Regency Buck

by Georgette Heyer

  To this Mr Fitzjohn agreed, but when the Captain, assuming Mr Farnaby to have been the injured party, stipulated for a range of twenty-five yards he unhesitatingly refused to consent to it. Such a range must be all in favour of the more experienced duellist, and however many wafers Peregrine might be able to culp at Manton’s Gallery, Mr Fitzjohn felt reasonably certain that he had not before been engaged in an actual duel.

  He would not consent, and upon the Captain’s attempting to take a high hand with him, said bluntly that he could by no means agree that Mr Farnaby was the injured party. Sir Peregrine had indeed struck the blow, but the provocation had been strong.

  After some argument the Captain gave way on this point, and a range of twelve yards was agreed to. There could be no further hope of reconciliation. Mr Fitzjohn, well versed in the Code of Honour, was aware that no apology could be extended or received after a blow, and Captain Crake’s attitude now convinced him that, however much Mr Farnaby might know himself to have been in the wrong, no dependence could be placed on his tacitly acknowledging it on the ground by deloping, or firing into the air.

  When Captain Crake had been shown out of the room Mr Fitzjohn did not immediately resume his interrupted meal, but stood instead staring gloomily into the fire. Though not particularly acquainted with Mr Farnaby, he knew him a little by repute. The man was a hanger-on to the fringes of society, and was generally to be seen in the company of raw young men of fortune. His reputation was not good. Nothing was precisely known against him, but he had been mixed up in more than one discreditable affair, and was known to be a crack shot. Mr Fitzjohn did not anticipate a fatal outcome to the following day’s meeting: the consequences would be too serious, he thought; but he was not perfectly at his ease. Farnaby had not been drunk, nor had there been the least sign of foul play in the Cock-Pit. It looked suspiciously as though this quarrel had been thrust on Peregrine. Yet he could find no object in it, and was forced to conclude that he was indulging a mere flight of fancy. As soon as he had finished his breakfast he picked up his hat and gloves and set out to walk the short distance to Brook Street. Arriving at the Taverners’ house he sent in his name and was taken immediately upstairs to Peregrine’s bedroom.

  Peregrine was still engaged in the arduous task of dressing, and was anxiously arranging his cravat when Mr Fitzjohn came in. He said cheerfully: ‘Sit down, Fitz, and don’t move, don’t speak till I’ve done with this neck-cloth!’

  Mr Fitzjohn obeyed, choosing a chair from which he could observe his friend’s struggles. Having guessed that the next morning’s meeting would be Peregrine’s first, he was very well satisfied with his careless unconcern. It was evident that he would have nothing to blush for in his principal; the lad was game as a pebble. He was not to know with what desperate courage Peregrine had forced himself to utter his cheerful greeting, nor how many sleepless hours he had spent during the night.

  The cravat being at last adjusted Peregrine dismissed his valet, and turned. ‘Well, have you arranged it all, Fitz?’ he asked.

  ‘To-morrow at eight, Westbourn Green,’ said Mr Fitzjohn briefly. ‘I’ll call for you.’

  Peregrine had the oddest sensation that none of this was really happening. He heard his own voice, surprisingly steady, say: ‘Westbourn Green? Is that near Paddington?’

  Mr Fitzjohn nodded. ‘Are you a good shot, Perry? The fellow’s chosen pistols.’

  ‘You have seen me at Manton’s – or have you not?’

  ‘I haven’t seen you at Manton’s, but I’ve seen Farnaby,’ said Mr Fitzjohn rather grimly. ‘You’ll keep a cool head, won’t you, Perry, and remember it’s everything to be quick off the mark?’

  There was an unpleasant dryness in Peregrine’s mouth, but he said with a good attempt at nonchalance: ‘Of course. I shan’t aim to kill him, however.’

  ‘No, don’t,’ agreed Mr Fitzjohn. ‘Not that I think he means to make it a killing matter either. I can’t see why he should. He’d have to make a bolt for it if he did, and I fancy that wouldn’t suit him. What are you doing to-day?’

  Peregrine achieved a shrug of the shoulders. ‘Oh, the usual round, my dear fellow! I am engaged to dine at the Star, I believe. I daresay we shall look in at the play, and sup at the Piazza afterwards.’

