Page 66 of Rogue Lyon

She was with child.

“This is for my daughter’s honor,” the duke snapped, “not because I wish you for a son-in-law.”

“As I have no wish to have you as a father-in-law.” Jules scowled and bit on his bottom lip. What was the point of dropping a young lady into the mud with her father? A young lady who clearly had passion in her blood, maybe love in her heart. The situation wouldn’t change if he spoke up and perhaps he could face the outcome if he knew he had somehow defended her honor and given Lady Eloise more time to face her situation.

This was his chance to redeem himself, even if he was the only person to ever know about it.

“Twelve paces and then shoot.” The duke’s second held up his hand and waved a red kerchief. “On my count.”

The duke turned. So did Jules. Their backs touched and Jules gripped the pistol with his finger on the trigger. He took a deep breath. He must keep his head clear. He had a plan and he had to stick to it.

The second began to count and each time, Jules took a long pace. His stomach was knotted into a twist of nerves, but his hand was steady. He had faith in his father’s shooting lessons. And he had faith in his Habsburg ancestors who had ridden bravely into battles and won.

On the count of twelve, he turned with his pistol at the ready. He focused through the mist, saw his target, and shot.

Two bullets flew through the air, the sound earsplitting as the scent of gunpowder filled his nose.

He dropped down to the right, a force whizzing past his shoulder with unimaginable power. But it didn’t hit; he landed on his right knee, dragged in a breath, and then jumped up.

The duke cried out. “You bastard.” He clutched his left shoulder. “Get him. I demand he be arrested! He shot me.”

The seconds made no move, though the surgeon rushed to the duke.

Jules slipped the pistol into the waist of his pants and walked toward the duke. He’d pulled his plan off. A flesh wound, a glance of the bullet, not a death shot… He didn’t need that on his conscience.

“Your Grace, I presume this is the end of the matter,” Jules said.

“You… You shot me?” The duke was huffing and puffing as the surgeon attempted to bandage his shoulder.

“You challenged me to a duel. What did you expect?” Jules shrugged. “Though I could have hit you here if I’d wished.” He tapped the space between his eyebrows. “But knowing you are such a fair gentleman, I didn’t think that would be decent.”

“Why, you little upstart!”

“I trust this is the end of the matter?” Jules turned to the duke’s second.

“Yes, sir, it is.” The man paused. “A reconciliation, perhaps?”

“Not a blasted chance.” The duke snorted. “Not with him!”

“I should remind you, Your Grace…” the second said. He was a smart-looking man with a small, black moustache. “That according the rules of a duel, blood has been drawn, so that is the end of the matter.”

“And what am I to tell my daughter?”

“Might I suggest,” Jules said, “that rather than tell her anything, listen to her, hear what she has to say. She might have a reason for falsely accusing me of inappropriate behavior.”

“Whatever do you mean?” His pale face creased into a scowl.

“Like I said. Listen to her, even if what she has to say isn’t easy for you to hear.” Jules paused. “I swear on my life that I never promised her that we’d be wed.”

The duke huffed and then winced as the surgeon strapped the bandage tight.

Jules sighed, then set his pair of pistols in their case. He flicked away some wet strands of grass and then headed for The Mall.

What a start to a Sunday, but at least he’d survived to tell the tale.

But tell the tale to whom?

Meredith. She was the only person to whom he wanted to tell all. Only her.