Once Upon a Scandal (23 page)

Fury choked him. “I have always followed my heart, Victoria. Always. You cannot ask this heart to stop beating for what it holds to be true.”

Tears glistened in her eyes and a choked sob escaped her lips. She stepped toward him, grabbed his hand and pried his fingers back and open. She snatched his ring, letting the pendant fall to the floor, and darted past him toward the window facing the canal. She unlatched the large window and pushed it open.

He jerked toward her, his heart pounding. “What the devil are you doing?”

“Freeing your soul.” She whipped the ring out into the murky green water outside the window.

He choked and felt like sinking to the floor and never getting up again. His mother’s ring. His family legacy. His dreams, his hopes and everything it ever represented. Gone. All because—

Anger swelled within him, almost keeping him from breathing. “Goddamn you!” he roared, stalking toward her. “Why do you always seek to rile me at every turn? Why?”

She turned toward him, tears streaming down her flushed cheeks. “God. Damn. You. For one moment, cease thinking that I am the reason behind all of your problems. For one moment, consider the possibility that perhaps you are destroying yourself by having no self-control. I am warning you, Remington. You are about to lose far more than a stupid ring. Do what you must in the name of what you define as love and honor. Simply know that I will do what I must in the name of what I define as love and honor. I will leave you if you go against me in this. I will leave you. And even if you should live, I will never take you back. Ever.” She glared at him, then hurried past toward the closed doors, flung them open with a resounding bang and disappeared.

“You know damn well I will only come after you!” he shouted after her. “Like I always do! Hell, you and I have been playing the same game ever since we first met! You run and I run faster! You think you can outrun me, Victoria? Is that what you think? Yes, well, try!”

When there was no answer, Jonathan savagely swung his fist through the air. He punched the air again, wishing he had something to hit. Everything was falling apart. Everything! All because—

He was going to put a dozen bullets into the marchese for destroying the last of his life. A dozen bullets. If not more.

A lady’s definition of honor differs greatly from a gentleman’s. Which not only creates a vast number of misunderstandings, but also a vast amount of scandal.
—
How To Avoid a Scandal, Author Unknown

The following evening
7:23 p.m.

A LONGER, MORE agonizing day Jonathan had never known. Neither Cornelia nor Victoria would speak to him. They wouldn’t even acknowledge him when he entered the room. It made him want to shred himself apart.

He had already talked himself out of wearing his blade or keeping it anywhere in the room where he waited. For he knew he would only use it the moment the marchese arrived.

Giovanni set his hands behind his back and stalked the length of the parlor, his riding boots thudding against the marble. “Perhaps he will not come.”

Jonathan seated himself on the closest chair and shifted against the cushion. He leaned back, trying to appear comfortable when he was anything but. “He will come. The man always adds an additional half hour to his schedule. He never likes to wait and therefore ensures others do the waiting instead. A trademark of his.”

Giovanni swiped a hand over his face, his sapphire ring glinting in the candlelight. “Rethink what it is you seek to do. Honor means nothing to a dead man.”

Jonathan placed his hands onto the chair’s armrests and dug the tips of his fingers into the gilded wood. “I am not dead yet.”

Giovanni sighed and shook his head. He suddenly paused. His eyes widened as he smacked his hands soundly together. “I have it.”

Jonathan eyed him. “What do you have?”

Giovanni pointed at him. “The authorities will do nothing. But the Sei will.”

“The Six?” Jonathan’s brows came together. “What the hell is that?”

Giovanni waved his hands about as he approached. “No. Not what. Who. Six men who specialize in seeking out duelists. They banded together long before you ever arrived in Venice and have brought many powerful men to justice. Not just here but throughout all of Europe. I know their contact.”

Jonathan stared at him, his throat tightening.

Giovanni stepped closer. “If we inform them of this duel, they will send men to seize the marchese on the field at the appointed time and show no mercy. But they will also seize you, Remington. For they always seize both sides. Which means you and Victoria will have to leave Venice tonight. Before their contact is informed of it.”

He was not about to yield. Not in this. Jonathan shook his head. “No. I allowed myself to be intimidated by that bastard once before and lost five years of my life. I am not about to—”

The calling bell sounded.

Jonathan stiffened. The butler had been instructed to escort the marchese into the parlor, allowing the man to think he was meeting Victoria.

Giovanni’s dark gaze met his as the house grew eerily quiet again.

Jonathan leaned back in his chair. “When he arrives, you will leave.”

Giovanni blinked hard several times, tension etching into his forehead. “I promised Cornelia and Victoria I would remain at your side.”

Jonathan glared at him. “I don’t want or need you any more involved than you already are.”

