Avenging the Earl’s Lady: Book Five, Sons of the Spy Lord

by Alina K. Field

  “Jenny,” Sirena said, “pour Lady Jane some tea.”

  “No tea. Where did they go? What time?” He could already be dead, her son.

  She’d barely had a chance to know him.

  She was led to a sofa and a warm cup was pressed into her hands.

  A vision of the Major’s face the night of the musicale reared. “He’s a brute,” she said. “He’ll kill him.” The cup rattled, tea sloshing as she set it down. “Shaldon paid the debt. How can this be?”

  Sirena shared a look with Graciela and bit her lip.

  “Mr. Penderbrook challenged him, my lady,” Jenny said.

  “What?” The fool. The damned, stupid fool. “Why?”

  The ladies exchanged another glance and Sirena sighed. “He insulted you.”

  Jane shook her head. “So? Is that worth dying for?”

  “My lady, he insulted you publicly at White’s,” Jenny said. “All the gents heard. It’s all anyone speaks of. The Major called you a…beggin’ your pardon, my lady…a whore.”

  She squeezed her eyes tight. Every so-called gentleman in London, every servant, every shopkeeper, everyone, was passing around that story.

  She took a deep breath. “And perhaps it’s true. Quentin Penderbrook is my son. Born out of wedlock. I…confessed it to him the day before yesterday.”

  Sirena’s eyes flashed fire. “You could not have been much more than a child.”

  “Like I was.” Graciela squeezed her hand. Her own little girl had been born illegitimate. “By their rules it is true, Lady Jane, but not by ours, as you know.”

  “There’s more,” Jenny said. “He called you Lord Shaldon’s…er…bit was the word used, they said.”

  She took a deep breath and looked up at the carved molding that ran along the coffered ceiling. A soft hand clasped hers.

  “It would explain why he’s been more…congenial. We hope it is true,” Sirena said. “We would be happy to see you become the next Lady Shaldon.”

  “Yes,” Graciela said. “That would make you our mother.” She laughed and then sobered. “But it is not a laughing matter, this duel. At least they are fighting with swords. It’s a bit fairer if a man has some skills.”

  A chill seeped into her spine. “I have no idea whether Quentin has any such skills. Does Charley? He is his second, is he not?”

  “No.”

  “Bakeley, then?”

  “No,” Sirena said. “Shaldon forbade it. ’Tis an honor he’s taken as his own.”

  “Shaldon?” Jane jumped up and paced to the window.

  Shaldon was…old. Oh, he was still vigorous, and a big man, and still strong, but the Major was larger, younger. If her son didn’t fight, Shaldon would.

  She couldn’t bear losing either one of them. She must stop them.

  Loud voices in the corridor drew their attention. Lloyd eased the door open, his face a stoic mask, and stepped out of the way for a dark-haired man of middle-age, dressed in a coat shiny with wear and dusty knee breeches.

  Graciela choked out a breath and flew at the new arrival shouting “Papa.”

  Chapter 19

  Shaldon peered out the coach window, but all he could see were the riders escorting them.

  “Are we late, sir?” Penderbrook asked. His voice had been strong when they left Mayfair. Now the words came as though strained through a sieve.

  Charley’s mount moved out of the way and he spotted a group across the field: three men—no a fourth and fifth hovered along the sidelines.

  Penderbrook’s eyes widened and he put his hand to his mouth.

  “We are in good time,” Shaldon said. “You will stay near the coach with Charles and Bakeley. I am going to talk to his second. He will want to use a saber or broadsword, but I’m going to argue for our lighter weapons.” The heavier sword would benefit the heavier man, Payne-Elsdon. He had hopes, after Bakeley’s report, that, should Penderbrook’s stomach prove iron-clad, the young man could carry on at least for a bit with the small sword. It appeared that the scholarly vicar hadn’t neglected that part of a young gentleman’s training.

  When the coach stopped, he pushed open the door and let Penderbrook stumble out first.

  Kincaid reached into the coach from the other side and picked up the two sheathed blades. “He is here.”

  Angry energy simmered in him. He drew in a breath, thinking of Jane, of her loveliness their night together, of her passion, and her grief. She needed a champion today. The energy must be kept, the anger let go.

