Flowers From The Storm Read Free

after the Beau had fled his creditors to France, but with blond hair and decided movements as a burnished counterpoint to the die-away airs. The morbid dress was his only concession to his reverend calling, and Christian his only sponsor in it—the dukes of Jervaulx holding, among twenty-nine other clerical appointments, the advowson for the living at St. Matthews-upon-Glade, a bounteous ecclesiastical benefice which Christian had seen fit to bestow on his friend. And a particularly obliging favor it had been, too, considering Durham’s diverting lack of the character attributes generally required of a rector.
    Fane and the dogs followed him in, Devil squeezing past Fane’s boots as the guardsman entered blazing in gold lace and scarlet regimentals and twirling a top hat on his finger. He tossed the hat in Christian’s direction.
    “Sutherland conveys that to you.”
    Christian caught it. He pushed Devil’s forepaws off his lap. “The deuce you say. Sutherland?”
    “They claimed you left it on his doorstep last night.”
    “Who claimed?”
    “Well, who do you think?” Fane dropped himself into a chair, scowling. “His bloody seconds, that’s who claimed.”
    Christian grinned in spite of his headache. “What-ho, is he back in town? He’s called me out already?”
    “Plague take you, Shev, nobody thinks it’s funny,” Durham said. “Sutherland’s the very devil of a shot.”
    Fane stroked Cassie’s head and then picked a black dog hair off his red coat. “He wants it tomorrow morning. Up to you, of course. Pistols, we reckoned—but you might consider sabers, in Sutherland’s case.”
    Christian closed his eyes and opened them. The headache was drowning him; he couldn’t even think properly.
    “Damned unlucky, meeting him in his own hall that way,”“ Fane added grimly. ”I’ll swear he didn’t have a clue about you and l a Sutherland. Just plain dumb-dog luck, that’s all it was. You’d think the silly bastard would want to keep it quiet, wouldn’t you? Just what does he suppose is to come of killing you if he can manage it? A long trip to the continent, or a hanging if he’s slow to bolt. By God, Shev—I’ll rat on him myself if he kills you.“
    Christian frowned at Fane uneasily. He thought this must be some elaborate jest, which he was in no mood to take. But nobody was smiling, and Fane looked downright ugly, his jaw set hard.
    “Sutherland’s seconds called on you this morning?” Christian asked tentatively.
     
    “Cards came at eight.” Durham waved his hand. “Nine o’clock, they were on my stair at Albany. He’s frothing at the bit, Jervaulx. He wants blood.”
    “They said—I was in his house?”
    “Weren’t you?”
    Christian stared at his toes. He could not, when he thought of it, recall much of anything about last night.
    “God. I must have been roaring drunk.”
    Durham blew a harsh breath. “Egad, Jervaulx—do you say you don’t remember?”
    Christian shook his head slightly. He didn’t feel as if he’d been drinking. He didn’t remember starting to drink. He had this headache, and his hand… he just felt strange.
    “Hell,” Durham said, and sat down in a chair. “What a bungle.”
    “Doesn’t matter.” Christian pressed his fingers against the bridge of his nose. “Tomorrow, he wants it?
    Tomorrow’s too soon.”
    “When?”
    “I’m giving a paper tomorrow, night. It’ll have to be Wednesday morning.”
    “Giving a paper?” Fane echoed.
    “A mathematical paper.”
    The colonel just gazed at him.
    “A paper, Fane,” Christian said patiently. “With words on it, by which a message of importance is conveyed. Do you ever read, in the army?”
    “Sometimes,” Fane said.
    “Shev’s a regular Isaac Newt”, y’know.“ Durham leaned back and crossed his legs. ”Though you’d never think it to see him, would you? You look like hell, Jervaulx.“
    “I feel like it,” Christian said. He caressed Devil’s throat with his left hand and