by Brenda Hiatt
Flute clambered out of the carriage and looked around with wide eyes. "Is this the only house hereabouts, sir?"
"For a mile or more, yes, unless you count the farm buildings," said Luke with a smile. "Down you come, Argos! You should enjoy all of this space, even if Flute finds it oppressive."
"Op . . . If that's a bad thing, then no I don't, sir. I've just never seen so much of it in one place before, is all."
Luke stepped up to the door, but before he could knock it was opened by a stout, motherly-looking woman in a cap and apron. "Mrs. Meecham?" he guessed, remembering the name of the housekeeper for the Grange.
"Aye," she responded in a thick Scottish brogue, her eyes shrewd and appraising. "Be you t' new master? I see the Hardwyck crest on your carriage. I dinna know you were coming, or I'd ha' prepared rooms and ordered up a fowl or two for dinner."
"No need, nor are any apologies necessary. I won't be staying. However, this lad will. His name is Flute, and I'd like you to create a position for him here. He's been training as my valet in Town, but he's up to most tasks, I've found."
She regarded the boy appraisingly, a smile beginning to soften the severe line of her mouth. "Aye, we can find summat for him to do, milord. Come in, come in, both of ye." Gray eyes now twinkling, she swung the door wide for them to enter.
His uncle, Luke soon discovered, had rarely visited this property, spending most of his time in London or at the main Hardwyck estate in the North. The staff was therefore small, consisting only of the housekeeper, two maids, a cook, and one manservant.
The house, as its name implied, sat atop a small hill, with a pleasant prospect of the surrounding countryside. Luke could not imagine preferring the crowds and fogs of London to this, now that he'd seen it. What must Knox Abbey be like? He would find out as soon as everything was settled, he decided.
He spent an hour or two touring the house and surrounding farms, saw Flute installed in a comfortable room and Argos happily tussling with the farm dogs, then had a quick supper before heading back to Town.
"I'll return when I can," he promised his erstwhile valet. "If all goes as I hope, I'll be able to bring you back with me before long."
"No hurry, my lord," replied Flute with a grin, mopping up the last drops of a bowl of hearty country stew with a slice of the cook's delicious brown bread. "I'll be fine here."
Secure in the knowledge that Flute would be safe— and very well fed— Luke headed back to London, his heart lighter than it had been in days, despite the fact that he still faced pistols at dawn. It was nearly midnight when he reached the city, but he directed his coachman to stop at Lord Marcus' residence before returning to Hardwyck Hall.
Marcus greeted him at the door, having but that moment arrived home from a series of social engagements. "Good you stopped by, Luke. We haven't yet discussed the details for the morning. Still six o'clock at Primrose Hill is it?"
"Unless you've heard again from Bellowsworth's second," Luke said, helping himself to a dollop of brandy from the sideboard in Marcus' library.
"Haven't heard a word since Ribbleton called on me Wednesday evening. I've still got to say this was a damned poor idea, even if you don't mean to kill him."
Luke shrugged. "Tempting as it is, I've given my word. And I suspect the experience will do the fellow good— provided he doesn't bring his mother along."
They both chuckled at that, then Marcus said, "Say, why don't you stay here tonight? We can jaw a bit before bed, have a bite in the morning and ride over to Primrose Hill together."
As he had nothing in particular to return to at Hardwyck Hall, especially with Flute in the country, Luke readily agreed. They spent a pleasant hour over brandy, discussing various duels remembered and rumored, then began reminiscing about their time at Oxford.
"I envied you, did you know that?" Marcus asked at one point. "You never seemed the least bit worried about what would happen if we were caught climbing out of a window or picking a lock, while all I could think of was what my father would say if he knew. It must have been nice to have your family so comfortably remote."
Luke regarded his friend thoughtfully. He fully expected tomorrow's duel to come to nothing, but one never knew for certain how such things would go. This might be their last conversation.
"More remote than you knew," he said. "In truth, I had no family whatsoever —and quite envied you yours, hectoring older brothers and all."
"No family? But your uncle in Italy, your Aunt Lavinia in the country? I admit sometimes I suspected there were things you weren't telling me, but—"
"Quite a few things, in fact," Luke admitted with a rueful smile. "But I want to tell you now." As briefly as possible, he gave his friend a sketch of what his life had really been like.
Far from the censure he had feared, Marcus seemed utterly fascinated, asking question after question.
"So you were never answerable to anyone," he finally said, apparently more envious than ever. "How tame our exploits at Oxford must have seemed after risking life and limb daily on the streets! Even Peter's and Anthony's wartime stories can't compare. And just think what the Saint can do now you have the Hardwyck resources at your disposal!"
But Luke shook his head. "The Saint has retired."
Marcus regarded him knowingly. "The Lady Pearl? Does she know—?"
"She does. And yes, it's for her sake that I've hung up my mask, so to speak— not that I often wore one."
"Pity," said Marcus with a shake of his head. "Makes me more determined than ever that no woman will ever get her hooks in me."
