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

by Alina K. Field

  She thought about his renewed offer of marriage—perhaps he still hadn’t shaken the full effects.

  The Captain nodded. “Well, in any case, no matter the poison, Shaldon means for it to come down to a fight between the Duque and himself.”

  Her heart skipped a beat. Shaldon would fight? Might be fighting right now, this moment?

  “He can’t. He was wounded less than a fortnight ago,” she said, breathless. “He hasn’t completely healed.” The foolish man, why would he do this?

  For you, her heart whispered, and she turned to look out the window, blinking.

  That couldn’t be. She’d seen him kissing the Duquesa. This was not for her, this was for him, for the opportunity to get revenge.

  But if he died, what then? The infuriating man would cease to plague her, and she couldn’t bear it. And what if, by some miracle—or curse—she was with child again, even at her advanced age?

  She struggled for a breath and looked up into Jenny’s concerned gaze.

  “Sir,” Jenny said, “Is his lordship any good with a sword?”

  “Shaldon?” The Captain glanced at Jane and quickly patted her hand. “The Shaldon I know? Never fear, my lady, he will find a way. What Shaldon wants, Shaldon gets.”

  “Dear God,” she whispered. “Can we go any faster?”

  * * *

  “If Mr. Penderbrook is to fight, we will need to postpone, my lord.” Russell, the surgeon Kincaid had engaged, cast a glance back at Charles and Penderbrook. Both were bent over the side of the carriage path, retching and holding their bellies, ready to keel over.

  “I agree.” Payne-Elsdon’s surgeon hooked a finger toward the other side, where Shaw was gagging into a soggy handkerchief. “It’s a certainty that it would be no fair fight for either your principal or the Major’s second.”

  The Major broke off from a huddle with the Duque and marched over to the three men.

  “Mr. Penderbrook cannot fight,” the Major’s medical man said. “Nor can Mr. Shaw.”

  Payne-Elsdon’s eyes narrowed tensely. His face had gone paler, his lips grayer. “What the devil is this, Shaldon? What have you done?”

  “Are you well, Major?” Shaldon asked. “You’re looking a bit green yourself.”

  The Duque stepped up to join them. “Three men who take part in a duel today become ill? What English illness is this?”

  “Perhaps it was something served up at White’s?” Shaldon flicked a stray leaf from his black shirt. The wind had picked up, with clouds blowing in. “Did you all visit the club last night?”

  “There is also an influenza being talked of,” Russell said.

  “Shaldon fever, more likely,” the Major said. “You’ve poisoned my second.” His eyes glazed and a sheen of perspiration appeared on his brow.

  Very, very good. They might soon finish this tedious negotiating. “Poisoned, Major? A strong word.”

  The Major pulled a handkerchief and mopped at his brow. “What sort of honorable man cheats at a duel?”

  “You are calling me a cheat because Shaw ate some fouled clams? Look over there—Penderbrook and my son are both retching. If three men…” and very soon, he hoped, four… “should become ill at the same time, how is that cheating?”

  “You know very well.” He winced, and his hand went to his belly.

  “Fine. We can simply proceed, Major, you and I.”

  “Perhaps, in that case, a match with pistols is a better choice,” the Major’s surgeon said.

  “Pistols?” Shaldon infused the word with contempt. “In our negotiations, Shaw was unbending. No, after so much obduracy and aggravation, we will proceed with the sword.”

  “But my lord,” the Major’s surgeon said. “A man of your age—”

  “Of my age? Oh ho, or are you worried your man here is flagging? I observe that you are not looking well, Major.”

  “You must postpone,” the surgeon insisted.

  Heat came over him, and he pushed it down reminding himself that anger could cast a pall over a man’s ability to think. “We will not.”

  The silver eyes pinned him yet again, and he stared back, shielding the ire threatening to boil over. “This nonsense has occupied too much of my time already. Perhaps you may choose another second, Major. A man of my age, eh? The Duque, here, is a notable swordsman, or so I have heard from his enemies who fought on the side of the people of Spain.”

  A flare of temper lit the Duque’s eyes.

