"A suggestion?" I asked wearily. "What kind of suggestion?"
The vicomte gave me a friendly smile. Immediately, I decided I didn't trust it in the least. "Why, simple, Mr Linton. It seems that we're already engaged in a shooting contest, non? Also, we're already using duelling pistols. Why not decide everything with a shooting contest that is a little more, well...direct?"
"Direct how?" a voice from the crowd demanded. Was it Adaira? "What kind of shooting contest are you talking about?"
His friendly smile widened. "Why, of course the kind where only one man survives."
My brain short-circuited.
Did he just really say what I thought he said?
"You..." I cleared my throat, trying to get the words out. "You want us to fight a duel?"
"Oui."
"To...to the death?"
"For true men, is there any other way?"
I wouldn't bloody know!
Uncomprehendingly, I stared at the man. What was going on? Wasn't this bastard a villain? A cowardly cur trying to use Adaira for his own ends? It was all for profit, right? All out of greed.
Except...
Except why was he suddenly willing to risk his life? Arrogance? Overconfidence? But he had just seen me shoot! Was he really cocky enough to risk his life for one of his plots?
Something was wrong here. Very wrong.
"Excellent idea!"
But apparently, the Marquess Ambrose didn't think so. Rubbing his hands, he stepped forward, an unholy glint in his eyes.
"Truly, an excellent idea, good sir. Who do you choose as your second?"
"W-wait a minute!" Adaira exclaimed. "We're just going to go through with it because he said it? Just like that?"
"Naturally," came her father's off-handed reply. "Unless you can think of any good reason for a gentleman to object to a challenge?"
"I, um...well, I..."
"There, you see?" The marquess gave her a nod. "You don't have anything."
"She might not," came an arctic voice from behind me, "but I most certainly do!"
The crowd parted like the ocean for an iceberg, and out into the open stepped Mr Rikkard Ambrose, his eyes colder than I had ever seen before.
"Oh, you object?" The vicomte raised an eyebrow. "For what reason, may I ask, Monsieur? Afraid you will have to spend money looking for a new secretary, are you?"
"Yes," Mr Ambrose immediately admitted without the slightest sign of shame. "But also, there is the little fact that duels are illegal."
The vicomte opened his mouth—and then closed it again. I felt my lips twitch. What could he say? After all, my dear husband was one hundred percent correct. Duels were illegal. Of course, most well-bred English gentlemen didn't give a flying fig about that, happily gunning down their fellow aristocrats over any insult bigger than a stubbed toe. Naturally, nobody would ever initiate a duel if one's opponent refused and openly pointed out its illegality. But no honourable gentleman would ever think of doing such a shameful thing as refusing a duel!
Except, that is, for Mr Rikkard Ambrose.
"Illegal?" The vicomte's eyelid twitched. "Come now, Monsieur Ambrose. Surely, you do not mean—"
"I do. Would you like me to quote you the section and paragraph?"
"I, um..."
"Don't be ridiculous, son!" the marquess cut in before the vicomte was forced to come up with an answer he didn't have. "Duels between gentlemen are a time-honoured tradition that—"
"—is illegal," Mr Rikkard Ambrose finished, putting enough weight on the word to crush a mountain. By now, he was getting weird looks from all around, but to judge by the look in his eyes, he didn't give crap. Eyes that just so happened to be staring straight at me.
Don't you dare do it! His eyes seemed to say. A duel to the death? You are my wife. The mother of my child. Don't. You. Dare!
All I could do in return was show a helpless look. After all, I didn't fancy being perforated. Not even for Adaira. Especially not now that I had a child that depended on me so utterly and completely. You could go around risking your life willy-nilly as a single girl. But as a mother? You didn't have such luxury.
Judging by the looks of disdain from the gentlemen in the crowd, however, I wouldn't get a choice in the matter.
"I'm sure," the marquess stated, fixing his son with a dark glare, "that Mr Linton would do nothing so deplorable as to refuse a challenge on the field of honour."
"C'est vrai," the vicomte drawled, his eyes focused on me with less than charitable intent. "That would be rather unmanly of him, wouldn't it? Miss Adaira couldn't possibly wish to be tied to such a coward."
Adaira picked this moment to raise her hand. "Actually, I love cowards. Cowards are my favourite people in the world. Isn't it amazing how they always run away, leaving damsels in distress to die in despair?"
Everybody ignored her.
Which kind of pissed me off. People ignoring women's opinions was what had set me on the path that led me here to begin with! And now here I was, having to watch it happen again! To one of my best friends, no less!
Well, Lilly? Are you just going to stand there?
Instinctively, my grip tightened around my gun, and I took a step forward.
"Oh?" Cocking his head, the vicomte sent me a narrow-eyed stare. "Found your courage again, have you, Monsieur Linton? That is, if you have ever had it in the first place."
I met his eyes and saw...not what I was expecting.
Was it mockery? No.