Luke had to grin. "Tempting fate, are you?" Then, at his friend's comical look of mock-alarm, he added, "It's not so bad, I assure you."
Marcus protested such a possibility, and after a few more minutes of such banter, they finally made their way to bed.
Clarence, Marcus's valet, roused Luke before first light. Dressing hastily, he went down to join his friend for coffee and a muffin.
"I must stop by my own house before we go," he commented after draining his cup. "Can't show up with a rumpled coat and cravat— won't inspire the proper dread at all. Would you mind lending me Clarence for half an hour? Flute is unavailable, as I said last night, and I haven't had a chance to look for another valet as yet."
"Certainly. I'll use that half hour to fetch the surgeon. For Bellowsworth, of course." Marcus grinned, but Luke detected a trace of anxiety in his eyes. "Shame the fellow didn't choose swords. Are you still the shot you were at Oxford?"
Luke rose. "We'll know soon enough, won't we?"
* * *
Wallis Knox surveyed the trees and shrubbery skirting the field on Primrose Hill in the glimmering predawn light. There. That copse would do nicely. Quickly but cautiously, he crossed the clearing and edged through the thick greenery beneath the trees, then turned and crouched.
Yes, he had a clear view of the field here, and should be invisible himself to all but the most discerning eye— not that anyone would be looking for him. He pulled out a gleaming pistol and checked it one more time. He'd had no opportunity to tamper with his nephew's pistol, but no matter. In an hour, if all went as planned, his lands and title would be restored to him.
Shifting to a more comfortable position, he settled down to wait.
* * *
Urging her mare faster, Pearl watched with growing alarm as the pink and lavender of dawn spread across the sky. She simply must arrive in time!
"How much further?" she asked John Marley, riding by her side.
"Half a mile, my lady. No more." His voice gave no indication of whether he shared Hettie's disapproval of her desperate venture —nor did she care.
Finally, after what seemed like an hour but could only have been minutes, Primrose Hill came into view. They climbed the rise, and at first she saw no sign of anyone. Had she mistaken the time? The day? The place? But then she saw Luke's black gelding tethered to a tree at one end of the field, with two other horses beyond it. Was she too late? She spurred
her mount forward.
"My lady," John called urgently, pacing her. "You cannot ride onto the field. It isn't done, and could put Lord Hardwyck at additional risk if you distract him."
Though every nerve screamed at her to hurry, she slowed her mount to a walk, then halted, still some distance from the field. John was right. And if some dastardly plot was afoot, as she suspected, she had more chance of discovering it by stealth than by charging ahead blindly. Such a distraction might provide Luke's enemy just the opportunity he needed.
Pearl slid from the saddle and continued on foot, glad she'd had the foresight to wear her dark green habit. The trees screened her view of the field until she was quite near. Circling around to one side, she found a spot where she could see the figures taking their places.
So far, all looked as it should, or so she assumed from what she had read of duels. The seconds were pacing off the distance, and a moment later Luke and Lord Bellowsworth faced each other across twenty paces of lawn. The former appeared completely at his ease, the latter pale and trembling. She experienced a moment of pity for poor Bellowsworth, but reminded herself that Luke had promised not to kill him.
Off to the side stood Lord Marcus Northrup and Lord Ribbleton, who must be acting as Lord Bellowsworth's second. Behind them stood another man holding the black satchel that proclaimed him a surgeon. His presence drove home the seriousness of the situation. How good a shot was Bellowsworth? Or Luke, for that matter?
Recalling what Bellowsworth had told her of Wallis Knox, Pearl scanned the periphery of the field, but saw nothing.
"Positions, gentlemen," called Lord Marcus. The two principals came to attention and raised their pistols.
Just then, Pearl noticed a rustling in the shrubbery, not twenty feet from where she stood. She started forward with a sharp cry, to investigate, and then several things happened almost at once.
Lord Marcus gave the command to fire, and a shot rang out across the field. Pearl whirled to see Bellowsworth's pistol falling to the ground unfired, his right sleeve torn between elbow and wrist. With a cry, he sank to his knees, clutching his injured arm, and at the same moment she heard, closer at hand, a muffled curse.
Luke still stood at his ease, a thin curl of smoke from his pistol the only evidence that he had moved at all.
The danger from Bellowsworth averted, Pearl focused on the hidden threat. Without stopping to consider, she plunged in the direction of that muffled curse, only to find herself facing the barrel of another pistol, this one held firmly in the grip of Wallis Knox, the man she had known for years as Lord Hardwyck.
"So, my lady," he hissed, all trace of urbanity erased from his manner. "You continue your penchant for interference. I understand I have you to thank for my present state, as my nephew would never have discovered his connection to me unaided. It seems I have a score to settle with you, as well as with him."
Her heart in her throat, Pearl forced herself to speak calmly. The others, tending to Lord Bellowsworth, had not yet noticed the drama unfolding in the bushes.
