The Black Lotus (Night Flower) (8 page)

Chapter 5:

Melissa woke the following morning
, having spent the night in a welter of worry, convinced that she was responsible for Marcus going to his death. As the first light of dawn stole over the rented London house, she was already awake and sat at the window. Jane remonstrated with her for sitting in a draught without a comforter, but she barely heard the words. Her mind was fixed on the duel ahead, on her brother and Montjoy. As Jane dressed her, she spoke little, moving like a dummy or doll to the instructions she was given.

“It’ll be alright My Lady,” Jane said as she pinned her hair beneath a filmy bonnet. “Your brother is skilled with a blade. He will win today.”

Melissa did not answer, unwilling to voice the fears she had. Standing, she turned to the door and headed downstairs to the morning room and breakfast. Her brother was already sat at the dining table eating a hearty repast before heading out for his duel with Montjoy. Melissa looked at him for several moments, hoping that he wouldn’t return to the house injured

“Marcus..” he looked up at her, a forkful of eggs and bacon in his hand. Melissa looked at him, feeling guilty that he felt he had to defend her. She would ask him not to, but she knew he wouldn’t, all she could do was ask him to come back in one piece.

“Be careful this morning,
” Her voice was soft and trembled only slightly as her fingers dug into the palms of her hands.

Marcus smiled and looked over at his sister. “Don’t worry, I am not ignorant of duels, I will certain
ly try not to let him strike me,” He returned to his breakfast as her parents walked into the room. Melissa glanced at her father, remembering his anger from the night before.

“Morning,
” Edward sat at the end of the table and stared at his children. “Marcus, make sure you coat your hands in dust before the duel, it will stop the blade from slipping.” He offered the piece of advice to his son with concern, but when he turned his gaze upon Melissa, she was disappointed to see the dissatisfaction and anger still in his eyes. With a huffed sigh, he unfurled his paper and ignored her presence. Melissa bit her lip and stared at the white tablecloth, upset at her father’s reaction. She knew from experience that he would not stay angry for long, but she felt angry that she was being blamed for something that was not her fault. She didn’t ask for Montjoy to attempt to force her from the ball, it was his own fault that she slapped him, she didn’t need to feel as though the situation was her responsibility. Melissa placed a handful of eggs on her plate and took a bite, tasting nothing but sawdust as she chewed. As she ate her breakfast she was aware of her mother watching her, she knew that her mother wasn’t in agreement with her father, but that didn’t help. Her mother still kept her peace and didn’t openly agree with her daughter’s actions. She looked down at the congealed mass of food on her plate and pushed it away.

Marcus glanced across and winked, before h
e stood. “Well time to head out,” Melissa stared at her brother with her heart in her throat. Visions of her brother returning to the house covered in blood flashed through her mind and she felt sick. Rushing across the room, she threw her arms around her older brother.

“Please be careful.”

His hand rested gently against her hair and he murmured, “I will,” He glanced up at his father.

“Are you coming sir?”

“Hmm.” Edward De Vire returned the paper to the table and stood. Lydia also got to her feet and she lightly pulled Melissa from her brother before bestowing a kiss on her son’s forehead.

“Good luck.
” She kissed her husband and watched as both men walked out into the hall. The front door banged shut, making Melissa think of coffin lids and she stared at her feet feeling tears prick the back of her eyes

“Well all we can do now is wait,
” Her mother noted as she glanced at her daughter, noting the pale note to her skin. “Come on.”

Melissa nodded and turned to follow her mother from the room. She wished that she would be allowed to watch the duel, but it wasn’t done. With a heavy heart she left the breakfast room and headed to the morning room. The sun streaked through the tall windows and bounced off the brasses in the grate. Above the fire, a portrait of George De Vire hung, his sombre gaze staring down at his descendents in what Melissa considered to be disapproval. Her mother sat down behind the desk and began her morning’s correspondence, her elegant hand flowing across the heavy parchment with ease. At her mother’s instruction she sat on one of the couches and drew out her needlepoint, yet she could not concentrate on the delicate
stitch work for worry.

