Susan Johnson (54 page)

“The children will surely be exposed to the ridicule as well,” she added with a small frown.

“Are you talking about the same children I know? The ones who’ve tested the patience, endurance, and
valor of a dozen tutors and governesses and dancing masters over the past decade? They’ve never struck me as overly sensitive.”

“Are you saying my children are hellions?” Her smile was companionable.

“In the nicest possible way—” He grinned. “Yes. But then that’s why the children and I always got along so well.”

There was a small silence in which she leaned forward and unnecessarily straightened the writing accessories on the desktop. Her voice when she finally spoke held a guarded apprehension. “Robbie’s actually talking of marriage.”

“I know.” He understood the apprehension, this man who had so recently discovered the unfamiliar universe of love.

“I tried to dissuade him, but he won’t have it.”

“He’s in love with you. He doesn’t have a choice. Why not marry him?”

“So you’re an advocate now that you find the state so blissful.”

“A wholehearted advocate—if you love him. There’s nothing better in the world.”

“An authority speaks.”

“One to another. Confess, darling, all these years after Jamie’s death, aren’t you truly happy again?”

She looked at him for a lengthy moment, her eyes pools of violet shade in the candlelight, then nodded her head. “I feel guilty because I don’t feel
more
guilty about forsaking Jamie’s memory. But I’m wildly in love again like I was at sixteen.”

“At least you recognize the feeling.”

“And you never did, until you met Elizabeth.”

“I didn’t recognize it even then, until she was about to marry someone else.”

“You’d been running from women too long to so abruptly change your habits.”

“Did I run from you?”

“No,” she declared with an amiable smile, “but then I wasn’t chasing you.”

“Ah …” He cast a discerning glance at the woman
who’d shared his leisure for so long. “That’s why we muddled through so well.”

“It was a pleasant game, Ravensby.”

“Yes, and thank you, too, for that,” he softly said. “I enjoyed our friendship as I’ll enjoy having you for a sister-in-law. By the way,” he added, “you might wish to have your wedding dress ready by summer, because Robbie’s intent on not waiting past June.”

“And I must subordinate myself to his wishes?”

Johnnie put his palm up in mild defense at the touch of umbrage in her voice. “Leave me out of the conflict, darling. I was just repeating my brother’s fond hopes.” His eyes shifted toward the windows, the distinct sound of horses and a carriage stopping in the street below. “Are you expecting guests?”

She also turned to listen. “I can’t imagine who that could be.” She shrugged. “Samuel has orders to refuse all callers. He’ll send them away.”

And a moment later the muffled echo of a male voice raised in agitation reached them—together with Samuel’s more moderate tones.

“One of your disgruntled suitors?” Johnnie inquired with a grin. He was sprawled on her sofa as he had been so often in the past, and for a fleeting moment she had a sense of
déjà vu
—the room quiet and candlelit, Johnnie’s long, lean body so familiar.

“I don’t think I
have
any disgruntled ones,” she replied coquettishly.

“I don’t suppose you do,” Johnnie noted, his grin widening, his memory excellent.

The voices from the floor below quieted.

“Samuel seems to have taken care of it,” Roxane said, relaxing in her chair.

Johnnie didn’t mention that the carriage hadn’t left yet, his ears alert for the sound. “How are the children doing?” he asked instead.

“They’re enjoying the country. I was just writing to tell them I was coming to fetch everyone home.” Her gaze swiveled toward the doorway as the measured cadence of striding footsteps reached the drawing room—agumented by Samuel’s protests.

“Who ever it was got past Samuel,” Johnnie casually said, listening like Roxane to the emphatic tread.

The drawing-room doors crashed open a moment later, and Roxane’s hand came up to her cheek in a gesture of horror.

“At last, Countess … I find you at home.”

“I’m sorry, my Lady,” Samuel apologized, one step behind Harold Godfrey, his expression distraught, his face red from his racing progress upstairs. “He wouldn’t listen.”

“Out, you old fool,” Godfrey growled, pushing the majordomo backward and slamming the door in his face. With quicksilver speed he turned the key in the lock, pocketed it, and spun around. “And now, my dear Roxane,” he growled, malevolent and surly, “you can entertain me tonight.”

“Why don’t I entertain you instead?” Johnnie said, rising from the high-backed sofa that had hidden him from view.

