On a Long Ago Night (40 page)

had botched everything!

"I am a hopeless fool," she said to the empty room.

You should give sometimes.

"But every time I do, something awful happens."

Well, she hadn't given anything of herself this time, and he

was gone anyway. James had given everything so far in this

marriage: he'd courted her, arranged the wedding, seduced her,

been gentle and humorous and understanding when she'd been

moody and difficult. She'd shared only passion and the knowledge

of old pain, afraid of feeling emotion, let alone expressing it. That

was no way to begin a marriage; it was certainly no way to develop

and sustain one.

Didn't she have a duty to be a good wife?

She almost smiled. Of course she did—especially to a man

who compared her to warrior queens and legendary heroines.

Especially to a man who rode to London to fight a duel for her

honor.

A man like that didn't come along very often. What did it

matter how and why they'd finally come together? Having James

Marbury in her life was a gift from the gods. It would be hubris not

to accept such a gift. She would take the gift, take the man. Honor

him, cherish him, and love him for always. That was the least she

could do in return for the joy he gave her then, now, and hopefully

for always.

Honoria felt as brave as Boudicaa, Zenobia, and Roxane

rolled into one as she strode boldly out of the dining room and

called to the butler in the hall, "Charles, have my coach readied, I

need to go to Spain today."

Joshua Menzies blamed his run of bad luck on the Honorable

James Marbury. He could hardly wait until the man was dead, and

one way or another, he
would
be dead soon. Menzies didn't put

much faith in Captain Russell to do the job, even though he'd spent

the last two days keeping Russell sober and assisting him with

target practice. None of Russell's fellow officers or gambling

cronies took any interest in acting as his second, so Menzies had

become Russell's best friend and bosom companion in the hopes of

destroying Marbury. For Menzies was certain there was no getting

to the woman until her new husband was out of the way. Perhaps

Marbury was sniffing around Honoria for the same reason Menzies

was, to get his hands on the missing treasure, so Menzies was

happy to see Marbury dead to get him out of the way as much as

for revenge.

Menzies had discovered that Russell was good with a gun,

but reckless. Right now the Royal Navy captain strode angrily

through the damp grass in scuffed boots, heedless of the misting

morning rain, still furious at the comment Marbury's father had

made about Russell deserving an impersonal bullet rather than

honorable steel to pay for his crimes of omission and commission.

"Omission and commission," Russell muttered now as he

paced nervously back and forth in the walled orchard garden

behind the Spanish Embassy. "What did that dried-up stick mean

by that?"

Russell didn't bother lowering his voice, even though the

viscount stood only a few yards away, talking quietly with an

embassy official. A surgeon and his assistant from the embassy

were also standing by. The Spanish diplomat resembled an older,

darker version of James Marbury, so Menzies assumed he was the

uncle who'd arranged for the field of honor to be on foreign soil.

Pity. Menzies had had a nice, quiet spot in Smithfield picked out as

a site for the duel. There, if Russell failed to kill Marbury, Menzies

would have had an ambush of toughs ready to take Marbury out of

the picture. Of course, the milords didn't bother taking a mere

vicar's suggestion. But he had to admit that a foreign embassy was

the ideal spot for dueling. The English government could not reach

inside these walls, and the Spanish ambassador was happy to look

the other way in an affair of honor.

"Honor," Menzies grumbled bitterly. Honor was for fools and

the wealthy. It was Honoria he wanted. How amusing that it was

Honoria the duelists fought over, when in the end it was Joshua

Menzies who would have her—at least until he had the information

he wanted from her. He rubbed his hands together in anticipation,

then straightened alertly as James Marbury came striding into the

garden.

Menzies's smile grew wider and wider as Marbury

approached his relatives, though he hid his expression behind the

prayer book he held up. The big man moved tiredly and didn't look

as if he'd gotten any sleep, but he looked dangerous enough.

Menzies supposed a hangover would be too much to ask for, but he

added that wish to his prayers.

Russell moved beneath the shelter of a spreading oak and

stared sullenly at the Marbury party. Menzies took the opportunity

to move surreptitiously closer.

"Fine," he heard James Marbury say to the viscount in

response to a worried question. "Is everything ready?" The viscount

nodded, and produced a leather pistol case that he'd protected from

the rain within the folds of his greatcoat.

The viscount touched his son on the arm, then turned toward

Menzies. "Reverend?"

Menzies straightened and stepped forward to fulfill his duties

as second. He had a nice little speech prepared to humbly beg the

combatants to reconsider in the name of God. It would be quite

pretty, and hopefully completely ineffectual. He wanted to see

some blood for all the trouble he'd been through!

"My lords," he began as the Viscount of Brislay clicked open

the gun case for his inspection. "I—"

"Let's get on with it." Russell shoved him aside and snatched

a pistol out of the case. He moved swiftly to stand toe to toe and

eye to eye with James Marbury, then drew his lips back in an ugly

sneer.

Marbury yawned, the back of his hand politely covering his

mouth. "Yes," he said after he'd stared Russell down. He took the

second pistol from the case. "Let us get this over with."

