“Look at him,” muttered Viscount Horatio Glendenning. “All business, as usual. Treve fights so well because he never makes the mistake of setting his opponent’s worth too cheap, or failing to inspect the ground. This is how he was when he met Kadenworthy. Lord, what a battle that was! I made sure Treve would fall! Matter of fact, I lost two hundred guineas on it!”
Shocked, the Reverend FitzWilliam Boudreaux exclaimed, “But you was his second, I thought!”
“Was.” His lordship’s grin flashed. “I did not wish that he should fall, you understand, Fitz. Purely a matter of odds. Didn’t think Treve had a chance—not against Kadenworthy. Of course, I hadn’t seen him fence, then. Have now.” A thought seizing him, he asked, “Don’t suppose you would be interested in putting a few guineas on—”
The reverend gentleman’s grey eyes regarded him steadily.
Unabashed, Glendenning chuckled. “You wouldn’t. Sorry. I forget sometimes that you’re now a man of the cloth. Damned if I can see why you agreed to be old Treve’s second. A trifle removed from your—er, persuasions, ain’t it?”
Boudreaux sighed and nodded. “I chanced to be there when Boothe struck him. And—well, I’m very fond of Treve. He’s my cousin, after all. My sister’s fond of him, too. Trouble is, I like Boothe’s sister. Delightful. Beastly situation. I agreed to serve mostly in the hope my presence might deter Treve from putting a period to Boothe.”
“Good Lord! Oh, sorry, Fitz. What I mean is, this ain’t going to be a killing matter, surely? Swords, dear old boy. Not pistols.”
“True. But Boothe struck him twice.”
They looked at one another with foreboding, but their discussion terminated as a pounding of hooves announced the headlong arrival of a light travelling coach that tore up to halt beside a cluster of tall elms. The door was flung open and the steps let down before the groom could perform those services. Snowden Boothe jumped out and hurried over, followed by Mr. Melton and Lord Fortescue.
“Dashed sorry I’m late,” Boothe apologized, as de Villars wandered to join them. “Couldn’t wake Forty. Sleeps like a veritable Mephisto, dashed if he don’t.”
De Villars regarded his lordship with ironic amusement.
“Methuselah,” Boudreaux corrected gently.
Boothe began to put off his cloak and said with a hard look at de Villars that he didn’t see what difference it made. “We’re all the same in the water closet, ain’t we?”
The reverend looked shocked.
De Villars mused, “Somehow I have never pictured Mephisto in a water closet.”
“Why not?” Boothe demanded, defiantly. “Who the devil is the fellow?”
“Just so,” de Villars said with a grin.
Glendenning noted Boothe’s irked frown and said placatingly, “Mephisto is a devil, Snow. Or the devil, perhaps, according to Greek mythology.”
Boothe broke into a shout of laughter. De Villars chuckled. Taken aback by such levity, Fortescue put in, “Are we ready, gentlemen?”
“By all means,” said de Villars, shrugging out of his jacket.
“Hold hard.” Glendenning pointed out, “Surgeon’s not here yet.”
“Well, where the deuce is he?” Boothe demanded. “Dashitall, I’m famished. Hadn’t time to stop for breakfast.”
“Perhaps,” drawled de Villars, as he folded back the lace at his cuffs, “you would prefer we adjourn to the tavern first?”
Boothe’s face lit up. “Jove, but I would!” He saw de Villars’ incredulity and flushed. “You was quizzing me, eh? Very funny, I’m sure. But if you was as hungry as I am…”
“Had you arisen at a proper hour…”
“Arisen! I did not arise because I did not go to bed, damn you!”
De Villars’ lip curled unpleasantly. “Nervous, Boothe?”
“Another witticism like that,” Snowden grated, looking up from attending to his own shirt sleeves, “and I’ll call you out, sir, devil take me if I don’t!”
Lord Fortescue, who was nervously anxious to fulfil his duties as a proper second should do, protested, “You can’t call him out now, Snow! Ain’t allowed! Must finish this one first, dear boy.”
“What? Oh. Well, blast it all, de Villars, I vow I cannot understand why some public-spirited citizen ain’t put a period to you long before this.”