Was it evil? No.
It was determination. The determination to put his life on the line.
What the hell is going on here?
Was he just pretending? But...no. That would make no sense. Any pretence would come to an abrupt end when we pointed guns at each other. Even he couldn't be stupid enough to fail to understand this! Was he really so overconfident in his shooting skills that he didn't fear me?
Remember, he just saw you shoot, you idiot!
Then...was he wearing some kind of armour?
Over his face? Invisible to the naked eye?
Then...what?
His behaviour made less sense with every second. However...that didn't stop the Vicomte de Saint-Celeste from stepping towards me, pulling off his left glove and, before I could react, whipping it across my face.
"Ouch!"
Face stinging, I staggered back. A gasp rose from the crowd and, at the edge of my field of vision, I saw an unholy rage flash in Mr Rikkard Ambrose's eyes. He made to dash forward—only to be stopped by Adaira, who flung her arms around him.
I breathed a sigh of relief. Things were bad enough already. But if Mr Rikkard Ambrose punched the Vicomte de Saint-Celeste in a fit of jealous rage, demonstrating his undying love for Mr Victor Linton for all to see?
Yep, that would be bad.
Very bad.
Like, I could hardly imagine anything worse.
"I, Armand Odilon DeMordaunt, Vicomte de Saint-Celeste," a familiar voice cut through the silence, "challenge you, Monsieur Victor Linton, to a duel. To the death if need be."
Except that, of course.
"Well, Mr Linton?" the marquess demanded from the side, an almost gleeful look in his eyes. "Do you accept?"
"Oui, Monsieur Linton." The vicomte dropped his glove at my feet. "Do you accept? Or are you just a coward?"
And the chauvinist bastard smirked.
Something snapped in me just then.
"I accept!"
Huh? Who was that idiot who spoke up just now?
"Very well, Mr Linton. Have you decided on your second yet?"
"Yes. Karim, my employer's bodyguard."
Was that me? Please don't tell me that was me!
You really need to keep your temper in check, Lilly. It might kill you one day.
Well, thanks for the timely warning, inner voice! That's really useful to hear after I just accepted a duel to the death!
"Très bien, Monsieur." Giving a curt bow, the vicomte gestured at one of his servants, who hurried to pick up his master's glove. "I shall inform you of my selection for the post of my second as soon as I have come to a decision. Since I am the challenger, I shall allow you to pick the time, place and weapons. Make your choice."
For a moment, a little devil on my shoulder tempted me to say "parasols". But, as fun as it might have been to see the expression on his face, on the whole, I decided to refrain.
But if not parasons...then what?
Should I pick swords? They were so old-fashioned for duels that they were almost unheard of, but there were still some people, cavalrymen in particular, who preferred sabres to firearms. Then again, I was neither a cavalryman nor a Karim, capable of twirling around a sabre as if it were a toothpick.
Well...not much left to choose from, was there?
"Pistols." Taking a deep breath, I lifted the weapon that was still in my hand. "I choose pistols."
He inclined his head. "Pistols it is, then. Tres bien. Time and place?"
"Here. In three days." So I have some time to think of a way to get out of this!
"As you wish." Taking his discarded glove from his servant, the vicomte pulled it on and gestured to his entourage. "I shall await you here in three days. Prepare yourself well, Monsieur."
And with that, he strode off the meadow, back towards the house. The crowd quickly followed, whispering excitedly. No doubt they were about to send telegrams all over England to share the latest gossip with all their relatives and invite people to the epic duel between rivals. Adaira and her mother were pulled away by the marquess, and my friends were still buried in books back at the library. Which left me alone on a shooting range with nothing but an empty pistol and a pissed off Mr Rikkard Ambrose bearing down on me.
Oops.
"Mrs Ambrose... What. Was. That."
"That?" I answered brightly, plastering the best smile onto my face that I could manage. "That was a shooting competition. Haven't you been watching? It works like this: you aim at the target and—"
"Don't play games with me, Mrs Ambrose!"
"Why not?" I admonished. "Do you mean to say that if I want to play board games with you and Berty in the future, you'll refuse to join in? That's really not becoming of a family man."
The look he sent me in response could have eviscerated a sabre tooth tiger.
"I said... Don't. Play. Games." Grabbing me by the shoulder, he pushed me backwards until my back hit something hard. A glance over my shoulder told me I was now pinned to the target—which, considering the way my dear husband was staring daggers at me, was rather appropriate.
"Did you bring some throwing knives?" I enquired. "Because you sure as hell look like you wish you had."
"I should have!" A growl erupted from his throat. "You would be in less danger tied to a target in a bloody circus performance than you are now! Why, Lillian? Why did you do it?"
I pondered that question for a moment. To tell the truth, I was rather curious about the answer myself. Why did I do it? To protect Adaira? To be able to legally shoot that smarmy French bastard? Those were all quite valid reasons. But none of them felt right. So instead, I let my heart speak.