“He’ll be fine Melissa,” Her mother noticed her nervously shifting hands and spoke up, placing her pen down. “Your brother is an excellent duellist; he will be able to handle Montjoy,”

“It’s not just that
,” Her daughter protested, shoving aside the sewing and standing up. With agitated steps she paced over the carpeted floor of the morning room. “Father just blames me for all this. It’s not my fault; I was only trying to be polite.”

“Until you slapped him
.”

“What else was I supposed to do? Allow him to drag me out of that room and into the garden? I had no idea what he was going to try then.” She stopped pacing and stared at her mother, her face flushed with anger. “And somehow, his ungentlemanly conduct is my fault. I don’t feel that is fair or justified. Yes I could have refused to dance with him, but that doesn’t mean I deserved him trying to drag me out of the room.” Her mother tried to interrupt but Melissa kept on speaking, spilling out the words that had been plaguing her all morning.

“I think he should take the full blame for this. Why should I be considered at fault because he can’t control his tendencies? It’s not fair and it’s certainly not right, because of him, my brother may come back wounded.”

“Melissa.” Her mother’s voice snapped out, drawing her tirade to a sharp close. “Your father doesn’t really feel that you are responsible.” She held up her hand to forestall any argument. “But he does feel that the situation would not have occurred if you had taken my advice and avoided Montjoy or if you had behaved like a well bred lady and had the vapours. That is what he finds intolerable. Granted your honour is being defended, but you have become the talk of London for scandalous reasons and given that it is only your first introduction to society he fears that this will harm your prospects for future marriage.”

Melissa turned over her mother’s words in her mind and tried to find something offensive within her speech, but unfortunately her mother’s words made sense. She knew only too well how fragile a women’s reputation could be and even though she never believed it was right, there was nothing she could do about it. Taking a deep breath she tried to calm down and see things rationally, yet with her brother risking his life for her honour, she was finding it hard to do so.

“It is for this reason that we are returning to the country once Marcus has concluded his duel.” Lydia continued, watching the play of emotion across her daughter’s face. “Give the scandal time to die down; after all, he did attempt to hit you. Perhaps you will be lucky and this will be forgotten.”

“I suppose..”

“It will,” Lydia continued, picking up the discarded sewing from the corner. “We are returning to the country and the scandal will fade. Now,” She held out of the small sampler. “Get to work on that and as soon as your brother returns, we will leave for home.”

Chapter 6:

The floor was crisp with frost as Marcus walked towards the quiet area of the park that had been chosen for this morning’s duel. His father walked to his left and on his right stood his second, James Smythe. Up ahead, he could already see Montjoy waiting for him. Grouped about his adversary, a small crowd had gathered, he could hear the excited talk increase as he approached. As his breath blew out in soft clouds, he turned to the man at his left.

“Wish
me fortune Father,” He was pleased to note that his voice did not quaver as he spoke.

His father smiled and clapped a hand against Marcus’ back.

“Keep focused and you’ll be fine.” Edward replied as he stepped away from his son and joined the crowd.

Taking a very deep breath, Marcus stepped forward, James at his side. The rapier at his waist seemed much heavier than it should have done
and he felt his palms grow clammy with sweat despite the temperature. To banish the worrying thoughts that had begun to nag at him, he nodded towards the group that had gathered about them.

“I wasn’t expecting a crowd,”

“Be thankful,” James answered back, “they’ll ensure that it’s honestly done.” The pair reached the outer edge of the group, which parted to allow them through. As he reached the middle, he caught sight of Justin Lestrade, the younger man was stood talking to Edward Castlemaine,

“Why is Lestrade here?”
He muttered as he finally came to a stop in the centre of the circle and began to unlace his coat. A memory from the night before sprang to his mind. As they had clambered into the coach he had seen Lestrade, the young man was stood outside of the Palace and watched as they had left. He couldn’t have said with any certainty, but he had felt the interest in that gaze and now the man was here, watching a duel for his sister’s honour. It was not a coincidence, of that Marcus was sure.

“Interested I guess,” James
replied as he took Marcus’s hat and placed it carefully out of sight. “After all, Montjoy needs taking down a peg, he’s probably eager to witness it.”

“I daresay,” Marcus shrugged out of his coat and shivered as the cold hit him. “What do you know of him?”

“Marcus,” James took the offered coat and laid it flat. “You’re here for Montjoy, curiosity about the young cad can wait.”

