Authors: Barbara Metzger
Tags: #Romance, #Historical, #Victorian, #Regency, #Historical Romance
A Loyal Companion (12 page)
The servants had a blanket and basket of their own, so Sonia got to fuss over Darius, heaping his plate, filling his glass, asking at least once a minute if he was comfortable. "You don't have to try so hard, sweet Sonia," he whispered. "I am content just being with you." Neither Blanche nor Hugh commented on Sonia's blushes or shy, answering smile. Blanche was discovering that Hugh's war stories were even more exciting than her romance novels, and he was feeling less a Sunday soldier with a nice young girl hanging on his every word. Sonia and Darius could have been in another world for all they cared.
The food was gone too soon, and the ground was beginning to feel damp through the blankets, yet no one wanted to go home. There was still a bit of wine left and some lemonade, so they gave themselves another few moments.
Then a group of horsemen rode along on the path. Instead of passing by, they dismounted and tied their horses to bushes and branches, before approaching the little group under the tree. There were five of them, one with a cherry-striped waistcoat, one with canary trousers, and one with a satisfied smirk on his face. Ansel Berke.
Cry "Havoc!" and let slip the dogs of war.
T
rust the bloodthirsty Romans to come up with a cheery turn of phrase like that. They really did have dogs of war, you know, whole packs of huge canines that they let loose before their invading armies, to soften up the enemy lines, as it were.
Do you know how they got those dogs to fight like that? They starved them! That's right. They did throw them the occasional arm or leg, to teach them that people were food.
I can see an army of bees. Geese maybe, but dogs? If they were not starving or protecting someone they love, they'd be stopping off at every bush. And I'm sorry to say this, but we have been known to fight over the same bone. Then again, one bitch in heat and your whole battalion goes to the dogs!
Why would dogs go to war anyway? Do you think the perros of Spain care whether it's the French or the British who overrun their country, decimating the fields and forests? Between them they take every pollo and rabbit, leaving nada for man or mousito. Peon and pup will starve either way. Madre de gatos, war is hell on the hounds, too! Then again, some wars are inevitable.
"We have some unfinished business, Conover," Berke announced when he was a few yards away. Hugh and the girls scrambled to their feet, and the servants hurried over, forming a protective ring around the blanket. Darius stayed where he was, reclining against the tree trunk.
"Not in front of the ladies, I think," was his only reply.
"He's right," one of the baron's companions said. Sonia recognized him as one of Rosellen's foppish court. "Not good ton, old man. Mustn't sully delicate ears and all that."
Berke scowled at the pomaded dandy. He'd only brought the pack of useless caper-merchants along because he did not want to confront Warebourne alone. The skirter was too eager to use his fists. And Berke had to get this settled soon. Conare had paid his most pressing debts, on the condition that Berke bring matters to a head. As soon as he'd received word from Sir Norbert that Warebourne was in the park, Berke knew he had to act today. Besides, he thought his bravado would make him look nobler in Miss Randolph's eyes. Or Lady Blanche's, if it came to that.
He bowed to Sonia, then to Blanche. He threw his chest out, in a new plum satin waistcoat printed with pink cabbage roses, and announced, "My apologies, ladies, but I dare not let the dastard get away." He turned back to his hand-picked audience. "I'm afraid he'll find another reason to cry off. First he hid behind his brother, then his uniform. Next he found a dog to make his excuses." He paused while the men around him laughed. "Now he hides behind a woman's skirts."
Darius was still comfortably propped against the tree, an insultingly casual reaction to Berke's cock-of-the-walk swagger. "I don't consider a picnic in Hyde Park in broad daylight to be precisely hiding, Baron. I just find you de trop at this moment."
Berke started to get red in the face. "I don't care what you think, you makebait. I've been waiting and waiting for you to stick your nose outside. If you can stand, you can duel."
"He can't," Sonia put in before Darius could answer. "We came in the carriages"—she waved to show how close they were parked —"and all the servants helped."
Darius frowned. "Hugh, take the ladies away."
"Dash it, Major, you said I could be your second. How can I make the
arrangements if I'm off nurse-maiding two chits?"
"That was not a request, Lieutenant," Darius stated in a voice used to being obeyed, and instantly.
