LITMIR.BIZ

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Mr Smith. And on top of all that she felt responsible for Betty.

      In a few hours the sun would come up and everyone would gather in the field on the outskirts of the town to wait for her and Mr Linton to appear. To the onlookers it would be an entertainment, like a play, to be watched and applauded. She dreaded it and wondered how to get out of it without making a complete cake of herself. She could say her sword was broken, but they would find her another and she needed a weapon she was familiar with. She rose and went to the hook on the back of the door where she had hung her belt before going down to supper. She withdrew the sword and made a few practice moves. It felt comfortable and balanced in her hand and reminded her that she had always enjoyed fencing and been good at it. She had to go through with this charade of a duel or lose all credibility as a man of honour.

      Jonathan had no intention whatever of killing the lad. He would not hurt a hair of his head. He had killed once before in a duel and the sight of the man’s bloodied body being carried away had been a terrible shock and one he would never forget. Ever since then he had avoided getting into situations that called upon him to defend his honour. So how had it happened this time? He was annoyed with himself for handling things so badly. He had only to declare he did not fight children and everyone would have laughed and there would have been no challenge.

      But how could he have done that? The boy would have been humiliated, made a laughing stock and he did not want to subject him to that, but he was of a mind to teach him a lesson. One simply did not go about accusing people of cheating at cards without a shred of evidence. He wondered why the pair had embarked on the adventure in the first place—could it have been for a jest, or a wager? Or was there something deadly serious behind it all? Once or twice he had caught an expression on the young man’s face that hinted at sadness, and a softness to those extraordinary eyes that belied his confident strutting. Jonathan found himself changing from being annoyed, to sympathising and wanting to help. But that did not extend to failing to appear at the duel himself. Honour had to be satisfied.

      He thanked his fencing master that he was proficient enough to pretend to be fighting with a will, to defend himself while holding back from dealing a fatal blow. He wished he had learned it before he had killed that last time. He did not know why he was thinking like this; his adversary would not show up. He would be gone by dawn. Sighing, he sat down to write his log, making it sound dull and uneventful; he certainly did not mention he was to fight a duel.

      Louise watched the dawn come up, heard the ostlers and grooms busying themselves in the yard and wished herself anywhere but where she was. There was a knock at the door and Joe’s voice called, ‘Time to get up, Mr Smith. You have half an hour. Shall I order breakfast for you?’

      ‘No, thank you,’ she called back. Food would choke her. ‘No breakfast. I shall join you directly.’

      She heard him move away and his footsteps going down the stairs. She left the bed and dressed herself. It occurred to her that if her coat were to be torn, she did not have another. She was shaking with nerves as she pulled on her boots and buckled on her sword belt. She turned, intending to shake Betty awake, but changed her mind and left her sleeping.

      Downstairs the dining room was empty; there was no one eating breakfast, nor even any waiters. She went outside. The yard was deserted; the people who had been working there earlier had disappeared, but Joe came from round the side of the building to join her. ‘Where is everyone?’ she asked.

      ‘They’re all at the field, waitin’ for you.’

      Her heart sank. There would be a huge crowd to witness her humiliation. Would they be baying for blood? She wanted to dawdle and delay her arrival, but what would that avail her? Putting her hand on the hilt of her sword, she fell into step beside Joe, their footsteps echoing on the cobbles. In her mind she rehearsed all the moves she had been taught and wondered if she would be given the opportunity to execute them or whether Mr Linton would pierce her defence before she could make any move at all.

      The field was crowded, but they made way for her and some cheered. ‘Go to it, young shaver. Show the bully he can’t walk all over you.’ Others laughed, calling her a bratling who wouldn’t have the strength to lift a sword, let along wield it. The gibes hardened her resolve; she put her chin in the air and made her way to where an arena had been roped off. Mr Linton and his second, together with the innkeeper, who was acting as referee, stood waiting. Mr Linton was in breeches and shirt sleeves and she became uncomfortably aware of his powerful physique, his masculinity, so very different from her own slim figure and lack of muscle. But here she was and there was no going back.

      Jonathan watched as she drew her sword from its scabbard and tested its blade with her thumb. And then Joe was helping her off with her coat and cravat and she was obeying the beckoning hand of the innkeeper and joining him in the middle of the arena. Jonathan was a bag of nerves himself, but only on the boy’s behalf. He must not hurt him, he told himself, remembering that other duel so many years before, when he had dealt that fatal blow for which he had never forgiven himself.

      The formalities were gone through and then they were alone, facing each other, the flat of their swords held point up against their lips in salute before taking their stance. They were given the command and the duel began.

      They sparred a little, feinting, moving backwards and forwards and once Smith lunged and nearly had him. He parried with a riposte, which the boy easily avoided, and suddenly Jonathan realised the lad did know what he was doing and really could put on a good show. He began to be a little less diffident and made one or two real moves, which his opponent answered with moves of his own.

      Louise found herself enjoying the cut and thrust and was annoyed when she realised he was holding back. She renewed her attack, making him defend himself. They danced back and forth, lunged and parried while the crowd cheered. Wanting to finish it quickly, Jonathan lunged a little wildly and the boy came back with a high outside riposte that nicked his upper arm, drawing a pinpoint of blood.

      If she had been the challenger, Louise could have said she was satisfied with first blood and put an end to it there and then, but as she was the one who had been challenged, it was left to her opponent to admit defeat. The crowd roared their appreciation; they were in no mood to agree that honour had been satisfied. The duel went on, though Jonathan had to use all his skill to defend himself, let alone try not to hurt his adversary. It was this that made him momentarily lose his concentration. His weapon was suddenly knocked from his grasp. Louise stood back and waited for him to pick it up.

      He hesitated. Where was this all going to end? He was a man of the law, the Society required him to uphold it at all times and what was he doing breaking it? Having a game? Did Louis Smith think it was a game? He had to end it, but not in this ignominious way. He bent to pick up his sword.

      It was then, as he straightened up, he noticed her gently heaving breasts from which the binding had slipped and was confronted with the fact that he had been crossing swords with a woman. What a fool he had been! Why had he not seen it before? Those magnificent eyes, the unruly hair, the sensitive hands with their neatly manicured nails, the delicate colour in her cheeks, all proclaimed he was facing a member of the gentler sex. Why had he not realised it before? The signs had all been there. What did she think she was playing at? He could not fight a woman. His sword arm dropped.

      She noted his reluctance and wondered at it; he was a long way from defeat. ‘You hesitate,’ she said, pointing her sword at him. ‘Do you concede?’

      The crowd roared their disapproval. ‘Fight on,’ they shouted. ‘You can’t let a stripling like that best you.’

      They saluted each other formally and began again. He danced about her, parrying her advances and watching for his opportunity to bring it to an end without betraying her for what she was.

      She was beginning to tire chasing after an illusive target, who seemed not to abide by the usual rules, but kept moving back. His defensive tactics did not please the crowd, who began cheering the boy. Jonathan saw his chance, knocked her sword aside and went in to the chest, his blade hovering half an inch from the material of her shirt. He pricked it just enough to put a tiny tear in the cloth, but not enough to pierce her skin. A sharp downward stroke

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