Page 100 of Scandalous

The Frenchman flicked a dismissive hand. “What does it matter?”

“You have no proof of anything.”

D’Armand made a tsking noise. “Oh, Bouchard, you have been away a long time. Many things have happened in so many years.” He pivoted and went back to his desk, drawing out a folded sheaf of papers with an official-looking seal. He waved it in front of Martín’s face.

“The authorities here will not stop me from taking you back when they see this.”

Martín reached out a hand, stopping d’Armand in mid-rant.

“What? You wish to look at this? What good would it do you? There are no pictures.” D’Armand laughed.

“I can read.”

The Frenchman’s eyebrows inched up his forehead. “Has someone been teaching you tricks? How precocious.” He advanced on Martín. “Of course you may see it, not that it matters. You will find yourself on a ship heading back to New Orleans before you can even blink. You killed a peer, Bouchard, not some sailor in a bar fight. I could have had you clapped in irons already.”

D’Armand resembled a snake in speed as well as demeanor, and the papers were a white blur that made a crack like the rapport of a gun when they struck Martín’s face.

Martín lunged, but was stopped by something hard pressed against his sternum.

“You. Killed. My. Father,” d’Armand whispered, pushing the gun into Martín’s chest. “He might not have been much of a father, but he was the head of my family. A family that can trace its lineage back to Charlemagne. And you?” He shook his head, hatred rolling off him in waves. “Now. Step back.”

Martín recognized the white-hot rage in the other man’s eyes and complied.

The Frenchman tossed him the papers, took a step back, and tucked the pistol into the back of his breeches, where it must have been all along.

Martín looked at the mass of copperplate writing before extracting a pair of spectacles from a pocket on his coat. His eyes quickly found the word murder, and he read enough to know the Frenchman had somehow found out what had happened that night.

“I would exercise this warrant right now, but your friend Ramsay has already told me he will know where to look if anything untoward happens to you. He is a truly powerful man and related to half the English peerage. I prefer not to dodge him and his annoying band of associates all the way back to New Orleans. I could hand this paper over to the right person, and you would find yourself in the deepest cell in Newgate. But lucky for you, Bouchard, I will not tolerate having this matter dragged before the courts—either here or in New Orleans.” D’Armand’s sneer deepened, and he leaned back against his desk, crossing his arms.

“Particularly when there is a better, quicker way of settling the issue. I have the right to avenge my father in a duel. When I kill you, it will be a matter of honor. I will lose your stud services, of course, but I suspect you would have proved intractable and ultimately . . . unprofitable.”

“And what will I get for killing you?” Martín asked.

D’Armand laughed. “So much fire! I can see why my father enjoyed making you kneel.” He raked cold eyes down Martín’s body, the look calculated and insulting. “You will not kill me, but I will still make you an offer. I will give you your deed.”

Martín snorted. “That is unnecessary. But you will give me Valerie’s and the boy’s.” He would take her and Gaston away from d’Armand with or without the papers, but their lives would be far easier if they had them. Martín turned to the woman. “Are there any others?” he asked, not bothering to explain what he meant.

She gave d’Armand a long, inscrutable look before shaking her head.

“I will want their papers and your word you will release them into Ramsay’s care—no matter what happens. In exchange, I will deed everything over in advance, and you will not have to wait to get your hands on my ship and my property. If you do not agree, you will get nothing. I will deed it all away to Ramsay, and you can try to fight him for it.”

D’Armand’s breathing quickened, and Martín wondered if the man would shoot him right now and be done with it.

But d’Armand wanted his pound of flesh, so he shrugged. “Very well—but I will give the warrant to the authorities here. If you live, I will not have you go on with your life as if you’ve done nothing wrong. No, you will be punished for what you did. That is the only offer I will accept.”

So, there it was. He would have to kill d’Armand, grab Valerie and the boy, and leave England immediately after the duel. That would mean he couldn’t—

“I said very well to your terms. Do you agree to mine?” d’Armand said when Martín made no response.

“I agree.”

“Excellent. Now, how do you prefer to die?”

Martín would have liked to choose fists, but knew that would not be an option: d’Armand wanted blood and death. “I choose pistols.”

Again, d’Armand shrugged, as if it didn’t matter one way or another. “I assume Ramsay will be your second?”

The last thing Martín wanted was Hugh getting involved and telling his wife, who would no doubt tell Sarah. “No. The Marquess of Exley will second me.”