by Sophia Nash
Jack jumped up from his perch where he had been discreetly observing the events. "Why, my dear sirs, you are all mistaken. This is my husband, Viscount Gaston. We have been married these last two years and we have neither of us ever set foot in Yorkshire," Jack sniffed. "My pug would never stand the cold there."
After several seconds of silence, William shook off one of the men's arms and grasped Jack about the waist. It was an inspired risk with a huge potential for failure.
He looked at Jack with the most adoring expression he could muster. "And I would never force you into the uneven climes of the northern wilderness, my dear—but I digress. As my wife was trying to tell you, I believe you've mistaken me for my brother. He has an astonishing ability to get in the damnedest scrapes and I have the misfortune of looking remarkably like him."
"Oh no, my dear, your shoulders are ever so much broader than that scallywag's." Jack looked up at Will and fluttered his eyelashes. "But it's been such a long time since we've seen him. Why, it is above a year since you ended our connection with that blemish to our family's good name."
This was going to work. The blokes had removed their hands and one of them was even brushing the back of William's domino and retrieving his mask. He would have to buy Jacqueline a complete new fall wardrobe; he could see it coming.
It was worth it.
"Well, I say," Tolworth said gruffly. "I suspect apologies are in order."
William accepted the apology and the mask with good grace before spying Mornington coming their way with Miss Owens in tow. Oh dear God.
"There you are. Wish me happy! Miss Owens has done me the great honor of consenting to become my bride." He turned to Miss Owens. "Do accept their good wishes, my dear. Lord William and Farquhar played a large part in our future happiness."
William did not have to look down to know that the hands, gripping his forearms once again belonged to the Tolworth relations.
Despite the glares from Jacqueline and William, Mornington continued blissfully on, like a pastor in the pulpit, his audience ensured, unaware of how firmly he was sealing his friend's fate.
"I knew that dog looked familiar," said Tolworth's heir and nephew. " 'Tis the one that fancy valet of his kept. Damned mongrel ate my best shoes, he did."
William gave a significant look to Jack, a look perfected through their many years together on the spy grounds of Europe.
Jack warbled a perfect feminine laugh. "Excuse me, my good man, but my pug, a female by the way, would never, ever eat common shoes for"— he reverted to his normal voice—"she prefers her meat raw." In the pug's ear he whispered, "Get him."
Mrs. Tickle for the second time that night tasted blood.
But it was not to be. William had just enough time to signal Mornington and Miss Owens to get out before the three Tolworths tackled him and Jack. A few minutes later several burly footmen and the hosts' butler herded the entire group of gentlemen outside.
The clatter of horses' hooves and carriage wheels filled the air in front of the mansion where a goodly number of drivers and whips were passing around spirits and partaking in the general conviviality of the evening.
"We'll be escorting you back to your lodging Lord William and Lady Jacqueline and setting a watch on your place. For we wouldn't want you to get lost on your way to Primrose Hill tomorrow morning, would we?" Tolworth chortled with laughter.
"I shall meet you," said William, "a quarter of an hour past my appointment with Coddington, with or without your watch on my heels. I'm through protecting your neck. If you really want to allow your dear nephew an early inheritance, far be it for me to deny you."
Tolworth paled and blustered about.
"Pistols or swords?" asked William.
This could only end badly. For while there was no doubt he would nick the fool with a pistol or a blade, in his experience, it almost never ended there. There was always some hotheaded male further on down the line who would attempt to exact some form of revenge.
"Pistols," replied Tolworth. "But I'll settle for this until tomorrow."
William instinctively knew what was coming. Tolworth's fist slammed into his left cheek and eye as the stout gentleman's relations held William in their grips.
Jack flung a reticule at their loutish heads and connected with the nephew's head in fine fashion. Mrs. Tickle's snarls sounded above the jeers of the workingmen who thronged the spectacle.
"All right, man, you've had your moment of glory." William shrugged off the arms holding him and fingered his bruised face. "Tomorrow you'll have your moment to wish to hell you'd left well enough alone." William spat out a fair amount of blood and wished, not for the first time, that he had chosen to live his life in France instead of among these oh-so-noble English.
