Part 41 (1/2)
”From Naples,” repeated Francesca, shaking her head. ”But I am not expecting any gentleman from Naples, Mrs. Monk, especially not at this hour.”
From the corner of her eye she saw the motion first, the s.h.i.+ft of black darker than any shadow. Then the shadow glided into the hall and became a man, a man dressed all in black with a jackal's smile of yellow teeth, bowing low before her.
Signor Albani had come to London.
Edward held the long-barreled pistol in his hand, testing the weight and the balance.
”Whatever your father paid for these guns was worth it, Will,” he said as he lined the sight even with a Chinese porcelain monkey on the mantelpiece. ”I've never held a pistol that sat so neatly in the hand. So exactly how many men have this one and its twin killed?”
”That's not the point, Edward,” said William patiently. ”What's important is that you survive. Why else would a gentleman keep his own pistols?”
”We'll learn that in the morning, won't we?” Carefully Edward placed the pistol back into its fitted box. Of course William had agreed at once to be Edward's second, the one request among gentlemen that must never be refused, but the one that friends could try to undo.
”We don't have to wait until then, you know,” said William carefully as he snapped the catches on the box closed. ”You can still retract your challenge, Edward. When I met with Robinson, he gave me the impression that McCray might agree if you acted first. No one will think ill of you if you do.”
”The h.e.l.l they won't.” Edward snorted derisively, flopping back into his armchair with his legs sprawled before him. It must be close to three in the morning by now. He was exhausted and he was disgusted with himself, and to make it all worse he was more than a little drunk. ”I'll be the laughingstock of the fleet if I run a white flag for a little mongrel like McCray, and you know it as well as I do.”
”What I know is that you'll run afoul of both the Admiralty and His Majesty himself if you see this through,” insisted William. ”You know the laws against duels. Spencer will be furious. If you kill McCray-”
”Which I've every intention of doing.”
William glared at him, for once completely in earnest. ”If you kill McCray,” he repeated, ”you might have to leave England, or be charged with his murder. The navy could stand to lose two captains in the morning, losses that the service can ill afford, and the French won't have to lift a finger to do it.”
”What, haven't you heard?” Idly Edward lifted his gla.s.s, swirling the golden liquid so the light from the fire glittered through the crystal. ”I'm not wanted. I'm retired, cast off like an old boot. Peers can't fight, you know. Our tender hides are too d.a.m.ned precious.”
”Then what of your wife?” demanded William. ”If she means enough to you to defend her in this manner, then isn't she reason enough for you to live?”
Edward stared into the gla.s.s, picturing Francesca. He'd yet to wash since he'd come home, and he'd purposefully let her scent cling to him, haunting him with her presence.
”My wife,” he said softly, ”means everything to me.”
”Then how the devil can you risk leaving her a widow so soon after you've married her?”
And for that Edward had no answer. He'd always believed his honor and good name came above everything else, and because he loved Francesca so much, he would not tolerate any insult to her. He'd been raised to defend himself that way, and the navy, founded as it was on honor and bravery, had encouraged that in him as well. It was even much of the reason he'd wed Francesca in the first place, to save her from the French, of course, but also to keep her reputation safe as she'd traveled with the English navy. He'd fought three other duels-two with swords, one with pistols-and won them all, to great acclaim and vindication. Yet Francesca had managed to shake a lifetime of conviction with one small question.
What if you die tomorrow never knowing your own son?
He thought of Francesca smiling up beneath him after they'd made love this evening, her face flushed and her hair tangled and her nose red and her eyes swimming with untidy tears of joy. He thought of the children he longed to have with her, and of the painting she'd given him. Just as she had during the storm, this night she'd offered him life with her love, rich, glowing, and full of sparkling promise.
And all he'd offered her in return had been the possibility of his own death, bleak, swift, and final.
”If you will not call off this meeting with McCray,” William was saying, ”then for G.o.d's sake, give me your word that this will be the last time you'll be tempted into this kind of murderous misadventure.”
He wanted children, and happiness, and love. He'd had enough of fighting and war and death.
And after tomorrow, if he won, if he survived, that was how it would be.
”I'll give my word to you, Will, aye,” he said softly. ”But I'll do better than that. I'll give it to my wife.”