terror. One of the cameras had been focused on Harrington, bringing her face so close it filled the HD tank, and North Hollow had seen her expression. He'd seen the icy control worse than any raw hatred, the implacable purpose drained of all emotion, and known he looked upon the face of Death itself.
He'd sat there, trembling, trying to understand, and then the newsies had swarmed onto the field like scavengers. They'd boiled about her, shouting questions and thrusting microphones at her despite the best efforts of the police and her own fucking bodyguards, and she'd handed her pistol to the Marine colonel at her side and looked squarely into the cameras and held up her hand like some sort of goddamned queen.
The newsies' babble had died into silence, and her eyes had seemed to leap out of the HD. They'd stared straight into his soul, and her voice had been just as cold, just as hard, as those liquid helium eyes.
'I'm not taking any questions, ladies and gentlemen,' she'd said, 'but I do have a short statement.'
Someone had tried to shout another question, but even his own fellows had hushed him, and then she'd said it.
'Denver Summervale killed someone I loved. What's happened here today won't bring Paul Tankersley back to me. I know that. Nothing can bring him back, but I can seek justice from the man who had him murdered.'
The camera focused on her face had twitched, and confusion had hovered almost visibly over the newsies.
'But, Lady Harrington,' someone had said at last, 'Captain Tankersley was killed in a duel, and you've just—'
'I know how he died,' she'd cut the speaker off. 'But Summervale was hired—paid—to kill him.' Someone had hissed in surprise. Someone else had uttered a muffled oath as he remembered the reports of her initial exchange with Summervale, and North Hollow had heard his own, frightened whimper hanging in the silence of his luxurious suite.
'I accuse,' she'd said, 'the Earl of North Hollow of hiring Denver Summervale to kill not merely Paul Tankersley but myself, as well.' She'd paused, and her thin smile had frozen North Hollow's blood. 'As soon as possible, I will so accuse the Earl in person. Good day, ladies and gentlemen.'
The Duke of Cromarty groaned as he watched the ghastly newscast yet again. Just when he'd thought things were settling down, this had to happen! His switchboard was already swamped by calls from Opposition leaders, all furiously demanding that he do something about Captain Harrington's slanderous accusations, but there wasn't anything he could do. The woman was a lunatic! Didn't she know what would happen when she accused a peer of the realm of hiring a professional killer?!
He switched the HD off and buried his face in his hands. He couldn't feel any sympathy for Denver. He didn't even want to. If anyone ever deserved to die it was Denver, and part of the duke felt only relief that he was finally gone, but having a member of the Prime Minister's family, however disgraced, in the middle of something like this was a serious blow to the Government.
He shuddered at the very thought of how the Opposition might use that once it realized what a weapon it held, but how would North Hollow himself react? The man was fundamentally stupid, yet he had a certain cunning and an instinct for the jugular. The Young family were little more than well born, wealthy thugs, yet they'd acquired an indisputable taste for using their power. Pavel Young was less intelligent—and even more arrogant, hard as that was to believe—than his father had been, but he was certainly ambitious. He'd plunged into the game of schemes and maneuvers with the courage of invincible ignorance, unfettered by any hindering principles, and, so far, his gutter instincts had served him well. He'd astonished far more astute and experienced political tacticians by the way he'd positioned himself in the Lords as a voice of sweet reason, willing, in order to rally the Kingdom in this time of national crisis, to overlook the way the Government had allowed the Navy to vilify him. Cromarty didn't doubt he'd wax too ambitious and destroy himself in time, but he'd played his chosen part to perfection so far, which only made this mess even worse.
The duke straightened in his chair. The logical thing for North Hollow to do was sue for slander, since the law forbade duels between the parties to any litigation. But what if he couldn't sue? What if Harrington was right? What if he had hired Denver—and she had proof of it?
Cromarty frowned, rubbing his palms slowly together before him. If that were the case—and the earl was certainly capable of something just that vicious—then he wouldn't dare resort to the courts. All Harrington had to do was present her evidence to refute the charge of slander, and North Hollow could kiss any possible political power goodbye forever.
But if he didn't sue, what else could he do? There was no mistaking Harrington's threat, and the brutal, astonishing efficiency with which she'd demolished Denver was chilling proof she could make good on it. That she would make good on it the instant she came close enough to North Hollow to challenge him.
Was it possible the earl would refuse the challenge? Cromarty gnawed his lip for a moment, trying to second-guess the imponderables. North Hollow was a coward, but would even that let him refuse to meet her? Proving his cowardice to the entire Kingdom would be as fatal to any career in politics as being proven a murderer, but he might believe that if he met her—and survived the experience—he could survive the scandal, as well. Certainly the Opposition 'faxes would back his efforts to put it behind him; they'd have to, for they would be tarred by their own association with him if the scandal destroyed him.
But he wouldn't live through it. The very thought was ridiculous after watching her cut Denver down, and the way she'd done it was horrifying. That meeting had been an execution, not a duel. Denver had been totally out of his class without ever realizing it; she'd shot him so many times not because she'd had to, but because she'd wanted to.
And if she ever got Pavel Young onto a dueling field, she'd do exactly the same thing to him.
The Duke of Cromarty couldn't remember the last time he'd been physically afraid of someone, but Honor Harrington terrified him. He doubted anyone who saw the record chips would ever forget her expression—her non- expression—as she shot Denver down, and if a Queens officer took down a peer of the realm the same way—
The duke shuddered, then drew a deep breath and turned to his com. There was only one person who might be able to prevent disaster, and he punched her code into his terminal and waited for the liveried receptionist to answer.
'Mount Royal Palace. How may I—? Oh, good afternoon, Your Grace.'
'Good afternoon, Kevin. I need to speak to Her Majesty.'
'Just a moment, Your Grace.' The receptionist looked down, checking the schedule stored in his database, then frowned. 'I'm sorry, Your Grace, but she's closeted with the Zanzibaran ambassador.'
'I see.' Cromarty leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers under his chin in thought. 'When will she be free?' he asked after a moment.
'Not for some time, I'm afraid, Your Grace,' the receptionist said, then paused as the duke's expression registered. Elizabeth III didn't pick idiots to screen calls on her private line. 'Excuse me, Your Grace, but is this an emergency?'
'I don't know,' Cromarty said, and his own admission surprised a wintry smile out of him. It vanished as quickly as it had come, and he lowered his hands to his desk. 'It certainly has the potential to become one, at any rate. I think—' He paused again, then nodded. 'Interrupt her, Kevin. Tell her I must speak with her as soon as possible.'
'Of course, Your Grace. Do you want to hold?'
'Yes, please.'
The receptionist nodded and disappeared, replaced by the Star Kingdom's coat of arms, and Cromarty drummed nervously on his desk. Some prime ministers had made themselves monumentally unpopular with their monarchs by disturbing them with things that could have waited. Cromarty knew that, and the fact that he made a practice of not interrupting his Queen unless he absolutely had to was a not inconsequential factor in their close working relationship. It also meant that Elizabeth normally accepted his calls with minimal delay, and he sighed in relief as she appeared on his screen in less than five minutes.
'Allen,' she said without preamble.
'Your Majesty.'
'I hope this really is important, Allen. The Ambassador is nervous about the notion that our new deployments will pull the picket squadron out of Zanzibar. It's taking more stroking to settle him down than we'd expected.'