The Spanish diplomat came to stand between the men,

placing them back to back after he made certain the single shot

pistols were clean and loaded. Menzies, the attending physician,

and the viscount moved back under the tree to witness the combat.

Honoria Pyne was the heir to a ducal title: hauteur, arrogance, and

regal self-assurance were hers by birthright and training. She

wouldn't even have bothered to knock, except the embassy door

was locked. The icy formality of the man who opened the door did

not halt her from coming inside. She did not wait just inside the

door as requested when the butler went to fetch an official to speak

with her. She barely took notice of the protesting attaches as she

brazenly strode down the hall in search of a door to the rear garden.

Dawn was just now breaking. She had to hurry—to stop the

fighting, or possibly grab a stick and beat both fools taking part in

the duel senseless. She didn't know what she was going to do; she

simply knew that nothing and no one was going to stop her from

reaching James's side. She had quite a nice crowd of protesting

Spaniards bustling around her by the time she found the garden

door. She slammed the door on her small entourage as she stepped

out into the misty gray day once more.

She threw the hood of her cloak back to take a better look

around, holding her spectacles in her hand as wet lenses did not

help her vision in the rain. Squinting, she made out a neat path

through formally laid out flowers, and a dark blotch in the distance

that had to be a row of trees. She hurried toward the little woods.

As she drew closer she discerned the blurred forms of a group of

people, two of them pacing away from each other. Honoria

quickened her steps. One of the men was tall, dark haired, broad-

shouldered, and dearer than life to her. She didn't need her

spectacles to know every detail of beloved face and form.

Then the duelists stopped and turned, arms raised.

Honoria hiked up her skirts and ran.

The sound of the double gunshots was momentarily

deafening, but James turned when he thought he heard his name

cried out. For a moment acrid gun smoke blew into his face and

blinded him. Then, through the gray mist, a copper-haired vision in

silver came rushing toward him.

"James!" she called again.

"Honoria!" He dropped the empty pistol and ran to meet her,

scooping her up in his arms and into a hard, deep kiss. She clung to

him as tightly as he held her, her mouth on his hot and eager, her

lush body eagerly molded to his. Her gray cape swirled around

them like a storm cloud as he whirled her in a delirious, delighted

circle.

"You came!" His voice was an intense whisper, his lips very

close to hers. "You came." He set her on the ground, and pushed

her cape away to reveal the silvery gray dress underneath. He put

his hands on her waist, the satin sleek and smooth beneath his

fingers. "You wore your wedding gown."

Her eyes were shining as they gazed into his, but she blushed

a little, her hands twisting in the rich fabric of her skirt. "I

thought—to give something. That, perhaps, we could make a new

beginning…"

James gently touched her face, her throat, traced his finger

around her lips, memorizing her all over again. His gaze locked

onto hers and he nodded seriously. "A new beginning." He'd never

been happier in his life. "I would very much like that."

Her smile of joy was all the sunlight he needed. Her kiss,

when she pulled his mouth to hers a moment later, was rich with

the promise of endless passion. If his father had not put his hand

firmly on his shoulder, and said his name sternly, James knew that

what sparked between them would quickly turn into more than a

kiss.

James gave his father an annoyed look. "Yes?"

Not only was his father standing at his side, but his uncle and

the vicar were also gathered around them. The three men looked as

grave and grim as though they were attending a funeral. It was only

then that James remembered where he was and what he'd been

doing. Keeping his arm around his wife's waist, he looked toward

the physician tending the man on the ground. "Will he live?" James

called in Spanish.

The surgeon's assistant came to his feet and nodded

deferentially. "No doubt, my lord," he replied in the same language.

"You didn't kill him?" Honoria asked indignantly.

"That's what I love about you," he told her. "You can sound

affronted in any circumstances." He touched the tip of her nose

teasingly as he spoke, and she answered with a small smile.

The fine rain had stopped, so Honoria put her spectacles on.

The group around her came into focus. "I'm glad you didn't kill

him," she told her husband. "Derrick isn't worth having on your

conscience."

"He isn't worth causing a diplomatic incident over," James

replied. "A flesh wound at a fight at an embassy might be

overlooked, but the Queen's government would make a fuss over

losing one of their Navy captains—even a useless one."

Honoria felt no curiosity to glance toward where Derrick lay;

had no sympathy to offer the man. Russell had made his own

trouble and must live with the consequences like everyone else.

She supposed she should feel some compassion for his condition,

but all she cared about was that James was safe.

A pair of footmen arrived with a stretcher to carry Derrick

away.

Then Reverend Menzies stepped closer to her and James.

"This field of battle is no place for you, Lady Alexandra." He put a

gentle, consoling hand on her arm. "You must find these events

unnerving." He gazed deep into her eyes.

She had only met the vicar a few days before, yet every time

she saw him she found something about him disturbingly familiar.

He's a good man, she reminded herself. He meant well, and tried to

do good work. He was trying to help fallen women and needed her

help in this worthy endeavor.

"I am truly sorry for that young man," Menzies went on, with

a glance toward Derrick as he was carried into the embassy, "I tried

and tried to make him see the error of his ways in the last several

days." He patted Honoria's arm. "I will be at his bedside when he