Victoria was not unaware of the curiosity her relationship with Jason was generating, nor was she blind to the fact that many among the ton seemed to mistrust him. As the strangeness of her elegant new acquaintances wore off, she became much more alert to the subtle nuances of expression that crossed people’s faces whenever Jason was nearby. They were suspicious of him, wary, alert. At first she thought she was only imagining the way people stiffened in his presence and became more formal, but it was not her imagination. Sometimes she heard things—snatches of whispered gossip, a word here and there—that had an undertone of malice or at least of disapproval.
Caroline had warned her that people were fearful and mistrustful of him. One night Dorothy tried to warn her too.
“Tory, Tory, it is you!” Dorothy said, bursting through a crowd of people surrounding Victoria outside Lord and Lady Potham’s house, where there was a ball under way.
Victoria, who hadn’t seen Dorothy since they left the ship, gazed at her with misty fondness as Dorothy enfolded her in a tight, protective hug. “Where have you been!” Victoria chided fondly. “You write so seldom, I thought you were still ‘rusticating’ in the country.”
“Grandmama and I returned to London three days past,” she explained quickly. “I would have come to see you straightaway, but Grandmama doesn’t want me to have more than the slightest contact with you. I’ve been watching for you everywhere I go. But never mind about that. I haven’t much time. My chaperone will be looking for me any moment. I told her I thought I saw a friend of Grandmama’s and wished to convey a message to her.” She threw an apprehensive look over her shoulder, too worried about her chaperone to notice the way Victoria’s young admirers were curiously studying her. “Oh, Tory, I’ve been beside myself with worry ! I know Andrew did a wretched thing to you, but you mustn’t let yourself think of marrying Wakefield! You can’t marry that man. You can’t! No one likes him, you must know it. I heard Lady Faulklyn—Grandmama’s companion—talking to Grandmama about him, and do you know what Lady F said?”
Victoria turned her shoulder to their avidly interested audience. “Dorothy, Lord Fielding has been very kind to me. Don’t ask me to listen to unpleasant gossip, because I won’t. Instead, let me introduce you to—”
“Not now!” Dorothy said desperately, too distraught to care about anything else. She tried to whisper, but it was impossible to do so and still be heard above the din, so she was forced to speak more loudly. “Do you know the kinds of things people say about Wakefield? Lady Faulklyn said he wouldn’t even be received if it weren’t for his being a Fielding. His reputation is beneath reproach. He uses women for his own nefarious ends and then turns his back on them! People are afraid of him and you should be too! They say—” She broke off as an aging lady climbed down from a carriage that was waiting in the street and wended her way through the crowd, obviously in search of someone. “I have to leave. That’s Lady F.”
Dorothy rushed away to head off the old woman and Victoria watched them climb back into the carriage.
Beside her, Mr. Warren helped himself to a pinch of snuff. “The young lady is quite right, you know,” he drawled.
Torn from her lonely thoughts of Dorothy, Victoria glanced with distaste at the foppish young man, who looked as if he would jump in fright at his own shadow, then at the apprehensive faces of her other beaux, who had obviously overheard much of what Dorothy said.
Angry contempt burst in her breast for the lot of them. Not one of them ever did an honest day’s work as Jason did. They were silly, shallow, overdressed manikins who relished hearing Jason criticized for the obvious reason that he was far wealthier than they, and far more desired by the ladies, despite his reputation.
Her bright, flirtatious smile was belied by the dangerous sparkle in Victoria’s eyes as she said, “Why, Mr. Warren, are you afraid for my well-being?”
“Yes, my lady, and I am not the only one.”
“How utterly absurd!” Victoria scoffed. “If you’re interested in truth, rather than foolish gossip, I shall tell it to you. The truth is I came here, alone in the world, without close family or any fortune, a virtual dependent upon his grace and Lord Fielding. Now,” she continued with a fixed smile, “I want you to look at me very closely.”
Genuine mirth bubbled in her as the foolish young man put his quizzing glass to his eye, following her instructions to the letter. “Do I look misused?” Victoria demanded impatiently. “Have I been murdered in my bed? No, sir, I have not! Instead, Lord Fielding has given me the comfort of his beautiful home and offered me the protection of his name. In all honesty, Mr. Warren, I believe many women in London secretly long to be ‘misused’ in just such a way and, from what I have observed, by exactly that man. Furthermore, I believe it is jealousy of him that gives birth to all this ridiculous gossip.”