"Don't you dare pull rank on my brother at a picnic, Darius Conover, because you cannot order me around anyway. I am not leaving." Sonia was in her usual try-to-stop-me mode: arms crossed, feet firmly planted, a look of determination in her blue eyes that could have stopped Boney in his tracks.
Darius shook his head. Someone really had to take that chit in hand one of these days. He smiled, thinking about being the one. Then he turned to the dog, who was wagging his tail next to him. He put one hand on Fitz's back to pull himself up. "It's the least you can do, old son. Now sit, sir." He reached down for his cane. "And stay. There has been enough interference from you willful Randolphs. The dog should obey me, at least." He took two steps nearer Berke. "As you can see, I can walk."
"Aha! What did I tell you?" Berke crowed to his cronies. "The pudding-heart was just stalling!"
"Sonia, sweetheart," Darius said, looking right at Berke, "pour me a glass of wine, will you, my dear?"
Hugh's mouth fell open, and one of the men behind Berke snickered. "Dutch courage, eh?"
Sonia bit her lip to keep from laughing, but Berke worked himself into a rage at the endearments, as Darius knew he would.
"Why, you miserable mawworm, to be insulting a gently bred female with familiarity like that! Dueling is too good for you. You ought to be horsewhipped!"
Sonia, meanwhile, poured the last of the wine into a glass and handed it to Darius. "Here, darling." She smiled and batted her lashes at him.
The major's lips twitched as he took the glass and went another few steps closer to Berke. When only a foot or two separated them, he told the baron, "Very few things in this world will give me as much satisfaction as putting a bullet through you. Perhaps this is one of them." With which he tossed the contents of his glass in Berke's face. He watched as the red wine dripped down the baron's chin and onto his starched cravat. "There, now your neckcloth matches your waistcoat. Perhaps you'll start a new fashion." He turned his back on the peer and carefully wiped his fingers on a napkin Sonia thoughtfully provided. "Thank you, my dear. Oh yes," he tossed back over his shoulder. "Consider yourself challenged. If you'll be so good as to name your seconds, I'm sure my enthusiastic young friend here shall be delighted to call."
"No!" Berke raged. "We'll settle the details now in case you decide to run off to the army again. Let everyone see the thing was done right. You challenged, so I get the choice of weapons."
One of the Tulips lisped, "But you mustn't pick swords, Baron. Not when the fellow's practically a cripple. Noblesse oblige and all that."
"Au contraire, mes amis," Darius twisted the top of his cane. The sheath fell away and he suddenly held a long, thin rapier in his hand. Before Berke's horrified eyes, the blade swished through the air, whistled past his ear, and sliced off, not one, but two of the buttons on his waistcoat. "Go ahead. Choose swords."
"Pistols." Berke croaked. "Pistols."
"Excellent. Shall we say two days hence? That should give you enough time to find a surgeon, for do not fool yourself into believing I mean to delope. Unless, of course, you wish to retract your statements concerning a certain card game now, in front of these witnesses."
"Never!"
Darius held the sword to Berke's neck. "I do not believe we need to trouble the ladies further with the time and place, do you?"
"No, no. As long as it's settled."
"It's settled, all right. I wouldn't miss it for the world."
The drizzle started when the subdued group was packing the baskets and blankets. Darius insisted Blanche and Maisie ride with Sonia in the landaulet, its cover drawn, while he rode in the open curricle with Hugh.
"Don't argue, for once," the major told Sonia when she protested. "Hugh and I have things to discuss. This will save time. And I have been out in far worse. I am not like to expire from an inflammation of the lungs in the next two days."
Sonia was not amused. She climbed stiffly into the carriage and did not speak to Blanche or her maid on the ride home. She did clutch the damp dog to her side, oblivious to the damage to her gown.
Blanche's aunt's residence was closest, so they dropped her off first. A sober-faced Hugh got down to walk Blanche to her door, after she hugged Sonia good-bye.
Ian handed Miss Randolph out at Atterbury House. Marston started down the steps with a large black umbrella, until he saw the glum expressions on all the faces. He marched back up, umbrella and all. Bad enough he had to face disgrace in the hallway; he didn't have to go outside looking for it.
