The Second Shot (The Dueling Pistols) (5 page)

The door to the inner office opened, and the secretary started to usher in a man in a scarlet uniform. "Sir, you have a visitor, Captain..." the secretary paused in the middle of his introduction as he recognized Felicity from her attempts to gain entry to the banker's private office. His jaw fell slack. "I'm sorry, I didn't realize you had visitors."

Charles took that moment to pipe up. Looking straight at a captain Felicity had never met before in her life, he asked, "Are you my papa?"

* * *

"Do roll him over." Tony stared dispassionately at the still form of William Bedford, lying face down on the ground. The two seconds had run over to him but stopped as if afraid to touch the man.

"Perhaps you should be off, sir," said Randy.

"I doubt it." Tony lurched across the field. He rather suspected Bedford was just as sound as he was. Sounder actually, as he didn't have previous leg injuries.

Bedford's second rolled the pale man to his back. A trickle of blood dripped from his lip. "You've killed him."

"What happened to him, sir?" Randy exchanged a puzzled glance with Tony. "I didn't see. I was watching you."

Tony knelt down on his good leg and pulled out a handkerchief to wipe the blood from the corner of Bedford's mouth. He waved with the dueling pistol, lightly held in his other hand. "I rather suspect I should not be so enamored of all things Spanish."

Bedford's eyes flicked open. His gaze drifted to the spot of blood on the handkerchief, and he blanched. He grabbed Tony's shirtfront. "I would ask a favor, sir."

Tony held his tongue.

"In my carriage is a packet with the title to Lungren's estate. There's also a quitclaim deed, duly witnessed by my solicitor. Do take it to Captain Lungren's sisters."

"You might take it yourself."

Bedford's eyes flicked to the handkerchief and back up.

"I rather suspect you bit your lip when you fainted," said Tony.

"But you shot him," said Bedford's second.

"I don't believe so. He didn't have the look of a man who took a bullet. I have seen more than a few men brought down by one."

Bedford sat up gingerly, as if he expected the task to be difficult.

Randleton raised his eyebrows. A crack shot like Tony had far too much experience to be thrown by a fit of nerves at twenty paces.

"I regret to say that I missed. We should have gone for Mantons after all." He collected Bedford's dropped pistol and handed the pair to Randleton. "I felt it kick sideways when I fired. I suspect all the pretty work was decorative only."

Bedford dabbed at his lip with his fingertips, probing the slight wound. Would he would withdraw his generosity now that he knew he wasn't dying?

His second seemed to recall the rules of engagement at this point. "Are you satisfied, sir?"

Since Bedford had issued the challenge, it fell to him to answer. His pursed mouth and wide eyes betrayed both disgust and wonder. "I am satisfied."

Tony began the painful lurch to his feet. Randleton knew better than to offer assistance.

Bedford leaned forward and brushed off his pantaloons. "Will you discharge this errand for me?"

Tony paused.

Bedford's face had grown red. "As you are Lungren's—
were
Lungren's—senior officer, perhaps it should come better from you. I should think I am persona non grata in that household." He looked down at the ground. "I had no idea he would kill himself. I did not mean for this to come to pass."

For the first time, Tony stopped to consider how little he knew about his opponent. Had he misjudged Bedford? Convicted him with circumstance and coincidence? "What did you mean when you took his home?"

Bedford's voice shook, but he emphasized, "I
won
his home."

Tony cocked an eyebrow. By honor he was expected to accept the outcome of this duel as the final word in the matter. He could no longer accuse Bedford of cheating, but murder was a different story. If he could find proof or induce a confession, he could bring the matter to Lord Carlton's attention.

"I should have been happy to allow him to grant me an annuity, if he had mentioned his difficulties to me. I did not prompt him to wager his home." Tears began to drip down Bedford's cheeks, and he swiped at them, looking away.

Tony crossed his arms and stared at his opponent. Perhaps he had leaped to the conclusion that Bedford was out to fleece young men of their wealth. But Lungren, while young, was a seasoned veteran who should have known better than to stake his ancestral home on the turn of a card. "Perhaps I was hasty in assuming your methods were foul."

