“Answer me, you coward,” d’Arque demanded. He drew his sword.
“No!” Isabel screamed, but it was too late.
D’Arque lunged toward the Ghost of St. Giles, his bare sword flashing.
WINTER DREW HIS sword only just in time to counter d’Arque’s attack. He growled under his breath at the cavalier manner in which the other man had handled Isabel and thrust d’Arque’s sword away contemptuously. Winter backed toward the stairs around the corner of the narrow passage. It wasn’t that he was afraid to duel the viscount, but if he pushed the other man, he would retreat… into Isabel, who was behind d’Arque. He simply couldn’t risk her becoming entangled in their swords.
But the viscount wasn’t so easily dissuaded. Evidently thinking he had the Ghost of St. Giles on the run, he pursued Winter.
Winter gritted his teeth and dealt a flurry of thrusts that should’ve had d’Arque on the defensive. The viscount grinned and slapped away Winter’s blade. For a moment Winter stared at the man, nonplussed.
Then he turned and swiftly ran up the stairs, his breath coming in quick pants.
D’Arque followed—the ass—forcing Winter to turn at the top only just in time to avoid a stab in the back.
“Running, Ghost?” d’Arque sneered. He didn’t even seem winded by the run up the stairs. “I hadn’t heard you were such a coward, but then it is easier to fight in the dark and against those untutored in the arts of the sword.”
Oh, but it would be wonderful to reply! Winter didn’t dare—he’d risked enough talking to Isabel. Instead he lunged, silent and lethal, his front foot stomping forward with his thrust.
D’Arque caught his blade, his biceps bulging in his tight-fitting pale blue velvet coat. The viscount’s eyes widened as he teetered on the top of the stairs.
One hard thrust. That was all it would take to send the other man down those stairs and to oblivion. Winter’s breath was tearing at his throat, his pulse beating like a war drum.
He wasn’t an animal.
Winter stepped away, back toward a door behind him, reaching to open it—
D’Arque recovered and leaped toward him.
Winter raised his sword, meeting d’Arque’s savage thrust, the blades shrieking against each other. He half fell through the doorway and was dimly aware of a woman’s scream.
They were in a hallway behind the opera boxes. Around them, people arriving for the opera filled the corridor.
Winter pushed his sword down and away, disengaging their blades, and then kicked d’Arque in the thigh with the flat of his boot. He felt the scrape of the viscount’s blade against his leather jackboot as the other man flailed to keep his balance.
“Damn me!” a florid elderly gentleman exclaimed as Winter backed into him.
D’Arque was flushed, a sheen of sweat showing now at his brow, but he grinned, teeth white against swarthy skin. “Surrender yourself to me, thief.”
Winter bared his teeth and shook his head once.
Then he darted into one of the boxes.
It was occupied, of course. Two gentlemen scattered, leaving a young lady alone, gaping at him.
“Pardon,” Winter whispered to her as he passed by.
He leaned out over the edge of the box. They were only on the first tier, but it was a twenty-foot drop to the pit below. The wide railing ran in a horseshoe all around the theater, ending on either side at the stage. If he could just—
Behind him, the young woman gasped.
Winter whirled. The viscount was already on him, sword flashing. Winter parried, but there wasn’t much room to move. Suddenly d’Arque’s sword was at his throat, held off only by Winter’s own sword. Winter stumbled back a pace, the small of his back hitting the balcony behind him. The blades ground together, shrieking as if for blood, as d’Arque leaned his entire weight against him. Slowly, agonizingly, Winter bent backward over the balcony. He could feel the heat of the other man’s breath, smell his too-sweet perfume mixed with the sharp acid of sweat. His head and upper body hung over nothing but air.
Behind him was a two-story fall.
The viscount panted with his effort as he snarled, “Give up. You’re cornered.”
“No!” cried a familiar, feminine voice from below in the pit. “Adam, no! You must let him go.”
Slowly, Winter grinned, his eyebrows raised behind his mask.
The viscount didn’t like that. His pale eyes narrowed and Winter rather thought that Isabel might’ve sealed his death warrant.
Or she would have if Winter hadn’t spent many, many long nights practicing his sword craft. He took advantage of the viscount’s momentary distraction to shove with all his strength against the other man.
D’Arque fell back and Winter leaped onto the balcony rail.
He heard a scream from the pit below, but he dared not look down. D’Arque leaped onto the rail as well. The other man’s sword flashed out, headed for Winter’s face. Winter batted d’Arque’s sword aside and thrust low toward the man’s pelvis.
No man liked to be hit there. D’Arque’s reaction was too jerky and for a second his balance wavered, his free arm windmilling in the air over the pit.
Gasps from below.
Winter softly tutted.
“Damn you,” d’Arque growled, lunging anew.
Winter didn’t like the man, but then again, he didn’t want to kill the viscount either. He had no clear evidence against d’Arque. The man might still be innocent. Winter skipped backward on the railing, parrying d’Arque’s attack as he retreated toward the stage. He almost laughed aloud. His heart was racing, his limbs were strong and quick, and he felt free.
Only fools take victory for granted. The ghostly voice of Sir Stanley echoed in his mind.
They fought along the rail, nearing the stage, the occupants scattering as they passed each box.
D’Arque slashed at Winter’s face. Winter leaned to the side and pinked the viscount on the upper left arm. The point of his sword slid through the viscount’s pale blue silk coat, ripping a long diagonal hole as Winter jerked it free.
Red began to stain the pale blue.
D’Arque lunged in awkward rage, and Winter easily avoided the attack. But the viscount had put too much weight on his outer foot. He tilted over the pit and began to fall as shrieks rose from below.
Winter didn’t stop to think. He simply grabbed the man’s free arm, pulling him back from death.
D’Arque’s sword fell to the pit, stabbing into a plush chair, where it stood upright, wobbling from side to side.