Darius climbed down from the curricle and caught up with Sonia under the portico's shelter. He was breathing hard from the exertion, and he looked back to see Hugh hunched over at the ribbons, sitting in the rain waiting for him. Robb was at the horses' heads, stroking them. "Damn and blast!" Darius muttered. "This isn't the way—"
Sonia put her hand on his sleeve. "I know, you mustn't keep the horses standing."
"I shan't be in the park tomorrow morning, you know. There are too many things needing to be done."
Sonia thought of how he must hire carriages and book passages, in case he had to flee. He needed to see his solicitor and his man of business and his bank. She nodded.
"It's better this way," he said, putting his hand over hers, then bringing her hand to his lips.
"Better for whom?"
"Just better. I hate good-byes. And we had today, didn't we?"
"Yes, it was lovely." She tried to smile for him.
"There's my brave girl," he said, still holding her hand. "I'd tell you not to worry, but—"
"But that would be foolish, like telling me not to breathe. I'll pray for you."
"I know you will. And trust me, Sunny." He brushed a damp curl back under her bonnet. "I—no, just trust me."
"I do. Now go before Hugh takes a chill and misses his big chance, and before you see I am not so brave at all."
"No good-byes?"
She shook her head. "No good-byes, just Godspeed."
He kissed her hand again and then bent toward her and quickly brushed his lips over hers. He turned and started down the stairs.
"Darius, wait!" Sonia ripped one of the sodden yellow rosebuds off her gown and tossed it to him. Darius caught the bit of silk in his hand, carefully placed it inside his coat, next to his heart, and bowed. Then he left without looking back.
Everyone in London knew of the duel. Berke made sure of that, especially since the location remained a secret so the authorities couldn't interfere. Lady Atterbury closed the house to callers. If anyone was laying this pottage in her dish, she didn't want to know about it. Uneasily she felt she might have done something to avoid the imbroglio, spoken to Rosellen or sent Sonia out of town. Deuce take it, she was just a tired old lady. She decided to have palpitations instead of pangs of remorse.
Marston was grateful. With no visitors, he didn't have to dart into the butler's pantry for a nip. He kept a flask of the old duke's port right in his tailcoat.
Bigelow declared the whole household was going to hell in a handcart, then out of boredom she picked up one of the discarded novels. "Trash," she declared. "Moral turpitude." Then, "Oh my."
So there was no one to insist Sonia keep her appointments, or keep her head up despite the gossip making the rounds. Which was a good thing, since Miss Randolph just stayed in her rooms. She didn't read, wouldn't see Blanche or Hugh, never opened her father's latest letter. She did not eat much, and she even sent Fitz out with Ian for the dog's exercise. Strange, Ian commented to Maisie, the dog's coat was usually damper before his walk than after.
Swans mate for life.
M
ore men than women remarry after the death of their spouse. Men are more conscious of a need for an heir; they are also more helpless. The men are used to having someone pamper them, or miss having a person around who cannot quit if she dislikes the position.
Women, conversely, remarry less, especially if they find themselves well
off, like Lady Atterbury and her friends. For the first time in their lives they have a modicum of freedom and independence, with no father or husband as overlord. They have friends, entertainments, the willing paramour or two. For some women, one taste of married life is enough to convince them they do not need second helpings.
Of course, there are some women who wear black for the rest of their lives out of fondness for their departed husbands. Some of them just hang the crepe in their heart and never find another man they could love so well.
Miss Sonia is loyal. She never forgets her old friends; she never kept another "pet." Her mare, Dilly, does not count; that's transportation. She writes to her father every week, never speaks ill of George's wife, Jennifer, does not buy French lace. She is true-blue. I taught her well.
It took Miss Sonia eighteen years to settle on Darius Conover. I did not have another eighteen years to wait for her to find another mate. Her heart broken, she might go back to Berkshire to mourn. I'd already tried my luck there at finding her a father for her children. Worst of all, by King Arthur's Clavall, she might decide never to marry!
Besides, I like the major.
So it looks like I'm going to have to play Canis ex machina again. I'm ready, I just cannot see my way clear.
I cannot use the same technique as last time. The major is too downy a cove to fall for the same trick twice. And his legs are much stronger. I could knock the baron down, but there is no guarantee he'd break his leg, and they'd just go at it later. These two are determined to commit mayhem on each other.
I am preparing myself to make the ultimate sacrifice. I'll leap between the major and the bullet if I have to. My father would face a horde of wolves to protect his lambs, if there were still wolves in England. My mother would fight to the death any threat to her pups. I could do no less. I was ready.