"Because it's who I am." One corner of my mouth curved up in a slightly apologetic smile. "I see a chauvinist son of a bachelor slapping me in the face, and I can't do anything but slap back. It's a knee-jerk reaction."
"You...!" Eyes flashing, he stepped forward until we were almost right up against each other.
"...little ifrit?"
His response to that was to envelop me in a vice-tight embrace and crush me against his chest.
"You'll be the death of me," he whispered into my hair, his forehead pressed against mine. "God...if our son grows up to be like you, what am I going to do?"
"Die of a heart attack at an early age?"
He gave me a look. One of those looks.
"Don't take that as a suggestion, though, Dicky Darling. I prefer you breathing."
"You don't say. How gratifying."
"Oh, you know me." I lifted the pistol in my right hand and twirled it with a cheeky grin. "I aim to please."
Judging by the way he tried to deep-freeze me with his glare, that was the wrong thing to say in the current situation.
"We have gotten off the subject," Mr Rikkard Ambrose informed me, eyes narrowed infinitesimally. "What, pray, are we going to do now? Because I can tell you one thing right here and now, Mrs Ambrose. I will not let you participate in that duel. Not even over my dead body! So, tell me..." Capturing my chin in his hands, he pinned me to the target with his glacial gaze as surely as if he had used throwing knives. "...what are we going to do?"
Any trace of levity drained from my face. "I...I don't know."
"I thought as much."
"Are you angry with me?"
"Livid."
"You don't look like it."
His stony face hardened a little bit more. "Have I ever?"
"Point taken."
"You still haven't told me what we are going to do."
"I know." Sliding my arms around him, I pulled him into my embrace. Or rather, pulled myself into his. Right now, I needed it, and I didn't give a crap if anybody saw. "Can...can you just hold me for now?"
He remained stiff as a board for a moment longer—then relaxed ever so slightly and tightened his hold on me.
"Let's go back to our room, shall we?"
I smiled into his chest, hearing what he was really saying: Let's go back to see Berty.
"Yes. Let's."
***
I spent the rest of that day in my room, cuddled up in warm blankets and hugging the most wonderful male in the world. Something that my husband didn't seem all that pleased about.
"Mrs Ambrose...in case this wasn't clear after our earlier discussion: we need to get to work on a solution. Three days is not long. We don't have any time to waste with things like this!"
Glancing over up from the giggling Berty in my arms, I raised an eyebrow. "Is that jealousy I hear, Mr Ambrose, Sir?"
"There is nothing to be jealous of, Mrs Ambrose."
"Don't listen to the big, bad man," I cooed, tickling Berty below the chin. "You're much more handsome than he is."
"Waa waah!"
"Yes, that's right. Mama is very pretty, too."
"Mrs Ambrose...we really do have to hurry. Now, of all times, we must use our time more productively!"
"Oh, but I already am," I told him, my eyes fixed on the sunset outside the arched window. "I'm thinking." Unconsciously, my grip on Berty tightened ever so slightly. "He helps me think, you know? Helps me remember what is really important."
There was a moment of silence, before...
"Indeed."
I bit my lip. "So...now that things have come this far, what options do we have?"
"Not many. Unless your friends...?"
I shook my head. "None of them have managed to unearth anything. Ella has practically locked herself in the library, and the others are checking at the telegraph's office every hour to see if they've received any meaningful replies to their enquiries. But so far...nothing."
Mr Ambrose's jaw tightened. "Then, as far as I can see, we only have two options."
I didn't reply. I just waited. I knew my husband.
And, just as I had expected, I didn't have to wait long.
"Firstly," Mr Ambrose's cold voice sounded through the room, "you can fight and win the duel." His head whipped towards me, eyes so intense they nearly stopped my breath. "Which you are not going to do. Do you understand?"
"But—"
A single, long finger on my lips silenced me. He glanced down at Berty, then up at me again. The meaning was clear. "Do. You. Understand?"
Suddenly, I felt a lump in my throat. Ordinarily, I would have filleted his balls for daring to suggest he could order me around, but...
That look in his eyes.
He didn't want the mother of his child to die. He did not want Berty to grow up alone, like he had to after leaving Battlewood. How could I blame him for that?
So I just nodded.
"And the second option?" I whispered against his finger.
"The second option..." Mr Ambrose's face hardened. "The second option is for my sister to be kidnapped."
------------------------------------------
My dear Readers,
Mwahahaha! It's time for Mr Rikkard Ambrose's villainous side to come out. I wonder what Adaira is going to say to this marvelous plan? ;)
By the way, in case you are unfamiliar with the meaning of the word "second" as used in the above chapter - a second, apart from being a very short period of time, is also a term for a person who, during a Victorian duel, would serve as the duellist's aide. Each duellist had one second, who would check the weapons, observe the proceedings and, if necessary, serve as the executor of the duellist's will.
Yours Truly
Sir Rob