Retreating carefully, afraid that a chair would become dislodged from its place and trip him from behind, Jeremy realized that he faced an experienced duelist, an opponent who combined force with cunning, brute strength with practiced skill. But his confidence in his own ability was strong, and his zest for combat was keen. He was deft in beating off Sir fan's attack, and he repeatedly thrust back at the older man, the point of his blade darting in and out as he sought an opening, a clue to the Scotsman's weaknesses.
Then, without warning, he stopped moving backward and lunged savagely just as the Bonnie Maid righted herself after a shuddering pitch. The wild, unorthodox tactic startled the baronet, and he fell back a pace. As he did so, Jeremy moved on to the offensive.
In a few moments it became clear that Sir Ian was finding it difficult to gauge the unorthodox style of a left-handed swordsman, and he manifestly did not enjoy being on the defensive. Sweat made his expensive lawn shirt soggy, and his thick brows were drawn together as he concentrated his full attention on the duel that was, very unexpectedly, no jest. Twice again they circled the table, and the baronet muttered a wild Gaelic curse under his breath, changed his stance abruptly, then sliced desperately, wickedly, at the younger man.
Jeremy raised his own weapon to eye level barely in time, but Sir fan's thrust was so brutal that it almost knocked the gunsmith's blade from his hand. The Scotsman seemed suddenly determined to end the duel speedily and was apparently indifferent to his own fate as he slashed and cut repeatedly at his opponent. But Jeremy would not again retreat, for he knew that to do so would be fatal. Holding his ground on the heaving deck, he was forced to parry, to catch the other's blade on the outside of his own, and time and again to send it harmlessly past his body, over his shoulder, away from his face and head.
He continued to fight evenly, steadily, never missing his stride, never losing a beat in the intricate rhythm of the deadly combat, and at last a look of reluctant admiration appeared in Sir lan's eyes. He had certainly not expected to find Jeremy so formidable an opponent, and the competition merely whetted his appetite. He redoubled the vigor of his attack, but Jeremy continued to hold firm, and the metallic clatter of clashing swords increased until it became a furious din.
"Stop—instantly! What does this mean? Stop, I say!"
Both blades were lowered as the sound of the commanding feminine voice penetrated the separate consciousnesses of the duelists. Breathing hard, they looked toward the door, where the Duchess Caroline, clad in a thin dressing gown of white silk, with her wheat-colored hair disheveled and her eyes heavy with sleep, glared at them malevolently. Sir Ian was the first to recover.
"My deepest apologies for disturbing your slumber, Your Grace," he said. "But I was in the process of exterminating a verminous charlatan and mountebank. If you will be good enough to withdraw, I shall finish what I have begun."
Caroline received the news in unblinking silence. "Charlatan? Mountebank? Kindly explain yourself, Ian."
The Scotsman bowed low, almost too low, and his tone when he replied was faintly ironic. "With pleasure. This man is not Terence Bartlett. He is an impostor. Mademoiselle Groliere, the daughter of the ship's captain, can give you full details. She "
"Stop! I've heard quite enough." Caroline's voice remained high and clear, and aside from a slight tremor in her hands she seemed in absolute command of herself. "If his lordship chooses to masquerade as Terence Bartlett, he does so to our great advantage rather than our detriment. Permit me to apologize to you for this inconvenience, milord."
Jeremy could only gape at her in total astonishment. Her calm at hearing him denounced as an impostor was merely a confirmation of his fears after his private interview with her. But to be called "milord" was bewilderingly incomprehensible. The effect on Sir Ian was equally startling, and he seemed to lose the power of speech.
Caroline turned again to her chamberlain. "You owe his lordship an apology, Ian," she said evenly.
"His lordship? Who is he?" The Scotsman's face was twisted into an ugly grimace as he peered at Jeremy.
Before the young gunsmith could speak, Caroline cut in swiftly. "His lordship is traveling incognito, and I have agreed to respect his wish not to reveal his identity," she said blandly. "And you, milord," she continued severely to Jeremy, "surely you knew that Sir Ian would sooner or later learn that you are not Bartlett. You must realize that my trusted adviser works and lives only to assist and protect me, and it was wrong of you, very wrong, to fight him because he stumbled on a portion of the truth about you."
For the first time Jeremy spoke. "That was not why I crossed swords with him, Your Grace, I could claim that I acted only in self-defense, that if I had not taken up a blade he would have killed me where I stood, but that would not be precisely accurate. I was happy to fight him, for he is a near murderer. Had it not been for my interruption, he would have killed a man."
"Sir Ian—a murderer?" Caroline's thin brows arched delicately.
"There was a slight accident after the storm, Your Grace,** the baronet declared, "and this—ah—his lordship chose to misinterpret it. A manservant in our party who likes his jar of rum overmuch has been imprisoned in the ship's brig because of insolent conduct. As a humanitarian gesture I had him brought to the deck for air after the storm, for the hold is stuffy, and he suffered during the worst of the weather. He almost fell overboard, and milord here dashed to the rescue first. That's all there is to the matter." Sir Ian laughed harshly and glared at Jeremy as though daring him to contradict the story.
Caroline's face was a smooth mask. "I see," was all she said.
Jeremy was on the verge of mentioning the Scots guard who had vanished, but realized that would be Dirk's word against that of men of standing, and he held back. He thought of asking Caroline to summon Tully and hear the servant's own story of what had been done to him. But such a demand might set in motion a chain of events that would rebound to his own disadvantage, and his position was tenuous at best. Sir Ian undoubtedly had reason for wanting to be rid of Tully, and Jeremy's continued interference would merely increase the baronet's already deep hatred for him. In addition, there was Caroline's own knowledge that he was an impostor, and this, coupled with her amazing assertion that he was a nobleman, required his full attention. He had done all he could for Tully, he told himself, and hereafter must look out for himself.
"I trust you have nothing more to say, milord?" Caroline sounded almost as though she were giving a command rather than asking a question.
"I have already said all that it is possible for me to say. Your Grace." Jeremy stood erect, conscious that he was without a shirt.
"Very well, then. And you, Ian—is there more you wish to say?"
"No, Your Grace. Not at the moment."
"Then I shall express myself." Caroline's voice was no louder, but the definitive edge of authority crept into it. "First of all, there is to be no more of this insane dueling. That is the absolute command of Caroline Stuart. Am I understood?"
"Yes, Your Grace." The words were drawn out of both men reluctantly.
"Good. Ian, I place a solemn charge upon you. Under no conditions of any kind, at any time, are you to refer to Master Bartlett as a member of the nobility. He is the nephew of the governor general of Jamaica, and he is no one else. Do I make myself adequately clear?"
"More than adequate." There was again an unmistakable sneer in the Scotsman's tone. "Your Grace will perhaps recall that someone other than I has knowledge that this—gentleman is not Terence Bartlett "