Page 2 of Marriage Most Scandalous
Theodore coughed and said, “Quite right. We’ll keep it sporting, then.”
Giles’s pistols were brought to Sebastian for inspection. He waved the man away. His own pistols were taken to Giles for the same. His friend seemed interested only in making sure the chambers were loaded. Sebastian was aware that Giles knew he didn’t want to kill him.
“Prepare yourselves, gentlemen.”
They stood back-to-back, shouldn’t have spoken, but Sebastian’s remorse was torn from him with the simple words, “I’m sorry.”
Giles said nothing, giving no indication that he’d heard him. Instructions were given, the count begun. The rain hadn’t let up, nor had the thunder, which boomed every few minutes, but the sun had risen enough to spread a gray gloom through the trees. It was enough light to see by, enough light to kill by.
They paced off the required steps, each man holding his chosen pistol in his hand, pointed at the ground. The count was continued, then the call to turn, take aim ...
Sebastian stood with his gun pointed toward the sky, intending to fire the obligatory shot anywhere but at Giles. But Giles fired the very second it was called to do so, nicking Sebastian under his arm just as he was pulling his own trigger. Giles was a good shot; he should have done better than this at such close range. The wound he delivered was minor, but it brought Sebastian’s arm down in an involuntary reaction. His bullet fired, the sound echoing through the trees along with another crack of thunder. It should have been wildly off the mark, but instead it landed at the dead center of Giles’s chest.
Sebastian watched as his friend dropped to the ground. The look of surprise on Giles’s face as he crumbled would forever haunt Sebastian. Shock kept him rooted to the spot while Giles’s second bent down to examine him, then looked toward Sebastian and shook his head.
“I will inform his father,” he said. “I assume you will inform yours.”
Beside him, Theodore said, “You weren’t going to fire at him, were you? What changed your mind?” He paused, seeing the blood under Sebastian’s arm. “Ah, so that’s why. What bloody rotten luck, eh? Or rather phenomenal luck, depending how you look at it.”
Sebastian didn’t answer, hadn’t really heard him. It was impossible to describe what he felt in that moment of realization that he’d killed his best friend. Grief, horror, rage—it was all there choking him. And guilt, so strong it took root in his heart and would never let go. And he still had to tell his father that he’d defied him, that his plan to exonerate himself with his own death had backfired.
Sebastian should have died there at The Dueling Rock that cold, gloomy morning. As far as he was concerned, he did.
Chapter 1
LIKE MANY TOWNS AND VILLAGESthroughout Austria, Felburg had its share of Baroque architecture in its churches and its plaza, its fountains and charming squares. Where Vienna overwhelmed, Felburg offered peace and quiet, which was why Sebastian Townshend decided to spend the night there as he passed through the Alpine hills.
The job he had just finished had been frustrating, taking him from France to Italy, back to France, then to Hungary, and finally to Vienna. His mission had been to retrieve stolen books, very rare books that a wife had absconded with. His current employer didn’t want his wife back, just the books. Sebastian had them in his possession now. The wife hadn’t been cooperative, though. He’d had to steal them from her.
It had been a distasteful task but not as abhorrent as some of the jobs he’d taken over the years since he’d left home. For quite a few years he hadn’t discriminated. He simply had little reason to care about anything. Disowned by his father, all ties to his family broken, and carrying a bitterness deep inside himself that he refused to acknowledge, Sebastian wasn’t a man to trifle with. You had to have a reason to live in order to value life. He didn’t particularly value his.
He used to. Wealth, title, good friends, and family had all been his. His life had seemed almost charmed. He had a tall, strapping body, exceptional good looks, and enjoyed splendid health. He’d had it all. But that was before he’d killed his best friend in a duel and had been told by his father never to darken England’s shores again.
He hadn’t gone back, had sworn he never would. England, once his home, held only painful memories for him. He’d been adrift now for eleven of his thirty-three years and saw no end to it.
Europe could be called his home if he had to name a place, but there was no place in particular that he favored. He’d been to every country on the Continent and a few beyond, spoke all of the major languages and a few of the less well-known ones, three acquired by necessity, six in all. He could afford a nice property to settle on. He’d left home penniless, but the jobs he took were lucrative, and with nothing to spend his money on, he was quite rich. But the idea of “home” reminded him too much of his real one, so he’d avoided establishing one. And he was rarely in one place for long. He lived in inns and hotels, and frequently when he was on a job, on a pallet on the ground.
He did buy one property in the north of France, though, only because he found it occasionally useful. The crumbling ruins of an old keep could hardly be called a home. The only thing intact in it had been the dungeon, but even that consisted of bare doorless cells that he’d never bothered to refurbish. He’d bought the ruins mainly to have a place where those looking to hire him could readily find him, or leave word with the caretaker he kept there. And because it suited his fancy to own a ruins, so similar to his life.
He didn’t travel alone. Oddly enough, his valet had elected to go into exile with him. An adventurous sort John Richards had turned out to be, he actually enjoyed his new role. He still acted as Sebastian’s valet, but he was also his source of information. As soon as they arrived in a new town or city, John would make himself scarce, then return with all pertinent information about the area and the important people who lived there. John could make himself understood in two more languages than Sebastian, though none of them fluently. He had become invaluable for Sebastian’s line of work. He’d also become a friend, though neither of them would ever admit it, and John prided himself on adhering to his role of servant, albeit a superior one.
There was one other in their entourage now, a spunky ten-year-old lad who called himself Timothy Charles. He was English, though he’d been orphaned in Paris, which was where they’d met him last year when Timothy had been unsuccessful in picking Sebastian’s pocket. John had taken pity on the lad because he reminded him of home and he was homeless in a foreign city. Somehow or other it was decided that they’d keep him, at least until they could find him a good home. They really ought to get around to doing that one of these days.
“Raven I believe you are called?”
Sebastian had been enjoying a glass of Austrian wine in the dining room of the inn where they were spending the night. The well-dressed man who had approached his table looked official. Tall, middle-aged, impeccably dressed. The two men who stood behind him looked like guards, not by their dress, which was plain, and not by their stature, which was on the short side. It was their alertness, the way they kept their eyes not just on Sebastian but also on the entire room.
Sebastian merely raised a black brow and said indifferently to the tall fellow, “I’m called many things. That’s one of them.”
He had a reputation, unwanted, certainly not intentional, but it had developed nonetheless, no doubt partially at John’s instigation, of being a mercenary for hire, capable of accomplishing the impossible. He wasn’t sure how he got the name Raven, possibly because there was a certain sinister look to him with his black hair and golden cat’s eyes, though he wouldn’t be surprised if the name was John’s doing as well. And John never failed to let his contacts know that The Raven was in town, which frequently produced jobs that he wouldn’t have otherwise heard about.
“You are for hire, yes?”
“Usually—if my fee is met.”
The man nodded and assured him, “A man of your caliber would be expensive. This is understood and will not be an issue. My employer is generous and will more than meet your price. Do you accept?”
“Accept what? I don’t hire on blindly.”