The gathering of gentlemen, mostly officers, at Ware House lasted well past midnight, with songs and laughter and fine wines and food. In the usual way of soldiers before battle, everything was spoken of except the duel. Conover's friends left with hearty backslaps and calls of "See you tomorrow," or "Remember that mill on Saturday next."
After they left, Darius sent Hugh up to bed and told Robb to get some sleep, too. He opened the door for Fitz to go across the square, but the cork-brained mutt stayed sprawled by the fire. "Stay, then. I'll send you home later."
Darius went back to his study for a final check that everything had been taken care of. When he threw another log on the fire, the dog followed him, collapsing in front of the hearth with a sigh, as though the effort were too much. The major smiled and turned to his desk and the lists he'd spent two days making. Things had been so much easier when he only had to face death at the hands of the French. He had no property then, no dependents. Robb would see to his horse and personal possessions; Milo would look after everything else.
Thinking of Milo, Darius touched the letters left on his desk, one for each of his brother's daughters. He drew the family signet ring off his finger and placed it on the letter for Benice, the eldest. Then he tenderly took Milo's watch out of his own pocket and centered it atop Gen's letter. On little Tina's he put one of his own treasures, which he carried with him on all the marches and transports: a silver-framed miniature of his own mother, with two dark-haired little boys gazing up at her.
There was an envelope with Miss Randolph inscribed on it, but the envelope was empty. He sharpened a quill to try again, and took her little yellow rose out of his pocket for inspiration. Words just did not come. He had no right to say what was in his heart. Finally he picked up the carved sandalwood box filled with medals Robb had removed from his uniform, to make Darius less a target. He put that on top of the empty envelope. Then he stared at the fire until it was time to wake Robb and Hugh.
"What are we doing up so early?" Hugh asked as he staggered into the morning room, wiping his eyes. "We don't have to be at the Oaks for hours."
"Breakfast, my boy, breakfast."
Hugh's face took on a greenish cast when he saw the mounds of food on Conover's plate. The night's revelries hadn't set well with him, nor did the idea of facing his sister if things did not go the way she wished. "How can you eat at a time like this?"
"Easiest thing in the world," the major answered around a nearly raw beefsteak. "You better get used to it. A soldier has to eat when there's food. You never know when the next opportunity will come. Right, Robb?"
"Yes, sir. Many's the time we had naught but what were in our pockets, and no way of knowing how long it had to last. 'Sides, no sense in dying on an empty stomach." Having served the major, Robb was standing by the sideboard, picking out his own breakfast of kippers and cutlets.
Hugh's coloring turned even more bilious.
"At least have some coffee, Lieutenant. Settle your nerves."
When Hugh was seated, trying to avoid the sight of all that food, he noticed the dog. "What's old Fitz doing here? I thought he always went home when the company left."
Darius shrugged. "He wouldn't leave. And let me tell you, if the condemned man got one last wish for company, it wouldn't be Fitz. He snores."
Reminded of the duel, Hugh swallowed hard and said, "Don't joke."
Robb just shook his head. Young cawker's tender sensibilities wouldn't last long at the front. He poured out an ale for Major Conover.
"Uh, Major," Hugh asked, "you going out in your uniform? I mean, shouldn't you be wearing black or something?"
"Black is for funerals, Randolph. If the French didn't manage to kill me all these years despite my being as easy to spot as a peacock in the snow, then I'll just take my chances with Berke. I can't think he'll have trouble seeing me at twenty paces, no matter what I wear. Robb did remove the medals over my heart, if that makes you feel better."
Hugh noted how the uniform jacket was a tight fit over Conover's broad chest, now that he'd regained his weight and perhaps a little extra. Hugh eyed the major's plate again. "Maybe you'd do better to remove the coat anyway, free your arm up better."
Darius continued cutting his steak and chewing. "Mm. I'll think about it, if it's warm enough."
Hugh nodded, but was still troubled. "Some of the, uh, gentlemen last night were a bit above par."
Robb snorted. "Castaway, more like."
"I saw no reason not to open my brother's cellars, Hugh. If I'm around, I'll replace the bottles. If not, Cousin Preston doesn't deserve that fine old brandy half as much as my fellow officers. At least they stood by me."
