Lord Scandal (22 page)

Nothing could have prepared us for the delicious sight of a certain Tory MP slinking from Lord and Lady J——'s soirée with his tail between his legs and his new wife railing like a fish wife.

Tête-à-Tête, 16 December 1789

At eleven the next morning, Imogen climbed into the small traveling coach usually reserved for the servants and threw herself back against the squabs. George handed in a basket of food.

“Are you sure, Imogen?” the countess asked, her brow puckered with concern.

Imogen nodded, unable to speak. She just wanted to get underway. If Gabriel caught her now, she wouldn't be able to go. With one last uneasy look, George stepped back and the footman threw up the steps and swung the coach door shut.

Imogen crumpled into the seat. She'd lain awake all night, trying to find a solution she could live with, and this was what she kept coming back to: escape. She wouldn't call it running away, though the phrase was apt. She pulled the carriage rug up over her lap and settled into the corner as the coach got underway with a lurch, metal banded wheels clattering loudly across the cobbles in the stillness of the morning.

Gabriel couldn't—wouldn't—see that fighting William would make everything worse. It would cause such an upsurge of gossip that she'd never be able to show her face again. The door to the ton had cracked open, but it was about to slam shut, right in her face. She'd either be the wanton who'd caused the death of a rising young politician or the slut who'd gotten her foreign lover killed.

Why couldn't Gabriel see that? Why do men so often seemed to think that violence would solve anything? Violence might be necessary to counter violence, but didn't seem all that effective for anything else.

A marriage between them would never work.

This was one case in which she was sad to have been proven right. All that was left was for her to get as far away from him as possible. And at the moment, that meant Scotland; to one of the estates belonging to the countess's brother. George had promised to send along her things, and not to tell Gabriel where she'd gone, though ringing that pledge out of her had been hard.

But once given George's word was sacrosanct. She wouldn't go back on her promise.

Imogen touched the countess's letter of introduction, flipped her book open so she could read the signature scrawled on the outside…Scotland.

Locks, heather, misty crags. It was not exile.

A tear slipped down her cheek, tracing a cold track down to her jaw. It wasn't. It was an adventure.

 

As her third best carriage disappeared round the corner, George blew her breath out with irritation and went back inside. If Imogen wanted to escape, there was nothing she could do about it, except provide a place to go, and a safe means of getting there.

Gabriel would have her head if she allowed Imogen to slip off to parts unknown. And much as she thought Imogen was making a mistake, it was her mistake to make. But just because George was going to let her make it, didn't mean she wasn't also going to do everything in her power to counter such a gaff.

Imogen was mad if she thought she was going to find a hiding place where Gabriel wouldn't be able to find her. Even if George didn't inform upon her—which she was going to very carefully skirt doing—it wouldn't take him that long to run her to ground. If he was quick about it, she wouldn't even get to Scotland. She had days and days on the road, and George had explicitly told her coachman to go as slowly as possible without letting on that he was doing so.

Far too pent up to stay home alone, the countess grabbed her coat and set off for The Top Heavy. The boys were doubtless already there, and she wanted to know what was going on. The duel couldn't have been fought this morning, but she was certain it would take place in the next day or two.

When she arrived, it was to find Morpeth and Bennett striding up the block deep in conversation. She waited for them on the steps, and then entered with them. Her former butler directed them to the second floor, to George's old private sitting room. Gabriel was already there, as were his cousin Julian and St. Audley.

Gabriel gave her a quick, appraising glance, before turning his attention to the earl. “Are we set?”

“We are,” Morpeth replied, taking a seat. The earl's sitting down signaled everyone else to draw near and do the same. “It's for tomorrow.”

“Weapons?”

“Time?”

“Where,” everyone jumped in, their questions tumbling out in a rush.

“Breakfast plans?” George threw in, earning herself a glare from the earl.

“It's hardly your first duel,” her husband said, shaking his head reprovingly. “Do try to contain yourself, you bloodthirsty wench.”

