Susan Johnson (16 page)

He spoke in short, succinct phrases, as though he were conserving his words or his energy, she wasn’t sure which. “I’ll see to some dinner for you and Eddie,” she said, rising from her chair. “Would you like another drink while I’m gone?”

He shook his head. “My aim is better if I’m sober.”

“I’m not sure it’s ever mattered, has it?” Duff was more drunk than sober for many years and yet always managed to hit his mark with deadly accuracy.

“Let’s just say, with Walingame, it’s best not to take chances. He won’t play by the rules.”

“The man doesn’t know the word.”

“I agree. In fact, I might just shut my eyes for a minute while you’re gone. I haven’t slept much lately.”

“Get up on the bed. It’s more comfortable and you needn’t frown. I don’t care about a little road dust. That’s what I have servants for.”

“You’re sure?”

Duff had always been exceedingly polite, even in his cups. “I’m sure. Now, go lie down. I’ll see that Eddie’s taken care of and I’ll be back with some dinner for you.”

“Let me know if Walingame comes in.”

“I shall. Sleep, now.” He looked exhausted, but then she hadn’t seen him since he’d left for the Peninsula four years ago. Maybe it was more than his travel to London that made him look weary; maybe the war had taken its toll.

T
wo hours later a burly footman came to Abby’s room with the message Duff had been waiting for.

Walingame had arrived.

“He’s not been here more than five minutes,” the footman said with a frown, “and he’s already in a row with the dealer at table ten. Do you want me to have him thrown out, Miss Abby?”

Duff came up out of his chair like a shot. “I’ll take care of it,” he said briskly. “Have Eddie bring my pistol case round back to the garden.”

Abby stopped Duff with a hand on his arm. “You could let this go for a day or so.” The marquis had rested and eaten, but no one would have mistaken him for the same man who had left for the Peninsula three years ago. “There’s no need to beard Walingame tonight.”

“I’m fine, Abby,” Duff said, leaning over and kissing her rosy cheek. He smiled. “And you know as well as I do that this should have been done a long time ago.”

“I won’t argue with you there. But I’d like to see you less fatigued when you face him.”

“It doesn’t take much to aim a pistol. Not to mention, mine have hair triggers.” He grinned. “It will be a simple matter.”

“I’m pleased to hear it,” she said with grace, when she knew it could end disastrously for both men. Walingame, while he chose not to duel when other means were available, had on occasion—when his adversaries were sufficiently weak—stepped onto the dueling field. He’d killed young Addington with a clean shot to the heart from twenty paces without so much as a scratch for himself.

“When it’s over, I’ll drink a glass of champagne with you,” Duff said, unruffled and cool.

“Is that a promise?” Abby murmured, unable to keep the tremor from her voice.

He grinned, pulled her in his arms, and kissed her like he had in the past. “Is that better?” he teased, hoping to allay her fears. “Now, don’t worry.” Releasing her, he bowed gracefully. “I shall be back for champagne before you know it.”

But as Darley walked from her apartments, Abby called her footman to her side and issued a few rapid instructions. “I want everything to go smoothly. You understand,” she said at the last.

“Yes, Miss Abby. Don’t worry none. We know what to do.”

Duff strolled into the room where Walingame was gambling and stood just inside the doorway for a moment, surveying the throng. He knew most everyone. A few wealthy merchants who could afford the play were in the mix, and a few out-of-town gentry were trying their luck at Abby’s, but other than that, the players were men of his acquaintance.

Having brought gloves in from his saddlebags, he’d tucked them into the pocket of his riding pants. He touched them briefly, as though reassuring himself they were in place, and moving from the entrance, slowly threaded his way between the tables to where Walingame sat at cards.

Walingame caught sight of Duff before he reached him and had time to school his features. The earl set down his cards with a studied nonchalance.

Everyone at his table wondered at Walingame stopping in the middle of play until they looked up and saw a grim-faced Duff coming near. An uneasy hush rippled out from table ten, a muzzled silence slowly pervading the room. By the time Duff finally came to rest beside Walingame, one could have heard a pin drop.

“Where is she?” Duff’s voice was measured and mild, his gaze in contrast hard as flint.

“I don’t know.”

“Liar.” A knife blade of a word.

Walingame didn’t knowingly put his life at risk. “Perhaps,” he said with a dip of his head. “But not about that. I have no idea where the jade is.”

“I could beat it out of you.”

Walingame’s mouth turned up in a sneer. “I doubt it. You’re not carrying enough weight anymore. If you want me to say I’m sorry the bitch ran, I will, but otherwise I can’t help you. She sure as hell didn’t run to me.” He wasn’t interested in shedding any blood tonight or any night over a woman, and to that end he was willing to mollify Duff.

