Lord Harry's Folly (25 page)

The marquess walked up the steps to his town house and raised his hand to the knocker, only to have Rabbell open the door. “Ah, your grace. The earl of March awaits you in the study, your grace.”

“So my faithful second comes to give me encouragement.” Lord Oberlon felt no hesitance in speaking aloud of the duel, for Rabbell’s unnatural mannerisms told him clearly enough that every servant was undoubtedly aware in the most minute detail of the evening’s fiasco. Sometime, he thought, as his butler helped to divest him of his greatcoat and gloves, I must force him to tell me how the servants’ infallible grapevine can be so damnably efficient.

He walked thoughtfully to his study. “Well, Julien,” he said, upon opening the door, “I’d call this a fine night’s work. Have you come to sympathize or tell me what a damned fool I am?”

The earl was lounging next to the large Italian marble fireplace, looking as lost in his thoughts as Jason had earlier. “Come, St. Clair, I should be the one thoughtfully depressed, not you. Yours is a simple task. You have only to take the boy away after I am done with him.”

The earl pushed his shoulders from the mantelpiece and walked to the marquess. “You’ve been long coming back, Jason. Actually, when you came in, I was plotting the possibility of trussing Monteith up in a sack and having my captain sail away with him to the West Indies. Perhaps acting as a bookkeeper on my plantation in Jamaica will give him a healthier respect for the life he leads here in London.”

“I daresay the young gentleman would rule the islands within a month either through persuasion or by dispatching all the current leaders in duels.” Neither man laughed. The marquess said, “It’s hellishly cold, Julien, would you care for a sherry?”

The earl nodded and there was companionable silence until both gentlemen, glasses in hand, seated themselves near to the crackling fire. After a moment, the earl said reluctantly, “As much as I dislike it, Jason, I must of course inquire as to your preference of weapons, as Monteith was the challenger.”

“Need you really ask, Julien? A pistol is far too deadly a weapon, and you must know that despite all the young puppy has said and done, I have no wish to kill him. He can’t be all that experienced with the foil, and I hope to contrive a quick and clean prick through his arm. That ought to cool his murderous instincts, at least for a month.”

“That’s what I hoped you would say, Jason. I might tell you, too, that Harry informed me that Monteith is a crack shot. I would have feared the outcome had you chosen pistols.”

“You believe I could be brought to the ground by a lad who can’t even grow whiskers? No, don’t answer that. Now, how is poor Harry taking all this? Judging from his openmouthed expression, I gather he didn’t know what Monteith intended this evening.”

“Harry is torn in two directions. Of course, his honor forbids him to refuse to second his friend. I left him with Kate. Yes, I’m a coward, but she deals well with him. Good Lord, what could I say?”

The earl rose and placed his empty glass on the sideboard. “I must be off now, Jason. It’s past midnight and you must be clear and steady on the morrow. I shall be here with my carriage before seven o’clock.”

“Your carriage, Julien? You terrify me. I’d hoped to ride from the park all in one piece.”

The earl merely smiled slightly, but remained silent. Actually, it had been Kate who’d insisted on the carriage. The earl said as he walked beside the marquess from the study, “What do you intend to do about Melissande now, Jason?”

Lord Oberlon shrugged, saying, “Her house has three more months on its lease. She may stay until then. With her beauty and figure, I have no doubt that she will attach another well-breeched gentleman long before that time.” He added, a hint of amused incredulity in his voice, “Did you know that Monteith gave her a riding habit? Did you know he provided a mare for her called Coquette? Do you know he likened her to Helen of Troy and to Aphrodite, a goddess I’m certain Melissande has never heard of before? His ingenuity is frightening. His determination to fell me is, well, it’s more than frightening. I only wish I knew why.”

“A riding habit.” The earl laughed, he couldn’t stop it. Things were so very grim, yet look what Monteith had done to achieve his goal. It boggled the mind. The earl turned to his friend and clasped his hand. Mindful of Rabbell standing near, he said quietly, “You have acted quite rightly in this wretched business. Until tomorrow, Jason.”

It was a blistering cold overcast morning. Naked oak and elm trees stood sentinel over the hard frozen ground at the north end of Hounslow Heath. There was no foliage this time of year. There were no onlookers, not on the heath, even the highwaymen who chanced to ply their trade here had long gone back to their lairs.

