Page 109 of Scandalous

“It was an accident, Martín. You and I will go to the authorities. I will tell—”

“Tell them what, my lord? You weren’t there. The only two people in that room were a wealthy, powerful marquis and an adolescent slave whore. Who do you think they will blame? Besides, the minute I set foot in that country . . .”

“Fine. But if we can learn where d’Armand got his evidence, then we can find the person and make him or her recant. If we—”

“If, if, if.” Martín shook his head. “It is time to face the truth, Ramsay. It was inevitable that someday the secret would get out.”

“‘Three may keep a secret if two of them are dead.’”

Martín and Ramsay both turned to stare at the usually laconic Marquess of Exley.

“What did you say?” Martín asked.

Exley gifted them with one of his rare smiles. “Benjamin Franklin.”

Ramsay opened his mouth to resume his nagging tirade.

“Hugh.” Martín almost never used his friend’s first name, and the word closed the big man’s mouth faster than he could have imagined. “I am honored by your friendship, truly, but this is my affair. I ask you as a friend, please let my decision stand. Please?”

Hugh’s single green eye burned, but he nodded. “Fine. It is your neck. Go ahead and shove it in the noose. I will say nothing more—to you or anyone else.” He flung himself against the back of his seat with enough violence to make the entire carriage rock.

Exley sighed. “I beg you not to wreck my carriage, Ramsay. I have only just purchased it, and it makes my wife excessively happy.” He glanced at the box Martín was holding and extended his hand. “I will have a look at those, Bouchard.”

They spent the remainder of the journey watching Exley inspect the two dueling pistols, which Martín had commissioned some years ago from a Brazilian gunsmith. He’d fired them in the past, but never for dueling. Dueling was not a pastime men like him engaged in.

The light was just breaking when they reached the appointed spot on Hampstead Heath. There was a light rain falling and the morning held a chill. They were the first to arrive, followed shortly afterward by a very crotchety doctor in a gig large enough to haul at least a half-dozen bodies.

D’Armand arrived a quarter of an hour late to make his point: he would not be punctual for a slave. His carriage had seen better days, and the crest of the d’Armands—a blending of their coronet with some type of vicious-looking bird—was so faded it was almost unrecognizable. A liveried servant hopped down and opened the door. First d’Armand and then his second exited. The servant reached into the darkened coach and handed out a third person.

“What the bloody hell is she doing here?” Ramsay demanded in a booming voice.

D’Armand looked up at the sound of the baron’s bellow, his lips twisted into a contemptuous smile.

Martín glanced at the unreadable, beautiful woman and then looked away. “Valerie told me he always has her accompany him.”

“Why, the pompous arsehole,” Ramsay muttered, loud enough for all to hear. Martín, Exley, and even the grim-visaged doctor chuckled. Laughing might be inappropriate, given the fact that Martín would soon be dead, but Ramsay’s comment managed to settle the pitching, churning sensation that had dominated his stomach for the past thirty-six hours.

D’Armand’s second approached the Marquess of Exley, and they stepped off to one side. Hugh joined them, deliberately looming over d’Armand’s man, as if to make his presence felt.

Martín turned back to where d’Armand and Valerie stood beside the open door of the carriage. The woman wore only a light cloak, and Martín couldn’t help thinking she must be cold. Not that you could tell from her face or posture, both of which were rigid and motionless in the hoary dawn light.

D’Armand opened an ornate metal box that sat on the floor of the carriage and extracted a pistol that was impressive even from Martín’s vantage point. Why had both he and Martín brought pistols? Would they each use their own weapons? He shrugged away the thought. He knew nothing about duels, Exley would handle such matters.

Valerie stood staring at the horizon while the Frenchman saw to his firearms. When he’d finished checking the guns, he said something Martín could not hear.

The woman went to him, and they stood face-to-face for a moment before he leaned closer to say something, or perhaps to hear something.

Martín knew what would happen even before the woman’s arm snaked around d’Armand’s side, her hand reaching into the carriage. She turned to Martín as he began to run, his mouth open but no sound coming out. She smiled, the first smile he’d ever seen on her face, and it transformed her already beautiful face into something truly transcendent.

D’Armand’s body jolted in such a way that Martín knew he wasn’t the only one surprised by her sudden, almost unholy look of joy. She stepped back from the Frenchman, holding the pistol he’d just finished inspecting.

“Noooooooooo!” The word was torn from Martín’s throat, and his body moved with agonizing slowness, as though he were running through water.

The Frenchman looked at her hand and then threw back his head and laughed.

Valerie raised the gun and pulled the trigger. Without even hesitating, she stepped past his staggering body and picked up the second gun.

Chapter Thirty-Two