Regency: Rakes & Reputations (Mills & Boon M&B) (45 page)

T
he early-morning mist was still wreathing its diaphanous plumes over the heath’s scrubland as Marcus’s carriage drew to a halt beside the clump of trees that had been designated for the meeting place. Leaping lightly from the vehicle, his lordship was surprised to note that two other carriages were already in attendance at the scene, despite the fact that the time was still more than fifteen minutes short of the appointed hour.

‘Colder than I expected,’ remarked Bingham, as he cast a somewhat nervous glance in the direction of Dawlish’s waiting group.

Never having been involved in anything of this sort before, he was slightly unsure what to expect. He had heard a good many tales, of course, and had taken pains to acquaint himself with the proper procedure. Since he had already made a thoroughly conscientious attempt at mediation—a second’s primary duty, according to his sources—he was reasonably satisfied that he had fulfilled all his requisite obligations. All that remained
now, as he understood it, was for one or other of the parties to deal his opponent a relatively harmless injury—a slight nick on the upper arm usually served, it seemed—and justice would be seen to have been done, with neither party having lost face. He had also managed—after some considerable difficulty and the promise of a hefty fee—to persuade his family doctor’s junior partner into attending what was, when all was said and done, the sort of activity now punishable by law. But, having observed that Dr Felsham, whose maroon landau Bingham had recognised, had chosen to remain well out of sight at this juncture, the young Viscount could only hope that his father never got to hear of his own part in the illicit proceedings!

Giles, meanwhile, was busily engaged in examining the weapons, which on this occasion had been supplied by Dawlish, whose skill as a crack marksman was common knowledge—not that the Major had any doubts as to his brother’s own expertise in the sport, having seen him shoot out a pip at a distance of twenty yards or more.

Having checked the silver-handled duelling pistols to his satisfaction, the Major stood back and watched as one of Sir Randolph’s seconds, Captain Dempsey by name, tossed a coin to decide which of the participants should be given first choice of weapon. Dawlish’s harsh ‘heads’ allotted the choice to Marcus, when the coin landed tailside uppermost.

Extracting a battered chronometer from his pocket as the muffled chimes of a distant church clock struck the hour, Dempsey flipped open its case to declare that the time had arrived for Helstone and Dawlish to take their places.

Pistols in hand, the two stood back to back, awaiting the count.

‘Time for last prayers, you despicable swine,’ grated Dawlish through clenched teeth, his mocking words inaudible to all but the Viscount.

‘One…two…three …’

His lip curled in derision, Marcus stepped forward.
So the cur actually means to kill me, does he?
he mused, almost unconcernedly. Having spent the better part of the past twenty-four hours putting his affairs in order, including willing all his worldly possessions to his younger brother, he had very little interest in the outcome of this morning’s meeting. In fact, once he had registered the look of sheer contempt on Sophie’s face after his attempts to signal his plea of innocence to her, the Viscount had discovered that he really had very little interest in anything at all.

‘Four…five…six …’

His initial anger at Dawlish’s accusation had dissipated some hours ago, especially since he had been obliged to face up to the irrefutable fact that, having gone out of his way to acquire the unsavoury reputation with which the name Helstone had become synonymous over the past six years, such a charge had become almost inevitable, given the decidedly incriminating circumstances in which he had been discovered. In fact, it had become depressingly clear to Marcus that it was going to take a darned sight more than a couple of weeks of fixing tenants’ roofs and calculating milk yields to cancel out his now deeply regretted history of loose living and self-indulgent profligacy. Unfortunately, as he had also come to realise, without Sophie by his side to help him overcome the stumbling blocks that inevitably lay ahead of him, he was not at all sure that he would be able to
summon up either the inclination or the enthusiasm to deal with so momentous a task. In losing Sophie, Marcus was starting to realise that he had lost everything that was truly worth living for.

‘Seven…eight…nine …’

His brain automatically cutting to the matter in hand, the Viscount tensed, his finger poised to squeeze the trigger on the turn. Just as he was about to take the final step forward, however, he was astounded to find himself staggering to remain upright as the force of Dawlish’s bullet ripped through his left coat-sleeve, biting into the tender flesh of his underarm. His shock and anger was so great in that moment that any pain he might have been feeling was thrust immediately from his mind. The treacherous bastard had pre-empted Dempsey’s count! Whirling round to confront his assailant, he slowly raised his pistol.

