Love Alters Not (38 page)

Farrar blinked at them, then sat up, stretching.

The footman opened the door and let down the steps. Chandler climbed out and looked without favour on the misty morning. Peregrine's descent from the coach was awkward and Chandler watched him worriedly.

Peregrine saw the look and said with airy nonchalance, “Don't be in a pucker, my tulip. I'm quite able to second till Piers comes.”

They started across the dew-spangled grass to where Green, Ellsworth, and Otton waited with cloaks drawn close against the chill air. Farrar darted an uneasy glance at Chandler. His friend's pleasant face was grim, the usually calm grey eyes narrowed and glinting. “Gordie,” he murmured, “you will remember that you're here to second me, I trust.”

“This time—yes. But, by God, that filthy hound won't escape without my gloves across his face!”

Struggling along in the rear, Peregrine was startled to be asked—

“Could I interest ye in a broom, sir?”

A gypsy youth was beside him, all gaunt features and great pleading dark eyes. “The devil,” he exclaimed. “I'll tell you flat out I can't think of nothing
less
interesting! Why would you ask such a tomfool question?”

Farrar cast an amused glance at the boy, but his concern was with Chandler and he stepped out to keep up with him.

Pursuing the little group with the zeal of desperation, the youth cried, “A gold cameo brooch for your lady wife, milor'? A—a fine horse…?”

He had said the magic words. Peregrine halted, eyeing him suspiciously. “With a certificate of sale, no doubt?”

“Yes, sir! Oh, yes sir!”

“Come
on,
Cranford!” shouted Green irritably.

“Tell me about this horse,” invited Peregrine, but starting off again, caught his foot in a long-trailing clump of grasses, stumbled, and would have fallen had not the gypsy leapt to steady him. For just an instant Peregrine's face convulsed, and the boy asked wonderingly, “Are ye hurt, sir? I can help, maybe. Florian knows herbs and simples, wondrous remedies for—”

Fighting back a groan, Peregrine gasped, “For—that?” and stuck out his leg, the artificial foot hanging at an impossible angle.

A horrified stream of words in the Romany tongue, then the soft voice said, “Ah, poor Gorgio gentleman. Florian will help you to sit down and put it on.”

Farrar called, “You all right, Cranford?”

“What's he resting for?” bellowed Green. “Dammitall, I'd as soon get this over today, an you've no objection!”

“Coming!” called Peregrine. “Hurry, lad.”

Working with gentle hands, the gypsy boy looked up, shocked. “Sir—you cannot walk on
that!
It's—”

“Never mind, and keep your voice down. I've to second my friend.”

“But—sir—it's
raw!
”

“Well, I have no other to spare. A shilling can you get it back on so I can stand.”

The nimble fingers flew. “It will not help, sir. I could carve you a wooden leg would fit better.”

“What, and thump about like a cripple? Be damned if I will!” Peregrine stood, caught his breath, and reached for his purse.

Florian drew back. “I do not take money for helping a—cripple,” he said brutally.

Peregrine glared at him. “Now—damn your eyes!”

“There is an old Romany saying, Gorgio rye: ‘He who would know himself must look in the mirror with a clean eyeglass.'”

“Is there! Well, there's an old Berkshire saying—'He who would sell fine horse, not tell Gorgio rye he is a cripple!'” With which, Peregrine stalked off, head high and teeth clenched, anger sustaining him.

*   *   *

“You shall have to keep an eye on him, Cranford,” murmured Farrar, watching Chandler obliquely. “He looks ready to scrag Otton.”

Peregrine nodded and went off to join the other seconds, thinking that he'd have all he could do to keep an eye on the duel, let alone on the belligerent Chandler. Limping about, checking the site, he prayed that his brother would come soon.

It was Ellsworth who delivered the solemn instructions to the protagonists. He was clad in shades of puce, his hair well powdered and curled, his manner grave. Only when his eyes rested on his cousin did his hatred peep through. Farrar had discarded coat and waistcoat and was rolling back his lace ruffles, his manner cool and impassive. Green required Otton's help to remove his tight-fitting olive coat. A dark bruise marred the right side of his jaw, his mouth was puffy, and when his high cravat shifted, purple bruises could be seen on his throat. His light hazel eyes were fixed on Farrar with a baleful, unblinking glare.

