“These men have accused my good cousin of harlotry. Surely you will defend Isabelle’s honor as a gentleman and a prince.”
“But your cousin has no honor,” Leo smiled. “At least when I knew her. And I knew her very well and very often, didn’t I, Isabelle?”
“Let’s go, Louis—come on, let’s go, please—you’re just making it worse,” Isabelle pleaded, hanging on his arm. “Please, let’s just leave here. Please.”
“NO!” Louis threw down his glove at Leo’s feet in a rage. The crowd went silent. Even the orchestra stopped playing. There was a dangerous malice, a strange feeling in the air; as if the world was hinged on a precipice, and could fall at any moment.
Leo raised an eyebrow. “Are you mad, sir?”
Louis put up his fists and insisted Leo do the same. It was as Leo said: Louis looked crazed. The vein on his forehead was throbbing, and he looked as if he were about to burst.
Isabelle came between them. “Louis—let’s go—what are you doing? Let it go. Stop this!” But he pushed her off. He lunged after the prince.
“I challenge you to a duel! To defend Isabelle’s honor,” Louis called.
Leo knelt and picked up the glove. He put it in his pocket. “I accept.”
“Now.” Louis removed the pistol he always carried as part of his gentleman’s uniform. He motioned to the garden, away from the party. An empty courtyard would accommodate the ritual.
“As you wish,” Leopold said lazily.
“Louis!” Isabelle screamed. “No! No! Take it back. Don’t do this! He’ll kill you!”
“Leave me alone, Isabelle,” Louis said. “Hugh, you will be my second?” he asked, finding his white-faced cousin among the crowd.
“What are you doing?” Hugh whispered fiercely. “You cannot challenge the prince to a duel at St. James! This is madness! Apologize and pledge your loyalty, then let’s get out of here. This has gone too far. Isabelle will survive this slur. No one will remember unless you go through with this.”
But Louis’s jaw was clenched and his face was set. Isabelle recognized that same stubbornness in her father. There was no talking him out of it. He would see this through to the very end.
“I look forward to the challenge. I will enjoy winning,” Leo smiled. He looked around. “Find my brother,” he said, irritated when he was unable to see Wolf in the crowd. “Tell him to get my guns.”
It took a little while to locate Wolf, but when they did, each combatant was ready. Louis checked his gun and cocked it back to make sure the bullets were set. He cleaned the handle and practiced removing it from its holster.
“You must walk away while we still can—they will have our heads!” Hugh screeched. “Louis-Philippe, I forbid you to carry this out!”
“You are no longer my guardian, Hugh. I have come into my father’s title. Now, do be quiet, as I have to concentrate,” Louis-Philippe said.
“Louis! Wait!” Isabelle rushed out to the courtyard, pushing away the ladies who attempted to keep her back.
He turned to her, his face open and hopeful. “Yes?”
“Louis…” she said, wonderingly. “Louis, I wanted to tell you something, before…”
“I’m not going to die, Isabelle,” he said.
She gulped and nodded, tears forming in her eyes. She couldn’t believe it. Was he truly doing this for her? She did not believe she was worthy of honor, and here was her cousin, wagering his very life on her virtue. The rules of the duel were clear: whoever won was the moral victor. If Louis-Philippe won the duel, Isabelle of Orleans would be as pure as the driven snow. And if Leopold won, then she would be cast out from society as a wicked woman, a loose woman, a harlot.
“Louis—I love you,” she said. Did she love him? Why had she said that? Because he was about to die for her, and she wanted him to die with that knowledge? To die happy? No. She was not lying. She did love him—she had always loved him, with all of her heart. He was her true love—her childhood friend and protector. But he was a man now.
She had been consumed with sadness to see him with Celestine—to know that he meant to propose to the girl. She had thought she would lose him forever. But the sadness was not just jealousy, like when she had believed herself in love with Leo and wished ill on the princess. She was sad because she wanted Louis to be happy, and she realized that he could be happy without her—perhaps happier, even.
“Isabelle,” Louis said, his face conflicted. “Don’t.”
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“I love you; it’s okay. It’s okay if you don’t love me. But I want you to know that I love you.”
He closed his eyes and holstered his gun.