Scarcely able to comprehend that his carefully aimed shot could have missed its intended target, the by now thoroughly shaken Dawlish stood utterly transfixed, his brain refusing to function. Not only had he committed the indefensible offence of discharging his pistol in advance of the call, but he had also failed in his attempt to put a period to his hated enemy’s life! But then, as the awful realisation that Helstone was aiming his as yet still loaded weapon in his direction finally captured the horrified baronet’s attention, his heart seemed to stop in its tracks and he let out a whimper of despair.

His eyes fixed unwaveringly on Dawlish’s panic-stricken face, the Viscount took aim.

‘Hold hard, Marcus!’ howled Giles, as he leapt across the space that separated him from his brother. ‘Lower your weapon, man!’

Temporarily sidetracked by the Major’s frantic shout,
Marcus was momentarily diverted from his intention. Seizing his opportunity, Dawlish swung round and, taking to his heels, tore frantically across the grass in an effort to reach the safety of his carriage.

His lips curling in contempt as he watched the baronet haul himself into his waiting carriage, Marcus, lowering his pistol, turned to face his irate brother. ‘I wasn’t about to kill him, if that’s what you were afraid of,’ he grunted, somewhat aggrieved at Giles’s apparent lack of faith. ‘I merely intended to part the swine’s hair!’

‘You’re a damned fool,’ retorted the Major, looking suitably shamefaced. ‘I can only thank God that the lily-livered cur wasn’t as good a shot as he thought he was!’

‘Not half bad, though,’ muttered Marcus as, suddenly aware of the burning pain in his underarm, he stared down in fascination at the rivulet of blood now dripping from the cuff of his jacket. ‘Another inch or so to the right and—’

A wave of blackness swept over him and then…
nothing.

‘What exactly do you mean by “slightly injured”,’ asked Sophie, eyeing Bingham suspiciously.

‘He took a bit of a nick in his arm, that’s all,’ replied the Viscount with a nervous laugh. ‘The doctor didn’t seem too worried about it—just a flesh wound, he said.’

Having seen more than enough ‘flesh wounds’ in her time, Sophie was still not nearly satisfied with Bingham’s very sketchy description of Helstone’s injury. Having set upon him the moment he had arrived back at the abbey, both she and Elizabeth had proceeded to
badger the Viscount until, with the utmost reluctance, he had eventually been browbeaten into divulging the very barest details of that morning’s happenings.

‘Was his lordship losing a great deal of blood?’ she demanded to know.

‘Oh, I think we might be spared that sort of detail,’ interposed Elizabeth hurriedly, her face paling. ‘If Dr Felsham was of the opinion that Helstone’s wound wasn’t serious, then surely we ought to accept his verdict.’

‘Simple flesh wounds have been known to turn very nasty,’ Sophie countered in reply but then, having taken note of her friend’s rather sickly-looking expression, she swiftly changed the subject to demand of Bingham, ‘So, where exactly is his lordship now?’

‘Major Wolfe had Felsham accompany them both back to Grosvenor Square,’ the Viscount was at pains to assure her. ‘Where you can be sure that he will receive the very best of treatment. Anyway, if you ask me, Dawlish is the one we should all be feeling sorry for at this moment!’

‘That cur!’ retorted Sophie with an angry glare, while Elizabeth merely gave a derisive snort. ‘Why on earth you think that anyone would feel a moment’s pity for that odious creature is beyond my understanding. After the way he’s treated that poor defenceless wife of his, the evil swine deserves everything he gets—not that his punishment for behaving in so outrageous a manner is likely to amount to much more than being blackballed from one or two of his clubs for a couple of weeks,’ she added scathingly. ‘The brunt of which will be borne by Lady Dawlish, if I’m any judge!’

‘And I fear that you would be quite wrong in that assumption,’ said Bingham, giving a decisive shake of his head. ‘Seems the poor devil suffered some sort of
apoplectic seizure not long after climbing into his carriage. Captain Dempsey—one of his seconds—sent a note round to the major indicating that it’s highly unlikely that Dawlish will last the night!’

There followed a somewhat awkward silence as Sophie and Elizabeth tried their level best to avoid catching one another’s eyes, the guilty remorse on both girls’ faces bearing testament to their vociferous and far-reaching condemnation of the baronet earlier.

