Married Past Redemption

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Married Past Redemption Page 31

by Patricia Veryan


  Clay muttered that he’d best consult with Devenish and wandered over to the small group awaiting them. The surgeon, a cold-eyed man with a military bearing, vouchsafed the information that he’d not been in attendance at a duel since “poor young Hedges” was killed in May. Clay and Devenish exchanged grim glances and went off to measure the distance.

  “Any word?” Devenish asked, low-voiced.

  “None. Even if my man finds Leith, I doubt anything can be done. What a damnable coil this is! Poor Bolster’s face looks dreadful. How’s he taking this?”

  “A sight calmer than I would do. But there’s an air of resignation about him. I’ve an idea he means to delope.”

  “Good God! He must be mad! But if he does fire in the air, I give you my word Strand won’t! He’s like a man possessed. Have you learned what set it off?”

  “Something about Lisette, which I cannot fathom, because Bolster’s crazy for his Amanda. This spot’s level, eh? Strand’s— Jupiter! What was that?”

  The long-drawn-out howl echoed eerily through the swirling vapours. Glancing in some amusement at Devenish, Clay saw the fine young face was pale and scared—a most uncharacteristic reaction from this fire-eater. “It’s only Brutus,” he said reassuringly. “He stowed away in Justin’s chaise. Something bothering you, Dev?”

  Devenish snorted. “Oh, no! Only that two of my good friends are about to slaughter one another!” He then offered an apologetic, “Sorry, Marcus. Nerves a bit tight. I’d have sworn we were followed here. You didn’t see a black brougham lurking about, by any chance?”

  Before Clay could respond, Strand marched up to ask with some ire what was causing the delays. “I’ve an—an appointment,” he said curtly.

  “If you will move out of the way, we’ll finish here,” Clay answered.

  Strand stamped off. Devenish and Clay marked the distance, then went to inspect the pistols. There was some further delay when Devenish affected to mislike the balance of his principal’s weapon, but Strand, managing somehow to avoid looking at Bolster’s calm but cruelly bruised countenance, snarled that he would take the offending pistol, and moments later the protagonists faced one another across twenty yards of mist-wreathed turf.

  Strand stood very straight, the gleaming pistol held at his side. It all seemed quite unreal, but that, he knew, was because the chill he had taken on the boat was tightening its hold on him. His head felt wooden and stupid, he knew he was feverish, and his hand was none too steady. Still, it was done. The seconds had conferred and argued and procrastinated for as long as they possibly could. The final instructions had been given by Clay, his pleasant features very grave. The only thing remaining now was the count—and these last moments of grief and farewell. He recalled Lisette’s face as he first had seen it, angelically lovely, framed by the dark window of her coach. How little he had dreamed then that his foolish heart, so instantly and irrevocably given, would lead him to this bitter moment. She’d never cared, of course. He was no Don Juan, not like that blasted Leith! Yet what a blessing he did not face Leith today. Poor Rachel would have been—

  “One…” Devenish’s voice echoed across the quiet meadow.

  Scarcely hearing, Strand frowned. Why was he thinking of Leith? He did not face that tall, dark Adonis. The yellow hair that gleamed in the diffused light of this mist-shrouded afternoon belong to Jeremy Bolster.… It was Bolster who had betrayed him, who evidently, having lost his own love, had decided to trifle with another lady. The wife of his good friend! Bolster! Had it been Garvey, now, that would have been logical enough. It would have fit. He’d thought it would be Garvey, and never dreamed—

  “Two…!”

