Fran Baker (23 page)

“
Tres bien
! I ask of you not to marry this Hélène Lawrence. It is not so
tres difficile
, eh? You do not love this Hélène?” Simone examined Colin carefully as she asked this last, for she was not certain her son could be right. She knew the viscount was a man of passion and she thought perhaps he would not marry without love.

His lordship appeared speechless. “I beg your pardon?”

“Your fiancée—you do not love her?”

A dangerous flash crossed through Stratford’s dark eyes. “I do not see, Madame Maret, what concern it is of yours—”

“
Voyons
!” she cried. “It is of all things very simple. I do not want you to marry this Hélène Lawrence. If you do not love her, then it is simple,
non
?”

“May I inquire, ma’am, just why you do not wish for me to marry Miss Helen?” queried her visitor stiffly.

“But for Jacques,
bien entendu
! He has the
grand passion
for this Hélène, but he will not tell you because he has the
anglais
notion of honor. But me, I have no such notions and so I ask of you to give up this one.” She watched as Colin digested this. The muscles of his jaw flexed while he appeared engrossed in the design of her plush, patterned rug. She lifted a delicate brow. “You did not know?”

“No, I did not know,” he confirmed tightly. He raised his eyes to hers and Simone gasped at the naked torment visible in their depths.

“So you do love the
petite
Hélène,” she said sadly.

“My God, had I known!” he exclaimed as he jumped up to pace a restless line before her. “Love Helen? I’ve never loved Helen! I shall never love Helen!” He stopped at her side, captured one of her hands and said in a voice charged with emotion. “I would give anything to be able to grant you this favor. But I cannot. I can’t cry off from my obligation to marry Helen—it would be a despicable action.

“Bah! It is ever the same with you
anglais
!” Simone declared, withdrawing her hand. “To sacrifice the happiness of all for the honor of one! It is what I cannot understand.” A heavy frown tugged at her pretty lips, a scowl overlaid her brow. “
Mon dieu
, can you do nothing, Colin?”

The sorrow she had detected in her son’s face could not nearly match the misery so deeply etched into the square face before her. Stratford stared directly into her fiery eyes, his soul for one instant bared within his own. Then he straightened and with his lids lowered over those black pools of desolation, said solemnly, “I give you my word, Madame Maret, that Jacques shall have her.”

“You will break off this betrothal?”

“Helen shall be free to marry your son,” he said in answer.

Simone Maret clapped her hands together. “
Tres bien
! You are
magnifique
! But do not, I beg of you, tell Jacques that I have spoken with you, for he would have the great displeasure. And I hope,
mon cheri
Colin, that you will find your own happiness,” she added earnestly as Stratford turned to leave.

“Is there happiness in hell?” the viscount wondered under his breath.

Chapter 16

Despite the hundreds of brightly burning candles, the chamber seemed dimly lit. Dark, heavy drapes were pulled tightly across the windows and only the soberest colors had been chosen for the room’s furnishings. Tables, large and small, were positioned at angles beneath the glowing candelabras; surrounding each table, men of all descriptions kept conversation to a low murmur.

This was Crockford’s, the supremest of the gaming halls, where play was ruinously deep, each night, throughout the night. Here, bloods chanced enormous sums upon the turn of a card, the roll of a die, or the spin of a wheel, and all with a nonchalance that belied the significance of a fortune won or lost at a sitting. Though such games of hazard were illegal, officialdom appeared conveniently unaware of such establishments, and even the great Duke of Wellington was at one time a member of Crockford’s managing committee.

On this particular night, play at one of the larger oval tables was obviously considerable, for scattered around the table men sat in shirt sleeves, lines of concentration furrowing brows as attention was claimed by a pair of dice tumbling in a box. Sprawling easily in their midst, a cynical cast resting hard upon his handsome face, Viscount Stratford tapped idly upon a crystal glass while casually placing his wager. He did not generally consider faro his game, preferring play of skill to that of chance, but his lordship had readily joined this table, for sitting opposite him, cool and elegantly bored, was Jacques Maret.