"By my word, I was uncommon lucky that night." Bedford frowned and fingered the lip that had started to fatten ever so slightly. "Or devilishly unlucky. Lungren should have won, but he played badly."

Tony cast his eyes to the horizon. Wispy clouds danced across the pale sky. The day was placid. The birds, momentarily silenced by the blast of the pistols, once again chirped in the trees. The breeze rustled leaves, and the faint babble of running water of a nearby brook reminded him that life runs on.

So different from a battlefield, where the hiss and crack of gunshot, the boom of cannon and heavy gun, the screams of the dying and wounded, and the shouted commands pounded him from every side. Facing Bedford, Tony had almost been confused by the lack of distraction. In battle he'd shot men and turned to the next danger before they hit the ground.

After the hostilities, the silence would turn ominous. The birds didn't sing or return to the place of carnage. The air grew putrid and heavy with the stench of blood and death.

Yet it wasn't so different in that you could assess a man quickly, intuitively watching him behave under the pressures of gunfire. Suddenly, Tony was sure Bedford was not the type of man who could shoot a man in cold blood just to take his property. Would such a man arrange for the property to pass back to the rightful owners in the event of his death?

"Upon my word, he was my friend, too," whispered Bedford.

Tony suddenly felt weary. Had he become so callous to death that he jumped to it as a solution before considering anything else? Perhaps it was as well that the pistol had misfired and he missed his target. As for Bedford's shot, hard to say. It might have gone astray for nerves or by poor design of the fancy pistol.

Bedford lowered his head and rested his hands on his knees and gave into the tears that he had tried to stem.

Tony had seen too many soldiers succumb to fright in battle and had witnessed their deep humiliation afterward. He put a hand on Bedford's shoulder. "It's over now. It shall be breakfast for two after all."

Bedford winced and shook his head. "I can't believe I am such a coward."

Tony squeezed and removed his hand. "We've seen bluff and bluster men acquit themselves worse, haven't we, Randy?"

"Many a time," agreed Lieutenant Randleton.

Bedford waved them away.

Tony knelt down and put his arm around Bedford's shoulder. Tony spoke in the low, soothing tone he used with his men. He had given a thousand variations of this speech. The first time he'd barely been twenty-one, hardly more than a boy himself. "You know courage is not being without fear. Courage is containing and controlling that fear until the crisis is past. You held steady until you got that shot off."

"I missed. I'm no good with guns. I don't even hunt," whispered Bedford.

"I missed, too, and I assure you I don't as a rule."

A new sob shuddered through Bedford. "Why would he kill himself? Why?"

Tony exchanged a look with Randy. "That's what we should like to know. I fear I jumped to the conclusion that you were responsible."

"I can't believe I fainted."

"Come, we'll find an inn to serve us, and we'll regale you with tales of what really happens to men facing bloodshed for the first time." Tony watched Bedford. "Unless, of course, I have made a lifelong enemy of you. I should understand."

"You must have been terribly upset to learn Lungren had taken his life."

"He served me well." The words were inadequate to explain the debt of responsibility Tony felt toward his men. And he was back at square one. If Bedford hadn't killed Lungren, who had?

Bedford straightened. "Very well, sir. Breakfast for two it is, or four." He turned to his second with an inquiring look.

"Ah, yes, and I shall look forward to seeing how quickly each of you falls into the parson's mousetrap," said the fop that was Bedford's second.

Bedford's appalled expression mirrored Tony's feelings to a tee.

"No time soon, I'll wager," said Tony.

"Within a twelve-month, I'd hazard," disagreed the ninny Bedford had brought to the fray.

No, Tony didn't intend to marry. Ever. He had meant to once, but never again would he succumb to that cork-brained notion. Felicity had perhaps done him a great favor in discarding his suit the minute he left England.

