Tender the Storm (56 page)

"I love you," he soothed. "I'm doing it for you. I never loved Zoë. It was always you."

His soft words had no effect on her. She was jealous, and he could not blame her. For months, he had courted Zoë. He had offered her his hand in marriage. As is the way of things, Rose had come to hear of it. She could not understand that it was necessity that drove him. He must marry where there was a fortune. He had never had any intentions of setting aside Rose. She could not be persuaded of that truth.

"If what you say is true," she burst out, "if Varlet wants her, why must
you
fight the duel.
Why not he?"

He could not tell her that in a duel fate played a part. It happened sometimes that the most skillful duelist fell to an inept opponent. There was no necessity for Varlet to put his own life at risk, not when he could pull the strings of his marionette and have him, Jean Tresier, take the risks for him.
For a price.

He rolled from the bed and began to dress himself. "Look," he said, "we've been through all this. You know that Varlet holds my note. That debt will be wiped out. This time, I really will be free. We can start fresh."

Already, he had decided that he would marry Rose. He wished their marriage could take place before the duel —to protect their child from the taint of illegitimacy should anything happen to him. He dared not suggest such a thing in her present state of nerves. She would know, then, that he was not
so
confident about the outcome of the duel as he pretended.

But he had every reason to be confident. He was the younger man. And Ronsard had stipulated that
the duel should be fought with pistols. Tresier was a crack shot. Everyone knew it.

"When does the duel take place?" she demanded.

He lied through his teeth. "Tomorrow," he said.

She was staring at him as if he were a stranger. "Rose, what is it?"

She looked away and shook her head.

"Rose?"

Her eyelashes lifted and the tears welled over. "Jean." She brushed at her wet cheeks with impatient fingers. "This is not like you. This is not honorable. You might as well
be . . .
a . . .
a paid assassin."

His jaw clenched. His whole body went rigid with fury. Her accusations touched him on a raw nerve. Honor. His father had always boasted that the word
honor
and the Tresier name were synonymous. And his father had held to that view even on the scaffold, when his fortune had gone to support losing causes and his family had been decimated by the Revolution. What price honor when a man had to live like an animal simply to survive? What price honor when his wife and children went to the wall because the name they bore incited hatred in the mob? Honor had no place in his life. He could not afford it.

As the bitter words poured from his mouth, she flinched away.
"Honor!
How dare you fling that word in my teeth! Look at yourself! Whore! Where is
your
honor?" His fingers were digging into her arms.

Wrenching away from him, she covered her ears with her hands. Her shoulders shook as she choked back the anguished sobs.

"Oh
God,
Rose! Don't cry. I didn't mean it. I didn't mean it, love."

He dragged her into his arms and held her close to
his heart. His own tears fell unhindered and he could not say if it was for the past or for the future that he wept.

Like Rose, Zoë also tried to dissuade the man she loved from the forthcoming duel. Rolfe, however, displayed a far more casual attitude than his adversary.

"It's nothing but show —a mere matter of going through the motions," he explained dismissively.

The hour was early. The sun had yet to come up. Rolfe was dressing himself. He was eager to get to the Swedish Embassy, so he told Zoë, where Leon was being held.

"You must be tired," he said, flashing
her a
devilish grin, and added gratuitously, "after last night.
Why don't you go back to sleep?"

Doggedly, she kept to the subject which interested her. "People have been known to get hurt when they duel."

"Nonsense.
Tresier is not such a fool as to do a foreign diplomat an injury. Think of the scandal. And I am scarcely like to do anything to jeopardize our plans. If anything happens to Tresier, I'd have the Committee of Public Safety down on our heads."

Exasperated beyond reason, Zoë demanded, "Then what is the point of the duel?"

Grinning wickedly, Rolfe approached the bed. His lips brushed hers and he responded lightly, "Honor must be seen to be satisfied, kitten. Gentlemen expect it."

Zoë was not quite sure that she believed him. But since Rolfe had intimated that there was always a period of grace where the seconds tried to effect
a
reconciliation
before the duelists met on the field of honor, she deemed that she had some time in which to think of a way to prevent it. It could well be that they might leave France before Rolfe and Tresier could meet each other. That would be the best solution. Still, she wasn't going to take any chances.