De Villars, whose cynicism had given way to amusement during this interchange, said, “Are you public spirited, Boothe? I’d not have thought it.”
Boothe was mulling over the matter when a third carriage approached, was drawn to a decorous halt, and the surgeon alighted, to be met by Melton and Glendenning.
Lord Fortescue, meanwhile, apprised his principal in an undertone that the rules must be adhered to. “You two gentlemen,” he pointed out solemnly, “ain’t supposed to be brawling like this.”
“We ain’t brawling,” said Snowden with an indignant air. “We are enjoying a civilized discussion. Eh, de Villars?”
“Oh, decidedly.”
“And if truth be told, Forty,” said Boothe, turning on his friend, “you and the rest of ’em ain’t doing what you should, neither. Has anyone checked the swords? Have you looked over the ground?”
My lord flushed guiltily, and hurried to the coach to collect the long, flat case that held the duelling swords.
De Villars said, “I’ve checked the ground, Boothe. There’s a slight rise at the western side. Over here.”
They wandered off together to inspect this irregularity. Returning with the sword box, Fortescue paused and stood staring after the departing principals with such a bewildered expression on his face that Glendenning came over to ask, “Are you thinking there still may be a chance of effecting a truce, Forty?”
Fortescue sighed. “I wish we might. Like ’em, y’know. Like ’em both.”
Boudreaux came up, and having heard the last few words, said, “Does anyone know why they fight?”
“Not a word out of either of them,” Glendenning replied. “I heard there was a woman at the root of it. Here they come—Gad, you’d think them bosom bows!”
Hope for a reconciliation faded, however, when it was seen that the principals were engaging in a sharp discussion as to whether to remove their shoes. Boothe was shocked by de Villars’ refusal to do this, and de Villars said unequivocally that he did not propose to prance about the wet grass in his stockinged feet.
“Then I shall have an advantage over you,” Snowden said with a frown. “I always fight better without shoes. Anyone does.”
Glendenning put in, “You give him an advantage, well enough, Treve.”
“I rather doubt it will prove of any moment,” drawled de Villars.
Bristling, Boothe snapped, “Did each of you hear that piece of braggadocio? I want no whining afterwards that I set him under a handicap.”
“Nor I.” De Villars yawned. “I cannot abide whining. I find foolishness much to be preferred, so do by all means remove your shoes, Boothe.”
Boothe ground his teeth, and tore the shoes from his feet.
Glendenning met FitzWilliam’s glum look, and shrugged. “Best get started, Forty.”
Fortescue offered the box first to de Villars, who took the weapon closest him, flexed the blade between his hands, and nodded approval. Boothe took the remaining sword and made a pass or two, testing the heft of it.
“If you are satisfied, gentlemen,” said Melton quietly.
They were satisfied, and walked to the selected ground, side by side. The seconds, also with swords drawn, took up their positions.
The salute was brief. With typical impetuosity, Boothe wasted no time in feeling out his adversary, but at once opened in carte. His thrust, lightning fast, was parried at the last instant. De Villars’ blade glittered as it then whipped into a flanconade, the flat slapping hard against Boothe’s hip. His eyes flaring, Boothe got out of distance and threw up a hand.
Mr. Melton stepped forward. “What is it, Boothe?”
Ignoring him, Boothe fix
ed his antagonist with a piercing stare. “What do you think you are playing at, de Villars?”
De Villars answered with a patient smile, “I believe we are playing at a duel, my dear Boothe.”
“Then let us do so in a dignified fashion. We are not oafs, sir.”
“Boothe,” sighed Mr. Melton, “have you a foul to claim? I saw nothing unethical.”
“He slapped me!” Boothe asserted with considerable indignation. “You blind, George?”
“I saw a flanconade, merely.”
“He struck me with the flat of his blade. I did not come here to have my arse spanked, and so I tell you, de Villars!”
De Villars, his eyes dancing wickedly, bowed. “Thank you for clarifying your wishes, Boothe, for I was certainly labouring under a wrong impression.”
Boothe flushed scarlet. His lips gripped tightly. Then he snarled, “En garde!” And the duel resumed.