They had not yet spoken, but it was enough for them to convey with a tilt of the head, a lift of the lips, their agreement over the absurdity of Lord Gladstone’s spotted waistcoat and the certainty that the foppish young fool would tuck himself up before the night’s end and thereby finish what had been a respectable fortune when he had succeeded to the title. Gladstone’s unsteady hand wavered, unable to decide upon his wager, and Stratford removed his eyes from the tedium of the table.

Of a sudden, his hand ceased its nervous play upon the crystal. Maret’s back was to the door, but he had heard the opening and he recognized from the fierce glint which flashed through Stratford’s eye that something of moment was about to occur.

“I did not realize,” Stratford remarked loudly, “that Crockford’s now opened its doors to the rabble. The very air in here grows foul.”

Within the threshold of the double doors, two men halted abruptly, and a pair of hard hazel eyes whipped to the viscount’s face. Robert Loveday’s body went rigid as the impact of the insult penetrated.

“I fear, Maret, that we must become more selective in our choice of haunts,” Stratford continued. “It is apparently becoming a distressing habit of mine to be pursued by Lovedays.”

A sharp hiss reverberated as all interest in the game ceased. Only the hand of his companion upon his arm restrained Loveday from storming forward, while throughout the room men dropped their cards to stare at the impending drama.

At the head of the faro table, a thin, gray-faced gentleman cleared his throat. “Had we best not get on with the game? I ask you, gentlemen, to place your wagers now, if you please.”

They apparently did not please. Stratford did not so much as glance his way, but exchanged a deadly smile with Maret which had the effect of halting activity along the table altogether. The message of that smile was clear. Maret put up his quizzing glass and studied his friend for a hushed moment.

“How often have I told you to be more circumspect in your choice of companions?” he complained on a soft sigh. He leaned forward and lazily tipped his beribboned glass to Stratford’s arm. “Just look at your sleeve. Now where, I ask you dear boy, did you get hair of that color on your arm?”

Puzzled faces riveted on the viscount as his lordship made a great show of removing a strand of hair from his full, snowy white shirt sleeve. Various gentlemen later claimed that there was no hair to be seen, but others asserted quite emphatically that the strand was indeed clinging where it ought not to have been.

No one at the time, however, disclaimed its existence as Stratford stated into the uneasy silence. “Ah—I must, I really must, stop associating with persons who have copper curls. It does tend to look . . . untidy, shall we say?”

Loveday’s face matched the maroon of his jacket. His knuckles turned whiter than the frill of his shirt as they wrapped tightly round his gold-topped walking stick. He roughly brushed his friend’s restraining hand away and surged forward in fury.

“Tell me, Maret,” the viscount drawled coldly, “do you think something should be done to clear the air?”

“That would depend, my friend,” Maret responded as he examined his nails.

“On what?”

“On how willing you are to sully your hands, of course.”

The gold head of the cane crashed across the table top. While others jumped, Stratford merely raised his eyes in a look of mild inquiry at the man who stood breathing harshly, their hatred separated only by the table’s width.

“You cur! You dog! You shall pay for your insults!” Loveday seethed, his face mottled with rage.

The languid shrug with which his lordship received his angry words served to enrage Loveday further still. His jaw worked as he strove to overcome his speechless wrath. “You shall name your friends, Stratford!” he rasped at last.

“Gentlemen, please, let’s be sensible,” interjected the shaking man at the table’s head. His words were utterly disregarded as all eyes focused on the viscount.

Stratford leisurely unfolded himself from his chair, a grimace of gratification on his lips. “Maret will act for me.”

“Swanson?” Loveday tossed over his shoulder.

“Of course,” that man agreed morosely. “I will call upon you in the morning, Maret.”

Candlelight spun off the golden hair as Maret tipped his head in acquiescence. Stratford and Loveday stood motionless, eyes locked, in the feral stillness. Then with frightening calm, the viscount retrieved the fancy stick from where it lay as a testament to Loveday’s moment of madness and held it out to the other gentleman, an unpleasant smile playing upon his lips. Tense with animosity, Loveday stared fixedly a few seconds more before whisking the stick from Stratford’s hand and sweeping furiously from the room.