The seconds took their places, swords ready, and the antagonists swung up their weapons in salute. Both men had chosen Colichemardes, the lightweight triangular blades, tapering to a flattened foible, being especially suited to the dangerous business of duelling. Before Farrar had lowered his weapon, Green sprang to an attack in
carte
so swift and fierce that the duel was almost ended in the instant it began. Chandler uttered a shout of indignation, but in a lightning reaction, Farrar parried and as swiftly thrust within the sword and returned to his guard. Thwarted, Green recovered and circled warily. In that first encounter, each had the measure of the other and knew he faced a formidable swordsman. Pacing himself, Farrar attacked in
tierce
with less fire than Green, and Green parried deftly. They fought more carefully now, blades ringing softly in the cool hush of the early morning, boots stamping forward in the advance, moving lightly back in the retire. The seconds, ever watchful, circled, their keen eyes on the protagonists, except that Chandler's gaze slipped often to the handsome features of Roland Otton who, like the duellists, had shed his coat and moved about with easy grace, his full attention on the deadly struggle.

Farrar had forgotten everything but the thirst for revenge on this murderous enemy who, in trying to kill him, had brought about his beloved Shuffle's death. His fury was not at the searing heat it had been when he'd first ridden to Fayre Hall, but it was intense. He had not the slightest doubt but that Green had meant it when Ellsworth had enquired mockingly, “First blood, gentlemen?” and Green had snarled, “To the death!” That unsportsmanlike opening thrust had been a sure indication of the way the man meant to fight, and the hatred in the hazel eyes left no room for doubt that this was a killing matter.

He sprang suddenly to the attack. Green, having barely parried in time, thrust in low
carte.
Farrar essayed a parade in
seconde
with an ease that brought a scowl to Green's face as he feinted in a large shift of his body. Farrar refused to be drawn, keeping his sword close. Green leapt to the attack again, and there was a furious flurry of thrust, parry, and riposte. Green's point flashed,
carte
over the arm, straight for Farrar's throat and in that instant a rock, hidden by the grass, turned under Farrar's boot and he stumbled. With a shout of triumph Green thrust hard. His razor sharp steel ploughed across Farrar's shoulder and crimson splashed, vivid, on the white shirt.

Chandler ran in to strike up the blades, but Green plunged forward, his face flushed and eager, his slightly protuberant eyes gleaming with the lust to kill.

“Hey!” shouted Peregrine angrily, limping up.

“Let be, Green,” raged Chandler. “A blooding!”

“Blooding, hell!” Green roared. “I said to the death, damn you! Stand clear!”

Amused, Otton put in, “You really must stay back, Chandler.”

The half smile, the mockery in the dark eyes, the lazy drawl, were irresistible goads to Chandler. Memory jerked him back to the brutal night when he had found his younger brother, wounded and tortured, a helpless prisoner of this man and his merciless employer. With Quentin's agonized face in his mind's eye, he hissed, “You stinking bastard! I've waited for this!” and fairly leapt to the attack.

His attention diverted, Farrar had to jump for his life as Green came at him without the
“En garde!”
that was
de rigeur.

“Be damned!” cried Peregrine, but even as he ran in again to strike up Green's blade, Ellsworth was before him, shouting, “Keep off, blast your eyes!”

“What d'you mean—‘keep off'?” raged Peregrine. “That was a dirty foul! You saw it as well as I!”

Ellsworth grinned. “I saw no such thing.”

“Are you blind, man? Or do you perhaps call me a liar?”

“Whichever you wish,
mon ami.
”

“You'll answer for that, by God!” gasped Peregrine, and they also were engaged, the blades flying.

Retreating before a whirlwind attack, Farrar saw the secondary battles from the corner of his eye, but for a space was powerless to do anything but defend himself. Then Green came at him, his sword held in a level glittering line. It was the opportunity Farrar had waited for; he engaged in
carte,
swung his blade a little to the left, turned his wrist in
tierce
and in a blurring crossover, thrust hard. Green's weapon flew into the air and he fell back, panting, both hands held out at his sides in a gesture of helplessness.

Farrar advanced, stamped down on Green's sword and glanced to Chandler. “Gordie!” he shouted angrily. “You're supposed to be
seconding
!”