Tolworth had the temerity to call honor the deceit he had employed while attempting to foist off an ugly, stupid daughter. The French were an altogether more cunning race. Oh, they might have made the devious attempt to rid themselves of an unsightly daughter, but they would have retreated when outmaneuvered and then found new prey.
Momington shouldered his way past the onlookers to retrieve William and Jack. The trio found Charles' carriage and headed for the Mornington townhouse, Tolworth's carriage hard on their wheels.
William, suffering from an all-consuming head and jaw ache, endured his friend's alternating exclamations of joy on his betrothal and horror over William's two affaires of honor. It effectively put an end to his heady thoughts of waltzing with Sophie.
"No, Mari, I shan't listen to you for another moment," said Sophie, attaching her veiled riding hat to her coiffure with a long jeweled hat pin. Her cousin and Karine hovered about Sophie's elegant dressing room, filled with evidence of last night's masquerade ball.
"But I promise you it's true. Charles insists his friend loves you." Mari twisted unmercifully a handkerchief in her hands. "Perhaps he did involve you in a deceitful manner in the beginning, but he has well and truly changed."
"Your fiancé, as fine a man as ever there was, cannot be counted on when it involves Lord Will—a man who has shown he can maneuver people and events to suit his every whim," Sophie retorted. She leaned forward in her seat before the looking glass and tried to pinch some color into her cheeks. She had had less than four hours of fitful sleep after the masquerade and looked all the worse for it. Only Mari looked fresh, the excitement of her betrothal had forestalled the ravages of a sleepless night.
"But aren't you worried? Charles shielded me from the ugly scene in the card room, but I'm sure those gentlemen began brawling as soon as I was shooed away."
Sophie stood up and waved at Karine to arrange the veil over her face. "I'm not concerned or surprised in the least. Lord Will has the delightful habit of inciting anger wherever he goes."
"Well, I think," Karine said, never once minding her place, " 'tis time you made a decision to accept one of the lot of them before something goes wrong." She brushed away lint on the back of her mistress's deep green riding habit. "You've stretched your ability and mine to the limit and I see nothing but un disastre looming if you don't make your choice immediatement."
"She has a point, Sophie," Mari said with a worried look on her face. "Personally, I don't know how you've kept up the charade."
"And I still think you should choose Lord Will no matter what you say," Karine said with a pout.
"I agree," Mari chimed in.
"Lord Drummond would be a better choice for he, at least, is an honest man. Or I shall choose Lord Coddington to please Aunt Rutledge," Sophie retorted.
Karine continued. "Really, you are being so foolish, mademoiselle. It's obvious to us that Lord Will is the one you most fancy no matter what you say. And Lord knows he will be the one who will bring you the most pleasure, in and out of the bedchamber."
"Mademoiselle Karine!" Mari said in shocked tones.
"Well, it is the truth and she knows it first hand," Karine said, smugly.
Mari whirled around to confront her. "Is th
is true? You have been with him? Oh, Sophie, what have you done?"
"It is no one's affair but my own and it's beneath discussion by you or anyone." Sophie gave a pointed look to her maid and picked up her intricately tooled horsehair riding crop. "Now if you will excuse me, I have an appointment with Lord Drummond and my groom. If I dally any longer the sun will be up and I will have missed my chance for a secret gallop."
Sophie left the room before Mari could start a harangue on the total want of morals and propriety Sophie had so lately adopted. She was not in the mood to agree with her cousin.
Despite the controlled front she exhibited, Sophie couldn't halt the flood of memories assaulting her senses. She had almost crumbled under his intense scrutiny while waltzing with him only a few hours ago. She was wavering, unable to tamp down the feelings that had escaped last night from the deep recesses of her heart.
She had tried so desperately to forget him, and she had failed miserably. A familiar little voice told her that perhaps, just perhaps, he did care for her just as Mari and Mr. Mornington insisted. Another voice told her she was still the fool.