If Harold Godfrey was surprised, he masked it well. “Have I interrupted a love nest?” he sardonically drawled. “No wonder the Countess has been so reluctant for company. A willing wench, Ravensby, while your wife is breeding?”

“Just draw your sword, Godfrey,” Johnnie said in a controlled voice, flexing the fingers of his left hand, “so I can send you on your way to hell.”

Nothing moved in the bulk of Brusisson’s large frame but his gaze drifted down Johnnie’s rangy body. “You’ve lost weight, Ravensby,” he silkily murmured, anticipation in his voice. “Do you think you’re up to it?”

“Come and find out, Godfrey,” Johnnie murmured, his quiet voice clear in the utter silence. Without turning toward Roxane, he added in an undertone, “Step back into the window seat and don’t move.” He was sliding his dirk out as he spoke, the fluted blade dagger held lightly in his right hand, its finely worked handle custom fit to his grip.

“I’ll take pleasure in killing you, Ravensby,” the Earl of Brusisson casually said, stripping off his citrine satin coat, “and damn Queensberry’s trial.”

Johnnie had slipped his coat off as well in those brief seconds; aware of the man’s treachery, he never took his gaze off Godfrey. “You can try, Godfrey.…”

They stood facing each other, Godfrey’s sword in his right hand, his dagger in the left, the sheen of silver hilt and chased work gleaming in the candlelight, the wolf mark of Passau on Johnnie’s German blade glinting like the evil eye. With the left hand dominant in the Carres, Johnnie met Godfrey not juxtaposed in the normal way so dagger met rapier, but thin-tempered rapier matching rapier, and dagger, dirk. More dangerous … making the outer arm and outside line more vulnerable.

Johnnie stood motionless in Roxane’s drawing room, tall, slender, calm, only his eyes vivid with anticipation, waiting for his enemy to advance.

Face-to-face, Godfrey’s proportions appearing measurably broader since Johnnie had lost weight, the Earl of Brusisson cooly said, “You’ll never last, Ravensby.…”

“Then I’ll have to kill you quickly,” Johnnie softly said.

There was an angry growl from Godfrey, and he thrust, traversed, and lunged, his rapier in a straight path for Johnnie’s gut.

Johnnie slipped sideways. “You’re slower than you used to be, Godfrey.” His voice was insolent. Then he ducked as the dagger blade slide by his ear.

After that no one spoke as the blades cracked together, slipped in and out, and the men fought in earnest—sliding, moving, their respiration labored after a short time, the four blades a flashing blur in the candlelight.

Redmond recognized the Earl’s blue carriage from the bottom of the street even in the indistinct light from the lanterns outside Kilmarnock House.

“Your father’s equipage,” he said, pulling Elizabeth around the corner so they could approach the house from the back. “He must be trying to see Roxane again.”

As they entered the kitchen, it was immediately apparent
a crisis existed. The servants were in a ferment, chaotically massed near the upstairs doorway, their conversation agitated, disordered, everyone speaking at once. Two footmen armed with kitchen knives guarded the stairway. Setting aside the packages they’d received from the apothecary, Redmond and Elizabeth quieted the tumult enough to discover what had transpired. “Stay here,” Redmond ordered Elizabeth when the story was disclosed. “I’ll go up to help. There’s nothing you can do,” he added in warning, familiar with the determined look in her eyes. “Don’t get in the way,” he admonished, already halfway across the kitchen.

With no intention of quietly waiting to see if her husband was killed, Elizabeth followed immediately as Redmond disappeared up the stairs.

The conspicuous, rending sound of splintering wood gave indication to those inside the drawing room that the door would soon be breached, but neither man could chance a glance at the gilded panels.

Roxane, pressed against the wall of the draped embrasure overlooking the street, wanted to scream, “Hurry! Hurry!” Johnnie was exhausted, and looked almost at the end of his endurance. No longer forced to defend himself, Godfrey was attacking now. Fearful of attempting to lend aid if her efforts would compromise Johnnie’s concentration, she’d helplessly watched as Johnnie’s strength declined.

For a man only recently risen from his deathbed, he’d fought with unusual vigor. But both men were wounded, and Johnnie had fewer reserves to call on, his loss of blood more debilitating to his weakened body.

Although he still defended himself effortlessly, his sword parrying Godfrey’s attacks smoothly, precisely, he no longer had the quickness needed to lunge, the strength to thrust, and it was just a matter of time before his ability to parry would flag.

