Can he stay here, Your Grace?”

“Of course.” Wry admiration in his eyes, the duke added, “Since you seem to fit into this gang of ruffians so well, you had better call me Rafe.”

Clare sat back on her heels. “I don’t know if I’m capable of calling a duke by his first name.”

“Don’t think of me as a duke. Think of me as someone who failed miserably at Nicholas’s fish-tickling lessons.”

She smiled, realizing that his humor was a sign of relief that nothing worse had happened. “Very well, Rafe.”

The duke continued, “Luce, do you think the two of us can get him indoors? I’d rather not involve any of the servants.”

“We can manage,” was the terse reply. “He weighs at least two stone less than he ought.”

As the two men gently raised Michael from the
flagainstones
, his ripped shirt fell away, exposing an appalling mosaic of scars that ran from his left shoulder to his waist. They all stared, shaken, and Nicholas swore under his breath.

“He was wounded by shrapnel at Salamanca,” Rafe said grimly. “Obviously it was worse than he said at the time.”

As Michael was lifted to his feet, he seemed to regain a little consciousness, enough so that he wasn’t quite a dead weight as his friends slung his arms over their shoulders.

Nicholas donned his stockings and shoes, then collected the whips. As he and Clare followed the others into the house, she gave t
hank
s that the duel hadn’t ended in disaster. But she had little sense of relief, for she feared that Nicholas was right; tonight’s duel would not satisfy Lord Michael’s fury.

18

 
Face fine-drawn by tension, Nicholas refused treatment for his injuries. He did accept a loose cloak from Rafe, since putting on his own closely cut coat was out of the question. Within a few minutes, he and Clare were heading home in his coach. The ball guests were still so busy celebrating that no one gave them a second glance when they left the house.

There was no talk as they rumbled through the streets of Mayfair. Nicholas sat on the opposite side of the carriage, balanced on the front edge of the seat rather than leaning on his abused back. He also moved stiffly when he helped her from the carriage at Aberdare House.