"Zeus, didn't mean to find fault with your hospitality, sir! No, it's just that some of the men's tongues
were loosened a bit—in their cups, don't you know—and, well, m'sister's name was mentioned more than once in connection with the duel."
Darius put his fork down, forcibly. "Your sister is not involved in the duel. Her name is blameless, and don't you let anyone convince you otherwise. Next thing we know, you'll be issuing challenges like Berke, and making Sonia's name a byword for real. The talk will die down after today, you'll see, so don't do anything harebrained. Do you understand, Lieutenant?"
When the major used that tone of voice, Hugh did. "Then the whole thing really is about a game of cards?"
"Don't be a nodcock. I wouldn't give the time of day to Berke or Preston. Do you think I'd sit down to a hand with them? I walked into the room, saw the two of them, and left. The whole thing was a farrago of nonsense."
Hugh was skeptical. "Then why? Mean to say, a fellow hates you, so he avoids you. No need to start a brouhaha. That's why everyone's looking for deeper reasons. Couldn't still be that old rapper about Berke's sister. As you say, he's got nothing to gain by shaking the skeletons out of his own closet."
Darius swirled the liquid around in his glass. "I don't know about that. I might be wrong, and there's no way to prove I'm right, but I think Berke has a lot to gain. You do know he's nearly always below hatches from gaming?"
"Everyone knows that. He's at the clubs every night."
"As long as you realize he's a basket-scrambler and don't let him near your sister."
"Sunny? She's too downy a bird for that! She tolerates him for Lady Atterbury's sake, but just barely."
"Good. Anyway, I had my man do some checking to see where Berke gets his income. It's not from his lands; he bled them dry years ago. They are mortgaged to the hilt. And he's not even a particularly successful gambler. Yet he always seems to come about, at least enough to maintain his standing on the town. My cousin Preston, on the other hand, has more money from his mother's family than he knows what to do with, and keeps winning more."
Hugh digested that. "You mean Preston is backing Berke?"
"Something like that, and Preston could be calling in his markers. As I say, I could be wrong and Preston could be supporting his wife's brother out of the goodness of his heart. Then again, pigs could fly. I cannot think of anyone else who will benefit by my demise."
"Lud, why didn't you ever say so?"
"What for? It's just conjecture. Milo always stood between me and the title, and I thought I'd die a hero anyway. Much better than taking one of Berke's bullets over some lightskirt. He always was a crack shot, you know. That's why it was so easy for him to make the challenge. He never believed he could lose. I thought at the time that if I met him and lost, that would be half confessing I knew the girl."
"Uh, are you any good with a gun?" Hugh thought to ask, a trifle late.
Darius smiled. "Passable." He reached for another rasher of ham.
Hugh was still mulling over the information. He was not a quick thinker at the best of times, but before dawn was especially taxing. "Still don't figure about the girl, Berke's sister."
"According to Berke, who I'd trust as far as I could throw, she named me. But what if she said Conover? I know I never laid with her. She was a bran-faced chit with rabbity
teeth. Fellow'd remember a thing like that. Preston's a Conover, too; Conare's just a jumped-up title he bought from Prinny. Maybe that's why he's been settling Berke's accounts for all these years."
"And Berke couldn't force him to marry the chit because Preston was already married. Gads, his own sister-in-law!"
"Maybe Berke didn't know or didn't have proof. Or else he was trying to protect his other sister, Rosellen. Maybe he even thought to blackmail Preston. It's possible we'll never know. Once he challenged me and slandered my name, he couldn't back down without looking the fool." He shrugged. "It's all idle speculation now at any rate. At least it will be over soon." He tucked a scrap of yellow silk back into his pocket from where it had lain next to his plate. Then he got up and began filling another dish.
Hugh had to hold a napkin to his mouth. "Lud, you're not going to eat all that, too, are you?"
Darius answered, "No, it's time to leave," as he selected lamb chops and a sirloin with the bone left in, potatoes and gravy, a muffin or two.
Halfway out the door, Hugh complained, "Well, if you ain't going to have another meal, what in the blazes is that?"
Darius put the plate down on the floor, under Fitz's nose, and smiled as the dog started gobbling. "Insurance."
I wasn't ready.
