“The fat man who joined us tonight. Sir Christopher Spatts. ”
“I’m not objecting, mind you,” Charles said. “He’s a slovenly creature, and there are rumors about some of his less savory activities. ”
“Such as what?”
“Such as his preference for children, the younger the better. He was quite disappointed when he heard you don’t allow children to be part of the Revels, but decided there were other ways to find pleasure. Why?”
Rohan didn’t answer. “Do you have any notion where he is at the moment?”
“I believe he went off with young Wrotham. ”
“Where?”
“Dear me,” Charles murmured. “What did he do?” His eyes narrowed. “Good God, man, are you wearing your sword? You can’t fight him. He couldn’t possibly be any kind of match for you. It would be murder. ”
“Good,” said Rohan. “Where is he?”
For a moment Charles didn’t move. And then he nodded. “Come with me. ”
Now was as good a time as any to leave, Eleanor thought. He’d already made his nightly visit, though departing without touching her, even attempting to, was different. She understood completely. She’d told him the truth of what had happened six years ago and he’d been disgusted. Whatever kind of exotic allure she’d held for him, and while she hadn’t understood it she’d come to accept that it existed, had vanished.
She moved to the window, looking out into the street. She was probably being foolish, escaping when there was no earthly need. It was more than likely she’d be taken to a coach tomorrow morning with no explanation, just sent on her way.
As it had happened so many years ago when she’d been trapped by that horrible man.
This had been a different kind
of imprisonment, and she told herself she was delighted that Rohan had finally seen the error of his ways. She just didn’t want to face him when he set her free.
No, she would leave now, when the house was relatively quiet. She could hear the sounds of gaiety and something else drifting from a distance, and she remembered the frenetic energy as Rohan had led her, blindfolded, through the rooms in the château.
Rohan would clearly be partaking of that gaiety, and for the time, perhaps forever, she was forgotten. Once she was out she had more than enough money to hire a coach to take her out to his château. There, she would collect Lydia and they would run, back to England where no one—at least, one particular person—could follow.
She pulled the cloak around her shoulders. She’d managed to braid her thick hair and tie it with a strip of ribbon. For some reason hairpins and the like had remained absent from the many elegancies provided. She took the plainest dress, since she could scarce leave in her ripped and shredded night rail, and the sturdy boots provided. Tucking the purseful of coins in her pocket, she started for the door, then stopped. The contract lay out on the table, the quill and ink still beside it. She reached for it, planning to tear it into pieces, but something stayed her hand. For some crazed, silly reason she took the pen, dipped it in ink, and wrote “I’m sorry” at the bottom of the page. And then she slipped out into the deserted hallway, heading for the servants’ stairway.
It was quick. How could it be anything but, Rohan thought dazedly. He was a gifted fencer, light on his feet, entirely ruthless. Sir Christopher Spatts was slow and fat and stupid, unable to comprehend that he was staring death in the face. He thought it was one more game played by the Heavenly Host, mocking the rules of life and death. It wasn’t until he began to realize that he was going to die that he started to fight in earnest, slashing with the sword that had been provided him.
Murder. Plain and simple. They were no match, and when Rohan drove the blade into his heart the man squealed like a pig, and Rohan wanted to shout in triumph.
Author: Anne Stuart
Sir Christopher crumpled to the floor, and Rohan turned and walked away, throwing his sword across the room. The man was dead, executed, as he should have been years ago.
He walked out onto the snow-covered terrace, staring up at the night sky, trying to control his racing heart, the dark, murderous rage that had yet to leave him. Sir Christopher had managed to pink him a couple of times, probably luck driven by sheer terror, and there was blood staining his billowing white sleeve and seeping through the shallow cut on his chest. Another set of clothes ruined, he thought, shivering.
Charles came to stand by him, saying nothing. Finally Rohan brought himself to speak. “He’s dead?”
“Thoroughly. The seconds are satisfied. It was a fair duel. ”
Rohan’s laugh was harsh. “What was the fairness in that? It was like fighting a child. ”
“You should have let me do it,” Charles said. “I have no qualms killing those who need to be killed. ”
Rohan looked at him. “How do you know I have such qualms?”
“Francis, I know you,” he said. “You’ve abhorred death and violence for as long as we’ve been friends. Have you ever killed your man before?”
“I don’t fight duels. ”