Temporary Mistress

by Susan Johnson

  “You’re very wrinkled.” Isabella smiled faintly, his rumpled look so out of character. “Your valet would be mortified.”

  “Lonsdale won’t mind.”

  All her fears returned in a rush. “Promise you’ll not be reckless.”

  “Caution is my byword,” he teased.

  “Don’t tease,” she protested, “when you’re risking your life, when Lonsdale doesn’t deserve a chance to hurt you.”

  “I don’t plan on giving him one.” Dermott held out his hand. “I’ll take every precaution,” he promised. “Now, I’ve some way to go myself. Let me escort you to your carriage.”

  Joe was waiting in the corridor outside, his face impassive as they emerged from the room. And he kept a polite distance as he followed them downstairs to the carriage.

  “Take care now,” Dermott softly said as they stood on the flags outside in the mist of predawn, the carriage door held open by a groom.

  “I insist even more that you do.”

  “I will.” Leaning forward, he lightly kissed her mouth and then, straightening, stepped away. “Good-bye.” His voice was low.

  “Godspeed,” she whispered, and then turned and entered the carriage before her tears spilled over.

  18

  DERMOTT STOPPED by Bathurst House to collect Shelby, his valet, Charles, and his dueling pistols. There wasn’t time to change. He’d stayed with Isabella much longer than he should have. After a few brief orders for Pomeroy, he discussed his time constraints with his driver and then rested on the steps of Bathurst House until Charles and Shelby appeared. Quickly rising, he exchanged greetings with his servants before they entered the carriage.

  “The doctor will meet us at Morgan’s field,” Shelby noted as the closed carriage raced through the predawn streets of London.8 “Lord Devon left ahead of us. He stopped by Bathurst House, but since you weren’t there at the appointed time, he thought you may have already gone to Morgan’s field. Of course, I knew better. I knew you’d see to your pistols yourself, but one doesn’t argue with Lord Devon.”

  Dermott smiled. George Harley was blustery, always sure of himself regardless whether he was right or not. But more important, he was an old friend and a crack shot. “He won’t be far ahead. I told Jem to make all speed and Devon doesn’t like to press his grays. Charles, did you bring the brandy?”

  “Yes, sir. And a clean shirt, if you wish.”

  Dermott laughed. “Do you think I need one?” His valet always saw to his linen with a particularly discerning eye.

  “That would be for you to say, my lord, but you will have your coat off.”

  “Lonsdale will probably hie himself from some stew.”

  “While you, sir, will have on clean linen.”

  Dermott began shrugging out of his coat at such pointed comment. Although he said “I’ll keep that” when Charles was about to take his discarded shirt from him. He shoved the wrinkled garment into a corner of his seat, not wishing to relinquish it when it smelled of Isabella’s perfume. In short order he was dressed in a fresh shirt and well-tied neckcloth. Charles had also brought water so Dermott could wash his face and hands, although the earl hesitated briefly before washing his hands. The scent of Isabella still lingered on his fingers.

  But in the end his regret didn’t prevail over Charles’s sense of good grooming. And once he was offered his cologne after washing, that fragrance soon pervaded the interior of the carriage.

  When the earl alighted from the carriage at Morgan’s field, he was as well turned out as his valet could manage under rough conditions. A faint fog swirled over the open field, the sun not yet risen to burn it away. And Dermott’s boot struck spongy turf when he stepped to the ground.

  The other carriages were waiting. Devon sat in the open door of his town coach, talking to the doctor. A group of men stood together near one of the other carriages, Lonsdale’s blond head visible in their midst.

  Morgan’s field was advantageously located near the City but not so near that unwanted spectators were likely to appear. The grassy field, surrounded by a heavy stand of sturdy English oaks, afforded the necessary seclusion. The trees also served to muffle the sound of gunshots, while Lamb’s Inn was conveniently at hand just past the line of oaks, should any injured party require a bed or makeshift operating table.

  Everyone’s gaze turned to Dermott as he strolled toward Lord Devon, Shelby following with his case of dueling pistols, Charles last, carrying his brandy flask.

  Dermott breathed deeply of the cool morning air, wanting to clear his head of the previous night, of memory and morbid musing, of any distraction that would interfere with his concentration.