Chandler, his steel whirling in a desperate attempt to counter Otton's brilliant swordplay, heard, but was powerless to stop.

His gaze flashing to Peregrine, Farrar saw him stagger awkwardly. Grinning and bold against his handicapped opponent, Ellsworth stamped forward. Farrar sprinted, his blade barely in time to block Ellsworth's lunge, and Ellsworth retired from distance to stand glaring at Farrar, but with his weapon held point down.

“Dammitall, Tony!” gasped Peregrine. “I almost spitted you!”

Leaping out of distance himself, Otton shouted,
“Farrar!”

Reacting to the note of warning in the voice, Farrar flung himself aside in the nick of time as Green came at him in murderous violation of the code of the duello. The sword sliced through the side of his shirt, but did not touch the flesh this time. Leaping back, Farrar returned to the guard position and then was countering a ferocious assault. Half mad with rage and frustration, Green fought with an utter disregard for convention, his blade darting in one furious attack after another. Farrar contrived to defend himself, but seldom attacked, luring on his impassioned adversary with deliberate openings. It was dangerous work and three times death missed him by a whisper. Peregrine, who had abandoned his own fight, watched intently. Convinced that by one means or another Green meant Farrar's murder, he was determined to prevent such a deed.

Chandler and Otton were again desperately engaged, but Ellsworth also was concentrating on the initial duel. He glanced to the side suddenly, and muttered, “Troopers, damme!” Dismayed, Peregrine turned to the new threat. Ellsworth struck hard with the hilt of the sword, and Peregrine went down without a sound. Ellsworth ran to join the attack on Farrar, and Green gave a crow of triumph.

Hard-pressed now, and tiring rapidly, Farrar's blade darted and flashed in a brilliant but desperate defence.

With a hard beat on Chandler's blade, Otton disarmed him, snatched the fallen sword, and flung it far off into some shrubs. Cursing him savagely, Chandler tore away in search of his weapon. Otton gave an enigmatic grin, whirled about, and ran to the uneven attack on Farrar.

Exultant, Green cried, “Finish the swine!” But his grin faded. Instead of adding what must have been the
coup de grace
for Farrar, Otton engaged Ellsworth.

“Damn you!” Ellsworth retreated hurriedly. “What're you about?”

“Don't like … your way,” panted Otton, “of conducting … a duel.”

Farrar, who had expected death at any second, took heart, but the stain on his shirt was wider now, his movements were less agile, and he was visibly weaker.

Red in the face with excitement, Green shouted in triumph to see his enemy's blade faltering at last. Farrar retired slightly. Pressing in, merciless, Green lunged. In a blur of speed, not seeking to counter Green's blade, Farrar's right foot stamped forward, his body leaning gracefully over his bent knee as he thrust in low
carte
hard and true. Green's weapon scraped across his ear, but his own sword had gone home. Green uttered a gasping shriek, raised a greying and convulsed face, and sank to the grass as Farrar disengaged.

Retreating frantically, Ellsworth jumped out of distance and flung down his sword.

Otton raised his blade in salute to Farrar, his dark eyes glowing. “A time thrust, by Jove! And damned neat, Tony!”

Too short of breath to respond, Farrar grinned at him.

Chandler, who had recovered his weapon but stayed clear of the wild battle, let out the breath he had held these last perilous seconds, and ran to Peregrine. A gypsy boy was pressing a handkerchief to a gash beside the unconscious man's temple.

“I'll look after him, sir,” said the boy. “It's just a cut. The big gent hit when he wasn't looking.”

Chandler swore under his breath, and started back to the other men.

Replacing his sword in its scabbard, Otton strolled over to look down at Green and enquired with a marked lack of interest, “Is he dead?”

Ellsworth glared at him as the doctor cut away Green's wet and crimson shirt. “Small thanks to you if he ain't, you dirty turncoat.”

Otton shrugged.

Chandler came up, said grittily, “Your pardon, sir,” and backhanded Otton across the mouth.

Otton rocked on his heels.

“Your reason for helping Farrar, I do not pretend to understand,” Chandler continued. “But I take leave to tell you that you are a dishonourable, conscienceless, money-grubbing scoundrel!”