“Are you ready boy?” Montjoy called from across the circle. He was already in shirt sleeves, a rapier naked within his hand.

“More than ready,”
Marcus reached across and pulled free his own sword. He held it out and swung it twice, testing the weight of the blade. With smooth, clean movements, the rapier pierced the air and he smiled at the seeming ease of the action. He breathed slowly, calming his mind as he readied himself. On the opposite side of the circle, Montjoy was performing similar exercises as their witnesses began to move apart, allowing the duellists room to manoeuvre.

“De Vire
,” Marcus stopped moving as Justin’s voice broke into his thoughts. Startled, he glanced up and stared at the younger man.

“Lestrade?” He lowered his blade slightly. “What can I do for you?”

“I thought I should wish you luck.” Justin replied, stepping closer to him
and offering his hand.

“Thank you.”
Marcus shook the man’s proffered palm and shook, wondering just what had prompted this display.

“And to give you some advice.”

“You?” Marcus spluttered after a moment’s pause. “Give me advice?” He chuckled, surprise and incredulity mixed together at the offer. The man was barely old enough to hold a sword, let alone give out duelling advice. “I’m older than you boy, what advice could you give me. You really shouldn’t seek to correct your elders.”

There was the briefest of pauses as
Justin looked at Marcus, and then, as though he had heard some great joke, he began to laugh. Loud raucous guffaws of laughter echoed across the park, drawing attention from the onlookers. Confused and slightly resentful of the younger man’s mirth, Marcus stepped closer and muttered.

“What is so funny Lestrade?”

“You wouldn’t understand,” Justin replied as he dabbed at his eyes with a handkerchief. “Though I do recommend you listen to my advice, despite it coming from such a,” His mouth twisted as he tried to hold in another bout of
inexplicable laughter. “young source.”

“Alright,” Marcus held up his hand
in surrender and motioned for Justin to continue. “Let’s hear it.”

“Very well.” With a
musement still in his voice and face, Justin nodded before beginning to speak. “I noticed that Montjoy favours his left side,” Marcus’ eyes widened as Justin began to speak, his eyes snapped to Montjoy, taking in the man’s movements. “if you aim for that you’ll tag him faster.” Montjoy swung his blade through the air and Marcus watched, noting with growing surprise he realised that the younger man had seen true. His opponent was slower to react with his left, considerably so. He opened his mouth to thank Justin, yet the young man had not finished. “Don’t play with him, he’s a bruiser and will win out by brute force, if you don’t snap him fast.” Justin reached out a hand and Marcus shook it, stunned by the man’s quick, and from what he could see, accurate assessment.

“Thank you,”

“It’s nothing, I just want to see you beat him,” Justin released his hand and headed back to the crowd. “The bastard deserves it.”

“So we are aware of the rules gentlemen?”
The thin form of Lawrence Carnaby called from the other side of the widening circle, distracting Marcus from his contemplation of Justin’s words. “The first to draw blood from his opponent wins. Fight with honour gentlemen.”

Pushing aside thoughts of Justin Lestrade, Marcus moved forward into the rough circle, facing Montjoy. A chill breeze ruffled their hair and they touched blades, a bare gesture of respect before Montjoy lunged. Marcus parried the blow, the shock of metal on metal surging up his arm. Before the sound died, Marcus was moving, lunging, aiming for Montjoy’s left side. There was a tearing sound as Montjoy’s blade ripped through the fabric of his shirt, tearing a long strip through the white expanse. Marcus gritted his teeth and ducked, sliding beneath the next blow as he raised his sword and struck out. The blades connected again, the metallic notes singing in the clear morning air. He could hear the crowd cheering, egging them on, but it was distant, muffled by the roaring of the blood in his ears.

“Pathetic De Vire,” Montjoy hissed at him, as their blades connected again and drew them closer, Montjoy’s free hand snaking out to seize hold of his shirt. “Is this the best you can do for that whore of a sister?”

Marcus resisted the urge to snarl and he pushed back, his arm extended and knocking Montjoy to the dirt. Rolling, Montjoy avoide
d the first thrust of his blade, the second tore a hole in his shirt, but drew no blood. From somewhere behind him he could hear James shout, but the words were indistinct.