  “You’re a fraud, Shaldon.” Sweating, looking ready to faint, the Major drew the sword from its sheath, brandishing it. “A cheater in a question of honor.”

  A rustle next to him signaled Kincaid’s presence. His pistol would be ready, should the major wave that sharp tip any closer.

  “Whose honor, Major? Oh yes, I remember—Penderbrook’s, and Lady Jane’s. And mine. As for your honor—well.” He nodded. “It is common knowledge that you have none.”

  A red haze came over the man.

  “No need to go into a snit. I know all about the young men you bully-cocked into duels on the Continent and the Peninsula. One or two sons of some very powerful men, which is why, I believe you made your way to England.”

  Yet another coach was waiting beyond the trees to see to those offenses. Good that the Major would soon be incapacitated by the concoction of herbs.

  “And your expertise at cards? It’s whispered about quite openly at White’s what a cunning shaver you are. And then there’s your service in the Peninsula. What a real bravo you were there, double-dealing with the French and the afrancesados.”

  The Major lunged, and Shaldon jumped back just in time, the tip almost grazing him. A fat bejeweled hand seized the other man’s arm.

  “There’s a gun pointed at you, you fool,” the Duque said.

  Kincaid had drawn his pistol.

  “You see?” Shaldon said. “Attacking an unarmed man. What say you, surgeon? Can your man fight, or not?”

  “Draw the damn sword, you churl, and let’s finish this,” Payne-Elsdon said. Then he doubled over and spewed.

  Shaldon raised an eyebrow and turned his gaze on the Duque. “Yes,” he said. “Let’s finish this.”

  The Duque’s lip curled, and he removed his hat, tossing it to his servant.

  Shaldon pulled off his coat and murmured to Kincaid, “Get Penderbrook out of here before the magistrate arrives.”

  * * *

  When they reached the rickety Battersea Bridge, the driver slowed. Jane clung to the window’s edge and peered out, but she could see nothing blocking them.

  Captain Kingsley craned his head out the other window. “They haven’t yet torn this bridge down?”

  “Vauxhall would be the safer crossing, but it’s out of the way,” Ewan said. “This is faster.”

  “Providing we make it across,” the Captain said.

  Across the Thames, Battersea Fields stood, a long stretch of green dotted with trees, and no one in sight. Somewhere hiding in there, her son or Shaldon might be fighting right now for her honor—and his life. And if either died, would her life be worth anything?

  She shoved down the thought. Damn it, in spite of his affair with the Duquesa she didn’t want Shaldon dead. Neither man could die. She, somehow, would not allow it. She’d lost too many men in her life already.

  “How can we possibly find them?” she asked.

  “Beyond the Pigeon Shooting Grounds,” Ewan said. “John Coachman will know the way.”

  “I know the place,” Captain Kingsley said. “A dry stretch there beyond a marsh. Had occasion to visit Battersea myself, though it’s been an age.”

  It would be an age crossing the bridge if they did not go on faster. The carriage came to a complete halt, and Ewan jumped out to check.

  “We should walk.” Jane started to rise, but the Captain touched her arm.

  “Patience, my lady. Once we cross, we will make great haste.”

  Ewan popped back in. “The riders are clearing the bridge. We mus
t wait for a market cart that is halfway across, else we may not be able to pass.”

  She forced herself to lean back against the squab. Patience? She was deadly sick of summoning her patience, completely dry of it.

  She rubbed a thumb over the soft seat. This was another Shaldon coach, discreetly elegant with velvet upholstery and good padding underneath.

  If she could but have a second chance, if she could wean the Earl away from his dallying, this could be hers.

  Could have been hers. She’d seen the Major at the musicale—given the opportunity, the Major would kill.

  No. Shaldon was no wilting fern. He was a tall, strong, active man, a hard man.

  But his opponent was built like a bull. And he was many years younger.

  She gripped her hands and looked out the window, watching the play of the wind on the river. Clouds were moving in, dark and filled with angry moisture.

  It had rained the night Reginald and her brother died. It had rained the night before their death, the night when Shaldon appeared at their home to join them for dinner. Father had not been happy to set the extra place at table, but one did not refuse hospitality to a powerful earl.