T
hat's it! That's how man, truly just one of us higher species, manages to maintain his domination. No, not by his fancy fingers or use of tools, nor by his convoluted thinking, by Tray! Canis Major, it's pockets!
He can store things. Oh, squirrels bury nuts, and dogs hide their bones, and foxes take food back to their dens all the time, but I mean really store things. Man doesn't have to be worrying about his next meal, so he can keep larger issues in mind. He can even keep two things in mind at once.
While some of us are only recently come to the security of steady meals, human persons have long since gone beyond the drama of mere day-to-day survival (except the very poor, of course, but no one seems to count them). Men have transcended immediacy.
I saw food. I ate it, like my fathers the wolves, like my cousins the jackals. An atavism, that's what I am. I am as stupid as the squirrel who can be tempted into the open with a handful of corn. Squirrel stew. That's me, squirrel stew.
The only times man allows his appetites to overrule his reason are when he's in his cups, or in the act of love. Cat dirt, I should have got him foxed! I could have found him a woman. One waits at the corner every night. No, those would only have been temporary solutions. The major was not likely to forget his purpose, not like me, I am ashamed to admit.
My dreams of being inscribed in the annals of canine glory have been written on the wind. I was going to be a hero, like Aubrey's dog, Dragon, who not only identified the Frenchman who slew his master, but took the varlet on in single combat before the king—and won. I was going to equal Dragon in valor. They would have named a star after me.
Dragon, hah! My full belly is dragging, that's all. My tail between my legs, I go home. Miss Sonia will need me; My place is by her side.
"Well, you picked a fine time to stay out all night," Sonia complained to the dog who drooped next to her chair. "I'm awake all night worrying, and you're out tomcatting! A nice how-do-you-do." The dog looked up at her from under shaggy gold eyebrows, whimpered once, and went back to sleep. Sonia went back to polishing silverware. Technically this was Marston's job, cleaning the fragile heirloom epergnes and candelabra. The butler had grown lax and fumble-fingered; Grandmother should see about pensioning the old fellow off. Sonia didn't mind the chore anyway. It gave her something to do, and the polishing table in the butler's pantry was right beside the front door.
Here it was after ten and she'd received no word. She gave a tiny swan-shaped salt cellar a hard buffing. Her brother had sworn to come to her as soon as there was word. She wanted to throttle him. She nearly rubbed the wings off the poor swan instead. Next she attacked a monstrosity of a centerpiece, with elephants marching around the base, trunk to tail, howdahs on their backs, palm trees overhead, monkeys in the trees, and large, parroty-type birds on top whose open mouths were candle holders. Even Lady Atterbury hated it. The thing was a wedding gift from Great-Aunt Sophrina, so it stayed. Today it was getting the polishing of its life. The palm trees were almost swaying.
Where was that chaw-bacon brother of hers anyway? she fumed, rubbing an elephant until it squeaked. Everyone knew duels were at dawn. If he'd stopped off at the barracks, she'd—What if he was busy with surgeons and things? Darius had said trust him. She did, of course. But she didn't trust Ansel Berke, or the accuracy of dueling pistols, or the skill of some unknown physician. She didn't even trust her heart to keep beating through all this waiting. What would she do if—No, she was not going to think about that. Just let him live, she prayed, even if he flees to America or back to the army. That's all she was asking, for now.
By eleven the monkeys on the centerpiece were screaming for mercy, and Sonia was starting on the parrots. Ian had taken Fitz out and was dragging the reluctant dog up and down the street in front of Atterbury House, watching for the first glimpse of Lieutenant Randolph. The dowager was out of her bedchamber for the first time in days, running Bigelow and Sonia's maid ragged with her demands for possets and potions. Marston stood erect by the front door, magnificent in livery and powdered wig. Only the glazed look in his eye revealed that the dignified butler was as drunk as a lord. Sonia polished.
"He's coming!" Ian finally shouted from the corner, to be echoed a moment later by Marston's stately "Lieutenant Randolph approaches," as he marched across the marbled hall to report to the dowager in the drawing room. Sonia jumped up, sending polishing cloths and powders every which way.
"He's alone!" Ian called.
"The lieutenant appears to be unaccompanied,'' Marston intoned, crossing the hall again. Sonia clutched the centerpiece to her chest, sending a monkey or two hurtling through the palm trees.
"He's whistling!"