“Regardless of what does or does not happen, you must abide by the code of honor.”

“I will. I am, after all, a man of honor.”

“If you strike him for any reason before the duel is set and conducted, you will be incriminated in court for being the aggressor should he be killed. You cannot touch him. Do you understand? Not under any circumstance.”

“Yes.” Even though it was going to take the very hand of God to keep him from doing it.

Steady footsteps echoed in the corridor outside.

The marchese.

Jonathan rose from his seat, flexing his gloved hands, and coolly turned toward the closed doors of the parlor, waiting.

The doors of the parlor flew open and slammed against the walls, shaking the large portraits and gilded mirrors hanging throughout the room. The lit candles shuddered, shifting disfigured shadows across the high, crown-molded ceilings.

The man was always one for making an entrance.

A cloaked figure loomed in the doorway, looking like the Black Prince stepping out of hell wrapped in black satin and velvet. Except for those penetrating amber eyes and that set, shaven square jaw, the marchese’s face was hidden beneath a well-fitted black velvet mask. The man was known for visiting all of his lovers in masks, though he never wore the same mask twice and collected masks in the same manner he collected women.

“Leave us, Giovanni,” Jonathan said tersely.

Giovanni lingered beside him. “Remington—”

“Giovanni,” Jonathan repeated. “I will abide by the code of honor. But only if you leave. So I suggest you leave.”

“Scopa.” Giovanni pushed past Jonathan, bumping him hard with his shoulder, as if wanting him to know that he was not leaving willingly. He strode toward the cloaked figure in the doorway. The marchese stepped aside with a sweep of his velvet-lined cloak and bowed his masked head as Giovanni passed.

Once Giovanni had disappeared, Jonathan shifted his jaw and pierced the marchese with a long, unwavering stare he hoped the man would remember whilst taking his last breath. “You are about to regret ever breathing. How dare you come here seeking to claim my wife?”

Sharp, amber eyes met his from beneath the slits of the mask. The marchese slowly entered the room, his movements smooth and ghostlike. A gruff laugh escaped his exposed lips. “This is very…how do you British say? Awkward. Forgive me, Remington. I did not realize she was yours. Might I say you have very good taste. Is this the same British woman my wife assisted you in acquiring?”

Jonathan narrowed his gaze, restraining himself from dashing at him and snapping his coarse Venetian head off his spine. Widening his stance, Jonathan methodically stripped one glove from his hand. “The code of honor demands I grant you an opportunity to redeem yourself. So redeem yourself. Get upon your right knee, serpent, and beg me for mercy. And maybe, just maybe, I will refrain from killing you.” The marchese strode farther into the parlor, his boots thudding across the marble tile. “I never beg for anything.”

“You will after what you did to my wife.”

“Consider my interest the greatest compliment you will ever know. I never bother with married women. You know that. I despise the complications. Husbands are so…territorial. Irrational. As you are demonstrating.”

Trying to contain his anger, Jonathan held up the glove and shook it in warning. “The moment this glove falls—” he bit out “—you are dead tomorrow at dawn.” The marchese paused, as if genuinely surprised. That moment, however, was very short-lived. His cloaked figure stalked toward Jonathan, each heavy, booted step shaking the enameled glass chandelier above. The marchese stopped before him, his height almost reaching Jonathan’s. Almost. “I assisted you and your family when you had nothing. And this is how you repay me? With rooster pride? Ten thousand lire is not a mere spit. I also shared my pretty wife with you, did I not? Despite your initial resistance, you enjoyed her figa very much. I heard you grunting and moaning and pounding against her with incredible bravado almost every night. In truth, I often forgot she was my wife and almost thought she was yours.”

Jonathan fought not to react as the muscles in his arm quaked from the rigid, pent-up tension he wanted to let loose, breaking straight through the mass of skin and bone standing before him. But if he struck him, if he touched him in any way, it would be proven in court that he had provoked the duel. And hang for the bastard, he most certainly would not.

The marchese leveled his chin so that the slits on the mask were more visible. He tsked. “In the end, this is not about your wife, is it? This is about you and me and your shattered pride. I could have ripped your wife’s womb in half with my cazzo and this would still be about you and me and your shattered pride.”

Jonathan sucked in a savage breath at the insult. He violently whipped the glove to the floor, wishing to the devil it was the marchese’s skull he was shattering against the wall and roared, “To the death! That is the only form of satisfaction I will receive out of this. To the death!”

The marchese sighed and stripped the mask from his face, causing his auburn and gray hair to stand on end. He held up his velvet mask and with the flick of his black-gloved wrist, tossed it at Jonathan’s feet. “You clearly wish to die.”