Boothe was all too aware of the furtive grins that had been exchanged by the seconds. De Villars’ sarcasm was added to the dastardly affront to Rebecca, and, seething with the fires of vengeful fury, Boothe fairly leapt to the attack, his need to wipe out the insults suffered at this man’s hands driving him to set a punishing pace. The seconds became sober and intent; the treacherous minutes slipped past, the steel flashed and rang, the antagonists displaying excellent footwork and balance as they moved dexterously in and out. Boothe continued to carry the offensive, de Villars contenting himself with a defence that seemed haphazard, yet brought a glow of admiration to Glendenning’s eyes, and caused Boudreaux twice to whisper an awed “By Jove!” But then Boothe ventured a parade. De Villars’ wrist turned in a blur of speed. A glissade sent his sword singing down Boothe’s blade, and Boothe’s sword spun from his hand. For a split second, de Villars’ weapon still quivered to the attack. Fortescue’s heart seemed to stop. He jumped forward to strike up the sword, but there was not the need: De Villars had already moved back, eyes glinting, and his blade held down and to the side.
Boothe rubbed his wrist, looked thoughtfully at the impassive features of his opponent, and took the sword George Melton handed him. “Damn,” he muttered.
“It is difficult to fight well when … one is tired,” observed de Villars, parrying a rather weak lunge. “You would have done better to get to your bed.”
His foot stamping, Boothe thrust in tierce, was blocked, and in turn parried a flashing riposte. “Aye,” he grunted. “And … I might have done so had not your cousin … driven me from it.”
De Villars tensed. Boothe’s attack in carte was countered by a sizzling return and the resultant volte again all but tore the sword from his hand.
“I’ll have an explanation of that remark, when we are done,” de Villars said curtly.
Talk ceased. The fast pace of the duel became even more accelerated. The clearing was hushed and still, save for the murderous flash and flurry of steel in seeking thrust and defensive parry; the stamp of feet; the sway of lithe bodies, each in perfect condition; the quick, tense breathing of the duellists. The seconds shifted about, their narrowed, alert eyes missing no facet of the furious battle. Glendenning cursed under his breath as, for the third time, de Villars held back a logical attack, and a moment later Boudreaux exclaimed, “Jupiter! That was close! Boothe nigh had him!” Not a little astounded, Fortescue said, “I’d not have dreamed Snow could last this long! He’s giving a good account of himself, eh?” Melton said nothing, but his eyes were worried.
Time ticked away, and still Boothe strove passionately but vainly to penetrate that deceptively lazy guard, his thrusts parried by a defence often so tantalizingly tardy as to lure him on to the next, useless effort. The excitement of those watching was intensified. Glendenning swore. “They cannot keep up this pace! It is madness!” But the pace did not slow, although both men were now breathing hard. Boothe’s lungs were agonizing, his hand wet with sweat. He was bedevilled by the awareness that he was slipping very gradually from attack to defence, and it was borne in upon him that he might have been run through several times. The suspicion that he was being played with, that the jeering de Villars was laughing at him, sent his ready temper flaring and brought a surge of renewed strength. He swept into the offensive once more, with the fast and hard thrust under the wrist known as seconde. Not expecting this sudden revival, de Villars retaliated instinctively with a prime parade, that dangerous manoeuvre bringing gasps of excitement from the watchers. In the nick of time, he checked the following riposte that would have finished the duel, but might very well have also finished Boothe. His hesitation was minuscule, but almost fatal. Boothe’s sword flashed at him in a full thrust in tierce. De Villars disengaged but he was a split second slow, and the point of Boothe’s sword raked across his chest. Angered, de Villars’ reaction was quicksilver. The disengage completed, he drew in his arm a little and his blade whirled, the steel becoming a dazzling blaze in the light of the rising sun. Boothe was conscious of a blinding flash. Something smashed violently against his sword. A flame shot up his arm, and he clutched his wrist as his weapon for the second time fell from his numbed hand. The point of de Villars’ sword was at his throat. Melton leapt to strike it up, even as it was once more withdrawn.
“Fool!” said de Villars, glaring at him.