“If I may?” Morpeth said, shooting them both a quelling glance. “Pistols. Seven…dawn being too early for Perrin. The green outside the Drunken Pelican, up in Hampstead. Breakfast reserved at the Pelican directly after, if that's acceptable to you, my queen?” he added with a smirk.

“Pistols?” George curled her lip. “Coward.”

Gabriel smiled, looking thoroughly satisfied, and lounged back into his chair, crossing one leg over the other and swinging his foot. “It doesn't matter, Georgie. One will do as well as the other.”

 

When Gabriel arrived at Morpeth's house the following morning, the city was just rumbling to life; drays hauling coal rattling through the dark streets, weaving through the fog past the occasional coach hauling home a late night reveler.

Gabriel made his way around the back of the house to the mews, where he found most of the party already assembled. He was obviously the last to arrive. He dismounted and handed over the case containing his pistols to the earl. He gave his gelding a firm slap on the haunch and the horse tossed his head, the soft rattle of his bit like a bell.

His friends milled about the stable yard, stamping their feet to ward off the cold. Gabriel checked his watch, and thrust the tortoiseshell bauble back into his pocket.

“Time to be on our way.”

He had to consciously resist the urge to ask about his nymph. If there was anything he needed to know, he trusted George to tell him. She wasn't a secretive sort of woman. For now he needed to concentrate on the duel.

He had no concerns about his own safety; it was highly unlikely that his opponent would so much as graze him, but his own plan to wound Perrin without killing him would require greater skill than simply killing him outright. A simple torso shot was out of the question, too high a risk of hitting a vital organ. Which meant he was going to have to aim for an arm, or a leg.

If only he'd chosen swords. Cutting him to ribbons would have been so much more satisfying than putting a single bullet into him.

The sky was turning orange in the east, color cresting over the top of the trees as they arrived at the Drunken Pelican and turned their horses over to the ostler. Gabriel checked his watch again. Still only six-thirty. He flexed his shoulders and cracked his knuckles. There was no sign of the opponent or his seconds.

Perrin had better hurry up, it smelled like rain.

Inside the tap room they found the two surgeons. Gabriel spoke briefly to his, and paid him for his attendance. Bartleby was everything that was required in such a situation: reliable, highly skilled, and close as the grave.

Perrin's man on the other hand was huddled by the fire, imbibing heavily and muttering to himself in an aggrieved tone. Gabriel flicked his eyes over the man, and then looked questioningly at Bartleby, who rolled his eyes and shrugged.

At seven, when Perrin had still not put in an appearance, Gabriel and his friends stepped back outside to wait. Morpeth checked his watch and growled.

“This is ridiculous.” Julian ground an errant weed in the cobbles under his boot heel.

“It does make one wonder if we're merely waiting for the constabulary,” George said, craning her head and staring down the foggy road.

“It's certainly a thought,” Gabriel agreed.

If Perrin didn't show, he'd be branded a coward, and publicly humiliated once word got out, but it would hardly be the satisfying outcome Gabriel was seeking. Such an outcome paled next to the visceral impact of losing a duel.

Another ten minutes passed before the sound of hooves caused everyone to watch the road. Eventually a carriage came into view, and upon entering the yard, it disgorged Perrin and four of his friends. Gabriel leaned insolently against the wall of the inn, chatting with his cousin and George while Morpeth approached the new arrivals.

“You're late,” the earl snapped.

“Couldn't be helped,” Lord Haversham replied, glancing guiltily at his boots.

“I'm sure. Shall we proceed?”

Haversham nodded and Morpeth motioned to Julian to bring the box of pistols over. “Do you wish to load for your principal, Haversham?” Morpeth asked.

“No, no,” Haversham assured him. “Trust you to do it properly, Morpeth.”

“Then I shall get to it, we're late enough as it is. Will you accompany me?” Morpeth turned without waiting for an answer, and went inside, Haversham trailing behind him.

Perrin and his three remaining friends stood in a tight knot, as far from Gabriel as they could, all of them patently ignoring everyone else in the yard. Gabriel glanced at them, prompting George to do so as well.

“Nervous as a hen with a fox outside the coop,” she said with a smirk.

