gunpowder, when there is none. They think they are in a field strewn with dead bodies and hostile soldiers. I can show you a book if you wish.”
“No, thanks,” Jeremy said. “I regret the pain those men experience, but my reactions are not as extreme.”
“If you’re so certain, you should demonstrate it,” Grégoire spat.
They’d reached the crux of the matter, the reason Grégoire asked for this meeting.
“How would I do that?”
“I can prove that you pose a risk to your wife and even your unborn children,” Grégoire said. He reached down to a case by his chair and pulled out a pistol. Before he was conscious of moving, Jeremy had the pistol in his right hand and Grégoire’s wrist in his left.
“What are you doing?” his cousin cried.
Jeremy moved back a step, dropping Grégoire’s wrist. Grégoire began shaking it as if his bones had been crushed. “I’m looking at a man who wants my title; why would I allow you to wield a weapon in my presence?”
“I’m trying to help!” Grégoire squealed. “I don’t need your money. I never have. I speak this truth for the good of the family. You’re a menace to those you love, and all I want to do is demonstrate it.”
“By shooting me.” It wasn’t a question.
“Of course not!” Grégoire’s eyes bulged with indignation.
Jeremy actually believed him. Grégoire was a monster, but a sneaky one. Probably not a murderer. At least, not face-to-face. Murder left a mark on a man that he recognized, even if the death happened on a battlefield.
He looked down at the pistol. “What the hell are you thinking, keeping a loaded gun in the castle?”
“This book says that men lose their senses when they hear a shot,” Grégoire said, pointing. “If I shoot that pistol, you’ll fall into a state. I’ll prove to you that it would be immoral to marry.”
Jeremy almost scoffed at him, but there was just enough of a question in his own mind . . . “If I became violent, I could injure you,” he pointed out.
Kill him, more likely.
“I’ll duck behind the screen,” Grégoire said, pointing to a tall screen just by the window, designed to hide a chamber pot. “You won’t know I’m here. Remember, you won’t be yourself.”
“Then how will I know what happened?”
“We could summon a witness.”
“We’ll have a hundred. You’re talking about shooting a pistol in the middle of the night.”
“Obviously I would shoot out the window,” Grégoire said. “You can shoot the weapon yourself, if you prefer.”
“I do prefer,” Jeremy said. An “accidental” death might be within Grégoire’s capabilities.
“If others hear the shot and join us, it will simply prove my point, won’t it?” Grégoire moved over to the sideboard. “I need something to steady my nerves. Whisky?”
The man was hoping to befuddle him. Jeremy was growing more curious about this demonstration by the second. Men had committed murder for the title of squire, let alone marquess.
Grégoire handed him a glass of whisky.
Jeremy tossed it back with a silent apology to Lady Knowe. Grégoire obviously didn’t know that he was unaffected by whisky, whereas Grégoire had been notorious at Oxford for his inability to hold his liquor.
He poured himself another glass and refilled Grégoire’s as well. “Shall we drink to my marriage?” And, meeting Grégoire’s stony gaze, “No?”
“To the gods of war,” Grégoire said, drinking.
Jeremy didn’t join him, as those particular gods were no friends of his. “You surprise me,” he observed. “Those gods surely failed you when I returned safe and sound.”
“You may be safe, but sound?” Grégoire’s smile flickered like a serpent’s tongue. “Let’s drink to the exquisite Lady Boadicea.” The ghost of a French accent hung around Grégoire’s vowels; the whisky was already affecting him.
“Queen Boadicea was a failed warrior, much as you were,” Grégoire said, raising his glass. “It must create a bond between you.”
Jeremy tossed off the toast and put down his glass.
An icy sensation was building in his chest. Grégoire was right about one thing. The thought of a red welt across Betsy’s cheek made his heart stop. He had carried her home from the brewhouse; her bones were as delicate as a bird’s in comparison to his.
If he mistook her for a soldier and threw her against a wall . . .
He might kill her indeed. A shard of agony speared through him at the thought, throwing him back onto the field where flies circled the faces of dead men, and every death was his fault. If he . . . if that happened