“Misusing a woman already infatuated with you is not a conquest, Walker. It is selfish cruelty.”
He pursed his lips. “Bitter words. Spoken from personal experience, Ben?” He leaned his shoulder against the doorpost as though perfectly at ease. “Now tell me the truth. We are hiding nothing from one another any longer, after all. Is the indifference on your part a show, or does the fair Miss Pierce have you as twisted about her little finger as you have her about yours?”
“If you harm her, Walker, I will hunt you down like an animal and kill you with my own hands.”
“Ah. I suppose that does justice as an answer.” He smiled. “But aren’t you here now to kill me?”
Styles must not have her. Crispin’s fears were yet unfounded. Ben drew in a steadying breath and shook his head. “I am not.”
“Then you’d best get off this ship, because I, on the other hand, am quite prepared to kill you.” He drew a pistol from his pocket. Decorated with silver and ivory about the butt, it gleamed in the dim light. Slowly, he pulled his thumb back and cocked it.
“I understand this ship belongs to Crispin and Nathans.”
“Playing it a bit too cool, aren’t you, Ben? I am quite sincere in my intentions, you know.”
“You would have killed me years ago if you intended to, like you killed my father.”
“You only became a true hindrance to me when you learned of this business.” Styles waved the pistol, taking in the ship with the gesture. “And when I killed your father, I rid Britain of a dangerous man.”
“Dangerous? My father was a gentleman-politician. He hadn’t a dangerous bone in his body.”
“Indian-lovers should not rule Britain’s interests in the East, Ben. Jack knew that, despite your father’s infatuation.”
Ben stilled. So this was it. What he had suspected, now so clearly stated upon his old friend’s twisted lips.
“Jack did not care about India, Walker. He was perfectly happy with his brandy and birding. Politics were the farthest thing from his interests.”
Quiet descended in the space between them, the only sounds the creaking of boards and the lap of water against the hull, and the muted noise of commerce on the quay without.
“I could have influenced him.” Styles’s voice was gravelly. Alien.
“You murdered my father because you wished for greater control over his heir?”
“I brought a quick end to the greatest threat British interests in the East have seen in a century.”
“You wished to halt him from pushing through Parliament the bill that would have put the Company back into the hands of traders who—”
“Who had gone native. Like your father and his cronies. Men like those are a danger to England. A danger to us all.”
Ben stilled, certainty creeping through him like an opiate, twining in his limbs, numbing him.
“When did you begin this trade in humans, Walker?”
“A year after the fire.”
“A year after you murdered your best friend, a man who loved you like a brother.”
Styles’s nostrils flared, his breath forced now. “I never meant to hurt Jack.”
“Why didn’t you save him?”
A pause. “I tried.”
“Tell me how you tried. You owe me at least that.”
Styles bared his teeth in a scowl, but Ben knew he would speak. He had loved Jack, and whatever he and Ben were to each other now, they had shared that love.
“I set the fire in your father’s chamber, but it spread too rapidly. I pulled Jack from the bed. I dragged him.” He looked away into the deep shadows. “He was drunk. He would not come. He kept saying he was on the field at Waterloo amidst cannon shot, with Arthur.”
“So you left him to die, with my father and six innocent people.”
His gaze slewed back, sharp and glittering. “I hated you for what I had done. For a time, I did wish to kill you.”
“But then your arrogance overcame your grief. You thought you could influence me.”
“But no one can, can they?” He laughed, a round sort of contempt. “It doesn’t matter who you are, Ben, whatever it is you do with all those ships, or in that office. You are alone. You may hold a title, but you are not one of us. You will never be a true Englishman.”
Ben shook his head. “How you must have railed against fate when I came into the title instead of Jack. Me, a living incarnation of what you most despised. I cannot imagine. Frustration? Fury? So you sought another method for controlling associations between natives and Englishmen, providing wives for all those sailors and Company officials miles away from home. But you did not ask the girls first if they liked the idea. And then you treated them like cargo.”
Styles’s eyes narrowed. “My way will win, Ben, and yours will be trampled under the feet of men whose boots a mongrel like you should not even be permitted to shine.”
“Dirty words, Walker, and beneath you. But you have reached your end, and I think you know it or you would not have been waiting here for me like a snake under a rock. Fate has thwarted you at every turn and you are furious, not only that I discovered your crimes, but that I have never bowed to your natural superiority. You are an arrogant son of a bitch.”
“More arrogant than a man who comes to meet his enemy unarmed? You are a fool, Ben.”
Ben laughed, a dry, weary sound, an affectation perfected in a distant lifetime to depress the attentions of men and women he had used for information and no longer needed.
“What need have I of a weapon, Styles?”
Styles’s eyes flickered with uncertainty. “You imagine that I fear you. I don’t.”
“Walker, the greatest difficulty I have had in these past days is in trying to imagine anything at all about your intentions and wishes.” He regarded him steadily. “But you do fear me.”
Styles said nothing. Then he pivoted, strode into the captain’s cabin, and returned with a sword in either hand.
Ben shook his head. “Come now. You know I will win.”
Styles threw a weapon forward. It skidded along the planking, jarring to a halt against Ben’s boot. The tip shone sharp in the dim light.
“No, Walker.”
“Fight me now, or I will shoot you.” He shook the pistol. “I have been carrying this for days for precisely that purpose, you know. Of course you know.” He laughed. “You know everything.”
Ben retrieved the rapier and palmed the hilt. Styles set the pistol down and came forward swiftly. Ben raised his weapon and parried the first attack, metal snapping against metal in quick clicks, echoing across the low-slung space. Styles drew back momentarily, scanning Ben’s easy stance with ever brightening eyes.
“Do you know, old friend,” Ben said quietly, “despite your hatred, I think you are confused.”
Styles came at him again, cheeks florid. Ben allowed him to advance, blades meeting in swift attack and parry, but Styles never pressed close enough for concern, and Ben did not riposte.
“You are a finer swordsman than this, Walker. You are not trying.”
Styles struck out again, blades clashing then the slide of release as Ben deflected the blow and steel clanked against the heavy black flank of a cannon, close to the hilt. Styles’s arm jerked aside and he grabbed his wrist with a strangled oath.
“Damn you, Doreé. You will not win.”
“I have already won.” He diverted another hit, pressing his opponent’s sword arm wide. “You cannot hurt me.”