  That ominous call came slightly muted through the trees, and the man who moved so stealthily forward stopped, then sighted carefully along the barrel of his fine Manton. To anyone observing the actions of Mr. James Garvey, it must have seemed that he directed the pistol at Lord Bolster’s broad back, but actually, he aimed past Bolster, his target the heart of Justin Strand. Even with his hated rival at last in his sights, however, Mr. Garvey, that pink of the ton, was not a happy man. He had fashioned a very neat little scheme whereby Strand, having read the letter cunningly misdelivered to him, would be maddened with jealousy. By rights, he should have returned home to find Lisette gone, pursued her to Cloudhills and discovered her with Leith, who had also been deftly tricked into returning to his estate. Very neat, Garvey had thought, and the inevitable duel would have resulted in both men (one way or another) being killed. So tidy and convenient. Leith’s death would have pleased the Frenchman; Strand’s death would have wiped out the insult against himself and paved the way for his courtship of, and eventual marriage to, the beautiful and by that time extremely wealthy widow. A delicious touch would be that there was nothing to link him with the matter. He could scarcely be held responsible for the deaths of two men who faced one another in an affair of honour. It was most regrettable that things had not progressed according to plan. Bolster’s curst intervention had been as disastrous as it was quixotic. Firstly, it had removed Leith, and thus one could not count on the reaction of the Frenchman. Secondly, Bolster was not nearly so reliable a shot as the intrepid Colonel, and anyone willing to incur the wrath of a jealous and justifiably incensed husband might also be so addlebrained as to delope—especially a marplot who had cried friends with Strand since childhood!

  Nourishing feelings of betrayal, Garvey had embarked on his present course with considerable reluctance. It was risky. He had at first intended to follow Claude Sanquinet’s advice and hire a professional assassin to ensure Strand’s demise, but the threat of blackmail at some later date had deterred him. Besides, his own marksmanship was second to none, and this shot must not be missed. He was quite sure that even if Bolster did fire, it would be with the intent to inflict some superficial wound. There was the possibility that his lordship would aim wide, which would be obliging. One could not take chances, however. Two wounds on Strand’s lifeless body could prove embarrassing, and to ensure his swift departure from the scene, Mr. Garvey had brought his hired brougham up as close as he dared. His tiger was holding the nostrils of the horses at this very moment, to ensure they did not whinny and betray his presence. There was, at least, no cause to doubt the discretion of his tiger. That young villain had committed many indiscretions, any one of which would be sufficient to ensure his transportation, to say the least!

  “Three…!”

  The fatal word resounded through the stillness. Two hands gripping the deadly, long-barreled pistols were flung up simultaneously. Garvey, his pistol already in position, timed his shot exactly. But again, the unexpected occurred. Having succeeded in coercing a groom to open the carriage door so as to quiet him, Brutus leapt forth with the full power of his muscular body, toppled the groom, and raced off in search of his master. His path was chosen for directness rather than good manners, and took him straight between Garvey’s team, who at once reared, screaming their terror. Jolted by the sudden outburst at that crucial instant, Garvey’s hand jerked.

  Three shots rang out, the third sounding merely an echo of the first two.

  Bolster fired into the air. He heard a scream from somewhere close by. In the same instant, he was dealt a sledgehammer blow which sent him sprawling.

  Strand, the smoking pistol falling from his hand, stared numbly at Bolster’s motionless form. He had aimed for the arm, but must have erred. What a ghastly error! But God knows he’d not meant to kill Bolster! He’d not! Shattered, he stumbled away; Brutus, who had been petrified by the shots, creeping out from beneath a bush to slink after him.

  Clay, Devenish, and the surgeon were running to the downed man. Tristram Leith suddenly burst through the trees, flashed a grim glance at Strand, then raced to Bolster. Lisette and Amanda followed, and Strand checked and stood rigidly as they halted before him. Amanda’s horrified gaze darted to the quiet little group hovering above someone who lay very still on the ground. With a strangled moan, she crumpled
in a faint. At once dropping to her knees, Lisette took up one of Amanda’s limp hands and began to chafe it. Looking up at her husband, she demanded, “What in heaven’s name were you thinking of? Must you al—”

  Strand stepped back, an expression of such agony on his pale face that she was struck to silence. “Do you not know what has brought me to this pass?” he cried in distraught fashion. “My closest friend lies there—dead belike! And by my hand! Go, wanton! Go and look upon your handiwork!” And with a wild, despairing gesture, he turned and strode rapidly away.

  Bolster, however, was very soon struggling to sit up. “Where’s S-Strand?” he muttered, but encountering the firm hands of the surgeon, he winced and sank back again.

  Alain Devenish straightened, drew a deep breath of relief and, meeting Clay’s equally relieved gaze, said a thankful, “Jove! I thought for a minute…!”

  “So did I,” Clay nodded. “And I perfectly loathe funerals!”