Duff wasn’t inclined to be mollified. If Annabelle was gone, Walingame had to be party to it, his denial notwithstanding. “I’m calling you a damned, bloody liar,” Duff said so softly, the men at the table strained forward to hear the words. And drawing out his gloves, he slapped Walingame’s face.

A red welt rose on Walingame’s cheek, but he didn’t move from his chair. “I’m not fighting you over that doxy.”

“Then you’re a liar
and
a coward.” Duff shifted his stance as though provoking him to rise. “Get up, you spineless cur.” He slapped Walingame a second time—harder.

Walingame came to his feet in a surge of fury, goaded beyond even
his
sense of self-preservation. “You’re dead, Darley,” he snarled. “And I’ll fuck the bitch on your grave for good measure.”

Duff gave no indication he’d heard him. He only nodded toward the terrace doors. “I’ll see you outside.”

Everyone within earshot was rapidly coming to the same conclusion concerning the identity of the female at the center of this dispute. Had Darley been the reason Annabelle Foster had left London? Was Walingame the cuckold? If so, why was Darley at his throat? That Annabelle was worth fighting over was not in question. She’d even brought Walingame up to the mark.

While Walingame had been driven to accept Duff’s challenge, he wasn’t without options. Aware of Darley’s history on the dueling field, as well as the fact that he might be a target of the marquis’s displeasure since Shoreham, he’d taken appropriate measures to protect himself. “Are we using seconds?” he inquired, in control of his emotions once again, playing the gentleman for practical reasons.

Duff looked right through him. “What for?”

“After you, then,” Walingame said in silken accents. As he spoke, he casually moved his arm at his side, reassuring himself the pistol in his coat pocket was conveniently near.
Fortune sides with him who dares
, he mused, finding Virgil highly appropriate at the moment.

“We’ll go out together.” Duff had no intention of walking in front of Walingame.

“Very well.” Walingame’s plans would require a slight adjustment, but nothing untoward, he decided, taking his place beside Duff with an air of equanimity.

It would soon be over in any event, he reflected.

Darley’s insults would be avenged.

As the men walked through the terrace doors, a fully illuminated garden lit with numerous flambeaux met their gazes. Footmen were stationed in neat rows on either side of the open green in the center of the garden. And Eddie waited on the manicured grass with Duff’s pistol case in his hands.

“My, my,” Walingame murmured. “Do I detect a calculated plan?”

“My servants are simply here to assure compliance with the rules,” Abby noted, as she stood near the terrace balustrade. What was left unsaid was the fact that governance was needed to be sure those rules were observed.

Walingame suddenly found the odds unacceptable. Any hope of utilizing his concealed pistol on the field was seriously curtailed by the blazing lights, not to mention all the footmen witness to the scene. Which left him diminishing options. And less time than he’d thought to play out his game. The pistol in his pocket was meant to be a deadly surprise.

With footmen posted like guardsmen on the green, even if he managed to shoot Darley with his hidden weapon, escape would be impossible.

His life was clearly at stake.

There was no time to let events unfold.

Jerking the small pistol from his coat pocket, Walingame leaped in front of Duff, and as Duff’s arms flew up to protect himself, Walingame fired twice from point-blank range.

Duff was flung back by the powerful impact of two fifty-caliber shots.

Walingame spun away and sprinted toward the darkness at the end of the terrace.

Pandemonium exploded around Darley.

Fuck.
He’d been gulled like a simpleton, Duff thought bitterly, as his knees began to give way.

“Get a doctor!” Abby screamed, running toward Darley.

Abby’s scream seemed to be coming from far away, the high-pitched cry competing with the corrosive pain ripping through his body, the agony so raw he couldn’t breathe. Although, maybe it was better if he didn’t breathe, Duff thought, if he didn’t move—the hellish torment might be more manageable. But as he collapsed, the downward motion jolted his body with nightmarish intensity, and he gritted his teeth against the scream rising in his throat.

Two men caught him just before he hit the ground, and Eddie was at his side a second later.

“Get Stewart,” Duff breathed, the effort it took to speak almost insupportable.

Then his eyes went shut.

Duff was still conscious as they carried him back into the gaming room, but his eyes hadn’t opened and his wounds were bleeding profusely. His shirt and waistcoat were soaked through, the coat sleeve of the arm through which one of the balls had passed before entering his chest drenched with blood.

He was carried up to Abby’s rooms while Eddie instructed a messenger to fetch Dr. Stewart. Then Abby and Eddie set about trying to stanch Duff’s bleeding.