  Devon was in a cheerful mood as he greeted Dermott. With his friend celebrated for his skills on the dueling field, Lord Devon didn’t expect any problems. The men shook hands; Dermott spoke briefly with the doctor and then turned to Charles for his brandy. He drank deeply out of habit before turning his attention to Lonsdale, who was already in his shirt-sleeves, loading his pistols.

  It seemed to be time.

  Neither he nor Lonsdale were novices. They’d both been here before.

  The seconds met, agreed on the rules of engagement, and returned to their respective sides.

  “Lonsdale’s half drunk, Ram,” Devon offered. “But still dangerous, I imagine, or perhaps more dangerous. They wanted two shots at six paces; we agreed on two shots at twelve. Six paces is too damned close. And Lonsdale’s not to be trusted.”

  Dermott handed his coat to Charles. “I already know that. I’m here today to put an end to his untrustworthy soul.”

  George Harley hadn’t heard that icy tone before. “You’re serious about this?”

  “I’m always serious when I put my life at risk.” Dermott began rolling up his shirt-sleeves.

  “You’re going to kill him?” First blood was often enough for satisfaction.

  Dermott signaled for his pistols. “That’s my intent, as I’m sure it’s his.”

  “No doubt,” Lord Devon said with a sigh, understanding there was more to this than a lady’s reputation. “Well, bloody good luck, Ram, although you’re not apt to need it. Do you want me to load your pistols?”

  Dermott smiled. “No thanks. I prefer doing it myself.”9

  His revolving-cylinder firearm design had been perfected by the best English gunsmiths over the last decades, and the two-shot pistols he and Lonsdale had were popular on the dueling field. After checking the loaded cylinders one last time, he handed one weapon to Devon, and taking the other, lifted his hand casually in adieu and walked to the middle of the field.

  He and Lonsdale were supposed to exchange courtesies, but neither man was capable of such deceit, and with a nod to each other they took their positions back-to-back and waited for the signal to advance.

  It was nearly light now, the mist had begun to fade, the color of the turf altering from gray to green as the sun crept over the horizon.

  Twelve paces, Dermott silently rehearsed, lifting his hand slightly to test the weight of his pistol. He had a hair-trigger Manton weapon, and his finger rested on the trigger with great delicacy. Walk, turn, shoot. He ran the sequence through his mind. His nerves were sharp, clear, untroubled by anxiety. Emotion had no place on the dueling field.

  The protagonists were given a verbal signal to advance, and both men moved forward. One of the surgeons counted the paces in a loud voice, Dermott silently echoing the words. Eight, nine, ten … He began lifting his pistol, ready to turn on twelve.

  The first shot slammed into his back, the second shattered his ribs as he spun around, the impact of shot and powder at such close range dropping him to his knees. Through an agonizing roar of pain, Dermott caught a glimpse of Lonsdale’s smiling face.

  Astonishment and fury flared through his brain. Fucking coward shot early! A spasm of crushing pain jolted through his side, almost doubling him over, and he hung there, panting, trying to focus his senses and sight. He could hear a tumult of sound�
�shouts, commands, angry oaths drifting in and out of his consciousness. And suddenly through the racking anguish and distant noise, Devon’s face appeared only inches away. He looked frightened. Dermott tried to reconcile that oddity in the confusion of pain and curious liquid warmth seeping through his shirt. And his knees were getting wet from the damp ground, he incongruously thought. Charles was sure to object to the stains.

  “We have to get you away,” Devon grunted, trying to lift Dermott.

  Devon’s hands on him brought him to full attention. “Not done yet,” Dermott fiercely whispered, blinking to clear his vision. “Give me a hand.” He gritted his teeth. “And then stand back.” With Devon’s help he struggled to his feet, calling on his last reserves of energy, blood gushing from his wounds. He wavered unsteadily for a moment and then with superhuman effort braced his legs wide.

  Lonsdale’s triumphant expression had turned to horror as Dermott came to his feet. His pistol was empty and Bathurst still had two unfired shots. He fell to his knees, faced with certain death, terror stricken, and raising his hands in entreaty, he pleaded, “Don’t shoot me in cold blood. Bathurst … please—I beg of you—be merciful. My pistol misfired. I swear! It wasn’t intentional—as God is my witness!”

