Chapter One
South of Chalk Farm, London 1820
The secluded area near Primrose Hill was the perfect place to fight a duel. The road lay hidden behind a screen of trees and thick hedgerows. There were no houses in the vicinity, no farmers up with the larks on this cold November morning, no chance of a constable stumbling upon the violent scene.
Lucius Valentine stared out across the field to the wooded knoll blocking his view of the notorious Chalk Farm Tavern. The mere sight of a gentleman huddled in a booth, trembling hands clasped around a bottle of brandy, prompted the landlord to take bets as to whether the fellow might live to see nightfall. But Valentine did not need to down copious amounts of liquor to give him courage. Nor did he need people prying into his affairs.
“Your partner in crime, he is late, no?” Dariell’s voice broke the tense silence. The Frenchman was Valentine’s second even though his skill in combat lay with his fists, not a pistol.
“Is it a crime for a gentleman to seek satisfaction?” Valentine said, although he was not the injured party, nor the challenger ready to risk his life to salvage his reputation.
“Duelling, it is illegal in your country, as is murder.”
“I have no intention of murdering Mr Kendall.”
Despite Dariell’s numerous conversations with Kendall’s second, an apology in the Times was the price Valentine must pay to restore the man’s honour. But only a weak man grovelled when innocent. Did Kendall not know that Valentine was an expert marksman? That he could shoot the fellow through the eye from two hundred yards?
Valentine dragged his watch from his pocket and checked the time. Why would Kendall issue a challenge only to suffer the humiliation of failing to attend? It made no sense.
Suspicion flared.
“Perhaps Kendall is playing a dangerous game.” Valentine drew his greatcoat across his chest. Cold muscles led to slow reactions. “Perhaps he is hiding up on the knoll waiting for me to leave. His witnesses will testify he arrived at the appointed time, will inform the world that I am the coward.”
Mr Kendall was like an annoying terrier snapping at Valentine’s heels. Worse, a thorn in his side. The man appeared at every ball and soirée, attended the same club, occupied the adjacent box at the theatre. Kendall might be handsome and charming, but he had the brains of a trout.
Valentine chuckled to himself. This battle had nothing to do with an imagined slight and everything to do with the right to court the widow Lady Durrant. Never in his life had he fought for a woman’s affection. And he’d be damned if he would do so now. Kendall lacked the courage to fire. Valentine would wrap the man round and round in a spool of words until the fool struggled to recall the day let alone the month.
“The duel, it will commence soon I think.” Dariell’s comment dragged Valentine from his reverie. The man had a mystical insight, could predict events long before they occurred.
“Let us hope you’re right.” The dullard was already thirty minutes late. “My fingers are numb. Lord knows how I am expected to fire a damn pistol. Perhaps that is Kendall’s plan. Wait until my blood freezes in my veins and then attack.”
“There is no chance of your blood freezing today, my friend,” Dariell said with some amusement. “I suspect it will be quite the opposite.”
Valentine was about to question his friend’s logic when a sudden movement drew his gaze to the row of trees bordering the road. A lone figure slipped between the tall trunks, greatcoat flapping about his thighs as he advanced towards them with short, hurried steps.
Valentine observed Kendall’s approach with interest. There was something of the dandy in his walk, a swagger that cast doubt over the man’s masculinity. Evidently, he had dressed in a hurry. Three times his top hat slipped down to obscure his eyes. The pistol in his gloved hand dangled carelessly at his side as if the object were not a means to end a man’s life but a lady’s reticule filled with curiosities.
Why the hell had Kendall come alone?
Where the hell was his second?
And why had he not brought a doctor?
Was this all a ruse? Did the fellow long for a bed six feet under and lack the courage to take the muzzle into his mouth and fire?
“Are you ready to meet your destiny, my friend?” Dariell said in the mysterious voice of a fortune teller at the fair. “Ready to discover what fate has in store?”
“Ready? It takes more than a pistol pointing at my head to unsettle me.” After a childhood wrought with chaos and instability, few things fazed him now.
Kendall was twenty feet away when Valentine realised his mistake. A woman’s soft thighs filled the gentlemen’s breeches. The flare of a woman’s hips drew his gaze up to the rumpled cravat that looked to have been tied by a monkey. There he noted ample breasts squashed into the fine silk waistcoat.
“Lord Valentine?” The lady kept her dainty chin high, her shoulders straight, but he heard the nervous tremble in every misty white puff of breath. “Lucius Valentine?”
Valentine inclined his head. “Lucius Montford Harcourt Valentine,” he said, “in case there is any mistake.”
The lady’s sharp gaze studied his face as she moved closer, so close he caught a whiff of her perfume. The image of her sitting in a silk robe at her dressing table flashed into his mind. Who thought of perfume when preparing for a duel? Scents of iris, rose and jasmine stimulated his senses along with the earthy aroma of musk. In its entirety, the fragrance spoke of elegance, of contradiction, of a woman who was as self-assured as she was feminine.
“Floris?” he said, inhaling deeply.
She blinked in surprise. “Yes. White Rose.”
“It’s exquisite.”
“It is my one and only indulgence.”
For a reason unbeknown, the last
word played havoc with his insides. He was not a man held hostage by his wants and desires. And yet something about the way the word slipped sensually from her lips sent his head spinning. Perhaps it was the cold, the confusion, the confounding notion that he stood opposite a woman brandishing a pistol.
“You have me at a disadvantage, Miss …” Valentine considered her rich brown eyes fringed with the longest lashes he had ever seen, considered the faint pink blush that coloured her milky-white skin, the resolute chin that showed a steely determination.
“Miss Kendall.” She dipped a quick curtsy. “You’re here to fight a duel with my brother.”
Her brother!
The trout had a sister!
Was this beauty Kendall’s secret weapon? Had he deployed this alluring creature to unsettle Valentine’s composure? Did Kendall not know that it took more than impressive breasts and kissable lips to entice him?
“Just Miss Kendall?” he teased, intrigued to know more about the woman who would risk her life and her reputation for a bumbling buffoon.
“Aveline Kendall, but I prefer Ava.” She looked down her dainty nose at him. “Not that you will have the need to call me either.”
Was that a challenge? Did she think him a man who craved the unobtainable?
Dariell cleared his throat. “You have come alone, madame. Are we to assume your brother has withdrawn his complaint?”
Miss Kendall firmed her jaw and breathed a frustrated sigh. “My brother finds himself incapacitated this morning, monsieur.”
More like too inebriated to stand.