Mr. Warren flushed, and Victoria turned to the others and added flamboyantly, “If you knew Lord Fielding as I know him, you would discover that he is the very soul of kindness, consideration, refinement, and—and amiability!” she finished.
Behind her, Jason’s laughter-tinged voice said, “My lady, in your attempt to whitewash my black reputation, you are making me sound like a dead bore, instead.”
Victoria whirled around, her embarrassed gaze flying to his. “However,” he continued with a brief smile, “I will forgive you for it, if you will honor me with a dance?” Victoria placed her hand upon his proffered arm and walked into the crowded house beside him.
The sense of proud, triumphant elation she felt for having got up the courage to speak out on Jason’s behalf began to fade when he silently took her in his arms on the crowded dance floor. She still knew very little about him, but she had learned from her own experience whenever she vainly tried to coax him into talking about himself that Jason valued his privacy. Uneasily, she wondered if he was annoyed with her for discussing him with others. When he continued to dance with her in silence, she glanced uncertainly into his thoughtful, heavy-lidded eyes. “Are you angry with me?” she asked. “For discussing you in public, I mean?”
“Was it me you were discussing?” he countered with lifted brows. “I couldn’t tell from the description you were giving. Since when am I kind, considerate, refined, and amiable?”
“You’re angry,” Victoria concluded on a sigh.
A low chuckle rumbled in his chest and his arms tightened, drawing her close to his lean, muscular body. “I’m not angry,” he said in a husky, gentle voice. “I’m embarrassed.”
“Embarrassed?” she echoed in surprise, studying the melting warmth in his jade eyes. “Why?”
“For a man of my age, height, and wicked reputation, it’s a little embarrassing to have a tiny young woman trying to defend me against the world.”
Mesmerized by the tenderness in his eyes, Victoria fought the absurd impulse to lay her cheek against his claret velvet jacket.
* * *
Word spread of Victoria’s public defense of Lord Fielding, whom she apparently admired but did not quite wish to wed, and the ton concluded that a marriage date might be imminent after all—a possibility that so distressed Victoria’s other suitors that they redoubled their efforts to please her. They vied with each other for her attention, they argued amongst themselves over her, and, in the end, Lord Crowley and Lord Wiltshire dueled over her.
“She don’t want either of us,” young Lord Crowley angrily informed Lord Wiltshire late one afternoon as they rode away from the mansion on Upper Brook Street after a brief, unsatisfactory visit with Victoria.
“Yes, she does,” Lord Wiltshire argued heatedly. “She’s shown me a particular partiality!”
“You jackanapes! She thinks we’re dandified Englishmen, and she don’t like Englishmen,” he said sulkily. “She prefers colonial bumpkins! She ain’t as sweet as you think, she’s laughing at us behind her hand—”
“That’s a lie!” his hot-blooded friend retorted.
“Are you calling me a liar, Wiltshire?” Crow
ley demanded furiously.
“No,” Wiltshire replied between clenched teeth, “I am calling you out.”
“Fine,” Crowley returned. “Tomorrow at dawn at my place. In the grove.” Wheeling his horse around, he galloped off toward his club, whence news of his forthcoming duel spread until it finally reached the exclusive gentlemen’s gaming establishment where Marquis de Salle and Baron Arnoff were rolling dice for very high stakes. “Damned young fools,” de Salle remarked with an irritated sigh when informed of the planned duel. “Lady Victoria will be deeply distressed when she learns of this.”
Baron Arnoff chuckled. “Neither Crowley nor Wiltshire can shoot straight enough to do any damage. I witnessed their lack of skill myself when a group of us were hunting at Wiltshire’s seat in Devon.”
“Perhaps I ought to try to put a stop to it,” the Marquis said.
Baron Arnoff shook his head, looking amused. “I do not see why you should. The worst that can happen is that one of them will succeed in shooting the other’s horse.”
“I was considering Lady Victoria’s reputation. A duel fought over her will not do it any good.”
