Page 62 of Rogue Lyon

“You have been summoned at dawn on Sunday. Green Park.”

“What? By whom?” Confusion swirled in Jules’s mind. “And whatever do you mean by ‘summoned’?”

“Summoned to a duel by the Duke of Marlborough.”

“But that’s utterly ridiculous.” His mouth hung open.

“Not ridiculous to the duke. He believes you have marred his daughter’s reputation to such an extent, she will not leave her bedchamber. The situation must be resolved. Either you marry her or you gamble with your life.”

“I went for a damn smoke on the terrace, nothing more, old chap. How can I have in any way ‘marred her reputation’?” He huffed. “And I will not marry her.”

“That is something for you and the duke to discuss. I am merely the messenger.” The big brute kind of growled and leaned even closer. “Be there, or I’ll come get you.”

Jules took the scroll of parchment. “There must be some misunderstanding—”

“No misunderstanding. Green Park at dawn in six days’ time or else.”

As the man left, his lumbering gate made his wide shoulders swing. Jules didn’t fancy getting on the wrong side of those muscles.

“Here you are, sir.” The driver had unloaded his trunk and the two paintings.

“Ah, very good.” Jules settled his payment with several coins. “And thank you.”

“All okay, sir?” The driver nodded at the unwanted visitor, who was now just turning the corner.

Jules frowned. “Not the welcome home I’d hoped for.”

“Well, I hope it works out for ya.” He tipped his hat and was gone.

Jules lifted the two paintings up to his front door, opened it, and set them inside. He then went back for his trunk.

The house smelled of chicken stew and he breathed deeply. Usually, home felt good and gave him a sense of calm. But not today, and it wasn’t entirely to do with the duke’s challenge—it was because Meredith wasn’t with him. After so many days together, he’d become used to having her at his side.

She would know what to do in this predicament. Smart, strategic, and sensible without being judgmental or aloof. The perfect combination.

But she wasn’t with him.

She didn’t want to be.

Who could blame her?

After unwrapping his two new paintings and inspecting them carefully for damage, he set them against the wall. His one of Maximilian and Mary was for hanging; the other would make him a pretty penny with a bit of luck.

He greeted Cook, who was up to her elbows in dough, then went to his gun cupboard.

He retrieved a wooden case that contained a set of dueling pistols. They had been his father’s, though he’d never used them in a duel, only for target practice. And he’d taught Jules how to fire them with precision, telling him it was a necessary skill in this unpredictable new world in which they’d lived.

The pistols matched perfectly and were exquisitely crafted. The mechanisms were calibrated with hair triggers. He reminded himself of their weight and then pretended to fire at a portrait of Lady Collinger that hung on the opposite wall. He reckoned his aim was still on target, but even so, he’d have a few practice shots in the rear garden to refine his skills.

“Damn and blast,” he muttered, packing the gun away. “How has it come to this?”

Jules didn’t want to fire a gun at anyone. Chances were he’d add murder to a list of things he wasn’t particularly proud of.

Or he’d be dead and none of it would matter anymore.

Perhaps the duke would be open to a conversation and Jules could make him see sense, explain the situation. Explain that he couldn’t marry his daughter because his heart belonged to another.

That thought hit him harder than any bullet.