  ‘You’ll do,’ said Mr Fitzjohn approvingly. ‘But see it ain’t a boozy party, and don’t sit up too late. I’m off to engage a surgeon now. I daresay we shan’t need him, but he’ll have to be there. I like that waistcoat you have on.’

  ‘Yes, I flatter myself it’s uncommonly handsome,’ replied Peregrine. He moistened his lips. ‘Fitz, I have suddenly remembered – do you know, I believe I have no duelling pistols by me?’

  ‘Leave that to me, I’ll see to it,’ said Mr Fitzjohn, getting up. ‘I’m going now. I’ll call for you at a quarter-past seven to-morrow.’

  Peregrine smiled jauntily. ‘I shall be ready. Don’t oversleep!’

  ‘Never fear!’ said Mr Fitzjohn.

  He let himself out of Peregrine’s bedroom and descended the stairs to the hall. Here he rather unfortunately met Miss Taverner, who was dressed for the street, and had just come out of the breakfast-parlour.

  She looked a little surprised to see him so early in the morning, and glanced laughingly at the clock. ‘How do you do? Forgive me, but I did not think you were ever abroad until midday! As for Perry, he is a sad case: did you find him in his bed?’

  ‘No, no, he is up,’ Mr Fitzjohn assured her. ‘I had a little business with him; nothing of importance, you know, but I thought I might call.’

  Miss Taverner, who was holding a very pretty buhl snuff-box in her left hand, flicked it open, and took a pinch with an elegant turn of her wrist. ‘I think it must have been important to bring you out before noon,’ she said.

  Mr Fitzjohn, watching her manoeuvres with the snuff-box in a good deal of astonishment, said: ‘Oh no, just a trifling question of a horse he had a mind to purchase. But Miss Taverner – don’t be offended – in the general way I don’t like to see a lady take snuff, but upon my word, you do it with such an air! It passes everything!’

  Miss Taverner, who had spent a week in practising the art, was more than satisfied with the effect it had produced on her first audience.

  Mrs Scattergood appearing at that moment at the head of the stairs, Mr Fitzjohn took his leave, and went out of the house into the street. He paused for a moment on the steps, considering which surgeon he should engage, shook his head at a couple of chairmen who were signalling their readiness to carry him anywhere he pleased, and after staring abstractedly at a shabbily dressed lad who was lounging against the railings of an adjacent house, set off in the direction of Great Ormond Street.

  Arrived there, he ran up the steps of Dr Lane’s establishment, knocked loudly on the door, and was soon admitted. He came out again presently with all the satisfied air of one who has successfully accomplished his task, called up a hackney, and drove back to Cork Street.

  Half an hour later a tilbury drove up Great Ormond Street, and stopped outside Dr Lane’s house. A second gentleman knocked on the doctor’s door, and was admitted. His visit lasted a little longer than Mr Fitzjohn’s, but when he at length emerged he, too, wore the look of one perfectly satisfied with the success of his mission.

  Meanwhile Peregrine, when Mr Fitzjohn had left him, finished his toilet with less than his usual care, and tried not to think too much about the morrow. His thoughts, however, showed a disposition to creep back to it, and he found himself recalling all the fatal duels of which he had heard. Happily none of these was very recent.The only recent duels he could call to mind were the Duke of York’s meeting with Colonel Lennox (which had taken place three years before his own birth), and Lord Castlereagh’s late affair with Mr Canning. Neither of these meetings had proved fatal, but Peregrine could not but acknowledge that there might have been a score of others between lesser persons of which he had never heard. An exchange of shots between himself and Farnaby would, in all pr
obability, end the quarrel, but the possibility of a more serious outcome had to be faced. With a sigh and a heavy heart Peregrine went down to the saloon to compose a letter to his sister.

  He was engaged on this difficult task when Mr Bernard Taverner was shown into the room.

  Peregrine looked up with a start, and quickly concealed his letter under a blank sheet of paper. ‘Oh, it’s you, is it? Good morning; did you come to see me or Judith? She’s out, shopping with Maria, you know.’

  Mr Taverner scrutinised him rather closely for a moment. He said, coming further into the room: ‘Then I am unfortunate. She mentioned the other day that she had an ambition to see Madame Tussaud’s Waxworks, and I came to propose escorting her. But another morning will do as well. I am not interrupting you, I trust? You were busy, I think, when I came in.’

  ‘Oh, not in the least; it is of no particular moment,’ said Peregrine, stretching out his hand to pull the bell. ‘You’ll take a glass of wine, won’t you?’

