The Lion's Daughter (Scoundrels 1)

“You feel sorry for the swine, I suppose, and blame yourself for bringing him here. You think it’s your fault he’s dead.”

“If I hadn’t bribed him with the chess set,” Varian said tautly, “he’d never have come.”

Jason shook his head. “One of Ismal’s men nearly knocked me into the harbor. Gerald pulled me to safety. That may have been the only decent thing my brother’s ever done, intentionally, for anybody. The next minute, he was scrambling for his precious rooks and pawns. I told him to go while he still could. But no, he must have the damned set.” He severed a thick slice from the loaf before him. “Greed killed him today, Edenmont, as it would have done, sooner or later.”

Varian pushed his plate away. “I see.”

Jason glanced at Varian’s barely touched breakfast. “Lost your appetite?”

“I hadn’t much to begin with,” Varian said.

“You’re too bloody sensitive.” Jason buttered his bread. “No wonder Esme’s made a wreck of you.”

Jason accompanied his late brother and what was left of Ismal to the ship. Leaving Esme in care of the innkeeper’s wife, Varian went with him. He wasn’t sure why. Perhaps it was a need to see the thing to its end.

He’d intended to wait on deck while the Red Lion took his leave of Ismal. When Jason was done, however, Ismal had asked to speak to Lord Edenmont.

Varian stood by the narrow bunk. Ismal’s blue eyes were swollen nearly shut, and the sensuous mouth was a torn lump on his battered face.

“You fought well,” Ismal rasped.

“I’d have performed far more elegantly in a duel,” Varian answered coolly. “You might consider duels in future. Much tidier, the rules clearly defined. One knows exactly what to do.”

“The English. So polite. I stole your wife.”

“I stole her back,” Varian said, “and took my revenge. I know you Albanians like to drag your quarrels on for decades, as we do our lawsuits. Nonetheless, I’d much appreciate it if you’d agree our feud is at an end.”

“Nay.” Ismal tried to lift his head and winced. He lay back again, his good hand plucking fretfully at the coarse blanket. “I called her my whore.”

“But she wasn’t. You were just being disagreeable.”

The swollen mouth twisted. It seemed to mean a smile. “Is this what she told you?”

“She’d not have begged to nurse you if you’d shamed her. She’d no need to tell me, and I’d no need to ask.”

“You are not stupid.”

“Thank you.”

Ismal looked past him, toward the doorway. “Red Lion.”

Jason moved to the bed.

“Make my peace for me,” said Ismal.

Jason drew out from his coat a small, richly embroidered bag. “Ismal tried to steal your wife and tried even harder to kill you,” he said. “Despite these crimes, you allowed your wife to ease his suffering. If he lives, Ismal will owe you his life. These circumstances create a burden he finds intolerable.”

“I do not—”

“No interruptions, Edenmont,” Jason reproved. “This is a ceremony.”

Varian subsided.

“He values your wife more highly than an ordinary woman,” Jason went on. “He agrees, with many of his countrymen, that the little warrior is worth two good men. Her great healing skills must also be taken into account, as must your princely status. Finally, as a nobleman himself, his honor must be estimated at a high value. His calculations amount to this.” Jason gave him the bag.

Varian looked to the invalid.

“For my honor,” Ismal said.

Varian emptied the bag’s contents into his hand: diamonds, emeralds, sapphires, rubies. “Good God,” he murmured.

“In accepting this fine, Lord Edenmont, you agree that Ismal’s shame is wiped away and he no longer owes you. In accepting this, you declare your honor satisfied and your two families at peace. My honor’s already been seen to,” Jason explained, “much the same way.”

Varian stared numbly at the gems in his hand.

“Not enough,” Ismal fretted. “I told you, Red Lion, it would not be—”

“No, no, it’s enough,” Varian said quickly. “I nearly said it was too much—but that would be an insult, I suppose.”

“You see?” Jason told Ismal. “He understands better than you think. Not all Englishmen are blockheads.”

“I understand the payment,” Varian said as he returned the stones to the bag. “There was a time when my own countrymen settled differences in a similar way. Still do, in some cases. What I don’t understand is why you came all this way for the chess set when you’d already a fortune in jewels.”

“I came for revenge,” said Ismal. “On Sir Gerald. The rest…Fate, perhaps.” He glanced at Jason. “Or my own stupid arrogance.”

