Page 19 of The Phantom Duke
Simon was sweating and beginning to lose breath.
“For such a big man, you are very fast. It is rather unfair,”
“Less talk.”
Simon’s feet tangled as Damien’s attack intensified. He fell to his bottom on the hardwood floor of the ballroom. Damien’s blade came to rest against his chest.
“Do you yield?” he asked.
“Of course, I bloody yield! I’m on my backside,” Simon said, tossing his sword aside, “I do not know why I agree to these sessions. I have not beaten you yet.”
“There was that one time.”
“Oh yes, you had a fever and could barely breathe, but refused to admit you were ill.”
“Until you won the duel. Then I appreciated the severity of my condition.”
Damien did not smile beyond a tightening of his lips, showing teeth. Nothing about his face changed, what was visible beneath the mask. He sheathed his rapier and offered a hand, which Simon took. Damien hauled him to his feet without apparent effort.
“So, why should I care for this gossip rag?” Damien asked.
“Because it is read by thousands, and it has been particularly focused on the Phantom of Winterleigh for the last month,” Simon said. “They even say that you have snatched people from the streets and locked them in a dungeon beneath your house. What possible use does a gentleman have for a dungeon?”
“The king has many.”
“You are not a king.”
Damien walked to a bench along one wall, stripping off his shirt as he walked and tossing it casually aside. He picked up fresh linens and threw one to Simon, using the other to dry himself.
“So, you do sweat,” Simon said dryly. “I will not strip off as you do for fear of embarrassing myself.”
Simon rubbed the linen across his face and over his hair. Damien moved to a sideboard where a ceramic jug stood. He poured a glass of cloudy, gray–green liquid.
“Cider?” he asked.
“I thought you didn’t drink.”
“It is not that kind of cider. Just the juice of pressed apples. Not fermented.”
“I’d rather have a crisp, white wine. But, yes, I’ll take one.”
“This is an old house. The Tudors built upon a castle constructed by the Normans who built upon Roman foundations. There is even a rumor that the Saxons had a hill fort here,” Damien said.
“And dungeons,” Simon said.
“How would they know unless they had been inside my house?” Damien said.
“Precisely, and trespass is a crime. So is kidnap. You are sailing close to the wind.”
Damien looked around the room. Thick curtains held out the sunlight except for chinks and cracks. Dust swirled, disturbed the two men and their martial dance. The chandeliers that once glittered and coruscated were covered with sheets and cobwebs. Anyone seeing this ode to a long-forgotten era would judge this the abode of ghosts.
“I am aware,” he finally admitted. “I do not like having my actions dictated by others, especially the jackanapes of the gutter press. Even less the fools who share my status. But I know I am not popular. That I am feared, and as a result, hated. I have taken steps to rectify that.”
Simon sat on the bench with a groan, rubbing at the small of his back.
“I have discovered through the instructive medium of pain several muscle groups I did not know existed before.” Simonsighed deeply and fixed Damien with a weary look. “You cannot hold men against their will. Not unless it is simply to hold them until the proper authorities can take them into custody.”
“I will hold onto my intruder until his fear has taught him a lesson.”
