Damnation and Hellfire - Chapter Nine
Jules was absolutely certain that he was a dead man. There was no mistaking the press of steel against the skin of his throat, the edge turned inward to slice cleanly. He stared into the eyes of Phileas Fogg and found he wasn't afraid or even outraged, just . . . baffled. If there was any anger, it was that he would never know why this had happened, why his friend had turned on him in this fashion.
Hardly the most literate of last thoughts.
And yet not a last thought, because the knife was drawn away. Fogg rocked back on his heels, the determined line of his lips curling into a smile as he uttered a single, soft word, "No."
"No?" echoed the man in the black robes, more than a hint of vexation in his tone.
At the removal of the knife from his throat, Jules had released the breath he'd been holding in a relieved gasp. Now he stared up at the man in the black robes, suspecting that his reprieve might very well be short-lived.
Fogg rose to his feet. "Not this way." His tone was pleasant, as he handed the knife back to the other man, hilt first. "You've asked what I wanted from the club, Whitmore. I've decided. I want a duel."
"A duel?" asked Whitmore.
"Yes." Fogg lowered his eyes to meet Jules' gaze. "With him."
There was no hint of friendship in that gaze, no explanation. Jules swallowed but held back the questions; it seemed pointless to ask when he knew they wouldn't be answered. Although being treated like an object instead of a person was beginning to irritate him.
"He hardly seems the type," said Whitmore, tapping the blade of the dagger against his own cheek, studying Jules.
"He's a foreigner of no consequence, a law student, a would-be writer who's been a millstone around my neck for the past few months. My cousin took a fancy to him and I hadn't the heart to turn him away because of it. This evening he tried to invite himself to dinner at my club and I turned him down. I've allowed him to sponge the occasional meal off me, but this really is the limit, don't you agree, Baron?"
The words of a stranger. The eyes of a stranger. And - still dressed in the crimson ceremonial robes - the look of a stranger.
Jules bit his lip, fought for control of the fury growing within his chest, and waited, watching the two discussing him as if conversing about a hunting dog - no, not worth even that much . . . a lapdog - that was no longer of any use. He was tempted to make a break for the door, but knew that he'd have little chance of reaching it without being overtaken by these men, particularly since one was Fogg and the other an unknown quantity with a knife.
"But a duel?" pressed Whitmore, watching Fogg again. He shook his head, obviously unconvinced.
Fogg's gaze never wavered from Jules. "I've been teaching him to fence, saber and foil, to pass the time if nothing else. I'd like to see if he's learned anything, if I've been able to teach him," the word was almost spat in contempt, "anything useful. Call it nothing more than an exercise, a test of my methodology, if you wish. Come now, it's not all that much to ask. There are men here tonight who can handle any difficulties with the Queen's justice, if that becomes an issue. I'm in the mood for bit of exercise right now and I can't be bothered hauling him over to the Continent to avoid the restrictions on dueling. That seems an awful lot of effort for a bit of fun."
Whitmore stared past Fogg, as if giving the request serious consideration for the first time. "Public or private?"
"Oh, public, I should think. Put on something of a show for the membership - in the main salon, perhaps?" Only then did Fogg look to Whitmore, gesturing toward the knife. "Far more sportsmanlike than that, in any case. No problems with the body - as I said, a young Frenchman foolish enough to challenge me to a duel? What trouble could there be?"
"And if he won't fight--?"
"I'll fight," said Jules angrily. He placed his knuckles to the floor on either side of his body, planning to lever himself back to a standing position, but Fogg placed the heel of his left boot against Jules' chest, pushing him down to the floor immediately.
"He's not stupid," said Fogg sharply, his attention centering on Whitmore, as if Jules' declaration had never occurred. "It's either a duel, with sabers I think, or a knife across the throat. No one will believe a word he says, if he dares to say anything. He might even think he could beat me."
Whitmore smiled. "I suppose there's little chance of that occurring."