Marston silently slid down the wall to land prostrate on the marble. The centerpiece soon joined him on the floor. Sonia jumped over both to run down the outside stairs and throw herself into Hugh's arms, dirty hands and soiled apron and all, right there on the street.
"Tell me, tell me!" she cried, tugging him back up to the door. "Who won?"
Hugh jingled some coins in his pocket and whistled again. "Why, I did, don't you know. Laid m'last
month's pay on the major. Got good odds for Conover's bum leg and Berke's reputation."
"Dash it, Hugh, you know I don't care about your addlepated wagers! What happened?"
Hugh got a glimpse of his grandmother fanning herself in the drawing room, so he pulled back. "Uh, what say we go to the dining room, have a bite to eat, what? Didn't get much of a breakfast, by George."
"You'll get in here this instant, young man, and stop your confounded shilly-shallying," Lady Atterbury demanded. "Warebourne survives, I assume?"
Hugh bowed and nodded.
"And Berke?"
"Him, too," Hugh replied, looking pleadingly at his sister.
Now that she was not on tenterhooks, Sonia could take pity on Hugh. If she couldn't save him from their grandmother's rancor, at least she could feed him. She sent Bigelow and Maisie off to see about a substantial tea for her brother, since ringing for Marston was going to be useless for some time to come.
Hugh didn't speak while the servants scurried back and forth with trays and platters. He did mention, though, around a thick slab of fresh bread with a chunk of cheese on it, that he hadn't stayed for the postcontest festivities at the Golden Hare. "That's why I'm so sharp-set. Knew you'd be anxious, so I rode back straightaway."
"And Darius, Major Conover, is at the Golden Hare? Celebrating?" Sonia asked. He was off enjoying himself while she was in such agony?
"Devil a bit," Hugh answered, making himself another sandwich with some cold meat. "He's on his way to pick up the Warebourne chits in Lyme. Said the coaches were all packed and ready, and he missed the brats. Wanted them near him, he said. Can't imagine why, m'self." He kept eating.
Sonia tossed a napkin at him. "But what happened? You still haven't told us about the duel!"
"Oh, that. Neatest bit of shooting I've ever seen. Quickest golden boys I ever made." Lady Atterbury angrily drummed her fingers on the armrest of her chair. "Uh, better to start at the beginning."
"Finally," the dowager muttered.
Hugh ignored her, preferring his sister's eager smile. " 'Twas foggy. Usually is for this type of thing, early morning, don't you know. Trees look spooky." Lady Atterbury cleared her throat; Hugh rushed on. "Anyway, we were there first. Darius wanted to be early so his men could scour the woods to make sure no sharpshooters were hidden in the trees."
"He never thought Ansel Berke would be so dastardly!" the dowager insisted. "The man's a baron and a prime marksman, from all I hear."
Hugh shrugged. "Darius is a soldier. Said it pays to be careful. His man Robb says the major hasn't led his men into an ambush since he was a green 'un on his first foray out. Besides, that Warebourne title might be worth something to someone else other than Berke."
"Conare," Sonia breathed, her hand to her mouth.
The dowager merely went, "Harumph. Jackanapes doesn't know what he's talking about. Gentlemen like Berke and Conare do not behave like savages. Proceed, sirrah."
"Well, Conare didn't show his face anyway. Berke came along in good time with a parcel of mincing fops, all their high-heeled slippers getting stuck in the grass. At least Berke wore Hessians. He was laughing and carrying on with the coxcombs as if he didn't have a care in the world, comparing snuffboxes of all things! Let me tell you, such confidence drove his odds down."
Hugh sat up straighter with self-importance. "I conferred with his man. He conferred with Berke. I conferred with Conover. Neither man would apologize."
The dowager snorted. "If they were going to apologize, you looby, they needn't have waited six years!"
Affronted, Hugh told her, "My job, don't you know, trying to negotiate a compromise."
"Hush, Grandmama, let Hugh tell the story his own way."
Hugh nodded toward his sister. "Right. We loaded the pistols. Have to admit m'hand wasn't quite steady, all those old fa—fops watching. Then we marked off the paces. The baron and Darius took their places. Berke was all in black, once he buttoned his coat and turned up his collar. Darius stood in his shirt-sleeves. Some old court-card rattled out the call. They paced. They turned. And Darius shot the pistol right out of Berke's hand before the baron even lowered his weapon to fire it!"