  It wasn’t immediately apparent whether Dermott had heard, whether he was even capable of understanding anymore, until everyone watched him turn his head very slightly toward Devon. “Give him a pistol,” he ordered, his voice audible only because of the horrified silence.

  “Don’t, Ram,” Devon cried, appalled at the amount of blood pouring from Dermott’s wounds, wanting to take him from the field. “He didn’t give you a chance. Shoot him!”

  “Hurry,” Dermott whispered, hanging on to consciousness by sheer will, commanding himself to remain upright a few minutes more.

  A hush had fallen over the field.

  Devon ran to Lonsdale’s second, ripped the pistol from his hand, raced back to the marquis, and handed it to him with an oath.

  Instantly a predator again now that he was armed, Lonsdale leaped to his feet, whipped the pistol up, sighted in on his wounded opponent, and fired.

  Two shots rang out.

  And both men fell to the ground.

  Dermott’s party ran to him. Dropping to his knees, the doctor quickly checked for a pulse and then crisply gave orders. As Dermott was carried to his carriage, his eyes came open. “Lonsdale?” he croaked.

  “A bullet through his heart. He deserved a slower death,” Devon gruffly added.

  “Send a note to Molly.” Dermott’s voice was a wisp of sound. “Tell her I’m fine.”

  Shelby had tears in his eyes as he penned the note at Lamb’s Inn, where Dermott had been taken. The surgeon was operating now, the parlor having been put into service as an operating room. The doctor was trying to remove the ball and shot from Dermott’s wounds before he bled to death. The pistol ball in his back had taken some of the shirting with it, and the bits of fabric were causing trouble. The metal shot in the ribs had proved impossible to locate. Not a hopeful sign when they were in a race against time.

  Following orders, Shelby wrote the lie to Molly. The earl had killed Lonsdale and he was unscathed. Shelby knew for whom the note was intended, and had he dared, he would have sent for Miss Leslie so she might see Bathurst before he died. But Shelby was loyal in all things to his master, and even if this turned out to be the earl’s last request, he would honor it.

  Once his task was completed and the note dispatched, Shelby returned to the parlor where Dermott lay.

  He stood frozen in the doorway, shocked at the gruesome sight. The parlor had become a charnel house, blood puddling on the floor as it dripped from the dining table where Dermott lay on his stomach, motionless as a corpse. Panicked at the appalling sight, Shelby wondered how the earl could possibly survive such a loss of blood. His powerful body was mangled, torn apart, and so utterly still, the secretary debated whether he should send for another surgeon. Was there time? Or would Bathurst die before another doctor could arrive?

  But Dermott had particularly chosen Dr. McTavert, Shelby reminded himself. If the earl had faith in him, so must he. Gingerly stepping around the bloody footprints leading from the door, he entered the room.

  Somehow Dermott’s strong heart continued to beat through the long ordeal, until at last the surgeon picked the final bits of linen and metal from the back wound with a soft prayer of gratitude. The shattered ribs posed greater problems over and above the damaged bones, for the ball hadn’t been found and he didn’t dare probe any deeper for fear of touching Dermott’s heart. Wherever that piece of metal had disappeared, so must it remain. And pray God it didn’t fester. Gunshot wounds were highly susceptible to infection.

  “Is there anyone we should call?” he asked at the end when the wounds had been bandaged and Dermott had been moved into a bed.

  “Only his mother, and she’s indisposed,” Shelby replied. “Will Lord Bathurst live?”

  The surgeon didn’t answer for so long, Shelby was sorry he’d asked.

  “Under normal circumstances a man wouldn’t. But the earl’s still alive when I hadn’t thought he’d survive this long.” The doctor surveyed Dermott’s small party, devoid of Devon, who had been sent to London to confer with Dermott’s lawyers in the event of his death. “I’ll stay with him as long as you wish,” Dr. McTavert added. “But the earl shouldn’t be moved.”