"Absolutely none whatsoever." Fogg raised a rakish eyebrow. "You did say you'd supply anything I wanted. Well, here it is - I want to duel with him in the public room downstairs, tonight. I want to kill him before a crowd of my peers and I want to walk away from it without any legal entanglements. Is that so much to ask?"
"I was prepared to offer you more. Much more."
Jules again considered shifting Fogg's boot from his chest, the weight still pinning him to the floor, and attempting a run for it - but Whitmore gazed down at him again; the look in the man's eyes was positively chilling. If anything, it favored the predatory, the look Jules imagined a wolf might turn on a lesser member of the pack, one that must be culled from the group in a manner that wasn't entirely without entertainment value. He glared back, putting his force of will behind his stare.
Whitmore seemed more amused than daunted at his response, his gaze becoming even more intense. "There's to be a ceremony at midnight in the lower chambers. Are you certain you wouldn't prefer to deal with the whelp then? I can promise you sole authority in the matter until such time as you're satisfied, or you allow your peers to finish the business. If he's of no real importance, as you say, and a foreigner, there'd be no difficulty in disposing of the remains . . . ."
His life was being threatened. With what, specifically, Jules didn't know, but there was something in Whitmore's gaze that caused him to swallow hard, the threat assuming the shape and form of an indefinite horror in his mind. His defiance did not so much break, as ratchet down a notch until he could grasp the substance of this threat.
"Must I make my request a third time?" asked Fogg. There was an element of weary annoyance in his tone - he might have been reciting instructions that had been given a number of times before to an idiot servant.
Whitmore's eyes shifted from Jules, narrowing as he gazed at Fogg. His tongue flicked across his lips as if he were trying to come to grips with the man's stubborn insistence. And then, he smiled. "No. If that's your foremost desire from us at the moment, the Hellfire Club shall be happy to oblige. Although," he gestured toward Jules, "he's hardly dressed for the occasion. To maintain even the semblance of propriety, he should resemble something other than a servant to have the challenge taken seriously - never mind the ill effects such a precedent might have on the staff. We already have some difficulty in that regard; knowing they might be challenged to fight for their lives by one of their betters . . . it would make filling positions with adequate candidates a daunting proposition in the future."
Fogg nodded, as if in agreement. Removing his boot from Jules' chest, he reached down a hand and helped pull Jules to his feet in such a familiar fashion that Jules didn't think to resist. "A waistcoat and frock coat will hardly be necessary, more likely a hindrance," noted Fogg, placing one hand firmly on Jules' shoulder and keeping it there, despite efforts to shake off the hold. "A shirt and trousers will be sufficient. Boots, if you can find a pair in his size. I'll be wearing similar attire, of course."
"I think we can manage." Whitmore glanced again at Jules, shook his head as if in disappointment, and walked to the door. He opened it, crooked his finger, and the head footman followed him into the room. "Take - um - what's his name?" Whitmore asked, his attention on Fogg.
"Jules Verne," said Jules sharply, turning away from Fogg, but still watching him from the corner of his eye. The memory of the knife at his throat made him wary, despite the part of his soul still insisting that Fogg would never betray him in this manner.
Whitmore waited for a second for Fogg's confirmation, then turned his attention to the footman again. "Take Mr. Verne to a spare room and help him change - he'll need a shirt and trousers, as well as boots. Be careful of the fit on the boots, as well; he's to fight a duel with Mr. Fogg."
"Speaking of which--" Fogg turned Jules to face him. "You're to take advantage of every opening I give you during the fight. Do you hear me, you fool, every advantage?" When Jules nodded and looked away, he added, "I want to give them a show. Fight well, give me back everything I've taught you, and I'll promise you a clean end. But if you try anything, or you refuse to fight, I'll hamstring you and then I'll hand you over to Baron Whitmore. Is that understood?"