“I quite understand,” said Varian. “Esme’s made a wreck of me, too.”

Chapter Thirty-Three

After leaving Ismal, Esme trudged to the chamber Jason had reserved. She managed to wash, change into the frock set out for her, and consume most of her breakfast before she gave up and collapsed on the bed. She didn’t waken until mid-afternoon, when Varian and Jason returned to collect her.

Deaf to her pleas that they remain in Newhaven and rest, they briskly bundled her into a carriage. Minutes thereafter, all her attention was riveted upon Jason and the story he told. He began twenty-five years before, when he’d fallen in love with Diana and lost her and his property through Sir Gerald’s treachery. He related her uncle’s deathbed confession, with its astonishing revelation about Esme’s aunt, who’d turned Sir Gerald’s vicious mind against him, blackmailing him with his own evil deed and punishing him with his own misconceptions.

“I admire my aunt for the way she managed and punished my uncle,” Esme said, interrupting her father, “but that does not change what he did. He destroyed your life.”

“I tried to tell you before,” Jason answered. “I’d been headed for ruin anyhow. Gerald only hastened the inevitable. I recognized years ago that marrying Diana would have been a disastrous mistake. We were both wayward and selfish. You didn’t know me then. You’ve no idea how Albania—and especially your mama—changed me. Just as Diana’s experiences changed her. By the time we came together again last year, we were different people.”

“Wayward you may have been, but selfish I cannot believe,” Esme said. “You sent her a chess set worth five thousand pounds at a time you so badly needed money.”

“My dear girl, I hadn’t the remotest notion what it was worth,” he said impatiently. “I won the bloody thing in a card game.”

Esme didn’t open her mouth again until Jason’s tale had taken them to this morning, when he’d been waiting to capture Ismal…and found the task grossly complicated when Esme emerged from Ismal’s carriage.

Then she was obliged to explain how she’d managed to stumble into his clutches. When she’d finished, her father was glaring at her. Varian only stared doggedly out the window.

“Damnation, Esme, don’t you know your grandmother better than that?” her father demanded. “Don’t you think she knew her own son? I’d stake my life she knew Gerald was desperate and planning to bolt—and she was happy to help him. She’d have done anything to get rid of him.”

“Then why not give him the black queen—and let him take the whole chess set?” Esme countered.

“Because he settled easily for less. Though I’m sure she suspected he meant to steal the set as well. She probably meant to do something about that, too—only she was drugged before she could.”

“Percival meant to do something,” Varian put in quietly. “He even suspected Ismal was involved. The poor boy never dreamed he’d

be drugged within a few hours of entering his father’s house.”

“As you both wish I had been,” she said tightly.

Neither man replied, which was answer enough. As usual, everything was all her fault. She clamped her mouth shut and did not open it again except to eat, when they stopped at the Dorset Arms in East Grinstead.

Varian felt the tension building all through dinner. Jason must have sensed it, too, because he elected to spend the rest of the journey on the box with the coachman. It was a mild night, he said, and he hadn’t seen his homeland in a quarter of a century.

After five silent minutes in the carriage with Esme, Varian began to wish he’d joined his father-in-law. He was in no state to handle any more confrontations. His nerves still jangled after what had been, beyond doubt, the very worst day of his entire misbegotten existence. He could scarcely look at her without seeing the deadly blade at her throat. He stared into the night, praying she’d hold her tongue all the way to London.

“I wanted to be with you,” she said in a choked, hurt voice. “I wanted to give you the chess set, so you would not have to work so hard any more and spoil your hands.”

“Dear God,” he muttered to the window. “My hands.”

“Once, they were smooth and white. Now only look. They are brown and hard and calloused and—and bruised and cut as well. It is all my fault, I suppose. Yet you are angry because I tried—”

“Because you nearly got yourself killed!” He swung around to her, and it flashed before him again, for the hundredth time: the blast of fire and smoke, and Esme falling. “Why couldn’t you just keep still and leave it to me? For God’s sake, did you think I’d let Ismal—anyone—take you away? Do you think I’m so inept?”

“It was you I thought of! I could not let him shame you!”

“You couldn’t let him. What the hell do you think I was there for? A sea bath?” He closed his eyes. “Why do I ask? Think. You never think.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I did not mean to insult you. I know you came to save me.”