  ‘Thank you, a little sherry, if I may.’

  The servant came, the order was given, and Peregrine begged his cousin to be seated. Mr Taverner began to talk on a number of idle topics. Peregrine’s replies were delivered in a mechanical way; it was plain that his thoughts were elsewhere. When the wine had been brought, and the servant had gone away again, Mr Taverner said in his quiet voice: ‘Forgive me, Perry, but has anything happened to put you out?’

  Peregrine disclaimed at once, and tried to start some other topic for conversation. His cousin’s eyes were upon him, however, and he presently gave up the attempt to appear at his ease, and said with a jerky little laugh: ‘I see you have guessed it; my mind is occupied with another matter. I have certain dispositions to make. Well, you are a good fellow, Bernard: I can trust you. The fact is I am engaged to meet Farnaby to-morrow morning at – well, it’s no matter where.’

  Mr Taverner put down his wine-glass. ‘Am I to understand an affair of honour? You cannot mean that!’

  Peregrine shrugged. ‘There was no avoiding it. The fellow insulted me, I landed him a facer, and received his challenge.’

  ‘I am sorry for it,’ Mr Taverner said, with a grave look.

  ‘Oh, as to that I do not anticipate any very serious con sequences,’ said Peregrine. ‘But it is well to be prepared, you know. I was writing a letter to Judith, and another to – to Miss Fairford when you came in, in case I should be fatally injured.’

  ‘I take it it is impossible for you to draw back?’

  ‘Quite impossible,’ said Peregrine decidedly. ‘I need not engage your silence, I am sure. You will understand that I don’t want the affair to come to my sister’s or to Miss Fairford’s ears.’

  Mr Taverner bowed. ‘Certainly. You may trust me in that. Who acts for you?’

  ‘Fitzjohn.’ Peregrine fidgeted with his fob. ‘Bernard, if anything should happen to me – if I should not return, in short – you will keep your eye upon Judith, won’t you? She is in Worth’s hands, of course, but she don’t like him, and you are our cousin, and will see she don’t come to harm.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mr Taverner rather curtly. He got up. ‘I’ll leave you now; you have your affairs to settle. Believe me, I am sorry for this.’

  Peregrine spent the rest of the day very sensibly. He went to Jackson’s Saloon, and forgot his troubles in sparring; and from there drove to Albemarle Street to solicit permission to take Miss Fairford in the Park in his tilbury. Dinner at Richardson’s Hotel, a visit to Drury Lane, and supper at the Piazza Coffee House ended the day, and he returned soon after midnight to Brook Street too weary to be kept long awake by his thoughts.

  His valet, who had of necessity been taken into his confidence, drew back the bed-curtains at six o’clock next morning and began to get the shaving tackle ready, while Peregrine, with his night-cap over one eye, sat up and sipped a cup of hot chocolate. One of the chambermaids brought in a faggot, and kindled a fire in the empty grate. It was a raw morning, and the fact of being obliged to dress by candle-light was curiously depressing. When the chambermaid had gone Peregrine got out of bed, put on his dressing-gown, and sat down before the mirror to be shaved. His valet, whom he had brought with him from Yorkshire, was looking very gloomy, and when Peregrine made a careful choice amongst his many suits of clothes he heaved a gusty sigh, and seemed to think such particularity frivolous. But Peregrine, wondering in his heart whether this might be the last choice he would make, was determined not to let it appear that he had not cared to bestow all his usual attention on his appearance. He put on a pair of buff pantaloons and a light waistcoat, arranged his cravat with great nicety, struggled into a blue coat with silver buttons, and pulled on a pair of Hessians with swinging tassels. ‘My new hat, John, and I will wear the large driving-coat with the Belcher handkerchief.’

  ‘Oh, sir!’ groaned the valet, ‘I never thought to live to see this day!’

  Peregrine’s underlip trembled slightly, but a gleam entered his eyes, and he said with the quiver of a laugh: ‘You! Why, it is I who might rather be wondering whether I shall live to see very much of this day!’

  ‘If only we had never come to London!’ said the valet.

  ‘Tush!’ said Peregrine, who found no comfort in this conversation. ‘What’s o’clock? Past seven, is it? Very well, help me into this coat, and I’ll be off. You can snuff the candles now; it is growing quite light. You have those letters I gave you?’

