Villiers started, and came forward. He reached out a hand but she shook her head. “Not until you promise.”
“I cannot promise,” he told her, and she could have sworn that she saw a flash of sympathy in those cold eyes of his. “It’s no longer a matter of your honor, but that of Gryffyn’s.”
“My honor is worthless!” she cried.
He stooped down and brought her to her feet. “Your courage is not worthless, Lady Roberta.” He kept her hands for a moment. “I will apologize,” he said. “That’s the best I can do, and since I’ve never done such a thing before in my life, you see that my apology means that I put your honor at a rather higher pitch than your own valuation.”
He dropped her hands and turned away. “If you’ll forgive me, milady, we have a chess match to finish.”
An arm came around her shoulder, and Roberta felt herself pulled away.
“Mr. Cunningham!” she said dully. “I didn’t see you.”
“I often play a match during the afternoon when His Grace is in the House of Lords.” He said nothing further, and Roberta couldn’t bring herself to say anything either. So he accompanied her home in silence.
It had to be enough.
It simply…had to be enough.
Chapter 39
April 22
Day eleven: the Beaumont/Beaumont chess match
remains in play
D awn was curling over Wimbledon Commons, making the wheels of all the carriages disappear and look as if their fat bellies were scraping the ground.
“I shall be sick,” Roberta said between clenched teeth.
“Open the carriage door,” Jemma said, not helpfully. She was crying, just a little. She hadn’t said anything, but Roberta saw her wipe away a tear, and then another. “Damon will be fine,” she said, as if to herself.
“Does he know how to fight with a sword?” Roberta whispered.
Jemma frowned at her. “Of course he does!”
Carriages and more carriages kept pulling up until there was a double row, and men pushed by their door as if they were going to see a cock fight.
“Villiers said he would apologize,” Roberta said. “He promised.” Her fists were clenched. “Should I go and remind him, Jemma?” she cried. “Should I go and see what’s happening?”
But Jemma shook her head, her eyes bleak. “You’ve done all you can. If you shame Villiers in front of all these people, there’s no saying what he might do.”
“What would shame him?” Roberta asked desperately.
“To have you intervene again. And you would shame Damon.”
“But he would live!”
“He will live,” Jemma said. But her face was icy white.
“I begged him not to go,” Roberta said. “He just laughed.”
“That’s Damon.”
They waited, and still fog curled in the center of the field, and nothing happened. “What is a rapier?” Roberta said, forcing the words past stiff lips. “Do you know?”
“A thin blade,” Jemma said. “It is favored by the French and considered to be agile, intelligent and supple.”
“What?” Roberta said, unable to get her mind around this cluster of adjectives. “Do you think that Damon can fight with it?”
Jemma turned her head and stared at her. “What makes you question Damon’s ability so?”
Just then two men walked onto the field and Roberta gasped. They weren’t Villiers and Damon, but the seconds. They seemed to be scuffing the grass, seeing if it was slippery with dew.