cousin, to provide me with a weapon, after all. Now, how should I use it, I wonder? If anyone else in the room also had a rapier, we might fence like gentlemen, but our quarrel is still unevenly matched.”
George, his color draining from his face and panting heavily, backed away.
“You will not strike at an unarmed man, sir,” he sputtered.
“Why not?” Dagonet asked seriously, testing the blade. “You just did. However, the neighborhood would only hear your version of events, were I to take revenge. ‘Les absents ont toujours tort.’ So you may escape once more with your miserable hide intact.” He strode to the window, carrying the sword, and lifted the sash, while Sir George Montagu stood, his jowls dark with sweat, by the Sheraton sideboard. “Good night, George! Take care of Miss Hunter, I came across her all unwitting and could not resist taking advantage of her helplessness. The most shocking experience for a young lady!”
And with Catherine thus neatly absolved of any responsibility, he was gone.
George collapsed onto the sofa. He had lost several buttons from his waistcoat and one rosette was twisted around to dangle ridiculously from his kneecap.
“Allow me to fetch you a brandy, Sir George,” Catherine said, setting down the book. “I assure you I am quite unharmed, but I fear you may have overexerted yourself.”
Sir George ignored her, and, getting his breath, ran instead to the window. He stuck out his head and a moment later pulled himself in, grasping his sword by the hilt. The bottom six inches were stained with dirt from the flower bed. He turned, blade in hand, but Catherine, deciding that discretion might well be the better part of valor, after all, was already at the door. She had more things to think about than George’s discomfiture. She was very much afraid that she was falling prey to the practiced charms of a rake. ‘The absent are always in the wrong,’ indeed. Somehow, she must find out the truth about Devil Dagonet.
She was not able to find Mary alone and draw her aside for several days.
“Yes, ma’am?” asked Millicent Trumble’s sister. “Did you want something?”
“Mary, I want you to tell me: what did Charles de Dagonet want from you the night of the ball, and why did you refuse him?”
Mary looked uncomfortably at her hands. “I can’t rightly say, ma’am.”
“Was it about your poor sister?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Was she is love with him?”
Mary looked straight at Catherine and dimpled. “Oh, yes, Miss Hunter, we all was. He’s still a dreadful handsome gentleman.”
Catherine smiled. “Mary! And you a married woman!”
Mary grinned and shook her head. “He wanted me to tell him what I knew of what happened, ma’am, when Milly was drowned. And if I still had any of her things.”
“And do you?” Mary nodded. “Then why wouldn’t you speak to Mr. de Dagonet and explain that to him?”
“Because all I have is a letter he wrote to her. I keep it hid. No one but me’s ever seen it. Sir George asked me once if I knew anything about Milly’s death that I hadn’t told, but I kept mum. He forbid me to speak to Mr. de Dagonet anyway, on pain of dismissal.”
“But if you had a letter, wasn’t it your duty to show it to Sir Henry Montagu at the time?”
“I couldn’t do that, ma’am, for it would have hanged Master Charles then and there.”
“How could you protect him, Mary, after what happened to your sister?”
Mary’s round face looked as stubborn as a child’s. “Milly wasn’t any better than she should have been, ma’am. It wouldn’t have served no purpose to make things worse for Master Dagonet.”
“Tell me the whole, Milly. I would like to help Mr. de Dagonet, too.”
“I wasn’t really in Milly’s confidences, ma’am. She was a right pretty little thing, but she was younger than me and kept herself apart from the rest of us. Peter Higgins was real sweet on her; he followed her like a puppy wherever she
George, his color draining from his face and panting heavily, backed away.
“You will not strike at an unarmed man, sir,” he sputtered.
“Why not?” Dagonet asked seriously, testing the blade. “You just did. However, the neighborhood would only hear your version of events, were I to take revenge. ‘Les absents ont toujours tort.’ So you may escape once more with your miserable hide intact.” He strode to the window, carrying the sword, and lifted the sash, while Sir George Montagu stood, his jowls dark with sweat, by the Sheraton sideboard. “Good night, George! Take care of Miss Hunter, I came across her all unwitting and could not resist taking advantage of her helplessness. The most shocking experience for a young lady!”
And with Catherine thus neatly absolved of any responsibility, he was gone.
George collapsed onto the sofa. He had lost several buttons from his waistcoat and one rosette was twisted around to dangle ridiculously from his kneecap.
“Allow me to fetch you a brandy, Sir George,” Catherine said, setting down the book. “I assure you I am quite unharmed, but I fear you may have overexerted yourself.”
Sir George ignored her, and, getting his breath, ran instead to the window. He stuck out his head and a moment later pulled himself in, grasping his sword by the hilt. The bottom six inches were stained with dirt from the flower bed. He turned, blade in hand, but Catherine, deciding that discretion might well be the better part of valor, after all, was already at the door. She had more things to think about than George’s discomfiture. She was very much afraid that she was falling prey to the practiced charms of a rake. ‘The absent are always in the wrong,’ indeed. Somehow, she must find out the truth about Devil Dagonet.
She was not able to find Mary alone and draw her aside for several days.
“Yes, ma’am?” asked Millicent Trumble’s sister. “Did you want something?”
“Mary, I want you to tell me: what did Charles de Dagonet want from you the night of the ball, and why did you refuse him?”
Mary looked uncomfortably at her hands. “I can’t rightly say, ma’am.”
“Was it about your poor sister?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Was she is love with him?”
Mary looked straight at Catherine and dimpled. “Oh, yes, Miss Hunter, we all was. He’s still a dreadful handsome gentleman.”
Catherine smiled. “Mary! And you a married woman!”
Mary grinned and shook her head. “He wanted me to tell him what I knew of what happened, ma’am, when Milly was drowned. And if I still had any of her things.”
“And do you?” Mary nodded. “Then why wouldn’t you speak to Mr. de Dagonet and explain that to him?”
“Because all I have is a letter he wrote to her. I keep it hid. No one but me’s ever seen it. Sir George asked me once if I knew anything about Milly’s death that I hadn’t told, but I kept mum. He forbid me to speak to Mr. de Dagonet anyway, on pain of dismissal.”
“But if you had a letter, wasn’t it your duty to show it to Sir Henry Montagu at the time?”
“I couldn’t do that, ma’am, for it would have hanged Master Charles then and there.”
“How could you protect him, Mary, after what happened to your sister?”
Mary’s round face looked as stubborn as a child’s. “Milly wasn’t any better than she should have been, ma’am. It wouldn’t have served no purpose to make things worse for Master Dagonet.”
“Tell me the whole, Milly. I would like to help Mr. de Dagonet, too.”
“I wasn’t really in Milly’s confidences, ma’am. She was a right pretty little thing, but she was younger than me and kept herself apart from the rest of us. Peter Higgins was real sweet on her; he followed her like a puppy wherever she
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