Gabriel gave a bark of laughter, and then chuckled anew as Perrin shied, his head snapping round, and then hastily turned back to his friends.

“You're a wicked, wicked woman, my dear.”

George smiled and gave him a deep, formal curtsy. She stood up and placed one hand lightly on his arm. “You will be careful?”

“No such thing as careful in a duel, love. The only thing I got to choose was the distance.”

“And the greater one you choose, the more to your advantage that would be.” She clearly had a firm grasp on the inherent implications of someone of Gabriel's known skills facing a man such as Perrin.

“Ten paces.” Gabriel shrugged, then twitched his coat so it lay more smoothly. “Gives him a chance of hitting me. A slight one anyway.”

“And the number of shots?”

“Three, or until a serious wound is sustained by either party. It's all terribly standard. I guarantee he won't fire more than once though.”

George made a face and tightened her grip on his arm. “I'm going to hold you to that.”

Before he could reply, Morpeth and Haversham reappeared, flanked by the surgeons. Gabriel stripped out of his coat, tossing the expensive garment to George. “Hold that for me, my lady.” George clutched it to her, smiling back at him wickedly.

Everyone set off across the wet grass, making for the large open green behind the inn. As they took their places, Perrin glanced nervously around, and rubbed his palms down the front of his thigh before choosing a pistol from the box Morpeth held.

Gabriel smiled and flexed his hand. God how he'd been looking forward to this.

The earl wandered almost lazily across the field, his long legs eating up the ten paces Haversham had marked out. He offered Gabriel the remaining pistol, and retreated to one side where the rest of the small audience was waiting.

“Gentlemen, at the count of three, you may fire when ready,” Haversham announced loudly.

Morpeth counted off, and there was a thunderous report from Perrin's gun. Still breathing and completely whole Gabriel smiled and took careful aim. Perrin dropped to the grass, shrieking, both hands clasped to this thigh.

Gabriel glanced around, almost disinterestedly, looking to see if Perrin had managed to hit anything at all. He didn't think so. The bullet had certainly come nowhere near Gabriel himself. While he waited for the surgeon to make a pronouncement as to Perrin's fitness to continue, he savored the smell of sulfur in the air, the sweet scent of victory.

Perrin's somewhat soused surgeon was hustled to him by Haversham. After a few minutes, Lord Haversham approached Morpeth, then hastened back to his friend.

“Mr. Perrin is unable to continue,” Morpeth announced in form. “Are you satisfied, Mr. Angelstone?”

“For the nonce.” Without crossing to examine his handiwork, Gabriel turned and left the field. His friends fell into place behind him, and once they reached the private parlor they had reserved, everyone broke into congratulatory whoops.

“It would be beyond the pale to have cheered in front of Perrin, but oh, how I wanted to,” George said, her eyes positively glowing as she took seat at the long table.

“You showed admirable restraint, witch,” Somercote said with a grin, entering the room in Morpeth's wake.

“I've set Bartleby on them,” Morpeth explained, as he piled his plate high with steak and eggs. “That sot Haversham engaged was next to useless.”

Gabriel looked after shrugging himself back into his coat. “Did you tell Bartleby I'd foot the bill?”

Morpeth nodded, his smile growing wider.

“Well, that ought to stick in Perrin's craw,” Gabriel added, picking up his coffee cup and inhaling the pungent scent with a sigh.

“I thought it was a nice touch,” the earl admitted. “Dig the knife in a little deeper.”

“Make him hunt you down to repay the dept,” Julian cried with a laugh.

“Or better yet,” Gabriel said with a thoroughly evil smile, “simply refuse to accept the money. Being beholden to me for such a debt ought to chaff.”

A few minutes later a loud commotion could be heard from the tap room, followed by the sounds of a large group heading up the stairs. Apparently Perrin was going to live long enough to occupy one of the Pelican's rooms.

A ball to the leg wasn't likely to be life threatening, but one never knew. It could have hit an artery, or shattered the bone, or the wound could go septic. Right now he really didn't give a damn. If he had to take Imogen and flee the country so be it.