Sonia clapped, and Her Grace let out her breath.
"Right. Darius must have been practicing, the way he swiveled on that good leg of his. I've never seen the like. And his shot destroyed one of Manton's prettiest sets. One's no good for dueling, you know. Have to be a matched pair. Well, Berke started crying foul. No one listened, and they were his crowd, all congratulating the major on a deuced fine shot. So Berke screamed louder that Darius fired early. The old gent who was judge looked down his long nose at Berke and declared it a fair fight. Made the baron look a fool, with his hand getting all swollen and red from powder burn. He drove off in a snit."
"And then?"
"Then cool as you please, the major and Robb whip some jugs out of the carriage and set 'em up for target shooting. Sure enough, the sheriff and the magistrate come not five minutes after Berke left. And what do they see? A bunch of gents taking practice. Nothing havey-cavey about that, though some of the shooters were a bit on the go. I won another bundle from the magistrate, betting on Darius. None of the others would take him on, naturally. Anyway, as soon as he could without giving offense, the major sent 'em all off to the Golden Hare, breakfast on him, while he and Robb drove off. I got to bring the curricle home."
"Will the baron be satisfied, do you think?"
"He'll never challenge Darius again, that's for sure. And you can bet none of those other chaps will think to insult the major either, not after the exhibit he put on. My guess is they'll laugh at Berke if he tries to stir up another mare's nest."
"Honor was satisfied," the dowager declared. "Berke knows better than to destroy his own credibility."
"Thank goodness," Sonia said, pouring her brother another cup of coffee, then fussing with the sugar tongs. "And did the major, uh, say when he was coming back?"
"No, but he told me to pass on that he'd call as soon as he returned." Hugh grinned. "And he did ask for Papa's direction. Thought he might stop off in Berkshire on the way. Too bad I had to tell him that the governor is halfway to Scotland. My last letter said Father expected to wait nine months for a grandson, and nine months it would be."
"That inconsiderate imbecile!" Her Grace's displeasure rattled the teacups.
"Darius?"
"The major?"
"No, you blitherers, Elvin Randolph! Disporting himself with a young bride when for once in his life he should be at home with his stinking sheep! Here's a catch for his daughter, and he'll let it slip through our fingers with his cavorting. Yes, cavorting like a cockerel!"
Hugh grinned again. "Somehow I don't think Sunny's bird is going to fly the coop so fast."
"Nothing's been said," she protested, to which Lady Atterbury snorted. Sonia could feel the heat rising in her cheeks, but that only matched the glow in her heart. He was going to speak to Papa. Sooner or later. Then she recalled her grandmother's words. "Does that mean you approve, Your Grace?"
The dowager raised her lorgnette to her nose and stared at Sonia. "I have always liked the boy," she lied. "It was his situation I deplored. Now he is on his way to being a respected member of society, a hero, an earl with at least fifty thousand a year. Have your wits gone begging, girl? Of course I approve."
That afternoon a bouquet of flowers was delivered for Miss Sonia Randolph, eighteen yellow roses. The enclosed card read Yrs., Warebourne. Not very loverlike, but considering the interested audience of Lady Atterbury and her cronies, Blanche, and Hugh, Sonia silently thanked him for sparing her further blushes. She was especially grateful when they all felt the flowers and the card required some comment.
"Very proper," one of the old ladies decreed. Another added: "Just the right touch."
Lady Atterbury nodded. "The boy has class. I like that."
Blanche just said, "Very nice." She was patently disappointed the major hadn't made any protestations of undying love. So was Sonia, but she kept that to herself, along with the relevance of the yellow roses.
Only Hugh voiced his discontent. "He signed it Warebourne. Sounds like he's selling out."
"What did you think, you clunch?" Lady Atterbury asked. "He was going to fetch the children so he could take them with him to a war? Or did you suppose he was going to call on your father to buy some hounds so the officers could have a hunt in Portugal? No Harkness granddaughter is going to go following the drum, not while I live and breathe. You really are woolly-headed, Hugh Randolph. Your father should be proud."
"I wouldn't mind traveling with the army, Grandmama," Sonia said, thinking of Blanche and Hugh, and also that she didn't want Darius to give up his career for her.