  Shaldon had been gracious and reserved that night. He had spoken to her, a mere young girl. He had noticed her, politely, distantly, and she had noticed him, the way one notices a handsome, older, unattainable man one has no interest in.

  And she’d been jealous. When Shaldon beckoned, Reginald went, and her brother also, in the way of men everywhere. Men’s men, they were, and the ladies could be satisfied with the crumbs of attention cast their way.

  “And there’s the cart, my lady.”

  Ewen’s voice ripped her back from her dark memories. The wide country cart passed and their coach began to move, crawling across the decrepit wooden bridge. They turned down a carriage path and stopped again.

  “What is it this time?” Jane asked.

  “I’ll check.” Ewan jumped out, and the Captain followed him. Moments later, they moved forward, pulling to the side, and another coach passed.

  Captain Kingsley pushed Charley Everly in and climbed in behind him.

  Chapter 21

  Charley clutched a carriage blanket before him and managed a grin with his greeting.

  “Better sit facing forward,” the Captain said, placing Charley next to Jane and taking the seat next to Jenny.

  “You are ill,” Jane said. “Where is…”

  “Penderbrook? In that carriage. Best he be off before the guard arrives.”

  “The guard?” she asked, stupidly.

  Captain Kingsley extended a flask, but Charley waved it away.

  “The Horse Guard. And a magistrate. Duels are illegal.”

  “Dear God,” she muttered. “Is he truly ill?” She craned her head to look out the window. Her son would be mortified, to issue a challenge and be too weak to follow through.

  But she was relieved. She’d rather have him branded a coward—even if he hated her forever—than die so foolishly.

  “This will pass.” Charley pressed the blanket to his mouth. “You will see your son shortly. Father has everything in hand.”

  “I sent your groom along with him,” Kingsley said. “Has the duel started?”

  “Probably. Father was tossing off his coats when Kincaid hustled us out.”

  Her head was spinning, trying to keep up. Shaldon had sent them away. The duel was starting. The guard was coming. They would arrest him.

  But no, of course not. They wouldn’t arrest the Earl of Shaldon.

  “Who is he fighting?” Jane asked. “The Major?”

  Charley shook his head, grimacing before commencing a fit of dry heaving.

  She held his shaking shoulders, while Kingsley looked on, a glint of amusement in his eyes.

  To find Charley’s illness diverting, the Captain must be another man of the Shaldon ilk.

  “He poisoned your brandy,” she said.

  Charley nodded.

  “Your father is mad.”

  His spasms ending, Charley waved a hand. “I volunteered, my lady,” he said on a tight breath. “It was the only way he’d allow me to help Pender and you.”

  Kingsley pressed the flask into the younger man’s hand. “I wondered what sort of man Graciela would settle on. Take a swig, Everly.”

  * * *

  Rid of his coats, Shaldon raised the blade in a salute, one his opponent, the vile, grasping villain, didn’t deserve.

  The Duque didn’t deserve a gentleman’s fight, and he damned well wouldn’t get one today.

  They circled around on the bumpy ground. The Duque’s paunch was a fair target, though too padded for a lethal poke. That layer of fat might be useful though in keeping the Duque off balance. He’d been a formidable fighter when younger, or so it was said. Shaldon had seen naught but the man’s command of his bullies.

  The Duque opened, and Shaldon thrust, coming up short as the man jumped back, and feeling the slice of the blade on his own arm.

  He pulled back. The stroke had burned, but the muscle in that arm worked, and he daren’t look at the cut.

  The Duque slashed. He parried, shoved the man off balance, and lunged. When he retreated, the Duque’s white shirt sported a crimson line.

  He attacked then with a flurry of thrusts and parries, the other man answering as if he hadn’t been touched.

  When the Duque’s blade pierced his shoulder, he tripped and fell back.

  * * *

  Crawling over the bumpy road, the carriage came around a bend.

  Jane craned her head out the window and spotted them.

  Shaldon was stripped down to a black shirt and trousers, his sword whizzing and clashing with that of the Duque in his white frills.

