nodded. At this hour of the evening, the brightly lit central quadrangle of the Palais Royale would be crowded with Parisians and tourists looking for entertainment of all sorts. From the restaurants in the basements and the shops beneath the colonnade, to the casinos and brothels on the upper floors, there was something in the arcades to cater for all tastes. Strolling amongst the pleasure-seeking crowds would be one way of demonstrating that he was not in the least broken-hearted.
They had barely stepped outside when she heard an angry and all too familiar voice crying, ‘Hey, Heloise—stop!’
Looking across the square, in the direction from which the voice hailed, she saw Du Mauriac bearing down on them like an avenging whirlwind.
To her consternation, rather than retreating into the relative safety of the restaurant, Charles continued to stroll nonchalantly towards the most dangerous man in Paris.
‘Didn’t you hear me calling you?’ he snarled, coming to a halt directly in front of them. His black moustache bristled in a face that was mottled red from wine and anger. Heloise tried to detach her hand from Charles’ arm. The waiters would not deign to help, but many of the diners in Very Frères were Englishmen, who would be bound to come to their aid if she could only get to them.
But Charles would not relax his grip.
Eyeing the lean figure of her former suitor with cool disdain, he drawled, ‘My fiancée does not answer to strangers shouting in the street.’
‘Fiancée!’ Ignoring Lord Walton, Du Mauriac turned the full force of his fury on the slender form cringing at his side.
‘Y … yes,’ she stuttered.
‘Do not let this fellow unsettle you, my sweet. I will deal with him.’
‘Your sweet?’ The Earl’s endearment drew Du Mauriac’s fire down upon himself. ‘She is not your sweet. Everyone knows you are in love with her sister! Not her! What could a man like you want with a little mouse like her?’
‘Since you speak of her in such a derogatory manner,’ he replied stiffly, ‘it is clear you care little for her either. So what exactly is your problem?’
‘You have no notion of what I feel for Heloise. Before you came to France, with your money and your title, she was going to be my wife! Mine! And if she had an ounce of loyalty she would be mine still. But it is the same with so many of her sort. They can wear the violet on their gowns, but their heart is filled only with greed and ambition.’
The confrontation between a slender officer in his shabby uniform and an obviously wealthy Englishman, in the doorway of such an exclusive restaurant, was beginning to attract the attention of passers-by.
‘I collect from your agitation,’ Charles said, finally relinquishing his vice-like grip on her hand, so that he could interpose his own body between her and Du Mauriac, ‘that you were once an aspirant to Mademoiselle Bergeron’s hand?’
Heloise was too shocked by these words to think of running for help. Charles knew exactly how things had stood between them. So why was he pretending differently? Oh, she thought, her hands flying to her cheeks. To conceal her part in the plot! He was shielding her from Du Mauriac’s wrath. Her heart thudded in her chest. It was wonderful to know Charles was intent on protecting her, but did he not know Du Mauriac would calmly put a bullet through a man on far flimsier quarrel than that of stealing his woman?
‘I fully understand,’ Charles said in an almost bored tone, ‘if the harsh words you level at this lady stem from thwarted affection. Being aware that you French are apt to be somewhat excitable, I also forgive you your appalling lapse of manners. Though naturally were you an Englishman it would be quite another matter.’
Du Mauriac laughed mockingly. ‘I insult your woman and you stand there and let me do it, like the coward you are. What must I do to make you take the honourable course? Slap your face?’
The Earl looked thoughtful. ‘You could do so, of course, if it would help to relieve your feelings. But then I would be obliged to have you arrested on a charge of assault.’
‘In short, you are such a coward that nothing would induce you to meet me!’
Heloise gasped. No gentleman could allow another to call him a coward to his face. Especially not in such a public place.
But Charles merely looked puzzled. ‘Surely you are not suggesting I would wish to fight a duel with you?’ He shook his head, a pitying smile on his face. ‘Quite apart from the fact I do not accept there is any reason for us to quarrel, I understand your father was a fisherman of some sort? I hate to have to be the one to break it to you, but duelling is a gentleman’s solution to a quarrel.’
‘I am an officer of the French army!’ Du Mauriac shouted.
‘Well, that’s as may be,’ Charles replied. ‘Plenty of upstarts are masquerading as gentlemen in France these days. I,’ he said, drawing himself up a little, ‘do not share such republican ideals. A man is a gentleman by birth and manners—and frankly, sir, you have neither.’
Du Mauriac, now completely beside himself, took a step forward, his hand raised to strike the blow that would have made a duel inevitable. And met the full force of the Earl’s left fist. Before he knew what had hit him, the Earl followed through with a swift right, leaving the notorious duellist lying stretched, insensible, on the gravel path.
‘I am so sorry you had to witness that, Heloise,’ the Earl said, flexing his knuckles with a satisfied smile. ‘But it is well past time somebody knocked him down.’
Heloise was torn by a mixture of emotions. It had been quite wonderful to see Du Mauriac floored with such precision. And yet she knew he was not a man to take such a public insult lying down. At least, she thought somewhat hysterically, only while he was unconscious. As soon as he came to he would be hell-bent on revenge. If he could not take it legitimately, by murdering the Earl under the guise of duelling with him, then he would do it by stealthy means. It would be a knife in the ribs as he mounted the steps to the theatre, or a shot fired from a balcony as they rode along the boulevard in the borrowed carrick. She could see the Earl’s blood soaking into the dust of some Parisian street as she held his dying body in her arms.
She burst into tears.
Putting one arm around her, Lord Walton pushed a way through the excited crowd that was milling round Du Mauriac’s prone form.
It had been a tactical error, he acknowledged as he bundled her into a cab, to deal with Du Mauriac while she was watching. Gentlemen did not brawl in front of ladies. Displays of masculine aggression were abhorrent to them. But it had seemed too good an opportunity to pass up! Wellington had forbidden officers of the occupying forces to engage in fisticuffs in public places. He had stipulated that the sword was the weapon of gentlemen, and Du Mauriac had taken advantage of that order to murder one young Englishman after another. Only a man like Walton, who was exempt from Wellington’s orders, was free to mete out the humiliating form of punishment that such a scoundrel deserved.
But witnessing what an aggressive brute she was about to marry had clearly devastated Heloise. By the time they reached the Quai Voltaire she had worked herself into such a pitch he had no option but to carry her into the house and hand her over to the care of her mother, while he went in search of some brandy.
‘He will kill him, Maman,’ Heloise sobbed into her mother’s
