Philip compared them.
“Very well.” His eyes danced suddenly. “Dieu! I never thought to fight so strange a duel!” He pulled off his boots. “We’ll fight in wigs, yes? One is so displeasing without a hair to one’s head.”
“A dozen, if you like!” Brenderby struggled out of his coat and vest. “You know, you are shorter than I am. We’re not fair matched.”
Philip laughed, tucking up his ruffles.
“No matter. You see, I must win!”
“Why?” Brenderby made an imaginary pass in the air.
“So much depends on it,” explained Philip. “Is the light fair to both?”
“Fair enough,” said Brenderby.
“You are ready, then? Eh bien!”
The blades met and hissed together.
Opening in quarte, Brenderby seemed at first to be the better of the two. Philip stayed on the defensive, parrying deftly and allowing Brenderby to expend his energies. Once Brenderby’s blade flashed out and all but pinked Philip, but he managed to recover his opposition in time. His eyes opened wider; he became more cautious. Suddenly he descried an opening and lunged forward. There was a moment’s scuffle, and Brenderby put the murderous point aside. Then Philip seemed to quicken. When Brenderby began to pant, Philip changed his tactics, and gave back thrust for thrust. His wrist was like flexible steel; his footwork was superb; the whole style of his fencing was different from that of Brenderby.
All at once Brenderby saw an opening. He thrust in quinte, steel scraped against steel, and Philip’s point flashed into his right arm above the elbow.
Brenderby staggered back, clutched at his arm, and tried to raise his sword again. But Philip was at his side, supporting him.
“It’s only a flesh wound—painful now—bien sûr. It will—heal quickly. I do not—mistake,” he gasped.
“Damme—I’m not done for—yet!”
“But yes! I fight—no more. You cannot—keep your blade—steady—now! Sit down!” He lowered Brenderby into a chair, and whisked out his handkerchief. He bound up Sir Deryk’s wound and fetched him a glass of wine from a decanter on the sideboard.
“Thanks!” Sir Deryk gulped it down. “But where are my manners? Pour some for yourself, Jettan! Gad, but you pinked me neatly!” He seemed to slip back into his habitual drawl. “As pretty a piece of swordplay as I wish to see. But you fence French-fashion.”
Philip drank some wine.
“Yes. It was at Paris that I learned. With Guillaume Corvoisier.”
“No!” Brenderby heaved himself up. “Corvoisier, forsooth! No wonder you’re so quick!”
Philip smiled and bowed.
“You frightened me more than once, sir.”
“Faith, it wasn’t apparent then! You were so intent on winning?”
“It means so much, you see,” said Philip simply. “My whole life’s happiness.”
“What! You really intend to wed Cleone?”
Again Philip bowed.
“I have always intended to wed her.”
“You?” Brenderby stared. “I never knew that! What of that young sprig Winton?”
“Oh, I think I can persuade James!”
“Like this?” Brenderby glanced down at his arm.
“No, not like that. Tell me, sir, did you intend to wed Mademoiselle?”
“Heaven forbid! I’ve no mind to tie myself up yet awhile. Your entrance last night forced me to say what I did to spare the lady’s blushes. I’d no notion of continuing the comedy, until young Winton thrust in with his prior claim. Gad, but ’twas amusing! Did you not find it so?”
“I? No. But I was closely concerned in the affair, you see. I may take it that you will say naught of last night’s work?”
“Of course not. ’Twas a mad jest, but I’d not let it go so far as to damage a lady’s reputation. And you may tell Mistress Cleone that I apologise—for what happened before. She’s too damnably beautiful.”
Philip worked himself into his coat.
“ ‘Damnably’ is not the word I should employ, but n’importe.” He sat down and started to pull on his boots. “I have enjoyed myself. I said I should.”
“Tare an’ ouns, so have I! It’s an age since I’ve had a sword in my hand. I am indebted to you, sir.”
“Yes, you are out of practice. I thank the kind fates for that!”
“Ay, I’d have kept you at it longer, but I don’t know that the issue would have been different. You must go?”
Philip picked up his hat.
“I must. I have to thank you for—”
“Oh, stuff! I’d no notion of holding Cleone to her promise, but I could not resist the offer of a fight. I wish you could see how monstrous amusing it was, though!”
Philip laughed.
“Had it been anyone but Cleone I might have been able to appreciate the humour of the situation! I trust the wound will heal quickly.”
“Oh, that’s naught! A mere prick, but I was winded. Fare ye well, Jettan. My felicitations! You felicitated me last night, did you not?” He laughed.
“With black murder in my heart!” nodded Philip. “I do not say goodbye, but au revoir!”
“Here’s my hand on it then—my left hand, alack!”
Philip grasped it. Brenderby accompanied him to the front door and waved to him as he ran down the steps.
“Bonne chance, as you’d say yourself! Au ’voir!”
Philip waved back at him and turned to hail a passing chair. He instructed the bearers to carry him to Jermyn Street.
It seemed that the luck was indeed with him, for he arrived just as James was descending the steps of his house. Philip sprang out, paid the chairmen, and took Winton’s arm.
“My friend, a word with you!”
“Yes?” said James. “You seem excited, Philip.”
“It’s what I am, then. I’ve come to speak to you of Cleone.”
James stiffened.
“I’ll not give her up to that fellow Brenderby!” he said fiercely. “It’s more than flesh and blood can bear.”
“Assuredly. But will you give her up to me?”
James turned to stare at him.
“You? But she is to wed Brenderby!”
“Ah, but no! that is at an end. Brenderby releases her. He is not so bad a man as you think.