  He straightened his coat and looked at the terrain. Payne-Elsdon had claimed a high ground for his headquarters. The field in between their carriage and his position was grassy and probably dotted with hidden holes.

  A Captain Shaw had replied to the rigorously polite letter Shaldon had written the Major making the arrangements, following the proper etiquette for this nonsense. Through the night and wee hours, a back and forth of missives had ensued, with Shaw agreeing to make a final judgment on the precise choice of weapon before the match began.

  As he approached the group across the field, a thin mustachioed man broke away from the Major and walked toward him. He was pale and patting his mouth also.

  Excellent.

  Shaldon bowed and ignored the hand offered for shaking. He turned and beckoned Kincaid.

  “I am Shaldon,” he said. “Are you Shaw?”

  “Yes.”

  “We have brought the epees.”

  Kincaid stepped forward and unsheathed both weapons.

  Shaw glanced at them. “As I informed you, the Major claims the choice of weapon. He wishes to fight with a broadsword.”

  “He is the man who delivered the gravely unnecessary insult.” Shaldon leveled a hard gaze at him. “An uncivilized, ungentlemanly, and uncouth insult. The Major is the stronger man, is he not? And yet he plots to overmatch his opponent with a heavy weapon? Is he afraid of his challenger’s skills, or is he just a murderous bully?”

  A green pall came over the man. He took the proffered weapon and bowed. “I shall talk to the Major.”

  “Had a bit of the bottle himself, do you think?” Kincaid murmured.

  Not far from the Major and Shaw, a dark-suited man, probably their surgeon, was biding his time. The fourth man on the field today, paunchy and over-dressed, stood off to one side, a liveried guard nearby.

  “Are you keeping an eye on that epee, Kincaid?” Charles had stepped up next to them.

  “Aye. If he does anything more than slide his fingers down it and whisk it in the air, I’ll throw a dagger into his gullet. I don’t trust the bastard not to cheat.”

  The paunchy fourth man turned his gaze on Shaldon, a piercing silver challenge as sharp as the sword Payne-Elsdon was fondling. Their eyes locked in a contest of wills he was determined to win.

  Step up, man. Step up. He’d waited these many years for the Duque de San Sebastian to step up.

  “Let me shoot him, Father,” Charles said. “Queasy as I am, I can make the shot.”

  The Duque de San Sebastian had once gravely insulted Charles’s wife.

  “That would be murder, and this is my fight,” he said, keeping his eye on the Duque. “Nauseous, are you, Charles?”

  “Queer as Dick’s hatband and almost ready to cast up my kidneys.”

  “Penderbrook’s green at the gills, also,” Kincaid said, “and Shaw. The Major looks hale enough.”

  “He’s a bull,” Charles said, his voice thin.

  “A long negotiation, then,” Kincaid said.

  Charles would collapse first, or pretend to, and then Penderbrook. Though Shaw looked ready to be the first to drop.

  They would parley until the Major required a new second, until the Major’s own dosing took effect. He and his man might ask to postpone the match to another day, but Shaldon would not allow it.

  “Good luck, Father,” Charles said. “I must go and throw up.”

  The silver gaze still bore into him and finally, the man’s lips turned up in
a sneer.

  Shaw returned, blocking his view of the Duque. The Major’s second swallowed hard, took some deep breaths, and handed back one of the small swords.

  “We accept the weapon, with one demand. First blood will not suffice for satisfaction. It must be à l’outrance.”

  A fight to the death. “I expected no less,” Shaldon said. “Yes. That would give me satisfaction also. Kincaid?”

  “Aye, my lord?”

  “Send men to the magistrate and the guard.”

  “Here now, Shaldon…” Shaw’s voice tapered off, his color fading, his hand going to his mouth. He turned away, taking deep breaths.

  The Major must have noticed his man’s distress. He swaggered down from the heights, paler than he’d been at the musicale, his mouth grim.

  “Good day, Major,” Shaldon said. “Shaw has given me your terms. A fight to the death, so it will be. But I will apprise you of ours: since only a hot-headed fool or a cold-hearted murderer would require this sort of Continental blood sport—à l’outrance, indeed—that man, if he prevails, and,” he nodded at Shaw, “the men who conspire with him, will submit to a trial for murder.”

