“There is a touch of bitterness in your tone,” observed Adeline.
“Do you blame me?” she asked.
“I think it is your pride that is smarting, not your heart,” her sister bluntly observed. Vanessa looked at her disgustedly, causing Adeline to chuckle. “So, tell me, what do you think you might do to spike Mr. Wilmot’s guns?”
“Have Charles draw up some documents as part of the bridal settlement. I don’t know how, but I’ll see to it Mr. Wilmot pays a pretty penny for me,” Vanessa vowed. “And I, in my innocence of business affairs, shall act as if I don’t understand the matter at all.”
Adeline shook her head. “That still has you married to Mr. Wilmot.”
“I know, but truly, would that be so horrible?” her sister asked lightly.
“To marry where your heart is not involved? Definitely."
"From my study of it, I don’t believe I’m capable of such fervid emotion.”
Adeline snorted in disgust. “You, my dear sister, are a brass-faced liar.”
* * *
The sky was dark blue woven with purple and red threads along the western horizon as Trevor Danielson and Hugh Talverton set out for the Mannion residence. The streets possessed an eerie stillness in that twilight time after the business and shops closed for the day, and the bustling crowd of people repaired to their homes to rest, eat and prepare for their evening’s entertainment. City workers were beginning the task of lighting the street lanterns, though they had not reached the street Trevor and Hugh traversed, heavy with black shadows. Their boots made a hollow echoing sound on the wood planks, punctuated by the tap of their elegant walking sticks.
They did not speak, each man alone with his thoughts. Trevor’s mind dwelt on Adeline and the twenty-four hours since they’d parted company. He knew a warm feeling in the pit of his stomach, expanding throughout his body as he thought about her. He had been ecstatic to discover his children loved her as he did, and he hoped to be blessed for many years with her companionship and love.
Hugh’s thoughts remained tangled in a maze of uncertainty. He was no longer in the military where safety came with battle’s end until the next day’s engagement. What else did a man call safety? Love, home and hearth? Those were terms he wasn’t sure he could relate to after years in service. He felt rootless, uneasy with his lot in life, but uncertain what, if anything, should be done about it.
And what of Vanessa? Just the thought of her sent a ripple of feeling through his body, jangling his senses. The emotions Vanessa aroused were far different from the courtly love he had for Julia. Curious that he should finally label it courtly love, as in the ballads sung by wandering minstrels of long ago. It was no more real than the love Titania bore for the ass-costumed Bottom, inspired by Oberon’s love-in-idleness juice, the lowly pansy.
Vanessa made his body sing, as it did in the heat of battle, his stomach churning as if he’d swallowed whole a thousand butterflies, and his head light, disconnected from his body. He could not rationalize his feelings, find precise little reasons why each occurred; it was the sum of her existence that played upon his sense like a fine-tuned harp. He was finding it exceedingly difficult to cope with her rejection. He fought the urge to use helping her father as leverage for another chance with her. He wasnotin the market for a wife! Or so the lying litany sang in his head.
“There he is, the dark-haired one!”
The whispered ghostly voice, barely sighing on the wind, alerted Hugh. He grabbed Trevor’s arm, jerking him away from a particularly noisome and dark patch of shadows. Tossing his walking stick straight up, he caught it in the middle as four burly keelboat men dressed in buckskins and dirty linens sprang out of the shadows. Held tight in their hands were massive cudgels and wicked knives catching what little light the coming night offered on their silver surfaces.
Hugh’s stick caught the first one squarely underneath the chin, sending him staggering backward, clutching his jaw. Without sparing the man a glance, Hugh lengthened his grip on the stick, wielding it like a sword as the other three ruffians charged.
Regaining his balance and wits, Trevor entered the fray, his walking stick sweeping out to tangle the legs of his closest attacker and sending him sprawling to the ground. He released the wooden covering of his walking stick with the flick of a hidden button, sending it clattering to the ground, revealing a wicked rapier.
Hugh grunted in pleased surprise at his friend’s weapon as he fended off the glancing blow of a cudgel. His effort was rewarded with the sharp splintering snap of his walking stick. He stared for a bare moment, disconcerted at the broken walking stick, then held out its jagged end before him as the biggest and brawniest of the attackers came barreling toward him. Hugh stood his ground until it seemed the man would mow him down. Then he threw the stick into the man’s face, dropped to the ground, and rolled into his assailant’s legs. He grunted in pain as the man’s heavy boots connected with his ribs, his foe tripping and falling heavily. Hugh staggered to his feet and knocked the man down again as he started to rise. Clutching his injured ribs, Hugh looked up to find Trevor.
Trevor’s rapier was making little headway with his two assailants, who were dancing just out of reach of its wicked end, circling, looking for an opportunity to rush him. Whipping around, Hugh saw they were distancing themselves for an attack from either side of Trevor. They were both muscular, strong men. His friend would likely fall before one or the other. Bending his head low, Hugh charged into the small of the back of the man closest to him. Surprised, the man crumbled, twisting as he did so, his heavy, raised cudgel falling. Hugh dodged, but not quickly enough to avoid a sharp blow to his head. He staggered, his head exploding with pain. Trevor quickly lunged forward, sending his needlelike rapier through the upper chest of the remaining attacker.
From down the street, they dimly heard voices shouting assistance and running in their direction. The three injured attackers scuttled back into the shadows at the sound. The brawny fellow, bellowing his rage, was up and rushing Hugh. Blood ran down Hugh’s face, blinding him as he lurched sideways. The giant man was not fooled twice and came toward him, pushing his defending arms sideways as if they were feathers and wrapping him in a bear hug. He picked Hugh up, squeezing.
A flash of steel swam before Hugh’s eyes, the point resting on the bulging neck vein of his attacker.
“Let him go, or you’ll feel my steel in your throat, and you’ll gurgle blood until you die,” Trevor threatened, his arm back to ram the blade home.
The man’s eyes rolled as he looked about him for his compatriots. Trevor let the sword pink the skin.
“If you are looking for your fellows, they have slunk back into the hell from whence they were spawned.” Trevor increased the pressure. The man released his grasp, and Hugh fell to the ground. Two young men, clerks, judging by their attire, came running up. Trevor slowly lowered his sword.
“Yo! What’s going on here?”
“Heard the scuffling, came running as fast as we could.”
“Are you all right, Hugh?” Trevor asked.
Hugh rose painfully to his feet, clutching his left side. “Handy toy you have there,” he wheezed hoarsely, each breath sending pain shooting through his side. He winced.
