Sophie’s sigh turned into a frown, and she caught herself shaking her head. She should have run away the first day she set foot on English soil, had she only known what lay in store for her.
She could not win tomorrow morning. Even if Ian did not lose his life in the duel, and Edward were killed, she would have to surrender herself. Surely there would be others at the scene: a physician and seconds at the very least, who would be aware of her true identity. She would be apprehended the moment she stepped from Jane Glenn’s wagon.
The same scenario would occur should Ian be wounded or killed. Edward would see to it that she was put under guard and sent south for a trial.
Sophie cursed the wicked coward who had killed Jean Coutain in Kensington, changing forever the course of three lives—his victim’s, hers, and Ian’s. How many other lives had the murderer irrevocably altered? And why did fate grant a monster the freedom to continue on a path of destruction and deny the smallest portion of justice to an innocent girl? It wasn’t fair. It just wasn’t fair.
As the wagon rolled through the night, Sophie’s thoughts turned around and around in her head. She tried to fashion a speech she would make when she arrived, but the words wouldn’t form on her lips. She tried to visualize what it would be like to see Ian again after so much had happened between them, but she couldn’t imagine what might transpire. His very presence had always disarmed her.
Sooner than she would have believed, she felt the night air sharpen with the coming dawn. She pulled the curtain back from the tiny window and looked out, but was unable to glimpse even the palest of light in the sky above the craggy ramparts of Highclyffe.
Sophie’s heart skipped a beat. They were almost at the edge of the earl’s property. In another half hour, her freedom would come to an end. Still, her heart did not race on behalf of her own welfare, but on Ian’s. She closed her eyes and murmured a prayer that she would not be too late to stop him.
Chapter 22
The morning sky was still black when Ramsay heard a discreet rap on his bed chamber door.
“It’s six o’clock, sir,” William the footman called from the other side.
“Thank you.”
“Mr. MacEwan is here.”
“Tell him I’ll be down soon.” Ramsay rubbed the back of his neck and glanced at the window to his right where he’d pulled back the drapery the night before in order to afford a view of the sky. No hint of dawn colored the heavens yet.
Even before William’s knock, Ramsay had risen and pulled on his shirt and breeches, having found sleep impossible. After another long night spent tossing and turning, he felt more wretched than he had for many years. Even the old wound in his thigh throbbed with a dull beat of pain.
The only light in the entirety of his personal darkness was the hope that Sophie might be alive, and that he might see her again. But first, he had to kill an earl.
Ramsay scowled and lathered up his shaving soap with a bit of water from the ewer sitting on the chest of drawers near the door. He painted his cheeks and jaws with the cool white froth while he thought of the morning to come. He’d never gambled everything like this. He’d always placed a sure bet, if he gambled at all. But this morning he would lay his life and fortune on the line, all for a single shot at a murderous Englishman.
He wouldn’t think of the consequences should he fail. He simply wouldn’t allow himself to fail.
Though Ramsay hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep for a week, his hand was still steady as he scraped his jaw, wiped the razor clean with a towel, and scraped again until his skin was smooth and clear. He could see little detail in the flickering light from the brace of candles at his elbow, but it didn’t matter. Shaving was more a tactile exercise than a visual one anyway.
While he shaved, he scowled at his bloodshot eyes and unusually wan complexion. He did look like death warmed over, just as everyone claimed. So be it. Death meets the Earl of Blethin. He didn’t mind taking on the role of a dark angel, as long as Metcalf’s macabre career was quashed as a result.
Finished, Ramsay dragged his fingertips down his face to make certain he hadn’t missed a spot, then cleaned the blade, and returned it to its leather sleeve. He ambled across the floor, wiping the bits of soap flecks from his face and ear lobes with the towel, and then put on his waistcoat. Like a man in a trance, he fastened the multitude of buttons on the garment and then reached for his dark blue frock coat, all the while wondering how long he would have to wait until he heard news of Sophie from Puckett.