  “He’s sent a man for the magistrate,” Shaw said.

  “Has he?” the Major growled. “We’d best hurry and finish up. Call your groveling puppy over, Shaldon, and let’s get on with it.”

  “Furthermore,” Shaldon said, addressing Shaw, “if this murderous thug doesn’t prevail, there will be no need for a trial, as his opponent may safely assert self-defense, based on his demand to kill. Now, Shaw, you’re rather green. Cast up your accounts, if that’s what you’re planning, and let’s talk about the rest of the rules of this fight. Major, you may go back to the sideline and bide your time, there’s a good chap.”

  The Major’s lip twisted, and color flooded his jaundiced cheeks, turning them a sickly orange. He’d carried out his murderous duels in France and Spain, but he’d never faced official consequences.

  And he wouldn’t now. The call for a magistrate was merely a fallback plan should the worst happen.

  “Stop the nonsense, Shaldon. Bring your boy out. Now.”

  “We are not in France, nor Italy, nor Spain, Major. This is not battle, nor a street fight. You have accepted a gentleman’s challenge, and you must allow the seconds to discuss the terms.”

  Shaw bent over and vomited.

  “We’ll start with the location.” He eyed the ground at the other man’s feet, “Not here. Let us move to the carriage path when you are finished spewing, Shaw.”

  * * *

  Jane stood aside fidgeting while Graciela chattered through excited introductions. Graciela’s father, Captain Kingsley, was lean and hard as a privateer must be, and it was obvious he’d suffered on some occasion, no doubt battling for his life. A scar marred his handsome jaw, and he favored one side when walking, the way Shaldon sometimes did.

  She knew bits and pieces of Captain Kingsley’s story, and she didn’t have time for the rest of it. Shaldon was seconding her son in a duel.

  She needed to stop them.

  “Papa,” Graciela said, “we must talk about Charley and little Reina later. For now, Lady Jane needs your help.”

  Tears sprang to Jane’s eyes. Bless the girl.

  Captain Kingsley’s warm gaze fixed on her. “I’m at your service, my lady.”

  Her breath froze and she struggled to speak. “My son is…I’ve just learned…” She eased in a breath.

  “They’ve just left for a duel,” Graciela said.

  “Shaldon is seconding,” Sirena said.

  “I must…I must go.” Jane nodded to Jenny. “Where is it taking place?”

  “I don’t know, my lady.”

  “Someone must know.” She drove a fist into her palm. “Ask the serv—”

  “Battersea Fields.” Lloyd hadn’t left them. “My lady, perhaps Captain Kingsley could go on your behalf.”

  “No. I must go.” She hurried to the door.

  “Go, Papa.” Graciela’s tense voice rang clearly behind her. “You must help Lady Jane. And Charley is there. And if a melee breaks out, they may all need your sword arm.”

  She paused on the landing. A melee, with all of them involved. It was too wretchedly uncivilized to imagine.

  Footsteps clattered behind her, following her down the stairs, out the door, and onto the street. Ewan waved her over to a plain black carriage, and one of Shaldon’s coachmen saluted her. The boy helped her in and handed her the case.

  “Where is Guignard?” she asked.

  “Scampered when Lloyd sent the Earl’s carriage around, my lady.”

  Ewan climbed in and pulled the door, meeting resistance.

  “Wait.” Jane touched the boy’s arm. “Captain Kingsley is joining us.”

  Ewan sent him a measuring look, which the Captain ignored.

  “Battersea Fields,” Kingsley shouted. “In all haste.”

  As the wheels started to roll, the door jerked open again and Jenny clambered in, sending Ewan a glare and taking the rear-facing seat next to him while the coach clattered off.

  “You’ll need me my lady,” she said.

  She nodded, mutely. Perhaps Jenny was also good with a blade.

  The Shaldon servants were a loyal bunch, starting with their butler. Lloyd, dear Lloyd, must have ordered this coach the moment he saw her race through the door. He’d have preferred to send Captain Kingsley in her place, but he’d expected her to want to go. Lloyd was loyal to her.

  Did he know of Shaldon’s proposal?

  She mulled over the notion while they turned onto the main street. Horses moved past them on either side.

