Page 21 of Gentleman Jim

“Are you enjoying the play, Miss Honeywell?” he asked.

“Yes, thank you.”

“Kean is a rare talent, don’t you think?”

“As you say.”

“I had the privilege of seeing this very play only last week. Mrs. Bartley’s performance as Lady Macbeth was particularly good. I didn’t think another actress could compare, but Mrs. Hill has done a creditable job of it so far. It will be interesting to see how she handles the sleepwalking scene in Act V.” St. Clare waited for a response. None was forthcoming. “I beg your pardon. Have I done something to offend you?”

She at last turned to address him, her voice dropping to a low, accusing whisper. “You know that you have.”

His brows lifted. “Indeed, I do not.”

“Do you think me a complete ninny, my lord? I knew about the duel, did I not? Do you suppose for a moment that I didn’t promptly learn the result of it?”

“I suppose nothing of the sort.”

“Well, then?” she demanded.

He regarded her thoughtfully. “I begin to think that the results of the duel didn’t please you.”

“No, they most certainly did not!” Miss Honeywell leaned toward him, her voice dropping even lower. St. Clare caught the subtle scent of her perfume. “You shot Mr. Burton-Smythe. You promised me, on your honor that—”

“That I would not kill him. And I didn’t.”

“You shot him.”

“In the shoulder.”

“And did it not occur to you that your shot might have inadvertently gone too high or too wide? In a high wind, I daresay you might have accidentally blown his head off!”

St. Clare failed to suppress a smile. By God, he liked her show of temper. It was a refreshing change from the frailty she’d exhibited when she’d called on him in Grosvenor Square. “My shooting doesn’t allow for accidents, Miss Honeywell. My bullet went exactly where I meant it to go. The place where it would hurt him the most.”

She gave him a skeptical look. “His shoulder?”

“His pride. You know as well as I do that had I allowed him to emerge unscathed it would only have emboldened him. Your Mr. Burton-Smythe needed to be taught a lesson. He needed to be humiliated. I hope he’ll be a much better person now.”

Miss Honeywell bristled. “He’s not my Mr. Burton-Smythe.”

“I’m very happy to hear it.”

“And if you think anything could make him a better person, then you’re very much mistaken.”

“Yes. Perhaps I am. In truth, I suspect he’ll need to be shot a great many more times in order to effect a noticeable change.”

Miss Honeywell swiftly looked away from him. A smile quivered on her lips. She visibly struggled to suppress it. “I think you’re a scoundrel.”

St. Clare grinned. For a moment, he forgot the countless number of opera glasses that were no doubt fixed upon the two of them. “A scoundrel to whom you owe three forfeits.”

“Oh, do I?”

“Come, Miss Honeywell. I refuse to believe that you’re the sort of lady who would fail to keep her word.”

“My word?” she repeated. “How can you expect me to fulfill the terms of our agreement when you have not?”

“I did precisely as you asked me. I did not kill him.”

She occupied herself with straightening one of her long gloves. “You kept to the letter of the agreement, I’ll grant you,” she admitted grudgingly. “But you failed to honor the spirit of it.”