Moonstruck Madness Read Free Page B

to half his end of the table. "Personally, I do. Get a much snugger fit, and not half as much trouble with fleas."
    "Wish he'd take them in hand. I've seen the Duke deal with loose fish before." He glanced slyly at the object of his words before adding quietly behind his hand, "How do you think he got that scar, eh?"
    They chuckled at the thought of a confrontation between the parties concerned and went on to discuss in detail the possible fate of the upstarts at the hands of the Duke.
    "This is an absolute honor, you know," Malton added to his neighbor, "to have the Duke visit. He's never down this way much, but I've some land I'm selling and he wanted to see it first. Handles all these things himself, you know." Lord Malton smiled smugly as he looked at the Duke.
    The Duke of Camareigh was oblivious to the speculations of his powers of persuasion as he stared in boredom into the dregs of his glass, wondering why he had accepted Malton's invitation rather than putting up at an inn. How quickly he'd forgotten how outrageously dull these rustic supper parties were. He smiled cynically as he remembered that Malton was, after all, his host.
    "What is so amusing, Your Grace?" Lord Newley demanded, a sour look on his dissipated face.
    "A mere thought at my own expense, Newley, nothing more," the Duke commented, the smile momentarily widening over his aquiline features, touching just briefly the thin scar that etched its way across the left side of his face, from the edge of his high cheekbone to the corner of his mouth. It added an almost sinister cast to his features, his expression masked in heavy-lidded, thickly lashed eyes that gave nothing away in a mocking glance.
    "I hope you remember about our engagement for Friday? I intend to win back that pair of dueling pistols I lost to you. Finest pair I had, too. German-made by Kolbe, you know. Shouldn't play against you, you're too damned good, or maybe lucky," Lord Newley grumbled, putting up a thin hand to straighten his wig, which was slightly askew above his sunken cheeks.
    "It's not luck, but expertise. What else is a gentleman of leisure to do but refine his talents at gambling?" the Duke replied lazily.
    "And with les jeunes files, eh?" Lord Newley snickered, giving a broad wink at the others.
    "Wish you'd put me wise to that refinement, Your Grace," someone guffawed loudly.
    "Ah, donn-ezmoi I'amour," another added dramatically, kissing his fingers to his lips for effect.
    "Better not let your wife in the next room hear that," Lord Malton bellowed from the other end of the table, "or she'll teach you how to play the game!"
    No one noticed the velvet hangings move imperceptibly as if a draught had disturbed them, and none thought anything amiss until a masked figure emerged silently from behind their concealment.
    "Please, gentlemen, no sudden moves. If you will just keep your hands upon the table like good lads, I'll not be forced to kill you," the masked figure warned as he motioned menacingly with the barrel of a pistol in one hand and a thin sword held deftly in the other. He stood defiantly before them, dressed in a black frock coat trimmed with silver braid, a silver brocade waistcoat and black velvet breeches. A tartan sash in vivid reds and blues stretched across his chest and was pinned by a cairngorm brooch to his pure white stock. Heavy jackboots reached above his knees, with spurs that jingled above the square, massive heels. On his head he wore a cocked hat with an eagle's feather stuck into its high brim. The upper half of his face was covered by a black crepe mask, the thin silk gauze covering his features except for the two holes where his eyes stared malevolently at the assembled guests.
    Lord Malton jerked upright in his chair, an incredulous look of surprise spreading across his broad features. A murmur of shock passed through the room as the other gentlemen reacted similarly, dismay mixed with outrage showing in their expressions, except for one who