  “We’ll all stay,” Shelby declared. “Charles, see that the surgeon has a room and dinner. I’ll remain with the earl. And thank you, sir, for your great skill.” The earl had always called McTavert one of London’s best, not the most fashionable, but the most competent, and today he’d lived up to his reputation.

  The tall, sandy-haired Scotsman acknowledged the praise by saying, “I’d best wait a few days before accepting your thanks, Shelby. We’ve a way to go yet. I’ll be back to check on Bathurst as soon as I clean up.”

  “Very good, sir. And if you need any messages sent to London, give Charles their direction.”

  And once the doctor left, Shelby began writing a carefully worded letter to the earl’s mother.

  Isabella had returned to Molly’s from Green Abbey, and the two women had been sitting together in the blue saloon since then, nervously awaiting news.

  “If he said he’d send a note, he will,” Molly declared, as she had countless times already.

  “How can he if he’s dead?”

  “Please, dear, you mustn’t think the worst,” Molly pacified, as she’d done since Isabella had returned. “Dermott is an excellent shot. He’s been involved in duels before. No one can outshoot him.”

  It was a recurring conversation, for Isabella’s anxieties continued despite Molly’s attempts to console her. But as the morning progressed and they’d had no word, Molly, too, was becoming concerned. Although she took care to conceal her worry from Isabella, who was already white with fear.

  “Maybe I should go to Bathurst House and inquire,” Isabella suggested as the hour neared ten.

  “Not this early. They may not be back in town yet. If we don’t hear anything by early afternoon though, I’ll send a servant.”

  “I couldn’t stop him, Molly,” Isabella murmured, a feverish desperation in her tone. “I wish I knew … why do men do such foolish things? My reputation isn’t worth his life.”

  “Who knows why men do what they do? I’ve never understood their misplaced sense of honor,” Molly said with a sigh. “Come, let’s try to eat some breakfast. You haven’t had a bite since yesterday.”

  Isabella grimaced. “I couldn’t eat a thing.”

  “Have a cup of tea. I want company, so you must oblige me.” Molly rarely spoke so severely to Isabella, nor was she hungry herself, but she needed to distract Isabella—however briefly—from her despair.

  Shelby’s note was delivered to them in the breakfast room, and after quickly perusing it, Molly handed it to Isabella with a broad smile. “All our fears were for naught. D
ermott is fine, as always. Dear boy.”

  Snatching the page from Molly’s hand, Isabella quickly scanned it as though needing confirmation for Molly’s words. And then with a grand sigh, she settled back in her chair and felt as though life was worth living again. “Thank God,” she softly said. “Thank, thank, thank God …”

  The first rumors reached the City early but didn’t arrive in Grosvenor Place until evening. It was then that Joe heard the news of Bathurst’s wounds from his brother, who had heard them from Devon’s valet. Aware of all that transpired in the household, Joe knew the contents of Dermott’s note to Molly and the probable reason that the truth had been withheld.

  After informing Molly of his brother’s report, they debated telling Isabella. Obviously, the earl hadn’t wanted her to know. So the question was—did they do a disservice by telling her?

  “How badly is Dermott hurt?” Molly asked. “The degree of his wounds would make a difference.”

  “He’s not expected to live.” Joe’s voice was hushed.

  Molly, who had seen so much misery and thought herself immune, turned pale. “Poor dear,” she whispered. But only seconds later, she pinned Joe with a challenging gaze. “There has to be an explanation. Dermott’s never wounded; he’s the best shot in England.”

  “Lonsdale fired early.”

  “Damned cur. I hope he died a slow, painful death.” Her voice was pitiless.

  “Apparently not, but you can be sure he’s burning in hell.”

  “Exactly the fate he deserves for what he’s done! Lonsdale should burn in hell a thousand times over!”

  “Why should Lonsdale burn in hell?” Isabella had just entered the room. “Besides the obvious reasons, of course.” But the look of panic on Molly’s face at her question struck her with terror. Lonsdale’s death should have been a triumph for Dermott. Why had they gone silent? Why were they staring at her with such apprehension? “What’s going on?” she asked, scrutinizing Molly’s pale face. Seized by dread at Molly’s hesitation, tears sprang to Isabella’s eyes. Furiously, she turned on Joe. “Dammit, you tell me the truth!”