Jules turned his gaze back to Fogg, relenting for a moment, hoping to see some spark of recognition, some friendly feeling in the man's eyes. But there was nothing. "What happens if I win?"
Fogg's smile softened around the edges. "To win, you'd have to kill me."
"I assumed that." Jules looked toward Whitmore. "Give me a reason to win."
Whitmore blinked in surprise, then laughed in honest amusement. "Fogg, I'm beginning to see your method in this madness. He's got a backbone." He met Jules' gaze with something akin to apology, the smile curling into faint regret. "I've nothing to offer you, Mr. Verne, except an easy death. After what you've seen, I can't allow you to leave the club alive."
"Then I'll make him my heir," said Fogg. When Jules turned to look at him in astonishment, his friend's expression was serious, attention centered on Whitmore. "If he's good enough to kill me, he's good enough to take my place. I told you, Baron, he's far from stupid - there's genius in there." He raised a hand to tap the back of Jules' head, ignoring the answering scowl. "I'll deed him everything I own, including my membership in the inner circle. I'm sure he'll be able to provide proof of some adventure dishonorable enough to meet your qualifications, if killing me in front of the club membership isn't sufficient."
Whitmore laughed again and walked toward them, nodding in approval. "Yes. Yes, I like the idea. I knew you enjoyed a wager, Fogg, but I'd no idea you'd be willing to risk everything on a whim. Quite admirable." Still grinning, he turned to Jules. "Is that sufficient reason for you? Shall we shake on it, gentlemen?"
Jules turned and glared at Fogg, ignoring the hand offered to him. "I'd prefer it in writing."
Fogg dropped the offered hand, clapping him on the back instead, surprising the hell out of him with the gesture as Fogg laughed aloud - the sound was too honest and familiar to bear hearing. "Brilliant idea. I wouldn't have it any other way." He gestured toward Jules, addressing his comment to Whitmore. "Didn't I tell you he wasn't stupid?"
"This becomes more intriguing by the moment." The baron gestured the footman forward. "Escort Mr. Verne to a room, as I said. Keep a close eye on him. Mr. Fogg and I will see to the appropriate paperwork - we have more then a few men downstairs who could draft such a document quickly enough . . . if they're still sober." He turned toward Jules with an elaborate gesture. "If that meets with your approval, Mr. Verne?"
Meeting the patronizing tone by squaring his shoulders and asserting what dignity he could muster - which proved difficult in his stocking feet and the footman's outfit - Jules nodded his assent. "Yes."
"Then we'll begin the duel after you've approved the document. Au revoir."
The footman placed a hand on Jules' upper arm, but he shook off the hold and - at the briefest nod from Whitmore - it wasn't attempted again. Jules bowed with more formality than necessary, seeing the amusement at his pretensions in the baron's eyes, gave an even briefer bow toward Fogg, then turned to accompany the footman.
"One last thing," called Fogg.
Jules turned to find Fogg walking toward him. Unaccountably, he felt relief flood through him. This was the moment when Fogg would throw off this nonsense, when they'd incapacitate Whitmore and the footman, then take to their heels, find Rebecca and Passepartout and quit this place.
And yet Fogg's gaze remained as cold and distant as when he'd held the blade to Jules' throat. He stood before Jules, quite still, and their gazes locked. Out of the corner of his eye, Jules realized that Fogg was drawing the glove from his right hand. There was a flash of red in his vision, the calfskin glove slapping sharply across right side of his face. The sting in his cheeks from the slap of the glove was nothing compared to the sinking of his heart in his chest.
"Now you've been properly challenged." With a self-satisfied smiled, Fogg pointed down to Jules' feet, where the glove had been dropped. "You're supposed to pick it up."
Jules turned away, but Fogg caught his arm, pulling him back. "Pick it up," he instructed darkly.
He could feel the individual pressure of each of Fogg's fingers on his arm, even through the frock coat and his shirt. Despite his best intentions, he found himself meeting Fogg's eyes again.