  “W-well, you may have to go to one, at all events,” asserted his lordship, faint but persisting. “Of all the filthy tricks! I am so n-noble as to delope, and Strand d-damned well shoots me in the back!”

  Bending over him again, Devenish smiled. “A neat trick, I grant you, Jerry, old fellow. But hardly possible, you know. It may have seemed that way, but—”

  “D-devil take you, Alain! You ain’t the one lying here! I tell you, I was hit from behind! Ask the sawbones.”

  Clay glanced enquiringly at the doctor, who condescended to remark that he preferred to be addressed as Dr. Cholmondeley, and that the ball had scored Bolster’s side and may have broken a rib, but did not appear to have penetrated the lung.

  “Could the shot have come from behind him?” asked Clay, humouring his incensed friend. “I heard Strand’s horses going wild about something or other.”

  “Brutus,” said Devenish succinctly. “He all but turned inside out when he heard the shots.”

  “His lordship did appear to fall forward,” vouchsafed Cholmondeley, working deftly. “Shock, however, effects odd reactions at times, and I scarcely think that—” He glanced up. “Hello, Colonel. Are you a party to this?”

  Devenish started and turning, said, “Jove, Tris! I wish you’d come a sight earlier!” His gaze shifting, he added a shocked, “Gad! Is that Miss Hersh? Poor girl. Looks like you’ve another patient, Cholmondeley.”

  “What?” Bolster hove himself upwards.

  “Lie back, you idiot!” said Leith. “No, Cholmondeley, I am not a party to this insanity! Mandy is better now, Jerry. There, she’s already starting to get up. Play your cards properly and we may yet turn this tragedy to good account.”

  Struggling, Bolster gasped out, “D-d da-da- now blast you, Tris! Mandy swooned! Let m-me—”

  Noting Amanda’s wavering approach from the corner of his eye, Leith swore under his breath. “Will you lie still?”

  Bolster, however, had one thought in mind, and that to catch a glimpse of his beloved. He glimpsed instead a flying fist which, connecting with his jaw, obliterated all thought for a time.

  “The devil, sir!” exploded the physician, outraged.

  “By God, Leith!” Clay protested.

  “Quiet!” hissed Devenish, as Amanda tottered to them, Lisette standing back so as to be out of the way.

  The Colonel said gravely, “Do not lose hope, Mandy. Poor old Jeremy just might pull through.”

  Amanda viewed the limp and bloody form of her love and, dropping to her knees beside him, wept, “Oh, Jeremy … my dearest one do not die I implore you else I must die too.”

  Opening dazed eyes, Bolster saw the adored face above him. “Mandy…” he uttered faintly. “You c-came! D-don’t leave me—please, Mandy.”

  “Oh, I won’t. I won’t!”

  With this, he was happily content until a hard and most unkind pinch in his left arm drew a yelp of shock and pain. Looking up, he met Leith’s eyes and an imperative grimace. For a moment baffled, he suddenly comprehended. He sighed gustily and closed his eyes.

  Amanda clutched at one unresponsive hand and gasped, “Doctor! Is he—”

  Dr. Cholmondeley had been securing the temporary dressing about Bolster’s hurt, while benefitting from a tersely whispered explanation from Devenish, and save for a grim shake of the head, made no response.

  Bolster was in not a little pain, but he was so overjoyed by the close proximity of his love, that he performed quite creditably, saying as one at the gates of death that he could have gone with less regret had he only known his Amanda might have borne his name. And callously disposing of the several relatives who would most willingly move closer to the title in that unhappy event, added, “It d-dies with me … you know…”

  Amanda gave a stifled wail, and Leith bent to her and whispered, “Offer him some encouragement if you can, Mandy. Old Jerry’s too good of a fellow to go without hope.”

  “Oh!” sobbed Amanda, nursing Bolster’s hand to her cheek. “I love you, my dearest one. Only get better and I will prove how much!”

  Bolster was so encouraged that he gave every indication of being about to spring up and smother her with kisses, wherefore it was necessary for Devenish to pinch him again, which he did so heartily that Bolster was hard put to it to refrain from cursing him. Fortunately, he bit back that impromptu utterance. Misinterpreting the set of his jaw, Amanda supposed him to be restraining his groans, and deposited several damp and sympathetic kisses in his palm. “As soon,” she gulped, “as you are better I will marry you and—”

  “You will?” beamed the ecstatic Bolster. “Did you hear that, you fellows? I am betrothed! If th-that don’t beat the—”

  With rare tact, Dr. Cholmondeley chose that instant to tighten his bandage, otherwise his lordship might have ruined the entire thing.