  She shoved the rolled canvas under her arm, kicked open the door, and jumped out.

  A large body blocked her.

  “You,” Jenny cried.

  Kincaid’s Scotsman glanced over Jane’s shoulder and his face lit.

  Jenny shoved to the front. “Move out of the way, right now, Fergus MacEwen.”

  Jane darted around the hulking man and spotted Bakeley and Kincaid standing a short distance from the battle.

  Her vision tunneled on the pistol in Bakeley’s hand. Neither man saw her.

  She hurried up, wrenched the gun away, and ran.

  The frenzy increased, blades flashing and clanging, the wild thrusting and parrying accelerating. They didn’t see her.

  “Stop,” she cried. A hand gripped her elbow and pulled her out of the way of the Duque’s wild swing. Shaldon attacked, and the Duque dodged and came around thrusting. His sword came back bloody, and Shaldon fell, scrabbling away on his bottom.

  The villain drew back his arm with a tight smile.

  “Stop.” She shook off the hand grasping her and stumbled between the men, raising the pistol.

  Rocks clattered behind her. “Jane—”

  “Look here, Duque.” Shaldon could wait. She held up the canvas and waved it.

  The Duque’s eyes widened and then narrowed on something over her shoulder.

  “I’m all right Jane,” Shaldon murmured into her ear. “Kindly move out of the way. I fear you are in danger.”

  “No.” She took a deep breath.

  “You should move, madam,” the Duque said. “His lordship is attempting to recover your honor.”

  The blackguard. The villain. The traitorous pig.

  She took another breath. The pistol was heavy. Her gun hand was shaking.

  The weapon was not needed, was it? They’d stopped, hadn’t they?

  Not even she would commit murder on her own account this day. No one would die. Too many men had died. She would see this to a peaceful conclusion, whether Shaldon liked it or not.

  “What utter rubbish you talk, Duque,” she said. “My honor is completely intact, with or without this fighting. Now. I have something here that you want.” Fumbling one-handed with the canvas, she let it unroll.

&
nbsp; The Duque froze, his gaze fixed on the dark image.

  “I am taking bids,” she said.

  “Bids?” the Duque’s lip curled. He reached for the canvas and she yanked it away.

  “It is mine.” He growled and raised his blade. She stumbled, the blade whizzed, and the pistol exploded, knocking her back into a hard chest.

  The Duque howled, oaths pouring from him. A deep burn flared in her shoulder and gunpowder filled her nose.

  Had she somehow shot herself? Vision clouding, she wilted, and her feet gave completely away.

  * * *

  “Jane.”

  Panic flared in him. Not Jane.

  Shaldon caught her against him as she sank to the ground, ignoring the bustle of action around him as others rushed in.

  A spot was growing in the dark shoulder of her pelisse, a spot darker than the brown she’d so prudently worn. Like him, she’d dressed for battle, the foolish, brave, dear girl.

  “Russell,” he yelled.

  “Here, my lord.”

  He gathered her and started to lift, but pain tore at his own shoulder.

  “Let me, Father.”

  That voice was Bakeley’s.

  “I can walk,” Jane said, and she proved it by getting to her feet. “Am I shot?”

  “No,” he said. “I do believe the ball hit the Duque.”

  The Duque’s surgeon and servant supported the fat lout as he settled onto the nearby ground, swearing.

  She gripped his hand, her breath feathering his ear. “No. Have I k-killed him?”

  “Not the way he’s caterwauling,” Kincaid said.

  “His foot seems to be bleeding, my lady,” Bakeley said.

  Jane’s good arm found his own uninjured one, and they wobbled together.

  Someone had laid out a quilt, and Russell was opening his case, the maid at his elbow, and behind her, MacEwen.

  The clatter of horses drew Bakeley away. The guard had arrived.

  Jane watched them dismount, clutching his arm. “Will they arrest us?”

  His heart swelled, wiping out the throbbing in his various wounds. Us, she’d said. She was in this with him, though he doubted she’d thank him much if they ended up facing a magistrate together.