All his senses lay in waiting, grim and subdued, but still on alert—the way they had been before a battle during his military career in America. He had undertaken his toilette as a careful ritual, the same way he had donned his vestments—performing the motions with exacting clarity, forcing himself to quit thinking, making himself take one step at a time without looking ahead to the larger and much more gruesome picture. It was the only way to survive a day such as this.
When he arrived downstairs, Ramsay was surprised to find a small crowd waiting for him in in Lady Auliffe’s parlor. John MacEwan stood near the fire, nearly bursting out of a coat and breeches that might have fit him when he was younger. Mary Auliffe sat in her usual regal style upon the settee, attired in a smart crimson riding outfit, her dogs lying unusually subdued near the toes of her boots as if they sensed the serious of the situation. Lastly, Mr. Puckett paced the floor in front of the bay window, his spare body as tightly wound as a spring, looking like a jay about to take flight.
At Ramsay’s tread in the doorway, Puckett looked up, his face white. Ramsay studied him, sure that something was amiss, and his heart turned painfully in his chest.
“Good morning,” he growled, never one for chatter, especially in the early morning, especially this morning. The others mumbled their greetings, obviously not any more excited about the day than he was.
“Ian, you look terrible,” Lady Auliffe observed. “Did you not sleep?”
“Not much.”
Coffee service had been set out upon the low table before Lady Auliffe. She poured some of the steaming brew into a china cup.
“Here,” she said, lifting the cup and saucer toward him. “You look as if you could use this.”
“Thank you.”
“Would you like it laced with brandy? Extra fortification as it were?”
“No, thank you.” He smiled at her and took a sip of the hot beverage, letting it warm him and strengthen his frayed nerves. He watched the lady of the house refill MacEwan’s cup and then turned to Puckett.
“When did you get back?” he asked.
“Just a few minutes ago.”
“And?”
Puckett shrugged is thin shoulders. “No luck, sir.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean,” Puckett glanced around the room, at the other two pairs of eyes trained upon him, and then back at his master. “No luck, captain.”
Ramsay narrowed his eyes at the man’s cryptic reply, knowing Puckett well enough to deduce he was not telling the entire truth. He heard Mary Auliffe rise and felt her hand on his arm.
“I’m sorry, Ian.” She gently squeezed his forearm. “I thought ‘twas too good to be true, the story of the tartan.”
“Aye.” John MacEwan lowered his cup. “No one could survive water that cold. Poor wee lass.”
Ramsay nodded and struggled to keep his emotions in check. He was desperate to get Puckett alone and drag the full story out of the man. For some reason Puckett deigned it prudent to keep silent on the matter, and Ramsay couldn’t just pull him aside without raising suspicions. Ramsay could only choose to respect his assistant’s judgment, for Puckett had always wanted what was best for Sophie.
If the results of Puckett’s journey required secrecy for Sophie’s sake, so be it. Then again, perhaps Puckett had no news at all. In either case, Ramsay must be satisfied with his vague answer for the moment.
Finishing his coffee, he carefully placed the china dish upon the t
able and straightened.
“Lady Auliffe, I mean no disrespect, but I trust you realize that Edward Metcalf wants no spectacle made of the duel this morning.”
“As if I care what he prefers!” Mary Auliffe sniffed in disdain.
“He may not allow you on the property.”
“Balderdash!”
Ramsay turned, “Or you, Mr. Puckett.”
“He will have to shoot me first, sir.”
“Hear, hear!” Mary Auliffe crowed.
“I am serious.” Ramsay crossed his arms and glowered at her.
“And who shall bar my path?” Lady Auliffe inquired. “The Metcalfs have alienated themselves from the folk around here. I doubt there’s a living soul at Highclyffe this morning, save Edward Metcalf himself.”
“Aye, the bastard may have to haul his own water.” MacEwan’s eyes flashed with dark delight. “Now there’s a picture!”
