Captain Masinter grabbed her arm. “There there, Miss Caulfield. No place for a lady.”

She pulled away from him. “But—”

“Father Stewart knows best what must be done.” The earl set a lamp beside Luc and the priest kneeling before him.

“Too much bluid’s been lost,” Dr. Stewart muttered. He set aside the saturated kerchief.

The earl looked down at him. “Will he die, Gavin?”

“You . . .” The barest whisper. “ . . . wish.”

Arabella’s heart lurched. Luc had not moved.

“Occasionally.” Lord Bedwyr knelt on the ground in his elegant breeches. “But not so ignominiously, you know. I am not as insensible to our amicable past as you are.”

She dropped to her knees on Luc’s other side. His breaths were so shallow she could barely see them.

“What would you have me do now, Lucien?” the earl said. “I am yours to command.”

“God’s breath, lad. Not nou.” The priest thrust aside another reddened cloth. He opened the satchel beside him and drew forth two small bottles and a leather envelope. A needle and spool of thread were within. “Chairles, yer cravat.”

The earl unwound his neck cloth and put it in the priest’s hands. “If we are not to speak of it now, Father, then when shall we?” he said, and returned his attention to the wounded man. “What say you, cousin?”

“Cousin?” Arabella dragged her gaze from Luc to the earl.

“Yes, Miss Caulfield. I share in the blood that is now discoloring this beach.” The earl tilted his head. “Ah, a detail not confided to the lady, Luc?” He smiled slightly. “You rogue. But I suppose you simply cannot abide it that we own the same blood. Not since our little quarrel, that is.”

“Damn . . . you.” Luc did not open his eye.

“Damning me with your final breaths is shockingly poor form, old boy.” The earl settled back, stretching his long legs before him and leaning on one hand. If not for the dark, he might have been at a picnic. But there was no real pleasure in his face. It was an act, Arabella thought. Lord Bedwyr was pretending nonchalance.

“Consider this, Lucien,” the earl drawled. “When you die, which you may very well do shortly—and no, I do not intend to speed it along—”

“Good . . . of you.”

“The two of you are horrible. Captain Masinter, make them stop this.” Arabella pressed her palms to her cheeks. “This cannot be real.”

“It is, my dear,” the earl said. “Terribly real. And Luc is pondering that very thought at this moment. More precisely, he is thinking that if he dies today, indeed momentarily, he will die childless.”

“Childless?”

“Childless, Miss Caulfield. Without issue,” the earl said very carefully it seemed.

Luc’s face had become more drawn, his breaths quick and shallow. Father Stewart was sewing the wound closed and she knew the pain of it must be agonizing, but even so, Luc remained conscious. His life was fleeing, his strength and vitality and passion, and inside her she was screaming that it simply could not be. He had kissed her, made love to her, and never forced her. He had seen her drunk and said she was not beautiful and she thought perhaps she loved him a little bit for that.

“What does it matter if he is childless?” she demanded. He was dying.

“What does it matter, Luc?” the earl repeated. “Is your heir fit to fill your shoes, old friend?”

“His heir? Heir to what?”

The earl remained silent.

“Captain Masinter, tell me!”

“His property. Whatnot. Usual sorts of things.” He was frowning, eyes intent upon the earl.

“This cannot be real.” She turned to Lord Bedwyr. “You cannot possibly be speaking to him in this manner now simply because you have quarreled and should he— should—” Helpless anger washed through her. “He has a brother.”

“That he does.”

“Is that what this foolishness you speak of is about? His bad blood with you or his brother?” She looked between the three men. Luc was very still. She knew he had not slipped into unconsciousness only by the tight lines on either side of his mouth. Father Stewart still worked at his side, and a bitter scent twined through the air. She could do nothing for him. She could do nothing.

All her life she’d fought against helplessness. At the foundling home when they neglected her infant sister she had complained and was beaten for it, but Ravenna had not gone hungry. When the Reverend had said she must be the daughter of a harlot because no modest woman would have such hair, she made him promise upon the cross never to say such a thing in her sisters’ hearing if she cut it short. When her employer’s son had accused her of seducing him after she fought him off with teeth and nails and then was dismissed, she warned his mother that if she did not write a glowing letter of reference for her next position she would tell the world how her youngest daughters were not her husband’s. And when a fortune-teller had promised that a prince would reveal the truth of her past, she had worked until she found her way to a prince’s doorstep.

She had never accepted helplessness. But now she could do nothing, and they spoke of a man’s life ending as though only possessions mattered.

“I cannot believe this is what you speak of now,” she uttered.

“It is what he wishes to speak of, my dear,” Lord Bedwyr replied.

“No. No. I—” She struggled to her feet. “There must be something I can do.” She could not remain idly by and watch him die. “I must—”

“Duchess.” It was barely a whisper. Luc’s hooded gaze was black in the pale glimmer of predawn.

“Aha.” The earl leaned forward. “So you are thinking what I am thinking, cousin.” He nodded. “I had imagined so. But will the lady be amenable?”

Luc’s eye seemed to glaze then slid shut again.

Father Stewart placed the final cloths beside him, saturated with blood. “No, Chairles.” He shook his head. “ ’Tis no’ possible.”

“Of course it is possible. You are a priest and he needs a wedding. Allez-y, mon père.”

“I’m no’ a priest o’ yer kirk, lad.”

“A wedding?” Arabella’s stomach churned. “But to who—”

“To the only person present here who could potentially be carrying his heir.” The earl lifted a single brow to her.

Heat filled Arabella’s cheeks, then all of her.

Wiping the blood from his hands, Dr. Stewart shook his head, but his sober eyes suggested that she should not deny it.

“I—”

“You needn’t explain, my dear.” The earl smiled confidentially. “We are men of the world, aren’t we, Gavin? Tony? And in any case, we haven’t time for it.” He waved an imperious hand at the doctor. “Go ahead, Father. Pull out your little book and stole and do your magic.”

“ ’Tis no magic, lad,” the priest said, and set the reddened cloth down. “An ma kirk woudna condone it.”

“His French mother was Catholic and we are in France, a Catholic country. Are we not? You, a priest of Rome, can marry him to whomever you choose. And whatever the hasty deed itself does not satisfy, I’m certain a pretty little parchment with a gold seal will take care of.”

“Sufficient for those fellows in Rome, perhaps, but not for the codgers in Parliament,” Captain Masinter muttered.

“Parliament?”

“Being the carousing naval hero that he is, dear Miss Caulfield, our delightful captain knows nothing of the laws of marriage. Don’t listen to him.” Lord Bedwyr met Dr. Stewart’s regard firmly. “Now, Father, your services are required.”

“I won’t.” Arabella clutched her cloak about her, but her hands were stained with his blood and she fought sobs. “You are all mad. Let his property pass to his brother. Oh, God. Let it.”

“But you see, madam, you have leaped to a spurious conclusion. It is not a quarrel that motivates my cousin’s last wish. Is it, Luc?”

“Not fit,” he bit off on a shallow breath.

“You see, Miss Caulfield. His brother is unfit to inherit.”