Silver-Tongued Devil (Louisiana Plantation Collection) (37 page)

Laurence shifted slightly. Something hard and cool and blunt-nosed pressed against Angelica’s side. “Don’t bother; I may have found it,” her former fiancé said. “Stand back out of the way, or I will blow a good-sized hole in your darling wife’s side.”

“Take care,” Angelica said quietly across the distance which separated her from Renold. “He intends to kill you.”

“A kindly warning, sweet Angelica, if unexpected,” Renold said. “Also unnecessary. I have known since the moment I saw your father that he could not have been behind the crude attempts to take you from me. He has more finesse, and more manners.”

“You mean me to understand that I have neither?” Laurence said, snorting. “It won’t matter when you’re dead.”

“No, but it goes against the grain to be bested by a flashy coward,” Renold said with a contemplative tip of his head, “a companion of sneak-thieves and cutthroats. I don’t think I can allow it.”

“Prevent it, then,” the other man suggested with a coarse laugh near Angelica’s ear.

“Good,” Renold said with satisfaction, “you will understand if I do what I must. The waterfront scum you hired to come with you will be no help, you know. Tit Jean and my men had them in their sights from the moment they set foot on Bonheur. They are now under guard.”

Laurence’s grasp tightened. He lowered his head, scowling toward where Renold stood. “And I’ve got Angelica. Now what?”

“I was hoping to interest you in a little practice at swords, if you have the stomach for it?”

The offer was lightly made, yet carried a dangerous undertone. It chilled Angelica to the bone. “No,” she said, “you can’t do that.”

“Now, why can’t I, my love?” her husband said in caressing tones.

She moistened her lips, which were suddenly dry. “Your shoulder, you aren’t fit for swordplay.”

“Probably not, but it will give me great pleasure to try. Though it was unwise of you to point out my weakness to Eddington. Unless you are looking forward to the delights he promised.”

There was bite in the last words. She shook her head so quickly the coiled ringlets of her hair bounced against her face. “Never.”

“But neither do you crave my delights. Who can fathom the heart of a woman? Who would even attempt it when the prize is already won?” He turned to Laurence. “Bonheur is mine, by right of a husband to direct his wife’s property. If you want it, you will have to take it from me. There is no other way.”

“Renold, don’t,” she said, with the pain inside her creeping into her voice. But he had removed his attention from her like wiping a column of sums from a slate.

Laurence stared at Renold with calculation. “What will keep your men from jumping me the minute you hit the ground?”

“My word,” Renold said, and waited expectantly.

The other man laughed. “I think I would rather leave now and take Angelica with me. You can’t stop me. Try and I’ll kill her.”

“Showing a total lack of skill at negotiation,” came the answer in tones of contempt. “If she dies, there ends your hope of marrying her dowry; you lose by default. So why shouldn’t I force you to end her life and have done with it? I could then order you shot before you have taken two steps, and enjoy Bonheur as a happy widower, without the bother of a wife I never wanted.”

A wife I never wanted.

It was a bluff.
Or was it? Angelica could not tell. The blood pouring through her veins felt as if it carried bits of broken glass. Her hands were cold, but her face was hot. The binding of her corset made her ribs ache and constricted her breathing so that the need to be free of it beat silently at the back of her mind.

Laurence appeared to have no trouble taking Renold at his word. The press of the pistol against Angelica’s side eased a fraction. In tones of malevolent frustration, he said, “Bastard.”

“That is hardly news.” Renold’s voice took on irritation. “Will you stay or go? Fight or run away? You had best be quick about your decision. There are others in the house who might take serious offense at finding you threatening Angelica.”

“Old Carew is not likely to stop me.”

“Not in his present condition, no.” Renold shifted a shoulder, his shirt front glinting in the dark. “But Michel Farness has appointed himself her knight-protector, and would welcome a chance to earn his spurs. And possibly a place as her next husband if we both should fall.”