Puckett glanced over his shoulder at the still dark sky. “Regardless, we’d best be going, captain. We’ve a ride ahead of us.”
Ramsay nodded, and felt a slow frost of finality harden his resolve.
Fog rolled across the green of Highclyffe, and not a whisper of wind brushed Ramsay’s cheek as he dismounted to the frosty turf. He reached back to help Lady Auliffe to the ground, and then turned to glance around at the ghostly vision of his boyhood home. Through the mist poked the southeast tower, as if purposely drawing his attention, reminding him of Sophie’s plunge to her death. The corners of his mouth twitched, and he had to fight to keep his expression under control.
“A rather gloomy day for a duel,” Lady Auliffe remarked, pulling at her gloves. “And so cold!”
“A Scottish day,” Ramsay replied. “Just another winter’s morn here.”
“Where’s the earl?” John MacEwan asked as he tied his mount to the nearest hitching post.
“There.” Puckett pointed to a large black coach slowly emerging from the mist.
“The man can’t walk?” MacEwan inquired, his voice thick with disdain.
“‘Tis likely he will leave straightaway after the duel,” Ramsay observed, “should he win.”
“Yes, look there.” Lady Auliffe pointed her crop in the direction of the vehicle. “His trunks are tied at the back of his coach.”
The coach rolled to a stop a good distance from the horses on the green. After a prolonged moment, the door opened and the earl climbed out, careful not to bump his hat. After him came a smaller man, who lowered himself stiffly to the lawn.
“And who is that with him?” Mary Auliffe raised her lorgnette to her eyes.
“Constable Keener, I would assume.” Ramsay watched them approach.
Edward Metcalf strode forward, a step ahead of his second, powder and rouge concealing most of the bruise around his eye. He had dressed for the occasion, in a suit of bottle green fustian, a cream colored shirt, and a green and gold striped velvet waistcoat. His cravat was tied expertly at his throat, covering most of his neck below his chin as if to conceal as much bare flesh as possible. He wore a pair of expensive black kid gloves, gleaming black boots, and a black cocked hat trimmed in satin braid. Ramsay was reminded of the first time he’d seen the earl as a young lad, and how he had appeared a dandy even then.
The memory seared though Ramsay, bringing with it the unforgettable memory of the smell of burning flesh as his clan died in the kirk and the still sharp pang of humiliation at the hand of the cruel boy this earl had once been. That cruel boy may have grown into a man, but he had not outgrown his mean streak; in fact it had obviously deepened and become more perverse.
Ramsay’s feelings of loathing stabbed him so keenly, he could have sworn that twenty years had not transpired. For a moment, he remembered how it had been to be a helpless boy at the mercy of a great lord. But he, too, had grown. This time he met the earl on nearly level ground, and if height and military experience counted, the ground was slightly tipped in his favor. This was his chance to avenge his clan, his family, and an innocent maid from the West Indies.
Ramsay clenched his jaw so tightly, he thought his teeth might crack from the pressure.
“Ramsay.” Edward Metcalf dipped his head in slight recognition of his adversary.
“Metcalf,” Ramsay replied in kind, his neck rigid with hatred, still refusing to address the earl properly.
“I told you that I wanted no audience,” the earl snapped. “Did I not make myself clear?”
Ramsay narrowed his eyes in the direction of his companions, and spied a boxy-looking cart rumbling their way. He didn’t recognize it but had no time to wonder about it. “Then speak my companions if you choose. They would not listen to me.”
Edward glared at the trio standing to one side and sniffed. “I can’t be bothered.”
“Then let us get on with it.” Ramsay nodded at MacEwan, who walked forward with the shallow wooden box containing Alec MacMarrie’s dueling pistols. The manservant opened the box and presented it to Ramsay, while Constable Keener did the same for the earl. The pistols were loaded and primed on the spot.
“Twenty paces and a single shot, gentlemen,” the constable reminded them when they were finished with the shot and gunpowder, “Take your places.”