Jonathan snorted. “I am not the one who will die. The moment your last breath is taken on that field, I will personally deliver your corpse into the hands of those families whom you have wronged and let them decide if you are worth burying.” The marchese narrowed his gaze. “You have acquired quite the tongue since you left my service.”

“My tongue was always there,” Jonathan growled out. “I simply had to bite it for reasons you are well aware of. But you have no further hold on me. Nor will you ever have a hold on my wife.” The marchese observed him. “To the death? Will that please you?”

“Your death is the only thing that will please me.”

The marchese nodded. “Very well. Pistols? Or swords?”

“Pistols. I provide both to ensure there is no tampering. The first shot will be decided by coin. Each pistol will be loaded shortly before each fire and will be loaded by my second and my second only.”

“Very well. When? Where?”

“Six, tomorrow morning. The plain. By the first patch of mulberry trees off the main road.” All the trees he had marked five years earlier with Victoria’s name. When Victoria was still his without ultimatums and he was still a man with innocent pride and innocent honor.

“Your fearlessness impresses me.”

“Leave. Leave before I make you swallow every last drop of your own blood. Our business is done until tomorrow morning at six.”

“If you are not there, I will assume your wife is mine. Buona serata.” The marchese offered a single nod, swiveled on his booted heel and strode out as if they had just finished the most amiable of conversations.

Jonathan seethed out a harsh breath, his clenched throat restricting his ability to breathe. Even as the man faced death on the morrow, he didn’t seem to be in the least bit intimidated or humbled. And if death itself could not intimidate or humble a man, whatever would? Whatever would? Nothing ever would. Nothing!

Jonathan kicked away the velvet mask from his booted foot, stalked toward the nearest side table and snatched up a large, ornate vase. Gnashing his teeth, he turned and whipped it hard. It shattered against the nearest wall with a thunderous crash, spraying shards everywhere.

He whipped around and snatched up another vase and then another and another, shattering them all one by one by one against the floors, the walls, the doors, until all of it was nothing more than a roaring blur.

“Remington!” Giovanni boomed from behind. “Enough! Enough!”

Jonathan froze, his breath coming in ragged gasps, the porcelain figurine in his right hand still high above his head. Damn. He was destroying his sister’s home. And not only her home, but her life. And Giovanni’s. And Victoria’s. Hell, he had yanked Victoria away from her father’s side in some selfish, pointless need to prove his ability to claim her. Only to then expose her to harm.

Jonathan sank to the floor with a thud and sat there in complete silence, letting the figurine fall away from his ungloved hand. If he dueled, Victoria would leave him. But if he didn’t duel, he would be walking away from himself and everything he ever believed in.

“Jonathan?” Cornelia’s soft voice made him glance up.

He swallowed. “Forgive me. I will pay for everything. I promise.”

“I am not worried about objects that can be replaced. I am worried about you.” She drifted toward him with a pale pink and ivory hatbox in her hand and gently set it before him. “Read the top letter. Then decide what it is you intend to do.” With that, she turned back to Giovanni, grabbed his hand and tugged him out of the room.

Jonathan sat there for a long moment. He then slid the hatbox over and lifted the lid, peering inside. He froze, recognizing all of Victoria’s old letters. The ones he had never been able to read.

Setting aside the lid, he placed his hand against the folded, yellowing parchment on top, its red wax seal cracked. He drew in a breath, let it out, then plucked it up and unfolded the letter. The words had subtly faded.

September 26, 1825 R EMINGTON , Grayson refuses to inform me of your whereabouts or what has become of you. He claims he has been sworn to secrecy. I worry to no end as to why and despise you and him for betraying me in so cruel a manner. With the Season over, I do nothing but stare at books whose words hold no meaning. At night I cry, feeling that I have buried yet another person I love. Why would you condemn me to a life without you? Why would you condemn me to never knowing what has become of you? Does pride truly mean more to you than I do? I only wish to understand you, not judge you. Within my soul, I knew this would happen. I knew from the moment I gave in to this stupid passion I felt for you that you would only disappoint me and shred what little remained of my heart. I simply thought that after having endured all the losses I have, I would have been more prepared for the pain you are forcing me to swallow. And yet I am not. This is beyond anything I ever wanted to feel again. At the very least, write and assure me you have not been harmed. I fear for you and the life you have fallen into. Ever faithfully and always yours,
Victoria He refolded the letter and shoved it back into the box along with the rest, slapping the lid back on. Holding a rigid fist against his mouth, he squeezed his eyes shut, her words echoing in his soul. It appeared he was going to disappoint her again. But at least this time, he was being true to everything he ever believed in.