  ‘I have them in my pocket now, sir, but please God I won’t be called on to do more than burn them!’

  ‘Why, certainly,’ said Peregrine, picking up his hat and gloves. He stretched out his right hand, and watched it closely. It was steady enough. That cheered him a little. He went softly out of the room and down the stairs, followed by the valet, who carried a branch of candles to light the darkened stairway, and drew back the bolts of the front door.

  A neat town-coach was drawn up outside the house, and Mr Fitzjohn was standing on the pavement, muffled in a greatcoat and consulting his watch.

  ‘Good-bye, John,’ said Peregrine. ‘And if I don’t see you again – well, good-bye, and don’t forget the letters. I’m not late, Fitz, am I?’

  ‘Bang up to the mark,’ Mr Fitzjohn assured him. He ran an eye over Peregrine’s person, and seemed satisfied. ‘Get in, Perry. Did you sleep well?’

  ‘Sleep! Lord, yes! Never stirred till my man roused me this morning!’ replied Peregrine, taking his place in the coach.

  ‘Damme, you might be an old hand!’ remarked Mr Fitzjohn approvingly. ‘Is this your first meeting, or have you been out before?’

  ‘Well, no, as a matter of fact, it is my first,’ confessed Peregrine. ‘But not, I hope, my last.’

  ‘No fear of that,’ said Mr Fitzjohn, rather too heartily. He began to prod the opposite seat with the tip of his walking-cane. ‘You don’t want to kill him, and I can’t for the life of me see why he should want to kill you. At the same time, Perry, it don’t do to take chances, and you’ll fire the moment the word’s given, do you see? You’ve shot at Manton’s, haven’t you? Well, you know how to come up quick on to the mark, and all you have to do is to fancy yourself at the Gallery, firing at a wafer. There’s no difference.’

  Peregrine withdrew his gaze from the passing houses and gave his friend a long clear look. ‘Is there no difference?’ he asked.

  Mr Fitzjohn met his eyes for a moment, and then studied the head of his cane. ‘Yes, there is a difference,’ he said. ‘But my father once told me that the secret of a good duellist is to imagine that there is none.’

  Peregrine nodded and picked up the flat case that lay on the seat opposite and opened it. A pair of plain duelling pistols lay in it.

  ‘You can handle ’em; they’re not loaded,’ said Mr Fitzjohn.

  Peregrine lifted one from its bed, weighed it in his hand, and tested the pull. Then he laid it down again and shut the case. ‘Nicely balanced,’ he remarked.

  ‘Yes, they’re a first-rate pair,’ agreed Mr Fit
zjohn. ‘Hair trigger, of course. It’ll go off at a touch.’

  The coach stopped in Great Ormond Street to pick up the doctor, who came out of his house almost as soon as the horses pulled up, and jumped nimbly into the coach. He had a black case under his arm, which Peregrine knew must contain the instruments of his profession. Oddly enough, the sight of it affected him more unpleasantly than the case of pistols had done.

  ‘You are in good time, gentlemen,’ said the doctor, rubbing his hands together. ‘It is a cold morning, is it not?’

  ‘Cold enough,’ said Mr Fitzjohn. ‘But it won’t be long before we are all of us drinking hot coffee in a place I know of hard by the Green.’

  ‘Myself, I never touch coffee,’ said the doctor. ‘I hold it to be injurious to the stomach. Cocoa, now – there is no harm in a cup of cocoa; I have even known it to prove in some cases extremely beneficial.’

  Interested in his subject, and possibly with some notion of diverting Peregrine’s mind from the coming duel, he went on to discuss the effects of wine and tea on the human system, and was still talking when the coach arrived at the hamlet of Westbourn Green.

  The meeting-place was at no great distance from the road; the coach was able to drive within sight of it over a field.

  ‘First on the ground,’ said Mr Fitzjohn, jumping down. ‘But we shan’t have long to wait, for it’s close on eight now. Unless, of course, our man has thought better of it. Perry, if there’s any offer of apology I shall accept it.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Peregrine, who was finding it increasingly difficult to talk.

  He got down from the coach and walked beside his friend to the ground. The day, though dull, was by this time quite light. A sharp wind was blowing, and some scudding clouds overhead gave warning of rain to come. Peregrine thrust his hands into his pockets to keep them warm, and glanced up at the sky. He had rather an uncomfortable sensation in the pit of his stomach, but apart from that he felt curiously detached.