The viscount resumed his seat, though everyone else had remained immobile. Holding his glass to his lips, he paused to lament in a gentle tone, “Have you made no decision yet, Gladstone?”

There was a great deal of scraping of chairs, calling for wine, buzz and hum as gentlemen returned to their games with the appearance of normality. Even as they did so, bets were being laid as to the outcome of the meeting, with odds heavily favoring Lord Stratford. He had, after all, twice bloodied his man and though it had been some years since his lordship had dueled, it was acknowledged that he had both skill and experience behind him.

The faintest tinge of dawn streaked across the sky when Viscount Stratford and Jacques Maret finally stepped out into the night. They strolled wordlessly, refreshed by the cool air after the stuffiness of the closed gaming rooms. After a time, Maret halted beneath a lit streetlamp and busied his hands with the readjusting of his hat. He angled it to the left.

“You’ve begun a fine scandal tonight, Colin,” he commented casually, moving his hat to the right.

“Someone must keep the
ton
entertained, don’t you think?” Stratford said lightly.

“You have, as always, fulfilled the role to admiration,” Maret observed in a dry tone. When his friend made no answer, he returned his hat precisely to where it had originally been and set forth. “The choice of weapons lies with you.”

“Yes. Pistols, I think.”

“Loveday is accounted a fine shot. On the other hand, his fencing skill is but fair.”

“Precisely. I must have
some
sport! Pistols it must be.”

Jacques acknowledged the truth of this with a laugh and the pair began to speak of other matters, including the news of Madame Maret’s first sojourn to town in a score of years. Stratford accepted Maret’s invitation to call upon his mother, but not, he rather thought, until after the matter of the duel had been settled, which he arranged Maret to arrange as quickly as possible.

The two parted in a companionable mood just as the sunlight touched the streets in earnest.

*****

It was the first duty of a second to seek reconciliation. This, however, Maret did not do. He was not the man to expend energy in futile occupation. Instead, he made certain his man had a choice of evenly matched weapons and a favorable position in the duel. He left it to Colin to determine how badly Loveday should be hit and did not bother him with the question of apologies.

Between them, Maret and Swanson concluded the arrangements quickly. Swanson met the viscount’s choice of pistols with relief and agreed readily to Putney Heath as the site. The Heath’s reputation as a hunt of highwaymen and vagabonds would assure them of the privacy necessary for the illegal proceeding, which they set for the following morning, both principals seeming anxious to have the matter over and done with. Swanson appeared disinclined to remain in Maret’s company a moment longer than was essential, and as soon as Jacques engaged himself to bring a doctor along, the lachrymose Swanson departed.

All of this was related to Stratford within the hour as he stood before his bedroom mirror, loosely knotting the unstarched muslin à la Byron. Achieving the desired effect, he waved Busick away and, as his valet disappeared with the armful of untried cravats, turned to Maret, who sat on the edge of a nearby table, lazily swinging one booted foot.

“I’m glad you’ve taken care of the arrangements so speedily. I dislike having these little affairs drawn out.”

“Speaking of drawing, how much of Loveday’s blood do you intend to spill?” Maret questioned, coming to his feet.

“Come, come, Jacques! Do I look so bloodthirsty?” the viscount rejoined with a crooked smile.

“It has been my misfortune, Colin, to discover that you are ever what is least expected of you,” his friend pointed out in an apologetic tone.

They repaired to the viscount’s breakfast parlor to share a cup of coffee and were sitting there discussing minor details of the duel when the door swung wide and Thalia Loveday dashed dramatically into the room. Behind her, a white-faced Jasper stammered an apology, “I beg your lordship’s pardon—the lady—”

“You may go, Jasper,” Stratford cut in, all the while watching the woman standing before him. It was plain at a glance that she was suffering from the effects of great agitation, for her bosom was heaving and her narrow face was suffused with an unbecoming crimson. “Well, Mrs. Loveday, as honored as I am to receive you, may I inquire as to what brings you so . . . forcibly . . . to my side?”

The gentle sarcasm quite removed all the nasty color from her cheeks, leaving her whiter than the plain gown she wore. “Inquire as to . . .” she repeated dully.