‘I suppose one of us ought to go and break the news to Christabel,’ ventured Sophie at last. Not that she was looking forward to imparting such gruesome tidings to Dawlish’s young wife, particularly after having spent the best part of the night castigating the man. Added to which, since she was fairly sure that Christabel would immediately assume the mantle of guilt for the whole wretched affair, she had the distinct feeling that the girl’s previous display of grief would be as nothing when compared to the one which would erupt upon being informed of her husband’s imminent demise.

Having already spent a good many hours at the highly distressed girl’s bedside, Sophie was now thoroughly exhausted and would have liked nothing better than to bury her own head in a pillow and devote her thoughts to trying to figure out what might be going on in Grosvenor Square at that moment. As her many years of experience had taught her, even the simplest of flesh wounds had a nasty habit of festering and turning putrid. Tiny threads of fabric could get caught under the skin, setting up an infection. Instruments were often contaminated, and bandages weren’t always as clean as they might be—not to mention the very real danger of lead poisoning—all of which might easily lead to amputation and—a violent
shudder ran through her as she did her best to suppress the thought that followed—even
death
!

Biting her lip to stop the tears that threatened, Sophie knew that there was no way that she could be satisfied that Helstone’s injury was really as trivial as Jack had attempted to imply. She was just going to have to go up to London and discover for herself the actual extent of the damage to his lordship’s arm! But first, as she was reluctantly forced to remind herself, there still remained the rather depressing task of dealing with the soon to be widowed Christabel Dawlish. Murmuring a short prayer of absolution, Sophie could not forbear from keeping her fingers tightly crossed as she entered the sleeping girl’s room.

‘Absolutely not!’ Marcus gave a mutinous shake of his head. ‘I’ve already told you! I have no intention of putting in an appearance at Bradfield until this damned arm of mine is on the mend!’

‘But if Ma should get to hear of your injury, she’ll be pretty offended at you not wanting her at your bedside,’ protested his brother. ‘You can’t have forgotten what she was like when we both went down with scarlet fever that time!’

‘There’s no reason why she should get to hear of it,’ riposted Marcus with a weary sigh, while privately thinking that the only person he really wanted—
needed
—by his bedside at this particular moment was the chestnut-haired, blue-eyed goddess who had so clearly rejected him two nights ago. ‘Neither of Dawlish’s cohorts is going to want word of their chum’s gutless behaviour to get out—especially as the poor sod seems about to cash in his chips, if Dempsey’s note is anything to go by. Young Bingham has been doing his damnedest to
keep the affair from his father’s ears and I certainly don’t see Felsham blabbing about it.’

‘Well, I’m not entirely happy about leaving you here on your own,’ remonstrated Giles. ‘You lost a fair amount of blood—you were out for almost half an hour, I’ll have you know!’

‘So you keep telling me,’ retorted his brother dryly. ‘However, in case you have failed to notice the fact, I can hardly claim to be on my own, being surrounded by an entire household of highly trained staff whose only desire in life is to pander to my every need. The noble Ferris is on hand to deal with my more personal requirements, and our reluctant medic has promised to drop in at regular intervals to change my dressings.

Satisfied?’

‘I suppose so.’ The Major stood undecided for a moment, before adding, ‘But you really do need to rest, if you want that wound to heal properly, so positively
no
visitors allowed—I shall inform Danson on my way out.’

Having spent the better part of the morning suffering the ministrations of the none too happy Dr Felsham, Marcus was feeling decidedly wrung out and only too pleased to comply with his brother’s instruction. Particularly in view of the fact that it had been entirely due to the Major’s quick response that he had been prevented from falling to the ground when he had collapsed—an achievement that had doubtless saved him from even further injury. Not that the Viscount could recall a great deal of what had followed, other than finding himself back in his own bed being poked and prodded with what he had felt at the time was undue savagery but what he now supposed was quite normal procedure, given the unusual circumstances. Incredibly, and although
it had taken off a slice of his skin in the process, the ball from Dawlish’s firearm had ripped straight through Marcus’s coat sleeve, finally ending its journey at some point on the grass in front of him. And, despite the fact that the surface wound had bled rather profusely at the time, Marcus had been gratified to learn that there had been no damage to the underlying muscle. Felsham had assured the Viscount that a few days’ rest and recuperation were all that were needed to return him to full health.