Laurence relieved his feelings by a steady string of curses. As he shifted a little, the acrid smells of sweat and fear wafted from inside his coat. He said abruptly, “All right, then. Swords or pistols, which do you want?”

“The choice,” Renold said softly, “is yours by custom.”

“Yes, and just where are we going to find these weapons?”

Renold raised a hand. From the darkness beyond the nearest oak. Tit Jean stepped forward. He placed two wooden cases on the ground, one long and narrow, the other square. There could be little doubt about what they contained.

Laurence gave a rough laugh, staring through the darkness at the other man as if he could gauge his strength by his indistinct shape. “You’ve thought of everything, haven’t you?”

“It’s a habit.”

Laurence watched Renold a moment longer, as if weighing alternatives. His eyes narrowed and he gave a hoarse laugh. “You think I’ll choose swords because you’ve got that bad shoulder. But there are some who can handle a blade with either hand, and I seem to remember hearing that you’re one of them. Anyway, I’m not a New Orleans dandy used to practicing in Exchange Alley, so I don’t intend to fall for that trick. With pistols, now, it happens I’m a fair shot; I’ve met my man and put him down. But I heard the tales about you using a single shot to take the flame from the top of a candlestick. Shooting in the dark is something I’ve never tried, nor have I handled one of your fancy dueling pieces, so pistols would be a foolish choice.”

“Yet you must pick up one
or the other.”

“Must I?” Laurence gave a snide laugh. “The people I’ve been around lately settle their differences with hog-skinning knives.”

“Crude sport, or so I found it.” In Renold’s voice was dry disdain. Angelica, with memories of a dark alley and a vicious, whining blade in the forefront of her mind, could only agree.

“It may be, but I have a knack for it,” Laurence said. “It’s what I favor. Of course, if you can’t lay hands on suitable knives, we might talk compromise.”

“Compromise? Rather like letting a rattlesnake bed up under the front steps, there are some things too chancy to risk. In any case, there is no problem with weapons. It happens that we took enough bowie knives off the men you brought to outfit a small army.” Without turning his head, Renold added, “Tit Jean?”

“At once, maître.” The big manservant melted away into the night

Renold turned back to the other man. “I take it,” he said, “that you have no objection to this as a dueling ground?”

“It will do,” Laurence said shortly.

“Well enough.” The reply was spoken with judicious calm. “I don’t like to suggest that you are unfamiliar with the dueling code, but you must know that no apology or excuse can be accepted on the field. The night before, yes, or even on the way to the meeting, but not on the field.”

“You aren’t likely to get either.”

“My mistake. It must have come from your mention of compromise.” Renold went on lightly. “You are allowed a second to see to your interests while you are actively engaged, but I don’t believe Angelica qualifies; women are usually exempt, besides which, she is hardly impartial. You could, of course, keep her in front of you as a shield, but I feel she would be more handicap than asset.”

Laurence snorted. “You want me to let her go now so you can snatch her for yourself. Then for all I know, you may have some of your hands set to take me.”

“Your sort of maneuver, I believe. I assure you I will let nothing interfere with our meeting.”

“Fine talk. I’d rather be safe.”

Renold shrugged from his coat and threw it aside, then began to unfasten the cuffs of his sleeves. His gaze on the other man, he said with derision, “The phrase having to do with hiding behind a woman’s skirts has just taken on new — bloody hell!”

His abrupt descent into ill temper was caused by the appearance of his half-sister on the gallery of the house. Silhouetted by the lamplight spilling through the open door behind her, she scanned the darkness. As she caught sight of them there under the trees, she snatched up her skirts and hastened down the steps. Michel, stepping from the front door just behind her, followed with swift strides.

“It seems,” Renold said with considerable annoyance, “that we are not to be allowed decent privacy. Poor Laurence. Now there’s no telling who may snatch your prize.”

