Chapter 1
London, June 1763
The doors of the Savoir Faire club opened, throwing a path
of light into
the midnight street, and causing a flurry among the idling
servants. Linkboys ran forward, torches streaming, to
offer the gentlemen light on their way home. A hovering
footman blew a whistle, however, and a response shrilled
back from one of the coaches lined up in the street. The
coach's lamps sprang to light, and a groom could be seen
removing nose bags from the two horses.
The liveried footman turned back to be sure the pesky
linkboys didn't bother his master, the great Marquess of
Rothgar, and his lordship's half-brother, Lord Bryght
Malloren. With a few cheeky comments, the lads drifted
back to an abandoned dice game in the shadows.
Despite precious lace gleaming pale at throat and wrist,
and the flash of fire in jewels, the marquess and his
brother didn't need protection. Both wore small swords,
and gilded scabbards and ornamental ribbons did not make
them any less lethal, especially in their hands.
They chatted as they waited for the coach to pull up in
front of them. Then the doors of the fashionable club
opened again, and a new group emerged laughing, one man
singing badly out of tune.
Then the song changed:
"For chastity's a noble state,
A pity it don't wear, eh?
The lady doth protest too much
For the gentleman was bare, eh!"
Both brothers turned, swords hissing from their scabbards.
"I believe," the marquess said softly, "that song went out
of fashion nearly two years back. You will, of course,
apologize for being so out of style, sir?"
The song was one of the scurrilous ones which had flown
about town when Lady Chastity Ware had been found in her
bed with a naked man. The young lady had declared her
innocence, but it had taken Malloren intervention to prove
it, and have her restored to society. Chastity was now the
wife of the marquess's youngest half-brother, Lord Cynric,
now Lord Raymore.
The blond man who had been singing, disordered perhaps by
drink, sneered at the swords. "Damned if I will. A man can
sing a song."
"Not that one!" snapped Lord Bryght, blade point moving to
touch the other man's throat. The singer didn't flinch,
though his companions shrank back, pop-eyed.
The marquess used his blade tip to push his brother's
away. "We'll have no street brawls, Bryght, or murders."
He eyed the insolent singer. "Your name, sir?"
Most men in London would quail under the icy tone of the
man many called the Dark Marquess, but this one only
sneered more. "Curry, my lord. Sir Andrew Curry."
"Then, Sir Andrew, you will apologize for singing out of
tune."
Nostrils flared, but the sneer stayed in place. "Don't
tell me you're still trying to shovel blossoms over the
dung heap, my lord marquess. Wealth and power can only do
so much, and a stink will always linger."
"Especially in a corpse," the marquess remarked. "I fear
we must meet, Sir Andrew. Your second?"
Instead of alarm, Curry smiled. "Giller?"
One of his hangers-on, overdressed and pug-faced, seemed
to gulp, but said, "Of course, Curry. Your servant."
"Lord Bryght will act for me," said the marquess, "but we
can settle the details I'm sure. Weapons?"
"Swords."
"Swords at nine, then, at the pond in St. James's Park.
The one so popular for suicide." He sheathed his sword,
then entered his crested carriage.
Lord Bryght sheathed his own sword, made wary by Curry's
good humor.
"Giller? Step aside with me if you will."
"Why?" asked the pudgy man in alarm.
"Because you're my second, you numbskull," Curry
said. "Lord Bryght is evidently meticulous about these
things. Go and assure him that I won't apologize."
Giller teetered over on high heels, looking as if he
feared to be skewered.
Bryght said, "It is our duty, Mr. Giller-"
"Sir Parkwood Giller, my lord."
"My apologies, Sir Parkwood. It is our duty to try to
effect a reconciliation. Talk to Sir Andrew, and if he
changes his mind, contact me at Malloren House,
Marlborough Square."
"Changes his mind!" declared Giller. "Curry? I should
think not. Try instead to convince the marquess not to
commit suicide." He turned, nose in air, and teetered back
to his friends.
So it was as he suspected. Curry was a professional
duelist.
Bryght entered the carriage and it moved on, but behind
them, singing started again. Bryght cursed but his brother
put a hand on his arm. "It will be dealt with tomorrow in
proper fashion, Bryght."
