Even the elegant Frenchman the Marquis de Salle fell under her spell, not despite the language barrier, but because of it. He appeared at the house one day in the company of his friend, Baron Arnoof, and another friend who had stopped to pay a morning call on Victoria.

“Your French is excellent,” the marquis lied with suave, meaningless gallantry as he wisely switched to English and sat down on the appointed chair.

Victoria looked at him in laughing disbelief. “It is dismal,” she declared ruefully. “I find the nasal tones one uses in French almost as difficult to imitate as the guttural ones used in Apache.”

“Apache?” he inquired politely. “Why is that?”

“It is the language spoken by a tribe of American Indians.”

“American savages?” echoed the Russian baron, a legendary horseman in the Russian army. His expression of boredom changed to one of rapt interest. “I have heard that these savages are superb horseman. Are they?”

“I’ve only known one Indian, Baron Arnoff, and he was quite old and very polite, rather that savage. My father came upon him in the wood and brought him home to nurse him back to health. His name was Rushing River, and he stayed on as a sort of helper to my father. However, to answer your question, although he was only half Apache, he was indeed a superb horseman. I was twelve when I first saw him do tricks, and I was speechless with wonder. He used no saddle and –”

“No saddle!” the baron exclaimed.

Victoria shook her head. “Apaches don’t use them.”

“What sort of tricks could he do?” asked the marquis, far more interested in her intoxicating face than her words.

“Once Rushing River had made me place a handkerchief in the middle of the field; then he rode toward it, his horse running full-out. When he was nearly there, he let go of the rope bridle completely, leaned way down and to the side, and scooped up the handkerchief while his horse was still running. He taught me how to do it, too,” she admitted, laughing.

Impressed despite himself, the baron said, “I would have to see this before I believed it. I don’t suppose you could show me how it is done?”

“No, I’m sorry. The horse must be trained in the Apache style first.”

“Perhaps you could teach me a word or two of Apache,” the marquis teased with a coaxing smile, “and I would tutor you on your French.”

“Your offer is very kind,” Victoria replied, “But it would not be at all fair, for I have much to learn and little to teach. I remember very few of the words Rushing River taught me.”

“Surely you could teach me one phrase?” he prodded, smiling into her sparkling eyes.

“No, really – ”

“I insist.”

“Very well,” Victoria capitulated with a sigh, “if you insist.” She spoke a phrase in guttural accents and looked at the marquis. “Now, try to repeat it.”

The marquis got it perfect on the second try and smiled with pleasure. “What does it mean?” he asked. “What did I say?”

“You said,” Victoria replied with an apologetic look, ‘That man is treading upon my eagle’”

“Treading upon my –“ The marquis, the baron, and everyone else gathered in the gold salon dissolved into laughter.

* * * * * * * * * *

He skidded to a halt near the combatants and hurtled out of the saddle, running. “What the hell is going on here!” he demanded of Crowley when he reached his side, then he whirled around in surprise as the Marquis de Salle stepped out of the shadows twenty yards away and positioned himself next to young Wiltshire. “What are you doing here, de Salle?” Jason said angrily. “You, at least, should have more sense than these two puppies.”

“I’m doing the same thing you are,” de Salle drawled with a faint grin, “but without much success, as you’ll soon discover.”

The gun exploded just as the Marquis de Salle sprang forward and tried to knock it out of Wiltshire’s hand and as Jason dived at Crowley, sending the rigid boy sprawling to the ground. The ball whined past Jason’s ear as he fell, ricocheted off the trunk of the tree, and ripped across his upper arm.

After a stunned moment, Jason slowly sat up, his expression incredulous. He out his hand to the fiery pain in his arm and then stared at the blood that covered his fingers with an expression of almost comical disbelief.

The physician, the Marquis de Salle, and young Wiltshire all ran forward. “Here, let me have a look at the arm.” Dr Worthing said, waving the others aside and squatted down on his heels.

“Someone had me that whiskey in my case.” To Jason he said, “It’s only a flesh wound, Jason, but it’s fairly deep. I’ll have to clean it and stitch it.” He took the bottle of whiskey that the Marquis de Salle handed him, and glanced apologetically at Jason. “This is going to burn like the fires of Hades. If I were you, Jason, I’d drink the rest of this. You’re going to need plenty of stitches.”

When Wiltshire and Crowley galloped away, Jason raised his whiskey bottle and took a long swallow, gasping as Dr Worthing’s threaded needle pierced his swollen flesh, pulling it tightly, joining flesh to flesh, then piercing again. Holding the bottle out to de Salle, he said dryly, ‘I regret the lack of suitable glass; however if you would care to join me, help yourself.”

De Salle unhesitatingly reached for the proffered bottle, explaining as he did so, “I went to your house when I learned of the duel earlier this evening, but your man said you were out of the evening and wouldn’t tell me where you’d gone.” He took a long swallow of the strong whiskey and handed the bottle back to Jason. “So I went after Dr Worthing and we came here, hoping to stop them.”

“We should have let them shoot themselves,” Jason said disgustedly, then clenched his teeth and stiffened as the needle again pierced his jagged flesh.

“Probably so.”

Jason took two more long swallows of liquor and felt the stuff begin to numb his sense. Leaning his head back against the hard bark of the tree, he sighed with amused exasperation. “Exactly what did my little countess do to cause this duel?”

De Salle stiffened at Jason’s affectionate phrasing and his voice lost its polite friendliness. “As nearly as I could tell, Lady Victoria supposedly called Wiltshire a dandified English bumpkin.”

“Then Wiltshire should have called her out,” Jason said with a chuckle, taking another swig of whiskey. “She would have missed her shot.”

De Salle didn’t smile at the joke. “What do you mean, ‘your little countess’?” he demanded tersely. “If she is yours, you’re taking your time making it official – you said yourself the matter wasn’t settled. What kind of game are you playing with her affections, Wakefield?”

Jason’s gaze shot to the other man’s hostile features; then he closed his eyes, an exasperated smile on his lips. “If you’re planning to call me out, I hope to hell you can shoot. It’s damned humiliating for a man of my reputation to be shot by a tree.”