  * * *

  “Thank heaven you are come home!” Hurrying into the entrance hall, only slightly leaning upon her cane, Lady Bayes-Copeland stretched her thin hand to her granddaughter, and demanded, “Tell me quickly. Is someone killed?”

  “No, ma’am.” Lisette was cold and felt drained and bereft of all hope. “Lord Bolster was shot, but he is alive. Amanda is with him now, and—”

  “And where is my grandson?”

  “Why, I suppose Norman is—”

  “Is here!” Shaking her cane impatiently, and hindering Powers by assisting in the removal of Lisette’s cloak, her ladyship barked, “You know very well to whom I refer. Don’t be missish! Ain’t the time!”

  Lisette submitted to being hurried to the stairs. “If you mean Strand, ma’am, I neither know nor care! As usual, he blamed me for this, as though—”

  “Stuff! The poor lad had good reason, I suspect. Beatrice is here!”

  Lisette’s lips tightened. The perfect end of a perfect day! “How nice,” she said dryly.

  “It ain’t. At all. Good gad, how these stairs tire my poor old limbs. Your arm, Madam Hauteur! Now, when we meet your sister, you will be so kind as to follow my lead!”

  Gently aiding this frail old tyrant into the drawing room, Lisette checked momentarily. Beatrice sat huddled on the sofa and was in the act of accepting the glass of wine Norman offered. Much shocked, Lisette thought her sister looked to have aged ten years. Her usually elegant coiffure was tumbled and untidy, with wisps hanging at all angles. Her dress was creased, her half-boots muddied, and she looked positively shrunken. But worst of all was the expression on her ashen features, an expression that went beyond grief to a dulled resignation that was appalling.

  Forgetting everything except that this was her sister, Lisette started forward with a little instinctive cry of sympathy. She was restrained by a claw of a hand.

  Norman turned to them and gave a gesture of helplessness, then put down the wine and came to give Lisette a kiss, and whisper, “Another bumble broth! Gad! What a family! Is poor Bolster killed?”

  Lisette shook her head, but before she could speak, the old lady said harshly, “Well, madam?”

  Beatrice rais
ed haggard eyes, then cowered back against the sofa.

  “Your machinations, Lady William,” my lady said in that same acid tone, “near cost Jeremy Bolster his life, which would likely have resulted in that ninny Amanda Hersh grieving herself into an early grave.” Tears brimming in her dark eyes, Beatrice began a plaintive response that was ruthlessly overriden. “To those two lives,” observed the old lady grimly, “we may well add Justin Strand, of whom I—at least—am extremely fond. On top of that, you have very likely broken the heart of your husband, who is so foolish as to love you!”

  The effect of this indictment was shattering. Norman, who had retreated to the side of the room, quailed in horror as Beatrice burst into a storm of sobs, and began to sway back and forth in a frenzy of grief.

  Unmoved, the old lady snorted, “A pretty display! And one that will avail you nothing. You had best make your peace with your sister, madam!” The only effect this had was to increase the volume of the lamentations, whereupon my lady barked, “Norman! Run and get a pitcher of cold water!”

  Only too glad to escape, he shot for the door.

  “No-no…” Beatrice raised a wet face and reddened eyes. “I know what—what I must do…”

  At the door, Norman looked back, pleadingly. Lady Bayes-Copeland nodded, and he fled, closing the door quietly behind him. The old lady settled herself on the edge of a loveseat, but Lisette, chilled by apprehension, remained standing.

  “I—I will confess,” Beatrice announced between sniffs. “Though—though I am not the first lady ever … to take a lover, I suppose.”

  “To take a lover if one has an inattentive, repulsive, or unfaithful husband is one thing,” said my lady tartly. “In your case there was neither excuse nor justification. And to plot with that lover to the jeopardy of another member of your own family is despicable!” Her cane rapped on the floor to emphasize that terrible denunciation and she repeated it in her harsh, cracked old voice, “Despicable, I say!”

 

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