He spoke more accurately than he knew. Michel had barely cleared the gallery steps when another man emerged from the house. His form was bent, his gait less than strong, but there was determination in every hard-won step. Angelica caught an uneven breath. It was her father.

“Renold!” Deborah cried as she came closer, “what in the name of heaven is going on? One of the house boys said Tit Jean came for dueling pistols.” She stopped abruptly, her gown swaying like a bell, as she noticed Laurence, saw the pistol in his hand that turned toward her heart.

“I wonder,” Laurence drawled with a sidewise glance at Renold, “how blasé you would be about my ending the life of this one.”

“Not very,” Renold said tightly.

“Nor I,” Michel said, approaching with slow care. He gave Renold a direct look. “You might have told me about the party. I resent being left out.”

“There was a reason for it,” came the grim reply.

“Yes,” Deborah said, “to keep me from following and maybe going into convulsions. It didn’t work, did it?”

Before Renold could answer, Edmund Carew called out, “Laurence, boy, what are you doing?”

“God,” Laurence said, his face twisting. “This is—”

“Ridiculous?” Renold supplied. “The element creeps in. Even in New Orleans there are those who drive by the dueling oaks like going to the theater to see a fine tragedy. Therefore, sangfroid, literally cold blood, is part of the duelist’s code. He ignores the spectators. If he can.”

“Shut up,” Laurence growled.

“I assume,” Michel said to his friend, “that you require a second?”

Renold’s smile was wry. “It seems a useful precaution, though not necessary among men of honor. If Carew will stand for Eddington, we will be even in civility if in nothing else.”

Angelica’s father drew himself up, then ducked his head in a stiff bow. “Honored.”

It was only a matter of form, of course. Any man could act for another; it implied no collusion, no allegiance, no taking of sides. Yet it seemed significant that Laurence and her father, Renold’s enemies, were ranged against him.

Edmund Carew cleared his voice of a tendency to quaver. “No need to spout the tenants of the Code Duello to me, my boy: I’ve had my share of dawn meetings, been second more times than I can remember. My duty is to keep things fair for my principle in the fight and check his weapon. Oh, yes, and to hold myself responsible for preventing any act of — dishonor on his part.”

A long look passed between the older man and Angelica’s husband. Renold gave a brief nod as he turned away. “Just so,” he said.

Tit Jean, breathless with haste, returned at that moment with his big hands full of knives. The meeting then took on a different, more official pace. A glaze, of polite behavior attended the scene while the actors prepared for their roles. The audience contained its restlessness while it waited for the show to begin.

The weapons were spread out on Renold’s coat. It was a motley collection of blades with greasy or rusty shadings and stains which it seemed better not to inspect too closely. They sported handles made of wood and bone, of cow horn and deer antlers and carved stone. Some had grips and some did not, some had hilts forged of brass or copper or blobs of lead, and some had no hilt at all. One thing they all had in common: They were sharp and they were dangerous.

Renold, due first choice of the weapons, scanned the assortment and selected one of classic shape made of quality materials and with no particular embellishments. Laurence was more careful. He picked up first one, then another, holding them to the dim yellow light streaming from the house, testing them for heft and balance. His final choice fell on a knife much heavier than Renold’s, one with a bone handle, brass hilt, and a chased blade of enough extra length to give him a four-inch advantage.

Renold did not object. Michel frowned and opened his mouth, but closed it again after a quick glance at his friend.

Laurence removed his coat. The ground was cleared of debris. Some mention was made of lamps and lanterns, but Angelica’s former fiancé scoffed at the prospect of extra light.

Angelica saw her father frown and glance at Michel. She wondered if he suspected, as she did, some nefarious purpose behind the refusal. However, conditions for the duel were set by the challenged party, in this case Laurence, and so there was no further discussion.

The two men were ready. They faced each other, bowie knives in hand, while their seconds stepped back out of the way. Angelica edged from where Laurence had left her, joining Deborah well back under the oak so the wide skirts of their gowns would not block the little light shining from the house.