Scottish doctors weren’t allowed to practice in England. Their less competent English colleagues didn’t like the competition. But at this juncture, no one was concerned with legalities.

Very soon after being placed in Abby’s bed, Duff lost consciousness.

Abby was quietly crying as she kept handing clean towels to Eddie.

Eddie’s mouth was set in a grim line as he kept pressure on the wounds in an effort to stop the bleeding.

The arm wound was clean—no major arteries had been hit. Eddie had wrapped it tightly and left it. The chest wounds were more daunting, the clear shot deep and very close to the heart. The second ball had lost momentum as it passed through Duff’s arm, although a fifty-caliber projectile was powerful enough to do serious damage, deflected or not. “No arteries have been hit, thank God,” Eddie muttered, easing another blood-soaked towel from Duff’s chest, the hole left by the bullet seeping blood but not pumping it out. Quickly putting a clean towel in place, he leaned on the wadded towel with both hands. “He’s led a charmed life, he has,” he murmured. “Lady Luck might still be on his side.”

“Pray God she is. How far did you say it was to the doctor’s house?” Abby asked as though she might hurry the doctor along with her repeated queries.

“Ten blocks, maybe a few more,” Eddie answered patiently. “I told your man to ride anyone over who gets in his way. They should be here soon.” Fortunately, Dr. Stewart was a stay-at-home family man. He wouldn’t have to be chased down at some club or social engagement.

“How long has it been?” Abby asked again, like a child might, repeating the question until she received the answer she wished.

“He should be here soon,” Eddie replied kindly, having no more idea of the time than she did. It seemed like a hundred years since Duff had been shot—or maybe just months, memories of the horror of Waterloo suddenly flooding into his brain. But even then, Duff hadn’t been shot in the chest.

Eddie wasn’t a praying man, but these were the kind of wounds that required prayer. Before he’d run out of words—his religious vocabulary spare from disuse—a soft knock was heard, and a second after that, one of Abby’s footmen entered. Walking over to his employer, he whispered in her ear.

Since it wasn’t the doctor who’d arrived, Eddie paid no further notice. He went back to his harrowing business.

When the man finished talking, Abby nodded in understanding. “Thank everyone,” she said, keeping her voice low in the sickroom. “Have Dudley make the appropriate payments, then I want everyone concerned to leave London immediately. No one is to return until they hear from me.”

The door softly shut a moment later, and as Abby returned her attention to Duff, she said without expression, “Walingame was shot and thrown into the Thames. I wish he would have suffered more but there wasn’t time.”

Eddie grunted in acknowledgment.

“If only revenge were sweeter,” she murmured, her voice heavy with grief.

“If Duff lives, it will be sweet.” Eddie turned his head for the barest second and met Abby’s gaze. “Good work,” he said. Then he softly exhaled. “Now, you might want to pray.”

“Don’t say that,” Abby cried softly.

Eddie shook his head in the slightest of movements. “I don’t know what else to do. I don’t dare dig out the shots when they’re so close to his heart.”

“Then I’ll pray that the doctor comes,” Abby replied firmly. She refused to give up hope. She wouldn’t allow herself to even consider it. Duff was too full of life to die, too good and bonny and kind. Someone as cursed as Walingame shouldn’t be allowed to take his life.

She began to pray, pleading, promising anything, offering supplications of every kind if only God would hear her prayers.

Duff was more than a friend; she owed him her life. Years ago, he’d saved her from cruel treatment at the hands of Lord Sheldon. He’d given her the funds for her first gambling house and refused to accept payment in return. Not that offering him her favors hadn’t been a gratifying way of repaying him in some small measure.

But, in addition to praying for the doctor, she decided to pray that Duff lived so she might settle her debt to him in a more substantial way. Once Duff recovered, she decided, refusing to give in to despair, she would ask him what charity he preferred.

She immediately took comfort in the thought of Duff’s charity, or maybe God had answered her in his own way. Whatever the case, the door suddenly opened—young James Stewart walked in and calmly said, “Let’s see what we have here.”

The doctor immediately took over, issuing orders in a brisk staccato, his manner both efficient and confident. He appeared neither worried nor harried, a distinct balm to the fear of those in the room.

He’d brought ether—first synthesized in 1540 and used in various compounds since then—and Duff was given a small amount to dull the pain. Due to his extensive bleeding, the doctor took care not to put the marquis into too deep a sleep. But once the narcotic was administered to his satisfaction, he swiftly and deftly plucked the shot from Duff’s chest with delicate forceps of his own design. The lead balls landed in the basin Abby held with a heavy thud in what seemed a miraculously brief procedure, and then the doctor cleaned and dressed the wounds.