“Come on De Vire,” Montjoy called again as he made it to his feet and avoided Marcus’ strike. “I’m sure you can do better.” His blade flashed in the early morning sun as it struck and Marcus parried, the impact jarring his arm. His breath came in short gasps as sweat run down his face. Montjoy pressed again and he
found himself falling, his foot snared by a stray tree root. With a shout of triumph, Montjoy moved in for the kill. Marcus parried desperately, trying to gain his footing as the older man pressed forward. Rolling to one side, he avoided a piercing thrust to his upper chest. He struck out wildly with his blade, forcing Montjoy back as he found his feet.

With a shaky hand, he wiped the sweat from his eyes and returned to t
he guard position. Both fighters drew deep shuddering breaths of crisp morning air, tired from their exertions. Marcus scanned his opponent, looking at the solid frame for signs of weakness as the other man moved. He barely managed to parry the heavy blow, retreating back as Montjoy pressed the advantage, landing heavy punishing hits that jolted his arm with each parry.

Montjoy favours his left side.

Lestrade’s words echoed through Marcus’ head as he dove from another heavy hit. He was tiring fast, his arm unable to withstand the heavy strikes. Sensing victory, Montjoy lunged forward, aiming for Marcus’ head. Desperation lent him a speed that he did not think possible, he parried once more and riposted; aiming for Montjoy’s left side. The other man was slow to react. Marcus’s blade sliced into Montjoy’s upper chest and blood seeped onto the white of his shirt. As Marcus pulled the blade free, Montjoy  sank to the ground. On the other side of the circle, Justin bowed his head in respect, turned and began to leave.

“I have satisfaction sir.” Marcus called as he sank to the ground, exhausted.
From the other side of the clearing, Montjoy struggled upright, fury in each line of his face. His seconds moved close and he pushed them back, regaining hold of his sword.

“We’re not done De Vire!” Marcus stood
, ignoring the tiredness that flowed through his body. With a breath of crisp air, he faced Montjoy, holding his sword arm steady as he watched his opponent dragging himself upward. “I’m not through with you yet boy.” Montjoy was moving slower, the bright blood seeping across his shirt evidence of a severe wound.

“On the contrary, Montjoy, I’d say you need a surgeon.” He watched as Montjoy finally pulled himself to his feet and began to walk forward. “Don’t be a fool,” He uttered, readying himself for the attack to come. “I don’t want to have to kill you. You’ve lost, now go home and heal yourself up,”

“Curse you!” With a yell, Montjoy rushed forward, attacking wildly, angrily. Marcus parried furiously,
Montjoy’s blows were beating him backwards. He knew that Montjoy now aimed to kill and he fought back, mindful of his life. From the sides he could see the others moving, but Montjoy kept on attacking, blinded by rage. Marcus felt the blade sing by his ear and he swore. In desperation he riposted clumsily. He managed to strike Montjoy, skewering the man’s other shoulder with a ragged cut, yet the awkward manoeuvre sent him off balance. With a shout of triumph Montjoy kicked out. His foot connected with Marcus’ upper leg. Marcus, already off balance, could not keep upright and he fell.

“Marcus!” He heard James shout as he hit the ground heavily, knocking the wind out of him as his sword flew from his fingers and landed a few feet away. He looked up to see Montjoy headed for him, blade held high.
Montjoy brought up the blade and thrust it down, aiming for Marcus’ heart. Marcus flinched, closing his eyes, expecting the blow. Yet it did not come, there was the sound of flesh hitting flesh. He opened his eyes and stared upward. James had reached Montjoy and had pulled him to the ground. He watched as his father reached downwards and wrestled the blade from Montjoy’s fingers. As a group, they dragged the older man off. Blood poured from the wounds in Montjoy’s shoulders and the older man yelped in pain as the crowd about him pulled him away.

”
Another time De Vire,” Montjoy yelled, his voice losing strength as his life’s blood flowed from him.

“Give it up,” Marcus picked up his sword
as he drew himself upright. Ignoring the tiredness in his limbs, he levelled the point of the blade at Montjoy’s throat. “One more move from you sir and I swear you die.”

“Do you think you can kill me boy?” Montjoy’s voice was harsh yet growing weaker as the adrenaline that sustained him began to drop. “I nearly had you,”