"Proper fashion? Why the devil are you fighting a man like
that? You could have taken a whip to him for singing that
song and no one would have objected."
"You think not? This is not autocratic France, and
besides, he seemed intent on a duel."
"You aren't usually so obliging to those with intent,"
Bryght snapped, for it touched on an issue he'd come to
London to raise. Now, however, was definitely not the
time. If this went amiss, it would end the issue anyway.
Rothgar smiled slightly in the flickering light of the
carriage lamp. "The duel would have been hard to avoid,
Bryght, and I found myself curious as to who wants me
dead."
Bryght looked at his brother. "So, you do know the man's
reputation?"
"A bully and probably a cheat who gets away with it
because people are afraid of his skill with a sword. He
needs a lesson."
"But why from you?" Rothgar was good, damn good, but there
was always someone better. He'd drilled that into his
younger half-brothers when preparing them for the world.
Rothgar didn't answer, and Bryght remembered what he'd
said. "You think he's a hired killer? Devil take it, Bey,
who would want you dead?"
Rothgar turned one of his deceptively mild looks on
him. "You think me unworthy of hate and fear?"
Bryght laughed-Rothgar often had that effect on him-but
said, "He'll not make a killing matter out of it. Deadly
duels can land a man in prison these days."
"What else is the point? And he's just the sort of
rootless rogue to flee to France without a care,
especially with a large bag of blood money for comfort."
"Whose money?"
"That's the interesting question. I fail to see any
enemies who would go to such extremes. Rather lowering,
really. Surely the passion of one's enemies should mark
the stature of one's triumphs."
"You probably have enemies you don't even know about."
Rothgar's almost playful mood made Bryght snappish. "The
trouble with being the 'Dark Marquess,' and the éminence
noire of England is it makes it easy for anyone to blame
their misfortunes on you."
Rothgar laughed. "Like a warty village crone? The sort
simple people blame for every misshaped child or suddenly
dead sheep?"
Bryght had to laugh, too, for a less likely image for his
elegant, sophisticated brother was hard to imagine. As the
coach halted in the front courtyard of Malloren House,
however, humor faded. Did someone want his brother dead?
After a restless night, he was still asking that question
the next morning when their coach arrived at the area of
St. James's Park close to the gloomy pond. "Devil take it!
Why are there so many people here? This is a duel, not a
theatrical performance."
"Is there any difference?" Rothgar asked dryly as he
climbed out of the carriage. Bryght could not know if his
brother had slept well, but he seemed his normal,
unruffled self.
Bryght climbed down, staring around at the crowd. Most of
London Society seemed to be here-the male part at least.
Behind the fashionable circle in lace and braid clustered
the lower orders, bobbing up and down to try to see. Some,
by Hades, carried children on their shoulders, and a
number of men, women, and children were up in nearby
trees. In the distance, people massed in the windows of
overlooking houses. Flashes of reflected sunlight told him
some had telescopes.
Anything his brother did was cause for public excitement,
but this was damned improper for a meeting of honor. Who
the devil had alerted the world? It almost turned the duel
into a joke.
Then Bryght noticed Lord Selwyn at the front of the crowd.
Selwyn had a morbid taste for public executions, and
traveled Europe to watch the most gruesome. He wouldn't
have risen early from his bed for a joke.
Selwyn, at least, expected to enjoy a death here today.
Bryght realized that he was staring around in far too
revealing a manner. He forced himself to relax, pulled out
a silver box, and took a pinch of snuff. Though he'd
abandoned London's games for the country when he married,
he still knew the rules. One did not show fear or even
concern over personal safety. Rarely in private. Never in
public.
Or, as in the animal world, they'd tear you apart.
He turned his attention to Rothgar's opponent. Curry was
already down to shirt and breeches, showing a body that
was whipcord thin and strong. Height and reach must be
similar to his brother's.
Bryght wished to hell Cyn was here. Despite a lack of
height Cyn had that extra something, that instinct and
reflex that made a true swordsman. He was just possibly
better than Rothgar. This was even Cyn's fight since the
insult was to his wife.