“Excellent,” Arnoff chuckled. “If she is less popular, I will have a better chance with her.”
Several hours later, at another table, Robert Collingwood heard the news of the duel, but he did not take it so lightly. Excusing himself from the company of his friends, he left the club and went to the Duke of Atherton’s London residence, where Jason had been staying. After waiting nearly an hour for Jason to return, Robert coerced the sleepy butler into awakening Jason’s valet. As a result of much urging and persuasion, the valet reluctantly imparted the intelligence that his master had returned earlier from escorting Lady Victoria to a rout, and had then gone to visit a certain female at #21 in Williams Street.
Robert bounded into his carriage and gave his driver the Williams Street address. “Make it quick,” he ordered.
His loud knocking finally awakened a sleepy French maid, who opened the door and discreetly denied any knowledge of Lord Fielding. “Fetch your mistress to me at once,” Robert ordered her impatiently. “I haven’t much time.” The maid cast a quick look beyond him, saw the crest upon his coach, hesitated, and then went upstairs.
After another long wait, a lovely brunette wrapped in a filmy dressing gown came down the stairs. “What on earth is amiss, Lord Collingwood?” Sybil asked.
“Is Jason here?” Robert demanded.
Sybil nodded immediately.
“Tell him Crowley and Wiltshire are dueling over Victoria at dawn in the grove at Crowley’s place,” Robert told her.
Jason stretched out his hand as Sybil sat down beside him on the bed. With his eyes closed, his hand sought and found the opening of her gown, stroking seductively up her bare thigh. “Come back to bed,” he invited huskily. “I have need of you again.”
A wistful smile touched her eyes as she stroked his bronzed shoulder. “You don’t ‘need’ anyone, Jason,” she whispered sadly. “You never have.”
A low, sensuous chuckle rumbled in Jason’s chest as he rolled onto his back and swiftly pulled her down on top of his naked, aroused body. “If that isn’t need, what do you call it?”
“That isn’t what I meant by ‘need,’ and you know it,” she whispered, pressing a kiss to his warm lips. “Don’t,” she said hastily as his knowledgeable hands pulled her to him. “You haven’t time. Collingwood is here. He said to tell you Crowley and Wiltshire are going to duel at dawn at Crowley’s place.”
Jason’s green eyes opened, their expression alert but not overly concerned.
“They’re dueling over Victoria,” she added.
In an instant Jason was a flurry of efficient motion, thrusting her aside, lunging out of bed, and swiftly pulling on his pants and boots. Cursing savagely under his breath, he jerked on his shirt. “What time is it?” he said shortly, glancing toward the window.
“About an hour before dawn.”
He nodded, leaned down and pressed a brief, apologetic kiss on her brow, and then left, the sound of his boots echoing sharply against the polished wood floor.
The sky was already lightening when Jason finally located the grove on the Crowley estate and spotted the two duelists standing beneath the shadowy oaks. Fifty yards to the left of the pair, the physician’s black carriage was pulled up ominously beneath another tree, a horse tied at its rear. Jason dug his heels savagely into his mount, sending the black stallion flying down the grassy knoll, its hooves throwing huge clumps of wet sod high into the air.
He skidded to a halt near the combatants and hurtled out of the saddle, running. “What the hell is going on here!” he demanded of Crowley when he reached his side, then he whirled around in surprise as the Marquis de Salle stepped out of the shadows twenty yards away and positioned himself next to young Wiltshire. “What are you doing here, de Salle?” Jason said angrily. “You, at least, should have more sense than these two puppies.”
“I’m doing the same thing you are,” de Salle drawled with a faint grin, “but without much success, as you’ll soon discover.”
“Crowley fired at me,” Wiltshire burst out accusingly. His face was twisted with angry surprise, and his words were slurred from the liquor he had consumed to bolster his courage. “Crowley din—din’t delope like a gen—genleman. Now, I’m going to shoot him.”
“I didn’t fire at you,” Crowley boomed furiously from beside Jason. “If I had, I’d have hit you.”