In her mind's eye, she could still see his expression as they had waltzed—intense, and filled with something indefinable. Was it love? The first voice fairly screamed "yes" in her mind, asking why she wavered. She shook her head and wondered how she would respond when his inevitable card was brought to her on a silver salver later today. She wondered if her newly minted pride would play a part in her response.
Past the long carpeted stairway, and central hall, Sophie accepted the greetings of the sleepy footmen and exited the townhouse.
It was dark and cool outside. The whirling mist enveloped her form. True to his word, Lord Drummond awaited astride his chestnut horse. Sophie's groom led two horses, a small bay gelding and large gray mare outfitted with a ladies' sidesaddle.
Within moments the groom assisted Sophie onto the mare and mounted the other. She assembled her reins and set forth up the street.
"I say, Miss Somerset, Hyde Park is this way, don't you know?" Lord Drummond was his usual jovial self despite the early hour.
"Correct," Sophie said. "However, as we are off to Regent's Park, it is the opposite direction," she said trotting northward, not bothering to make sure both men followed her.
Lord Drummond chuckled behind her. "But, Miss Somerset, why ever are we going there? It's so much farther."
"Because I'm tired of Rotten Row and the endless stream of gentlemen trying to prove their virility."
Karine's first rule of playing the coquette was to be difficult and act on every caprice. It had proven its merits, driving hordes of gentlemen to answer her every beck and call. The deferential, good-natured girl of her past seemed a dim memory. Indeed, selfishness had proved to be an easy failing to adopt.
The pair made their way along the quiet, dark streets of Mayfair trailed by Sophie's young groom. They entered the deserted outer circle of Regent's Park and with the flick of the whip, Sophie signaled her mare into a canter, which soon became a gallop when Lord Drummond's gelding tried to catch them.
Sophie laughed and enjoyed the rush of cold air on her face. She had always loved to ride but had never had the opportunity to ride a beautiful, sure-footed creature such as this mare until coming to live with her aunt. Her father had only ever had Dobby, a two-decade-old sweetheart whose gaits could best be described as slow and uncomfortable.
The mare handily won the impromptu race ending at Macclesfield Bridge. Sophie turned her head to give Lord Drummond some good-natured ribbing before she heard a shout from the groom.
The young man pointed toward something in the misty distance in the direction of Primrose Hill across the road.
"They're dueling, miss," the groom, Jemmy, called out.
"Best if we leave in the event there's a stray bullet from those fools," Lord Drummond said. "Come on then, I'll concede your victory, my dear."
"Nonsense," Sophie said already halfway across the bridge. "Let's go see."
Lord Drummond trotted toward her. "Now really, Miss Somerset, I must insist. This is no matter for a lady. It's not at all the thing."
"I'm going," Sophie said.
"No, no. Turn around, my dear. It's an affaire of honor and ladies are not at all welcome."
"Look at it this way, my lord. Perhaps I'll faint from the blood and you'll be there to catch and revive me." She didn't tell him that there was virtually no chance of that. She had seen more blood and serious injuries than many apothecaries, as there hadn't been a doctor within sixty miles of Porthcall. Everyone had turned to her father, Sophie or the midwife when in need. Bandaging injuries was second nature. "Come along, Jemmy "
Within moments she discerned they were using swords. She galloped forward, in plain view of both duelists, praying one of her party could stop this before someone was injured or killed.
And then cold fear swept her breath away. Good God! Her heart leapt in horror. It was Lord Coddington and, of all people—William.
Chapter Eleven
SOPHIE unhooked her leg from the sidesaddle, jumped down and ran toward Lord Will's valet, Mr. Mornington and a stranger. Lord Drummond and Jemmy were not far behind her. Mr. Farquhar grabbed her arm as she tried to dart past, heedless of the danger.
"Hold still," commanded the valet with a seriousness she had never heard from the foppish man. Mr. Mornington grabbed her other arm to hold her back. "Don't break his concentration," whispered Mr. Farquhar harshly.