Curry took his rapier from an attendant to begin some
practice passes and lunges.
"Plague take it," Bryght muttered. "He's left-handed."
"A truly sinister advantage," Rothgar remarked as his
valet eased him out
of his coat. "I know."
It was like a rap on the knuckles. Of course Rothgar knew.
His brother never moved into even a casual encounter
without research. Between last night and now he'd
doubtless discovered how many bugs Curry had in his bed.
"As I thought, he's good," Rothgar said as his valet
relieved him of his long waistcoat. "He's fought three
duels in England and won them all, leaving his opponents
with nasty but nonlethal wounds. Rumor says he's killed
two men in France."
Bryght drew on his training to act as unconcerned as his
brother, but real worry churned. Rothgar practiced
regularly wiith a master, and had insiste that all his
brothers did the same as protection against just this sort
of incident. A trumped-up excuse for a duel.
But was he good enough?
Fettler, his brother's valet, was calmly folding the
discarded coat and waistcoat. The liveried footman who
held his master's inlaid and gilded rapier case looked
unalarmed. Clearly in the servants' eyes Rothgar was
already cast in the role of victor. Bryght wished he had
that ignorant security. No match between skilled swordsmen
was ever certain.
Rothgar turned to him. "Go. Do your secondary duties."
"What are my primary ones?"
His brother twisted off his ruby signet and passed it
over. "To take up my burden if things go awry." With a
slight smile, he added, "Pray, my dear, for my success."
"Don't be damned stupid."
"You thirst after the marquisate?"
"You know I don't. I meant, of course I pray for your
success."
"But I doubt either of us have voices heard by angels. Go,
therefore, and make a last attempt at peace."
"Is there any basis upon which you would?"
Rothgar was tucking his lace ruffles into his cuff. "But
of course! Am I an animal? If he crawls over here on his
knees begging forgiveness, he may flee into exile
unharmed."
Though his own terms would be exactly the same, Bryght
felt like rolling his eyes as he walked partway between
the two groups and waited. The chance of apology was
nonexistent, but one must always go through the correct
steps.
Sir Parkwood Giller minced forward to meet him, clearly
enjoying his central role in this popular drama. He even
produced a gaudy, lace-edged handkerchief to flourish as
he bowed too low in a sickening cloud of cheap
perfume. "My lord!"
Bryght cloaked his disgust and gave the slightest possible
bow. "I come to ask if your principal has realized his
error."
"Error!" The handkerchief wafted again. It could
constitute a secret weapon.
"Lud, no, my lord. But if the marquess realizes that his
offense was misplaced-"
"You jest."
"Not at all. Everyone knows-"
"Giller, the days in which seconds engaged in combat are
past, but I will oblige you if you insist."
Handkerchiefs at twenty paces. No, make it thirty.
White showed around Giller's eyes-or bloodshot pink to be
precise. "No . . . not at all, my lord. I assure you!"
"How wise." Bryght then stated his brother's terms, at
which Giller's snub nose pinched and he stiffened in
affront. "Then the duel goes on, my lord!"
"It is your duty to put the terms to your principal, as I
will put Curry's to mine." With a sharp bow, Bryght
returned to his brother.
"Complete acceptance that Chastity is a trollop, of
course."
Rothgar, warming and loosening his muscles, didn't
respond. Bryght didn't say more, knowing his brother had a
way of settling and focusing his mind before swordplay. It
wasn't something he himself had ever been able to do well,
which was doubtless why Rothgar and Cyn could always
defeat him in the end.
Come to think of it, fire-eating Cyn didn't seem to do
much mental settling before a contest either. With him it
was pure lightning brilliance. Bryght wished again Cyn was
here. He'd slice Curry to ribbons and enjoy every minute
of it. Six years of soldiering had hardened him to death-
dealing to a remarkable degree.
Everyone was waiting now for Rothgar to indicate he was
ready. Bryght certainly didn't want to rush him, but he
wished they'd get on with it, get it over with. Of course,
it was quite likely this delay was designed to put Curry
off balance. The man had already stopped his exercises and
taken to marching back and forth in obvious impatience,
playing to the crowd.
