The Very Daring Duchess Part 41

"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."

"Do not look so surprised, Your Grace," said Signor Albani as Francesca swiftly closed the door of the gallery behind them. "At first I did despair of finding you in so vast a place as London, but once you so obligingly placed your announcement in the paper, my task was an easy one."

It was the first time in months that she'd conversed in Italian. "But to follow me clear from Palermo-"

"And why not, Your Grace?" he said with an artfully careless shrug. "Because of the wars, I have no home, little money, and my fortunes do not prosper. You, my lady, offer my best hope of a reversal."

He smiled, but there was no denying that his claims to poverty and misfortune were accurate. He was thinner, his face haggard and drawn, and his black clothes were frayed and worn at the seams, hanging stiffly about his diminished form like a bat from a rafter. She could not imagine the circ.u.mstances he must have survived to have journeyed here, through the war and with no money or connections to ease his way.

Yet while King Ferdinando's flight from Naples had robbed Albani of his official power as a magistrate, suffering had honed a fresh edge to him. There was a new desperation in his eyes, a sense that he had so little left to lose that he would risk it willingly, and when he smiled with his yellow dog-teeth, Francesca felt dread race up her spine.

She clasped her hands and drew herself up as imperiously as she could. "I am sorry to hear of your trials, Signor, but I a.s.sure you that you are quite wrong to place your hopes in me."

"Do not be so modest, Your Grace," he said, chuckling with amus.e.m.e.nt. "You have raised yourself even higher since last we met. You are an English d.u.c.h.ess, second in this land only to a royal princess. I have stood outside Harborough House, and marveled at such grandeur for a single family, and marveled more to learn it is but one such house now owned by your husband."

"But I've very little money of my own," she said as firmly as she could. "And I will not go to my husband for more."

"Ah, ah, could you really have forgotten, Your Grace?" he asked plaintively, placing his palms together as if in prayer. "I have not come so far to you for money. I have come for something more dear, more precious than mere gold. I have come for Her Majesty Marie Antoinette's diamond plume."

She shook her head emphatically. "And I shall tell you again, signor, that I don't have it, and never did."

"Ah, ah." He bowed his head, his once-proud magistrate's wig now drooping and sadly out of curl. "You say you do not have the jewel. I am distraught, Your Grace, distraught."

He stood still, head bent, for so long that Francesca wondered if he'd been taken ill. "Signor," she said, more gently, "I can understand your disappointment, but that does not change the truth."

"Shall I tell you how I pa.s.s my days in London, Your Grace?" he asked, answering her question with one of his own. "In their coffeehouses, these English will leave their newspapers common for all to read upon the tables, free to whoever pleases. Such a rare generosity to an impoverished foreigner to improve his English, Your Grace, and what I have learned! How these Londoners live, what they eat and buy and what crimes they are hung for. It is a wonder to me, a wonder."

"Yes, signor," said Francesca uneasily. "But if we have no more to discuss, then I must say good evening."

"And the n.o.bility, Your Grace!" he continued as if she hadn't spoken. "Such interest in their doings! Can you imagine what the papers would make of your own past, Your Grace? What they would write of your republican sympathies, your friends among the rebels, even those famous lewd paintings you showed?"

"But I do not have the plume!" she cried. "Why will you not believe me?"

He shrugged again, disdainfully, such a Neapolitan gesture. "Because, Your Grace, I am certain you are lying," he said, the yellow jackal's teeth smiling. "What will your pa.s.sionate husband say when he reads the stories of you, I wonder? How many more duels must he fight in your name? Ah, how you must fear for him, Your Grace!"

"There must be no public scandal," she said, her voice shaking, all the awful possibilities that she understood far better than anyone else. "I have sold much these last days, signor. I will give you all-all-I have earned if you will keep your lies to yourself."

"The queen's diamonds, and nothing less." He plucked his hat from the table and, tucking it beneath his arm, turned to leave. "Your servant, Your Grace. And pray be sure to tell the duke I shall be eager to congratulate him upon his victory tomorrow morning."

"You would attend the duel?" she asked, appalled. "You would watch?"

"I would not miss it, Your Grace." He bowed, and without waiting for a footman to show him out, he left.

She would not cry. This evening she had blissfully rested in Edward's arms as his lover and his wife, and tomorrow she might be no more than his widow, their life together done before it had really started. And even if Edward wasn't killed or grievously wounded, Albani would be there, ready to tell him lies calculated to cause the most heartbreaking damage imaginable, ready to ruin her for the sake of a brooch she didn't have. Her world was falling inward like a child's house of cards, and she was helpless to stop it.

But she would not cry. Better to put things to order here in her gallery, now, for there'd be no time tomorrow, and with a shuddering gulp she began to pack Lady Hingham's purchases for delivery. But as she reached over the table, her shawl caught on the handle of the black-figured vase. It wobbled on the edge of the table, tangled in the shawl's fringe for an endless instant, then toppled off and smashed on the floor.