Chapter Nineteen

A young man, perhaps younger than Cecilia, seated himself opposite Anthony in the back room of the King George's Cup tavern at precisely two o'clock. He wore his regimental uniform with stiff pride.

"Afternoon," he nodded curtly. "You are Lord Stirling's second?"

"No," Anthony replied. "I am Lord Stirling."

The young man lifted his eyebrows in surprise.

"My second is indisposed at the moment," Anthony explained. "Had a bit of a long night." His words couldn't be closer to or further from the truth. Cecilia was injured, but she had fallen asleep the moment she'd taken her clothes off, and slept for at least nine hours. He hadn't had the heart to wake her, though his cock wished he had. Anthony only hoped that a good night's sleep would prepare her for the fight tomorrow.

"I see." The man seemed to accept the excuse. "Allow me to introduce myself. I am Lieutenant Lightman."

So Cecilia had been correct. Anthony shook the man's hand, perhaps more tightly than necessary. "A pleasure to make your acquaintance."

"Indeed. Shall we get down to business? I see no point in keeping up idle pleasantries."

"Naturally," Anthony answered coldly.

"Captain Brinkley prefers swords."

Cecilia had been correct again. "Tell the Captain that is acceptable to me."

"The time and place?"

"Six ‘o clock tomorrow morning, Bellingham Park, behind the Oriental gardens."

Lieutenant Lightman nodded in assent. "And the terms? The Captain thought perhaps to the blood would suffice to satisfy the disagreement."

Anthony stared the young man down as he was sure Cecilia would have done. "I am afraid the Captain has misrepresented the disagreement to you, then. I demand to the death."

The young man frowned. "Are you certain, my lord?"

"The insult was his, so the terms must be mine. I demand his life." He clenched his hands into fists under the table, his fingernails digging little welts into his palms. For Cecilia's sake, he wanted desperately to acquiesce to ‘to the blood,' but he knew it would not serve her purpose. She needed Brinkley dead. She wanted Brinkley dead. Frankly, so did he. He just didn't want Cecilia doing the killing…

Lieutenant Lightman considered for a moment, then nodded. "To the death, then." He stood and offered his hand to Anthony in a gesture of respect. "Good luck to you, my lord."

Anthony regarded the proffered hand coolly, then shook it. "I cannot say in good conscience that I wish Captain Brinkley the same."

The young man bowed. Anthony nodded. They parted company.

A breeze from the library's open bay windows swept through the room, relieving some of the stale odor. Fresh air. He set his wine glass on a table and moved to the balcony to clear his head. He stood in the doorway a moment, eyes adjusting to the darkness of the night sky, before he noticed that he was not alone. At the far end of the balcony, a statue stood. A thin Grecian dress trembled against the stone in the nocturnal draft, and he watched as it clung to the pert breasts, round buttocks, long poised legs. He reached out, caressed the figure's arm, traced the finely carved strands of hair flowing languidly down its back. He kissed the hard neck, cupped the unforgiving breasts. His thumb pressed against a dent in the smooth stone, and he looked down at the statue's torso, pale in the moonlight. On the left breast, just over the heart, was a small hole, the mark of a sword's point. He ran his fingers over the wound. A trickle of blood seeped out, ran down the statue's chest…

Anthony woke with a start, a cry of protest dying on his lips. Sweat dripped down his face and neck. He rubbed his eyes with the backs of his hands. Outside his window it was still dark. The grandfather clock in the hallway chimed four times. Two hours left to go. He forced his eyes shut but all he could see was the ooze of blood against marble skin.

He stood on shaky legs and rang for his valet.