The crowd, though restive, showed no signs of siding with
Curry in this. When death hovered, impatience was gauche.
As if judging his moment, Rothgar paused, straightened,
gave Bryght one of his rare smiles, then walked into the
center of the space.
Gad, but he was magnificent.
He always moved with a fluid grace, but before swordplay
it changed slightly, as if the balance of his whole body
shifted a lethal fraction. Of course, he'd taken off his
heeled shoes, but he'd also dropped the studied grace of
the courtier and released the beauty of the predator
beneath.
Tall, broad-shouldered, lean, and muscled-the truth was no
longer disguised by the elegance and artifice of the
fashionablle nobleman. A hush settled o the crowd, and
Bryght knew it was more than anticipation of the duel. It
was awe.
Everyone was familiar with the aristocrat who wielded
great influence in England without taking political
office. Few, however, had previously seen beneath the
manners, wit, and silk.
Bryght wondered if Rothgar's reluctance to indulge in
duels was not just that he had better things to do.
Perhaps he disliked exposing this extra layer of power. It
declared itself now in his strong body and lean features,
still and focused on his deadly opponent.
Curry didn't seem to feel the change. With an audible
huff, he stalked confidently to meet his opponent, only
then settling into fencer's stance, and a rather rigid
version.
Bryght relaxed slightly. Perhaps they were uneven after
all.
Not enough. From the first click of the swords, Curry too
changed, and it was clear he deserved his reputation. More
of a fire-eater than a scientist, he was still strong,
quick and skilled, and had that advantage of being left-
handed. He even possessed some of the magic spark that
took sword fighting beyond speed and mechanics, a separate
sense that made him able to avoid the unavoidable, and
take advantage of the slightest slip.
The light but lethal blades tapped and slithered,
stockinged feet padded back and forth on the springy
grass, agile bodies flexed and twisted, recovered,
extended, retracted, lunged. . . .
Attacking blades were beaten back, but not always without
contact. Soon, despite the cool morning air, both men
poured sweat, and hair flew free of ribbons. Both shirts
were gashed red. No more than scratches yet, but Bryght's
heart was racing as his brother's must be. Plague take it
but it was close. A slip could settle this, or it might
come down to endurance.
The two men fought in silence to the music of the blades,
all concentration in eye and hand, and on the sword-the
flexible extension of the hand, arm, and body. Agile feet
and strong legs moved them back and forth with lethal
speed. Both must know it was even, for they pushed the
risks now, hunting the falter.
Curry thrust high, forcing an awkward parry that still
sent the point slicing across Rothgar's shoulder. Curry
was ready with an echo thrust to the heart, but by some
miracle Rothgar kept his balance and knocked the rapier
wide.
Both men stepped back, panting and dripping, then lunged
forward again. It could not go much longer. Then Rothgar
parried another clever thrust and extended, extended
almost beyond strength and balance so his rapier point
penetrated Curry's chest just below the breastbone. Not
deep enough to kill. Not even deep enough to seriously
wound. But instinct staggered the man back, shocked, hand
to the wound, and the crowd gasped.
Perhaps they thought him killed.
Perhaps he thought the same.
With a rapid flick, Rothgar pinked him in the thigh so
blood ran free. Curry tried to collect himself, to get
back his balance and control, but Rothgar's sword
flickered past a confused defense of the heart to pierce
deep into his left shoulder.
The maiming wound. Curry would live, but unless he was
very lucky, he would not use a sword with his left arm
again.
Bryght realized he'd stopped breathing, and sucked in air.
All around, cheers and applause made this seem absurdly
like a popular scene at the opera.
Curry, to give him credit, seized his fallen sword in his
right hand and tried to go on, but Rothgar disarmed him in
a few moves. His sword rested at the man's heaving chest,
poised with intent over the false wound. Still sucking in
breaths, he said, "I assume you are now . . . resolved to
sing songs that are up to date and in tune?"
Rage flared in Curry's eyes, the rage of one who'd never
been defeated, who had thought himself invulnerable, and
in a way still did. "Singing be damned. Lady Chastity Ware
was a whore, and still is-"
He died, his heart pierced, before more filth could spew
forth.