“Conbatten,” Marcus said. “Genroy has just put him in the drawing room.”
“Conbatten? Here?”
“Yes, here,” Marcus said. “If he’s come to issue you a challenge, do not accept it. He’s said to be a crack shot. At least, so says his insufferable valet. We can fly to the continent until things settle. The point is, stay alive!”
Matthew felt as if his blood had run cold. Slowly, he said, “If he issues such a challenge, I will accept. I will have no choice in the matter. In any case, I’m a crack shot too.”
Marcus had gone very pale. He could not guess if it were fear for Matthew’s person or fear that Marcus would soon be out of a job due to his viscount lying dead on a green somewhere.
Another thought occurred to him. “It would be strange, though, that he’d not sent a second, or even brought one.”
“Is that strange? Good! Maybe I am wrong, then!” Marcus whispered.
“Whether you are right or wrong, I’d best go find it out,” Matthew said. He straightened his coat and hurried down the stairs.
Genroy was just coming out of the drawing room. Softly, he said, “He does not want tea or anything else.”
Matthew did not know if that were ominous or not. However, there was no use in delaying. He must face whatever was to be faced.
He strode through the drawing room doors.
Conbatten was looking his usual carefully dressed and slightly bored self, lounging on a window seat and watching the hive of activity at the Benningtons’ house.
“Lord Van Doren,” the duke said, “I hope I do not disturb.”
“Not at all, though I am surprised to see you here,” Matthew said.
“As am I, rather,” Conbatten said, removing a stray pale hair from his sleeve that had no doubt been left behind by Oyster. “However, Lady Jersey found it convenient to call on me yesterday to acquaint me with some facts I had not been aware of.”
“My unfortunate words to Lord Harveston, I suppose,” Matthew said.
“The very ones,” the duke said. “I am to know that you have warned me off Lady Beatrice. That the YBC gentlemen only amuse themselves in an attempt to drive me forward in my pursuit. Oh, and I take too much time on my toilette, though I cannot fathom how anybody would know anything about my personal habits or why they might have formed an opinion about them.”
Matthew felt faced with a crossroads. Should he attempt to minimize what he’d said, or should he go forward and explain to this duke exactly where matters stood?
He knew what he must do. It might end in offense. Even a duel. But he must put Beatrice’s long-term happiness first.
“Your Grace,” he said, “I did say all those things, and I will say more to avert a disaster. There has been a plot going on to draw you out and drive you forward. They refer to you as the mysterious tortured gentleman, but they all know it is you.”
“Do they?” the duke said, looking amused.
“Indeed they do,” Matthew said, not having the first idea why the man looked amused. “They know perfectly well that the pile of red roses is from you.”
“They know that, do they?”
“Of course they do. Their plan has been all too successful, but it is not right. Not just for Beatrice’s happiness, but for your own! She is not right for you, she would always be second fiddle and she cannot be happy unless she is first fiddle.”
“I see,” the duke said. “So, I have been drawn out and driven forward, I am the mysterious tortured gentleman that they all know the identity of, I’ve sent heaps of red roses and what next? Do I presume I am to propose at her ball?”
Matthew could not understand why the duke was taking all of this so casually. But then, he supposed that was Conbatten’s nature—another reason he would not suit Beatrice.
“Well, yes, that is where we are. Now, I know Beatrice has many attractions, but you must be convinced that it is not the right match for either of you.”
“Consider me convinced,” the duke said drily.
“What?” Matthew asked. What sort of game was this fellow playing at?
“Your aim was to convince me—I am entirely convinced.”
