In the Arms of a Marquess(101)

“But no one can, can they?” He laughed, a round sort of contempt. “It doesn’t matter who you are, Ben, whatever it is you do with all those ships, or in that office. You are alone. You may hold a title, but you are not one of us. You will never be a true Englishman.”

Ben shook his head. “How you must have railed against fate when I came into the title instead of Jack. Me, a living incarnation of what you most despised. I cannot imagine. Frustration? Fury? So you sought another method for controlling associations between natives and Englishmen, providing wives for all those sailors and Company officials miles away from home. But you did not ask the girls first if they liked the idea. And then you treated them like cargo.”

Styles’s eyes narrowed. “My way will win, Ben, and yours will be trampled under the feet of men whose boots a mongrel like you should not even be permitted to shine.”

“Dirty words, Walker, and beneath you. But you have reached your end, and I think you know it or you would not have been waiting here for me like a snake under a rock. Fate has thwarted you at every turn and you are furious, not only that I discovered your crimes, but that I have never bowed to your natural superiority. You are an arrogant son of a bitch.”

“More arrogant than a man who comes to meet his enemy unarmed? You are a fool, Ben.”

Ben laughed, a dry, weary sound, an affectation perfected in a distant lifetime to depress the attentions of men and women he had used for information and no longer needed.

“What need have I of a weapon, Styles?”

Styles’s eyes flickered with uncertainty. “You imagine that I fear you. I don’t.”

“Walker, the greatest difficulty I have had in these past days is in trying to imagine anything at all about your intentions and wishes.” He regarded him steadily. “But you do fear me.”

Styles said nothing. Then he pivoted, strode into the captain’s cabin, and returned with a sword in either hand.

Ben shook his head. “Come now. You know I will win.”

Styles threw a weapon forward. It skidded along the planking, jarring to a halt against Ben’s boot. The tip shone sharp in the dim light.

“No, Walker.”

“Fight me now, or I will shoot you.” He shook the pistol. “I have been carrying this for days for precisely that purpose, you know. Of course you know.” He laughed. “You know everything.”

Ben retrieved the rapier and palmed the hilt. Styles set the pistol down and came forward swiftly. Ben raised his weapon and parried the first attack, metal snapping against metal in quick clicks, echoing across the low-slung space. Styles drew back momentarily, scanning Ben’s easy stance with ever brightening eyes.

“Do you know, old friend,” Ben said quietly, “despite your hatred, I think you are confused.”

Styles came at him again, cheeks florid. Ben allowed him to advance, blades meeting in swift attack and parry, but Styles never pressed close enough for concern, and Ben did not riposte.

“You are a finer swordsman than this, Walker. You are not trying.”

Styles struck out again, blades clashing then the slide of release as Ben deflected the blow and steel clanked against the heavy black flank of a cannon, close to the hilt. Styles’s arm jerked aside and he grabbed his wrist with a strangled oath.

“Damn you, Doreé. You will not win.”

“I have already won.” He diverted another hit, pressing his opponent’s sword arm wide. “You cannot hurt me.”

“You are wrong.” Styles paused, his breaths labored, eyes glittering with something more than anger. With emotion deep and pained. “You did not deserve a brother like Jack. Or Arthur. You did not deserve their title. You don’t deserve any of it.”

Ben lowered his weapon. “I will not kill you, Walker.”

“Then I will kill you.” His sword clattered to the planking. He reached into his pocket, yanked out the pistol and cocked it anew. “Decide now.”

“I wonder.” Ben allowed his gaze to slip along the length of the steel in his own hand. “Is it the fear of being discovered by your fellow lords as a criminal, or your consuming guilt that frightens you the most?”

“Crispin is running scared. He won’t talk.”

“Yes, you have cleaned house very nicely. Jonas Sheeble is dead and you do not even own this vessel any longer. And yet here you are. Interesting.” He set the sword tip upon the floor. “The guilt will never fade, Walker. You know it won’t.” At the corner of his vision, movement stirred. On the stair rail, a tiny shape descended to the deck upon spindly legs, its long tail curled in an arc for balance.

Ben’s breath stilled.

No.

No.

Styles raised the pistol. “You have no proof against me. Watch me win now.”

Ben stepped forward, closing the distance between them slowly, every muscle tensed. “I could turn you in.”

“I have more friends in Parliament than you ever will. You cannot touch me.”

The monkey leapt off the stair rail onto the floor, then scampered atop a cannon. Styles’s head jerked around. Ben’s heart raced. Footsteps descended the steps and he nearly shouted, but the tread was heavy, the boots upon the boards a man’s. Abha.

But if Abha were here, she might be as well.

“The pistol is cocked, Abha.” Ben lifted his blade at the ready, gaze pinned to Styles as he moved away from the stair, dividing Styles’s attention.