“For Sophie Vernet,” Ramsay declared, glaring at Metcalf. Then he pivoted to face the stone ramparts of Highclyffe.
“For England,” Edward replied turning his back to Ramsay and raising his weapon to chest level.
A dark sense of purpose flowed over Ramsay as he measured out the steps, one by one to MacEwan’s count. The courtyard of Highclyffe became surreal, a blur of grays and blues which melted into the memory of Sophie Vernet, the way her hair had glowed in the firelight, the way her white throat had curved to her obstinate chin, and way her smoky eyes had softened when she looked up at him.
The thought that he would never see her again had made him gamble recklessly with his life like this, for what would life be like without her beside him? Sophie had made a home for him for the first time in his life. She had given him a reason to ride back to his townhouse after a long day at work, a reason to rise in the morning, and had given a purpose to his life other than revenge. Now all he could look forward to were endless days, knowing he could never go home to the woman he loved. No house would be a home to him, if she were not there.
“Ninetee-ee-een,” chanted MacEwan, “T—”
Poised to turn, Ramsay waited for the last syllable, his senses taut, when he heard a sudden crack and felt something hot tear into his back, spinning him around, nearly knocking him to the ground. Searing pain burst into flames at his right shoulder blade.
“No!” Sophie screamed, hanging at the rear door of the tinker’s cart and gaping in horror as Ian was struck prematurely. She jumped to the ground before the vehicle had come to a complete stop, and nearly swooned at the sudden impact of her feet upon the ground.
Edward Metcalf had fired before the final count, before Ramsay had had time to turn around. He had violated the code of dueling, and like a coward had shot Ian in the back.
For a heart-wrenching instant, Sophie stood motionless, desperate to run to Ian’s side but guessing the deadly game upon the green had not yet drawn to a close. Without taking a single breath, she watched Ramsay struggling to raise his right arm to take the single shot to which he was entitled. But he apparently couldn’t make his body obey.
She opened her mouth to shout out his name, but the word stuck in her throat, as all eyes fixed on him, wondering if he would take a shot or fall to the ground. He wavered and passed the gun into his other hand. At the movement, Sophie noticed a wet stain on his frock coat, and saw that he was bleeding between his shoulder blades.
Something roared loudly, and she realized the sound thundered in her own ears. She’d been too late. She had been seconds too late to stop the duel, and Ian had likely given his life for her. Not many people survived a ball in the back. She was probably witnessing the last moments of Ian’s life, forced to stand on the si
delines.
“Ian, take your shot!” MacEwan shouted.
“Ian!” Sophie cried, her voice sharp with anguish.
At the sound of her voice, he turned slightly, as if to glance in her direction, but the effort was too much for him, and he turned back to face the earl, his right shoulder sagging.
He looked terrible. She had never seen him so wan, his dark eyes so dull, his posture so bent. Would he die on the green without uttering another word to her, without looking into her eyes? Her heart ached at the thought, for she had so much to say to him—all that she should have told him from the very first. Seeing him like this, defending her to the death, dashed away the dark betrayal she had suffered at his hand.
“Shoot!” MacEwan screamed, his mouth flecked with spittle. “Shoot the bastard!”
Ramsay squinted, trying to bring Metcalf into focus, but the edges of the earl’s figure blurred and rippled, sometimes splitting into two beings, sometimes wavering as a single shape. The mist rolled in ever thicker, shrouding his surroundings until all he could make out was the white face of Edward Metcalf, staring in alarm that his shot had not done its deadly work.
The earl turned to the constable. “Give me the other pistol,” he demanded.
“No!” The constable snapped the box shut. “‘Twas only one shot, your grace.”
“I said, give me the other!”
Ramsay staggered forward, hatred and revenge firing him to take step after dragging step, growing ever closer to his frantic adversary.
“Keener, I command you!” Metcalf shrieked. “Now!”
“Coward!” MacEwan yelled. Ramsay saw the Scotsman stride past him. “I’ll give you a pisto1, you bloody coward!”
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