"Pick it up."
His cheeks were burning. His first response was to tell Fogg to go to hell, but he bit back the words before they could leave his lips - he wasn't suicidal. When he had a sword in his hand, it would be different.
Fogg released him. Jules bent to pick up the glove. Straightening, he threw it back at Fogg, who plucked it from the air with a deft movement, fingers closing around the crimson glove almost without thought.
"Your life depends on killing me," said Fogg, "remember that."
Fogg's voice was still neutral - there was no mockery in it, no condescension, just warning - but there was something in his eyes that held Jules' attention. Unable to discern meaning, he looked away. "I will."
"Good."
Fogg turned back to Whitmore, the movement an obvious dismissal. A light touch on his arm signaled Jules that it was time for him to go, but the footman released him almost immediately, his attitude deferential. He was a prisoner, but his status had risen from that of a servant. Or perhaps the respectful handling arose from older custom - they assumed that he was already a dead man?
Whitmore's laughter and comments praising Fogg's 'style' was cut off sharply from Jules' hearing as the footman closed the door behind them. There were three other footmen in the hall - they sprang into action when the head footman snapped his fingers, standing to either side of Jules as if forming an honor guard. He could run, but could he outdistance them? There were too many of them - he'd never make the door.
The footmen led him not down the main stairway, but the servants' stairs he'd taken earlier up to the fourth floor. The head footman stopped at the third floor and directed him to a room. The door was unlocked and the man stood to one side, waiting for him to enter.
It looked similar in decoration to the others he'd seen many times this evening - the furniture was well appointed, appearing more like a guest bedroom in a gentleman's house than the holding cell he should have expected.
"We'll be back momentarily with your clothing . . . Mr. Verne."
He smiled at the pause - hearing the automatic 'sir' dropped in favor of his name; apparently even the head footman didn't know what to make of his change in status. There was no need to thank him; the door was closed and the key clicked in the lock. Jules wandered over to a floor-length mirror and shrugged out of the antiquated footman's coat, his tie following soon after. Tossing them to the bed, he walked closer to the mirror, spotting the red mark on his cheek from the slap of the glove. Jules touched the discolored skin lightly and winced, but found having a physical manifestation of his dilemma helped to focus his thoughts.
Nothing made sense, from the scene in the townhouse this evening to this. Fogg was trying to frighten him, obviously, and had succeeded - the memory of that knife against his throat was still a little too easy to recall. In the past he'd seen Fogg at his worst and at his best, had been both his prey and his friend, and yet Jules could still find no rational explanation for what he'd experienced at Fogg's hands tonight. What was Fogg doing here, anyway? What could Fogg find at the Hellfire Club other than indulgence in moral and physical dissipation, which over time could lead to nothing less than self-destruction?
Was that it?
The thought chilled him. The duel had been a gambit to buy some time, that much was obvious - if Fogg had intended to kill him, he'd have died with that knife at his throat. But would he really have to fight, have to kill Fogg to save his own life? He had no delusions about his own abilities with a sword - he couldn't hope to match Fogg's experience or skill. His only chance was overconfidence on Fogg's part, a distraction, or a lucky thrust . . . .
Raising his palms to cover his eyes, Jules shook his head, unable to believe that he was actually thinking about what it would take for him to beat Fogg in a duel, to kill his friend!
Still, that indefinable look in Fogg's eyes haunted him. Determination? Resignation? A complete lack of interest in self-preservation, as if the loss of his life was not only a possible outcome, but the desired goal? The reminder that Jules' life depended on killing him - was that a warning or a request? Did Fogg expect Jules to take his life, assist in his suicide?
Lowering his hands, Jules stared at his reflection in the mirror, and decided that a just God would never permit such a thing to happen.
Unfortunately, at this moment, he wasn't entirely certain he believed in the existence of a just God.
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End of Chapter 9
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