Lord Oberlon watched the two young men, as confused as Sir Harry. How could Monteith ever have assumed that the choice of weapons would be his? He’d been the one to issue the challenge.
The earl of March said smoothly, “As the challenger, Monteith, you have no choice in the selection of weapons. Lord Oberlon has decided upon foils.”
Sir Harry added desperately, “Don’t you remember, Lord Harry? It was you who dashed the champagne in his grace’s face.”
The marquess said as he flicked at the sleeve of his greatcoat, “It would appear that Lord Monteith fences well only with words. I will accept your explanation, lad, as well as your apology, if you choose now to sincerely give it.”
Hetty’s secure mental fortress had shattered into myriad unrelated thoughts, uppermost among them the ridiculous phrase she had spoken to Signore Bertioli the afternoon before”a young lion with only a roar we shall soon know if I am only a young lion with a roar.”
She looked blindly at the three faces staring at her, and saw only contempt, for she was not looking at them but back into herself. She remembered her blithely spoken words, again to Signore Bertioli, that a man who goes into battle with but one weapon and a prayer is a fool.
“You have but to explain and apologize,” his words sounded in her mind. He invited her to crawl away with a sincere apology, in shame and dishonor.
She saw Damien, lying lifeless on the bloody battlefield of Waterloo, crying out for vengeance. Her mind fastened upon his image, and in that instant, her thoughts wove themselves together again.
She said, her voice colder than the early morning air, “Foils, your grace? It makes no difference to me how you wish to die.”
She picked up a gleaming rapier from the black velvet-lined case and tested its weight in her hand. It was light, steady, and exquisitely forged.
The marquess frowned at Monteith’s baiting words, not in renewed anger, but in perplexity. He wasn’t blind. The stunned shock on the lad’s face, then the empty coursing of fear that had left his eyes glazed, made the marquess suddenly wonder if he weren’t playing the part of the villain in some sort of cheap melodrama at Drury Lane, a villain who seemed, strangely, to have the upper hand over the hero.
“Jason.”
He shook his head, focusing on the task at hand. He took his foil from the earl’s outstretched hand.
“Take care, my friend,” the earl said.
The marquess nodded, wondering if Julien meant him to take care of himself or to take care of young Monteith. He found, foolishly enough, that he had to hand the foil back while he stripped off his greatcoat and gloves.
“Damn but it’s cold, don’t you think so, Lord Harry?” Harry wished it were a day from now, even an hour, anything to have this over and done with and he and Lord Harry safe and well and on their way back to London. He didn’t think he’d ever been so scared in his life. He watched as Lord Harry unbuttoned his waistcoat.
“Yes, it’s cold. Who cares?”
“Lord Harry, I don’t think”
“Yes?”
“God, it’s done, isn’t it? There’s no turning back now. I’ll keep your greatcoat warm.”
Stripped to a loose, frilled white shirt, breeches and hessians, Harry watched Lord Harry slash his foil through the air several times, testing its flexibility, then watched him move forward to where the marquess stood, dressed in black breeches, black hessians, and white shirt, his side presented.
Hetty flexed her knees, leaning slightly forward, and placed her left hand lightly upon her hip. She slashed the foil again in a wide arc and stood ready for the earl’s command.
“En garde!” The earl’s words rang out harshly in the silent wood.
The marquess began to move gracefully toward her, his blade carefully poised, his eyes intent upon her face. His foil suddenly flashed out wide to her right side, testing for the quickness of her reaction.
Hetty caught his blade handily, parrying his thrust with no particular difficulty, and skipped lightly to bring her weight down on her left foot. The marquess drew back, his foil making small circles, readying like a viper, Hetty thought, to strike again. She sensed his easy control, his practiced mastery, the silver blade appearing to her like an extension of his arm and his will. Thus it was with Signore Bertioli. Give me your skill, Signore, she prayed silently, then with a quick sidestep, lunged forward. The edge of her foil rang against tempered steel and slid nearly halfway up the marquess’s blade, until with a powerful flick of his wrist, he parried the strike. The force of his parry sent stabs of pain up her arm.