Before Rolfe left for the Swedish Embassy, he tried to exact a promise from her that she would remain indoors.

"Why can't I come with you?" she wanted to know. "Leon is
— "

"In good hands," responded Rolfe. "You're not thinking, Zoë. How would it look if you paid a morning call on Germaine de Stael at this unearthly hour?"

"We could go later."

But Rolfe could not be moved. No one would question his presence at the Swedish Embassy. He must be the one to go, if only to reassure Leon that he had nothing to fear.

"I would have gone last night," said Rolfe, "but you were as much in need of reassurance as he. I could not leave you, nor will I permit you to shelter your brother under the same roof. It's too risky," he said, cutting off the protest she was about to make. "He is a hunted man. I don't want him anywhere near you until we are actually on our way. Now will you give me your solemn promise not to leave the house while I'm gone?"

Only when she had given her word did he take his leave of her. Zoë rose and dressed herself. In the morning room, she lingered over breakfast, her thoughts drifting every which way. She was on the point of rising from the table to compose a note to

Charles Lagrange, asking his advice about the duel, when Samson entered and informed her that there was a young lady at the door wishing to speak to her.

"What name?" asked Zoë.

"Mademoiselle
Lefebre
."

The name meant nothing to Zoë. "Show her into the yellow
salle
and tell her that I shall be with her directly."

When Zoë entered the
salle,
a stranger, a young woman in a modest gray walking dress, turned to face her. It registered that the girl was as fair as she was dark. A pair of cerulean eyes dominated the small, heart-shaped face. Those beautiful eyes, Zoë noted, were red rimmed. The hands which clutched at her reticule were shaking.

Zoë's first impulse was to rush to the young woman's side and put her arms about her. But something in the girl's demeanor, something in her expression, made Zoë hesitate. Veiled hostility, thought Zoë, and waited quietly for the girl to explain herself.

"My name is Rose
Lefebre
," began the girl, "and I have come to beg you to put a stop to the duel." Her control gave way. She covered her face with her hands. "He's not a bad man, really," she choked out. "This isn't like him. He does not know what he is doing. He's doing it for me. I wish, oh God, I wish I were dead."

The two ladies had no way of knowing it, since the gentlemen had not taken them into their confidence, but at that very moment Rolfe and Tresier were turning to face each other at twenty paces with leveled pistols. A sweat had broken out on Tresier's brow.

His hand had developed a slight tremor.

Rolfe was the first to fire. No one was surprised when the shot went wide of its mark. As was to be expected, the diplomat, a foreigner, was not
au fait
with French modes. He did not take the duel seriously. His opponent was honor-bound to follow his example.

When Tresier, however, remained in position, his pistol still cocked, his finger curled around the trigger, a murmur of unease went around the few waiting gentlemen.

A mist seemed to form before his eyes. Tresier shook his head, trying to dispel it. One shot, he was telling himself, only one shot and he and Rose would be free to make a fresh start.

To remain in France, of course, would be out of the question. He would be regarded as a coldblooded killer. His name would be infamous. They must go where no one would know him, if only for the sake of the child. No son or daughter of his would be made to bear the shame of a father's iniquities. His children would be proud of their name. He would teach them all the things that his father had passed on to him. Only one shot, he promised himself, only one shot and he need never again toady to the likes of a Paul Varlet. He would be his own master, the kind of man in whom his father, God rest his soul, would have confidence.

Tresier's eyes narrowed as his opponent turned to face him square on. Didn't the man know that he was giving him a better target to shoot at? Yes, Ronsard knew it. It told in every nonchalant line of his stance. Ronsard was a fool. He was also a man of honor. He expected his opponent to subscribe to the same code. Honor. Tresier hated that word and wondered if it would haunt him for the rest of his days.

A movement caught Tresier's eye at the same moment as someone shouted "Assassin!" He didn't take time to think of what he was doing. His arm moved automatically. He pulled the trigger.

Several things happened simultaneously. Tresier's shot hit the would-be assassin in the arm. His gun went off, kicking up the earth at Rolfe's feet. Men were running and shouting at the same time. The assassin took to his heels.

Only the duelists remained in position. For one long moment, across the twenty paces which separated them, they seemed to assess each other. At length, Rolfe smiled and shook his head. Tresier crossed the distance between them and offered the older man his hand. It was accepted.