"Go right ahead, my dear." The stranger, Lord Coddington's second, chuckled as he boldly examined the length of her body. "It's in your honor, after all."
"What?" Her gaze darted to the duelists.
"Hush!" Farquhar's tone demanded obeisance.
The snick of small swords sliced through the silent, dark air. The triangular blades swirled so quickly during the thrusts and parries that they were a blur of motion. The two men exhibited sophisticated phrasing and blade work amid the clash of metal on metal.
William's proud, aristocratic stance was silhouetted against the rising sun that was beating hack the mist. He held his arm in a firm balanced manner, striking at his opponent in smooth, fluid movements. Lord Coddington thrust his sword with more vigorous and active motions.
The tempo seemed to increase in time with Sophie's racing heart. Oh Lord, please don't let him die. She would promise anything, just please. The edges of fear and guilt crept into her breast. God was exacting justice for all her sins.
The two swords clanged together at the hilts with each man trying to outmuscle the other, and for a split second, William's gaze took in Sophie.
Lord Coddington pushed with all his weight and managed to shove William off balance, then thrust his sword point, plunging into the edge of William's waist.
Sophie's breath whooshed out of her as William staggered slightly and recovered, breathing hard. Coddington, his eyes bulging and with exuberant confidence, swung his sword wildly, grazing William's brow.
"No," hissed the valet, pushing her to the ground, out of William's line of vision.
The thin razorlike cut on his face teared scarlet and gushed down William's face, impeding his vision.
Flushed with success, Lord Coddington paused, his sword hovering indecisively for a moment. Seeing the opening, William snapped his sword forward like a sapling branch pulled back and released, piercing Coddington's chest wall.
Coddington lurched, stumbled backward, then fell to the ground. Sophie pitched forward to her feet and ran to William.
Breathing hard, Will swiped at his bloodied face and lowered himself to the wet grass.
Sophie tumbled headlong beside him. She forced him to lie down then fumbled with his waistcoat and shirt.
"Why, chérie, whatever are you about?" William asked.
Sophie looked into his laughing yet exhausted eyes.
"Had I known I could earn your compassion and attention and loving care by this fashion, I would've drawn blood long ago." He chuckl
ed before a series of coughs overwhelmed him.
Sophie examined his wound and exhaled. The sword had missed William's vitals, having gone in and out of the edge of his waist. Now it was only a question of whether the wound would fester and bring on a deadly fever.
Mr. Farquhar sat beside her and opened a brown leather bag. Sophie took a bandage from the valet's hands and insisted on binding the wound herself.
"What was this nonsense about, anyway?" Sophie asked. "Lord Coddington's friend said it had something to do with me." She glanced toward William to find his valet threading a needle to address his master's cut above the brow.
William ignored her comment, calmly directing a query to his valet instead. "Is it the eye? I can't see a blasted thing."
"No, you can't see for all the blood. Don't worry. You'll live to cock this infamous brow of yours again"—Mr. Farquhar winked at Sophie—"and only too soon, I imagine. But if I ever see you lose your concentration again, over a female no less, I'm afraid I'll be forced to tender my resignation. I simply cannot serve a gentleman half so idiotic."
"I suppose I should apologize for distracting you," Sophie said stiffly.
"Oh, no, chérie. I would not have had it any other way. Perhaps you should assume I sustained these wounds to make you more amenable to my plight." He smiled then grimaced when the effort caused him pain.
Farquhar rolled his eyes then tilted William's face to one side. "Keep your eye open now." He poured water over William's eye and face, displacing the blood. "Can't have you blind in the next round."
Sophie touched his bruised eye and jaw. "Your poor face… You have been busy," she said with a light tone, despite her fear. Then, the valet's words registered. "Next round?" Sophie turned toward Lord Coddington. That gentleman lay almost motionless on the ground, surrounded by a small group. Odd that she felt so little concern for a man she had said she might marry. In the distance, Lord Coddington lifted his head off the ground to accept a drink of water. "Why, he must be worse off than William, I am sure. There'll be no next round."