Godfrey had been counting on Johnnie’s weakness,
advancing, retreating, forcing him to constantly keep moving, waiting for him to tire and let down his guard.

Johnnie fought by instinct, coordination between hand, eye, and brain automatic after the years under his father’s tutelage, after the refinements of his Parisian training, each parry an unconscious response, fluid, sure.

But he needed that vital power to launch an attack, to lunge, to go in for the kill—and he wasn’t sure he had it.

Godfrey was attacking with increased intensity, knowing the door would give way soon, moving brutally fast, and Johnnie met him with every trick at his command, his parrying arm taking again and again the jar of the meeting blades.

Godfrey fought with textbook mastery, taking every advantage offered him, protecting himself cautiously, biding his time, practicing classic swordplay.

Johnnie, his shirt soaked with sweat, recoiled continually, again and again thwarting Godfrey’s follow-through and thrust, his strong wrists withstanding the constant pressure of Godfrey’s aggression, every trained muscle and sinew responding with flawless reflex.

The splintered door finally burst open, and Johnnie caught a glimpse of Elizabeth. The sight of her almost cost him his life, for in that frozen second he dropped his guard infinitesimally, and Godfrey lunged.

He just barely caught Godfrey’s blade, desperately jerking his sword arm up in time to protect his chest.

Godfrey’s sword point slipped down his blade, vibrating against his sword hilt with bone-jarring impact. And leaping back, Johnnie slid out of range.

The near debacle refocused his concentration, his eyes intent once again on the naked blades threatening him. Parrying again, retreating, knocking over a chair to give him five seconds to catch his breath while Godfrey shoved the barricade aside, he knew he’d have to make his decisive attack soon before his energy was completely depleted.

• • •

With his pistol raised, Redmond tried to sight in on the moving figure of Godfrey, the target difficult with Johnnie so near his mark, the poor lighting troublesome, Roxane’s presence an added problem once the men moved toward the south wall.

Standing beside him, fearful and fainthearted yet strangely earnest in her resolve, Elizabeth said, “Let me do it, Redmond.”

He debated a split second while she held her hand out for the flintlock weapon—the impediments to a clear shot were numerous, and he was not sure she was capable. Until he saw the murderous look in her eyes.

“Remember it throws to the left,” he said, handing her the silver-inlaid pistol.

“I know. Two inches.” Her voice was devoid of emotion, her hand perfectly steady. Raising the weapon, she stabilized it with her left hand under the iron barrel mounted on rosewood and followed her father’s figure as he attacked and retreated and attacked again, waiting for the opportunity to have him in her sights without jeopardizing Johnnie or Roxane.

Redmond quietly drew his hunting knife from its sheath at his waist and balanced it for a moment in his palm—reinforcement for his mistress should her aim be faulty.

Marshaling his remaining strength before his legs gave way and his hand lost its cunning, Johnnie moved into the attack.

Frantically, Godfrey defended himself against the ferocious assault, Johnnie’s blades moving with blinding, astonishing speed. The two men were well matched, both natural swordsmen, and they fought now with a desperate equality. The blades clashed and slithered in
contes, froissées
, beating and binding, the men directing the graceful, elegant, lethal steel, freeing their blades
for the ultimate stroke, beating their blades aside, opening the way for a lunge only to be thwarted by the other’s adroitness.

Johnnie was stretched to the limit, his breathing raucous, when Godfrey’s dagger caught one of the notches on the flat back of his dirk by fleeting accident and, taking advantage of his power, Godfrey stiffened his arm and wrenched it from Johnnie’s hand.

Springing back, at a dangerous disadvantage now, Johnnie defended himself against Godfrey’s fully unleashed assault.

Fiercely concentrating on her moving target, Elizabeth frantically prayed for a clear shot.

But the men were moving at blurring speed.

Godfrey seemed infused with a resurgence of energy, turning on Johnnie with blades swooping, driving him savagely back, nearly overpowering his single blade, knowing it was just a matter of time before the Laird of Ravensby was dead.

Although visibly tired, Johnnie defended himself like a fiend, holding off the attack, giving ground slowly. But he found himself trapped finally, gasping for air, his back to a solid table, a wall to his right. And he knew there was only one way out—an attack to be used only when everything else has failed. It was risky, dangerous, almost impossible.