“You din’t aim in—in the air,” Wiltshire yelled back. “You aren—aren’t a genleman. You deserve to die, and I’m gonna shoot you!” Wiltshire’s arm shook as he raised it and leveled the pistol at his opponent, and then everything happened at once. The gun exploded just as the Marquis de Salle sprang forward and tried to knock it out of Wiltshire’s hand and as Jason dived at Crowley, sending the rigid boy sprawling to the ground. The ball whined past Jason’s ear as he fell, ricocheted off the trunk of the tree, and ripped across his upper arm.
After a stunned moment, Jason slowly sat up, his expression incredulous. He put his hand to the fiery pain in his arm and then stared at the blood that covered his fingers with an expression of almost comical disbelief.
The physician, the Marquis de Salle, and young Wiltshire all ran forward. “Here, let me have a look at that arm,” Dr. Worthing said, waving the others aside and squatting down on his heels.
Dr. Worthing ripped Jason’s shirt open and young Wiltshire emitted a strangled groan when he saw the blood running from Jason’s wound. “Oh, God!” he wailed. “Lord Fielding, I never meant—”
“Shut up!” Dr. Worthing bit out. “Someone hand me that whiskey in my case.” To Jason he said, “It’s only a flesh wound, Jason, but it’s fairly deep. I’ll have to clean it and stitch it.” He took the bottle of whiskey that the Marquis de Salle handed him, and glanced apologetically at Jason. “This is going to burn like the fires of Hades.”
Jason nodded and clenched his teeth, and the physician swiftly upended the bottle, drenching the torn flesh with the fiery alcohol. Then he handed the bottle to Jason. “If I were you, Jason, I’d drink the rest of this. You’re going to need plenty of stitches.”
“I didn’t shoot him,” Wiltshire burst out in an attempt to avoid giving Lord Fielding, the legendary duelist, the satisfaction he had every right to demand at a later date. Four pairs of eyes looked at him in disgust. “I didn’t!” Wiltshire argued desperately. “It was the tree that made it happen. I shot at the tree, and the ball hit the tree, then it hit Lord Fielding.”
Jason raised his dark, glittering eyes to his terrified assailant and said in an ominous voice, “If you’re very lucky, Wiltshire, you’ll be able to stay out of my sight until I’m too old to horsewhip you.”
Wiltshire backed away, turned on his heel, and started running. Jason turned his head, impaling the other petrified duelist on his gaze. “Crowley,” he warned softly, “your presence offends me.”
Crowley turne
d and fled to his horse.
When they had galloped away, Jason raised the whiskey bottle and took a long swallow, gasping as Dr. Worthing’s threaded needle pierced his swollen flesh, pulling it tightly, joining flesh to flesh, then piercing again. Holding the bottle out to de Salle, he said dryly, “I regret the lack of a suitable glass; however, if you would care to join me, help yourself.”
De Salle unhesitatingly reached for the proffered bottle, explaining as he did so, “I went to your house when I learned of the duel earlier this evening, but your man said you were out for the evening and wouldn’t tell me where you’d gone.” He took a long swallow of the strong whiskey and handed the bottle back to Jason. “So I went after Dr. Worthing and we came here, hoping to stop them.”
“We should have let them shoot themselves,” Jason said disgustedly, then clenched his teeth and stiffened as the needle again pierced his jagged flesh.
“Probably so.”
Jason took two more long swallows of liquor and felt the stuff begin to numb his senses. Leaning his head back against the hard bark of the tree, he sighed with amused exasperation. “Exactly what did my little countess do to cause this duel?”
De Salle stiffened at Jason's affectionate phrasing and his voice lost its polite friendliness. “As nearly as I could tell, Lady Victoria supposedly called Wiltshire a dandified English bumpkin.”
“Then Wiltshire should have called her out,” Jason said with a chuckle, taking another swig of whiskey. “She wouldn’t have missed her shot.”
De Salle didn’t smile at the joke. “What do you mean, ‘your little countess’?” he demanded tersely. “If she is yours, you’re taking your time making it official—you said yourself the matter wasn’t settled. What kind of game are you playing with her affections, Wakefield?”
Jason’s gaze shot to the other man’s hostile features; then he closed his eyes, an exasperated smile on his lips. “If you’re planning to call me out, I hope to hell you can shoot. It’s damned humiliating for a man of my reputation to be shot by a tree.”