  Outriders. Lloyd had arranged for them as well.

  Lloyd, Shaldon’s long-time butler wanted someone to intervene, and he didn’t mind if that someone was Lady Jane.

  Captain Kingsley settled back on the seat next to her. “Now, will you tell me, my lady, what the devil is going on?”

  The coach hit a bump and her heart lurched with it. Up ahead, the riders must be clearing the thoroughfare, as they were making good speed past raised fists and hurled curses.

  She blinked back sudden moisture. She could lose her son today. Or…Shaldon. Dear Lord, she didn’t want the man to die.

  Jenny cleared her throat.

  Jane sat up and handed the valise to the girl. “Open the tube, Jenny.” She put a hand to her waist, drawing in a deep breath. “Captain Kingsley, yes. Yes, I will tell you. I have a son, Quentin Penderbrook, raised as a gentleman by a vicar and his wife. He was born out of wedlock when I was very, very young.”

  My son, my only child. She’d held him for mere moments, looking into dark blue eyes that had studied her back, and then he’d been whisked away so she could rest. When she’d awakened again, he was gone.

  Swallowing hard, she went on. “He owed a great deal of money to a Major Payne-Elsdon, late of his majesty’s service in Spain. Before I could attempt to assist him, Shaldon paid off the debt. Payne-Elsdon learned of my son’s parentage and insulted both him and me in front of all the members of White’s, provoking a challenge by the foolish boy. Shaldon forbade his sons from serving as his second. He is doing it himself.”

  “A concise report.”

  The Captain took her hand and squeezed it, the kind gesture making her eyes water more. Devil take it. She wiped a gloved hand across her cheeks.

  “I thank you,” he said affably.

  “I’ve no idea if Quentin can use a sword.”

  “My lady,” Jenny said. “There is something here.”

  Chapter 20

  “Pull it out,” Jane said.

  The girl eased out the canvas and handed it over to Jane.

  Holding it up before her, she let it unroll.

  Felicity and Perpetua looked imploringly up to heaven.

  Captain Kingsley snorted. “I take it the Duque de San Sebastian is involved in this fight today?”

  The Duque?

  The Captain reach
ed for the edge of the painting, tugging it straight, and she remembered. He’d taken the painting from the Duque many years ago.

  “I called on him this morning,” she said, “to sell him this. The Duquesa told me he went out to attend a duel.”

  “Might he be this major’s second? Perhaps Shaldon will fight him.”

  “I don’t see how. It will have to be my son and the Major.”

  Ewan cleared his throat. “Begging your pardon, my lady, but I don’t believe his lordship means for your son to fight at all.”

  Ewen looked nervous. She’d been led to believe that the consummately professional Shaldon servants refrained from all gossip.

  But Jenny was a Shaldon servant, and she had, somehow, through a network of gossips, heard all of the news from White’s.

  “For heaven’s sake, boy, tell us,” the Captain said.

  “It’s summat to do with the brandy, sir. One of Lord Bakeley’s rare bottles. They opened it last night, then corked it again right away, like new, and after Mr. Penderbrook and Mr. Everly drank half the bottle this morning, they poured the rest out.”

  “You learned all of that while waiting outside for me?” Jane said.

  Jenny gave the boy an appreciative look.

  “Who are they?” Captain Kingsley asked.

  Ewan bit his lip. “I don’t know exactly, sir.”

  “They…dear God.” Her heart lurched. “Shaldon and Kincaid poisoned them?”

  “I don’t know, my lady.”

  “Did Bakeley partake?” Kingsley asked.

  “They say not sir.”

  “Shaldon?”

  “No, sir. Only the two of them, Mr. Penderbrook and Mr. Everly.”

  “Well.” Kingsley shook his head. “And I thought I’d find London dull.” He chuckled. “Do not worry, my lady, if Shaldon dosed his own son, I don’t imagine the potion will be fatal to yours. Graciela must not know I’m meeting my new son-in-law for the first time in a bad state, else she wouldn’t have encouraged me to come. What will it be, do you think? Casting up their accounts, the flux, or the sleep of the poppy?”

  “Not the poppy.” Not after Shaldon’s drugging in Yorkshire. It had taken him days to shake off the effects of the laudanum.