was very white, with lips set in a hard straight line, and his nostrils slightly expanded.
His Grace shrugged a careless refusal.
“My dear Carstares, why should I fight you?” he inquired, seemingly not in the least annoyed by the other’s intrusion.
“I had anticipated that answer, your Grace. So I brought this!”
As he spoke Jack drove the sword he held into the wood floor, where it stayed, quivering.
Nonchalantly Tracy took it in his hand and glanced at the hilt.
His fingers tightened on it convulsively, and he shot a piercing glance at Jack.
“I am entirely at your service,” he said very smoothly, and laid the sword on the table.
Some of the glare died out of my lord’s eyes, and a little triumphant smile curved the corners of his mouth. Quickly he divested himself of his fine velvet coat, his waistcoat and his scabbard, and pulled off the heavy riding boots, caked with mud. He proceeded to tuck up his ruffles, awaiting his Grace’s convenience.
As one in a dream, Diana saw the table pushed back, the paces measured, and heard the ring of steel against steel.
My lord opened the attack after a few moments’ cautious circling, lunging swiftly and recovering, even as the Duke countered and delivered a lightning riposte en quinte. My lord parried gracefully in tierce, and chuckled softly to himself.
With parted lips and wide eyes, the girl on the couch watched each fresh lunge. A dozen times it seemed as though Carstares must be run through, but each time, by some miraculous means, he regained his opposition, and the Duke’s blade met steel.
Once, indeed, thrusting in quarte, Tracy’s point, aimed too high, flashed above the other’s guard and ripped the cambric shirt at the sleeve. My lord retired his foot nimbly, parried, and riposted with a straight