* * *

Home again and alone with her son in the little-used green drawing room, Felicity pulled Charles up to her knees. He squirmed against her, impatient with the change in plans. She had promised a trip to the toy store for reward if he behaved well in the banker's office, and he had except for that one question she needed to discuss with him. "Darling, do you remember what you said to that captain at the bank?"

Charles blinked his pale blue eyes at her.

"You must not go around asking every man we meet if he is your papa."

"I do not ask every man," answered Charles with the imperturbable logic of a five-year-old. "I did not ask the mean bank man or that other man. I only ask army men."

Fortunately her son's question had been laughed off. Felicity had mildly suggested that now she was out of her widow's weeds, her son was looking to get her married and himself a new father. Only Charles wasn't looking for a
new
father. He was looking for his
real
father.

Felicity rubbed her forehead. "Why would you ask such a thing? You know Layton Merriwether was your papa."

"No, he told me he was not my
real
papa. He told me my real papa was an officer in the army."

Oh, Layton,
thought Felicity.

Charles's lower lip thrust out and trembled. He was so brave and vulnerable at the same time, she hated to chastise him. Yet he tottered precariously on the verge of destroying Felicity's reputation. Especially when his real father was so close at hand.

"He should not have done so. It was not kind of him." But then, Layton Merriwether had never been kind to Charles. When he wasn't chastising him, he had ignored him. "You cannot go around asking men if they are your father. It makes your mama look very bad."

Charles's face scrunched up in confusion. He really could make her look wicked without realizing what he was about.

Felicity tapped her lip. She really couldn't have Charles endangering the respectability she'd had bought at a dear cost. "You should have asked me."

Charles leaned his elbows on her knees and asked with perfect seriousness. "Do you know who my papa is?"

Ah, the innocence of youth.
Felicity bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling. "Of course I do, darling."

Charles scowled at her. "You didn't ever mean to tell me."

She swallowed her regret that, unbeknownst to her, Layton had informed Charles of his paternity. "I did not feel you were old enough to understand."

"I am not a baby."

"No, but you're not grown, either." He wasn't out of short coats yet. "If you were older, you would understand that you can't go around asking strangers who your father is."

"I'm glad
my
real papa fought The Monster in the war." Charles looked altogether too earnest.

Was her son building his natural father into heroic proportions in his mind? Did he think his sire was a noble creature who deserved his worship? And should Felicity shatter his dreams or let him have them?

She noticed the belligerent cast to Charles's chin and thought of Tony. If Charles had inherited determination from him, he wouldn't let the subject drop. Ever.

"All right, if you promise not to tell anyone, I'll point him out to you before we leave London."

"He's here? He's in London? When can we see him?" Charles pushed back and ran to the door as if he would run right out to find his father.

Felicity moved to him and knelt down in front of her son. "Promise you'll never tell anyone that Layton Merriwether wasn't your father."

Silence hung in the air while Charles pondered the situation. His face took on a belligerent cast, his lower lip thrusting out.

"Very well, then. I shall not point out your real father." She rose with a rustle of gray silk.

"Mama, wait!"

She knelt back down and brushed the golden-brown curls off her son's forehead. "I need you to promise, else I shall not point him out to you."

"Why?"

There were a whole slew of whys. The main reason was that Tony knew of his existence and had never expressed one iota of interest in him. She didn't want her son hurt with the painful truth. She searched for an explanation her five-year-old son could understand. "Well, if you tell everyone you are not a Merriwether, your cousin Diana will be all alone in the world. She won't have a single relative left."

"You." Charles looked at her narrowly.

"I'm only her aunt by marriage. But she believes you are the son of her mother's brother and the only true family left to her." Gads, that was weak, thought Felicity.

He frowned as if seriously considering the hasty excuse she'd thrown out.

"Please, Charles, there are other reasons, which you will understand when you get older."

His face took on a determined look. "I'll promise not to tell anyone if you promise to tell me everything about him."

"Charles, you cannot add conditions. You must promise not to tell."

"Upon my honor."

She hated that he looked so hopeful. He hardly asked for anything. She didn't want to deny him this. Where was the harm in sharing a few details? His real father, after all, was a war hero.