The dull thudding of horses’ hooves and the crunching of carriage wheels were the only sounds to break the monotony of the gently rustling branches, and the chirping of the more hearty sparrows.

Sir Harry Brandon stole a sideways glance at Lord Harry. He shifted uneasily in the saddle at the sight of his friend’s set face. His usually shining eyes were narrowed in deep concentration and his lips were drawn in a bloodless thin line. Lord Harry had said not a word to him, save to beg a mount from his meager stable for Pottson. Wordlessly, Harry had obliged, but the precious time this detour had cost put the hour much too close to seven o’clock for his peace of mind. But Lord Harry seemed oblivious of the hour, leaving Harry to wonder if he was aware of the nicety of the gentleman’s code that forbade a duel if either of the opponents arrived after the appointed time.

Sir Harry was forced to conclude that Lord Harry knew exactly what he was about, for it lacked two minutes to the hour when their small cavalcade broke into the clearing. Not twenty feet away stood the earl of March’s town carriage.

As they dismounted and tethered their mounts, Hetty turned to Sir Harry and said, “I know you thought I’d be late, but you must know, Harry, one must always make an entrance after all the guests have arrived.”

Sir Harry could find no witty rejoinder for this admirable display of sang froid, and said only, “Quite.”

As Harry fidgeted with his horse’s bridle, Hetty said gently, “Should you not meet with the earl of March, Harry? The weapons, you know.”

“Aye,” Harry said, falling back on his mother’s Scottish speech. When he was beyond earshot, Hetty turned to Pottson, who stood in grim silence, his hands wringing into the folds of his coat.

“Don’t fail me, Pottson. Whatever happens must occur without any interference from you. Give me your promise.”

Pottson stood in frozen silence. Hetty grabbed his arm and shook him. “Damn you, Pottson, your promise.”

“But Master Damien would never wish for this, Miss Hetty. Gawd, he would never”

“Stop it now. It’s far too late for maudlin scenes. Do you swear to keep a still tongue in your mouth?”

“Yes, Miss Hetty,” he said finally, looking squarely into her fierce blue eyes, “I swear. But I hate it.”

“Hate is a good thing in this damnable situation. Now, I want you to remain here.” She turned on her heel, her boots crunching loudly into the frozen earth, and without a backward glance, strode toward the small circle formed by the three gentlemen.

She knew that concentration was born of calmness, and had, for the past two hours, mentally raised the dueling pistol in her hand, turned her body sideways so as to present the smallest possible target, aimed carefully and tenderly stroked the trigger. Over and over she had played through each minute movement until her mind finally settled with single thought to its one purpose. There was now no room for fear or self-doubt to slip in uninvited.

Her stride was a confident swagger, her hands still inside their warm gloves, steady and dry.

She glanced only briefly at the earl of March, her eyes narrowing on the marquess.

“Ah, I bid you good morning, your grace, my lord March. I don’t wish my mare to become restive. Shall we begin?”

Admirable, the marquess thought reluctantly, the boy shows courage beyond his years. But his voice belied his thoughts as he said with a mocking drawl, “By all means, Monteith. I wouldn’t wish you to be late for your visit to the surgeon.”

“Ah, but you, your grace, it won’t be a surgeon to attend to you. It will give me great satisfaction to see your blood seeping into the ground.”

The earl said abruptly, “Do you wish to inspect your foil, Lord Monteith?” He opened the long narrow case and carefully lifted out a glittering silver rapier.

Hetty looked stupidly down at the foil. Damnation, what a ludicrous mistake Harry had made. He, of all people, knew that she preferred the pistol. She turned to him, her jaw working with frustration and anger. Her voice was as hard as the frozen earth. “What have you done, Harry? You know I choose the pistol.”

Sir Harry’s eyes widened in disbelief. “But, Lord Harry, it doesn’t matter. Of course you prefer pistols, but there wasn’t anything I could say in the matter.”

Lord Oberlon watched the two young men, as confused as Sir Harry. How could Monteith ever have assumed that the choice of weapons would be his? He’d been the one to issue the challenge.

The earl of March said smoothly, “As the challenger, Monteith, you have no choice in the selection of weapons. Lord Oberlon has decided upon foils.”