Not in the least dismayed, and ever the fine sportsman, Boothe cried breathlessly, “Jove, what a … beat! Jolly well done, sir! Jolly well done!”
Panting, de Villars stepped back and paid Boothe the honour of a salute before handing his sword to Boudreaux. The other seconds and the surgeon, who had stood in a state of petrified stillness through these last breathtaking moments, now rushed forward with shouts of acclaim.
The surgeon hastened to Boothe and grasped his arm, drawing a yell from his patient. A swift examination, then he turned to de Villars, who attempted to deal with the enthusiasm of the men gathered about him. “He caught you in the chest, I think, sir,” said the surgeon, unbuttoning the slashed shirt.
“Nothing of consequence,” said de Villars, cheerfully. “Are you badly hurt, Boothe?”
“No, save that you damn near broke my arm.” Boothe grinned. “A fine lot of seconds I have, to allow my sword to be struck with a sledgehammer.”
They all laughed. Boothe came over to watch as the surgeon set de Villars’ fine linen aside, revealing a shallow gash across the muscular chest, directly above the heart. His eyes darting to de Villars’ impassive face, Boothe said an aghast, “By Gad! I might have killed you, man!”
“You were curst slow to parry, Treve,” said Boudreaux solemnly. “My poor fellow, that must burn like the very deuce!”
Glendenning proffered a brandy flask. “You were far off your form, dear boy. What ailed you? I swear I never saw your defence so careless.”
“Took too dashed many chances,” Boudreaux agreed.
Watching de Villars, Boothe’s expression became thunderous. “I know what ailed him. Though I’d not suspected it until that brilliant riposte at the finish. You could have had me—how many times, and did not, sir?”
“I counted seven,” murmured George Melton, as de Villars took a swallow from the flask. “A dangerous game you played, Trevelyan.”
“Nonsense.” De Villars slanted a covert glance at his erstwhile opponent. “Boothe’s a dashed fine swordsman, is all. Gave me a run for my money.”
Boothe cursed savagely. “Never! It was those confounded girls! I collect they wrung a promise from you to spare me?”
De Villars’ brows arched into the familiar look of boredom. “Your imagination is, I see, as fertile as your sister’s.”
“Oh, no, it ain’t! Don’t try to gammon me! I know, all too well! What Miss Boudreaux put me through last evening! I was so demoralized I wonder I could even hold a sword this morning!”
The doctor said despairingly, “Mr. de Villars, it appears to have escaped your notice, but your wound bleeds, sir. If you would just sit down for a moment, I might more easily come at your hurt.”
&
nbsp; Glendenning waved for the surgeon’s carriage, and the coachman touched up the horses and drove to the little group.
De Villars sat on the step and, suffering the doctor to remove his ruined garment, said, “Now, if you please, Boothe—what’s all this about your bed and my cousin?”
“Not what you are thinking,” said Boothe, but without resentment. “I’ve been racking up at my sister Parrish’s house while she’s away—just to keep an eye on the place, d’ye see? At all events, there I trotted last night. Perfectly natural thing to do. And Miss Boudreaux was ensconced with m’sister. The pair of ’em turned on me like a pair of archwives because of our meeting! Most awful thing! Had to make a run for it!”
De Villars said with a grin, “I appreciate your predicament. I endured much the same scene, unless I mistake it.”
“You do mistake it! Unless you’ve far more backbone than I.”
Leaning back in response to the surgeon’s request, de Villars glanced up at Boothe curiously. “Never say you were treated to tears—and all for my sake?”
“Worse. Your cousin fell to her knees before me!”
“My sister? Letitia?” put in the reverend, astonished.
The surgeon, attempting to bathe the cut across de Villars’ chest, abandoned the effort as his patient threw back his head and uttered a shout of laughter.
“Fitz…” gasped de Villars. “Did—did you know naught of this Machiavellian ploy?”
Still unconvinced, the man of the cloth said, “Faith—I did not. Are you quite sure, Boothe? My sister ain’t the type. Deuced calm and collected usually. I cannot conceive why she’d succumb to such megrims.”
The Wagered Widow Page 18