Sir Harry added desperately, “Don’t you remember, Lord Harry? It was you who dashed the champagne in his grace’s face.”

The marquess said as he flicked at the sleeve of his greatcoat, “It would appear that Lord Monteith fences well only with words. I will accept your explanation, lad, as well as your apology, if you choose now to sincerely give it.”

Hetty’s secure mental fortress had shattered into myriad unrelated thoughts, uppermost among them the ridiculous phrase she had spoken to Signore Bertioli the afternoon before”a young lion with only a roar we shall soon know if I am only a young lion with a roar.”

She looked blindly at the three faces staring at her, and saw only contempt, for she was not looking at them but back into herself. She remembered her blithely spoken words, again to Signore Bertioli, that a man who goes into battle with but one weapon and a prayer is a fool.

“You have but to explain and apologize,” his words sounded in her mind. He invited her to crawl away with a sincere apology, in shame and dishonor.

She saw Damien, lying lifeless on the bloody battlefield of Waterloo, crying out for vengeance. Her mind fastened upon his image, and in that instant, her thoughts wove themselves together again.

She said, her voice colder than the early morning air, “Foils, your grace? It makes no difference to me how you wish to die.”

She picked up a gleaming rapier from the black velvet-lined case and tested its weight in her hand. It was light, steady, and exquisitely forged.

The marquess frowned at Monteith’s baiting words, not in renewed anger, but in perplexity. He wasn’t blind. The stunned shock on the lad’s face, then the empty coursing of fear that had left his eyes glazed, made the marquess suddenly wonder if he weren’t playing the part of the villain in some sort of cheap melodrama at Drury Lane, a villain who seemed, strangely, to have the upper hand over the hero.

“Jason.”

He shook his head, focusing on the task at hand. He took his foil from the earl’s outstretched hand.

“Take care, my friend,” the earl said.

The marquess nodded, wondering if Julien meant him to take care of himself or to take care of young Monteith. He found, foolishly enough, that he had to hand the foil back while he stripped off his greatcoat and gloves.

“Damn but it’s cold, don’t you think so, Lord Harry?” Harry wished it were a day from now, even an hour, anything to have this over and done with and he and Lord Harry safe and well and on their way back to London. He didn’t think he’d ever been so scared in his life. He watched as Lord Harry unbuttoned his waistcoat.

“Yes, it’s cold. Who cares?”

“Lord Harry, I don’t think”

“Yes?”

“God, it’s done, isn’t it? There’s no turning back now. I’ll keep your greatcoat warm.”

Stripped to a loose, frilled white shirt, breeches and hessians, Harry watched Lord Harry slash his foil through the air several times, testing its flexibility, then watched him move forward to where the marquess stood, dressed in black breeches, black hessians, and white shirt, his side presented.

Hetty flexed her knees, leaning slightly forward, and placed her left hand lightly upon her hip. She slashed the foil again in a wide arc and stood ready for the earl’s command.

“En garde!” The earl’s words rang out harshly in the silent wood.

The marquess began to move gracefully toward her, his blade carefully poised, his eyes intent upon her face. His foil suddenly flashed out wide to her right side, testing for the quickness of her reaction.

Hetty caught his blade handily, parrying his thrust with no particular difficulty, and skipped lightly to bring her weight down on her left foot. The marquess drew back, his foil making small circles, readying like a viper, Hetty thought, to strike again. She sensed his easy control, his practiced mastery, the silver blade appearing to her like an extension of his arm and his will. Thus it was with Signore Bertioli. Give me your skill, Signore, she prayed silently, then with a quick sidestep, lunged forward. The edge of her foil rang against tempered steel and slid nearly halfway up the marquess’s blade, until with a powerful flick of his wrist, he parried the strike. The force of his parry sent stabs of pain up her arm.

The marquess was mildly surprised at the quickness of the lunge, but felt the loosening of the lad’s foil when he’d disengaged with brutal strength. The lad had quickness, but not the strength and endurance to last for any length of time against him. He needed only to engage the boy in a continuous flurry, giving him no time to rest, and, above all, rigidly control the encounter so that Monteith couldn’t slip through his guard. He drew a wide path of control in front of him, discouraging further sudden attacks, but engaging with pounding force. He saw the uncertainty and frustration growing on the boy’s face, and held to his strategy.