"I should think it is your own conscience with which you need to settle, sir," she said. "That you are still free and in England at all is a blessing you do not deserve, after the crimes you have committed."
With a snarl, he lunged forward and grabbed her by the arm, thrusting the pistol against her side. "Always so very clever, my lady— or perhaps not. Come." Holding her arm in a bruising grip, he walked her onto the field.
Lord Marcus was the first to notice them, and at his startled movement, the others looked up. Luke, crouched by Bellowsworth's side, rose and stepped forward with an oath. Then, abruptly, he halted, his glance falling to the pistol Knox held, still pressed firmly against Pearl's ribs.
"So we meet at last by light of day, Lord Hardwyck," Knox said mockingly. "But this time I seem to have the advantage. I mean to use it to repay you for what you have made me suffer."
CHAPTER 22
Luke paused for a long moment, as though sizing up the situation, then slowly took one more step toward Knox. Pearl, alert to his every nuance, noticed that he kept his right hand behind him, out of sight.
"I believe your accounting is in error, dear Uncle." Luke's voice was calm— deceptively calm, she thought. "You are the one with a debt only partially paid. I confess I was most disappointed when you chose not to contest my claim."
"I was given little choice in the matter, but I am here to contest it now." Knox swept the small group with a glance, his eye lingering on Bellowsworth. "I knew I could not safely delegate such an important matter to a lily-livered poltroon like you."
Luke took another cautious step forward. "A curious epithet from a man who uses a lady as a shield," he commented lightly. "One, in addition, who was not above murdering women and children in their beds."
A chorus of muttered exclamations broke out from the group behind him at these words, and Knox scowled. "If you value this woman's life, you'll say no more on that subject."
With her eyes, Pearl tried to convey to Luke that he was not to worry about her, but he did not even look at her, keeping his eyes on her captor's, gauging his mood.
"What will it profit you to harm her?" asked Luke reasonably. He seemed to be walking a fine line, trying to unsettle the man without goading him into unreasoning fury. For her sake, she knew.
"It is I who stand in the way of all you want," he continued. "I who stripped you of your lands, title, power. If you have but one shot to use, would it not be better spent on me?"
The pistol in her side shifted slightly, and Pearl, fearing that Knox meant to fire on Luke instead, twisted suddenly in his grasp. "No!" she cried, heedless of the risk to herself. "Luke, don't!"
With a vicious curse, Knox thrust her away from him. Pearl fell to her hands and knees, then looked up to see him bringing the pistol to bear upon Luke. Dodging to one side, Luke whipped another weapon from behind him— Bellowsworth's, which he must have retrieved from the ground before approaching his uncle.
Pearl let out a scream at the report of Knox's pistol, but the ball whizzed harmlessly past Luke's ear. Falling to one knee, Luke himself took aim and pulled the trigger.
Nothing happened.
"What the devil—?" He glanced questioningly over his shoulder at Bellowsworth, whose color was gradually returning.
"I . . . I unloaded it," his erstwhile opponent stammered. "Knox said that your pistol would be rendered useless, so after what Lady Pearl told me, I thought that if neither of us could fire . . ."
With another oath, Knox tossed aside his spent weapon, and now Luke did the same as the older man advanced on him, his face suffused with a rage that bordered on madness.
"You're all in league!" he shouted. "But I'll have what's mine again. I won't be made a fool of by anyone."
Luke stood his ground, his own anger seeming to turn cold and dangerous as his uncle's burned the hotter.
Pearl turned to Lord Marcus and Lord Ribbleton, who both seemed frozen in surprise. "Do something!" she cried. "You must stop this."
Thus summoned to action, they stepped forward to intervene before Knox and Luke could come to blows, but Luke spoke sharply, halting them.
"No," he said, "This reckoning is past due. I've a score of my own to settle, and now seems as good a time as any."
"With fisticuffs?" asked Pearl, aghast. Luke was taller than his uncle, but the older man was both broader and heavier —and angrier. She doubted Knox would fight fairly, in any event.
Luke did not even glance at her. "Did you not say you were here to challenge my claim?" he asked his uncle.
A slow smile spread across Knox's face, though the fury in his eyes did not lessen. "I did. Name your weapons, Nephew."
Pearl thought she saw a glimmer of satisfaction in Luke's eyes. "As pistols have proven singularly unproductive this morning, I'll choose the swords." He motioned to Lord Marcus who, after a moment's hesitation, strode to the edge of the field and returned carrying a long wooden case.
&n
bsp; "On a whim, and warned by a note I received this morning—" he glanced at Pearl with a smile— "I thought to bring these along. A good thing, as it turns out, is it not, Uncle?" Luke asked almost pleasantly, taking the case from Marcus and opening it to reveal a pair of antique duelling rapiers.
"Indeed. I've always been a traditionalist —it's why you found these at Hardwyck Hall. A pity your generation no longer trains with the sword as a matter of course." Knox seized one of the rapiers and swung it expertly over his head, then practiced a few feints.
Luke's dangerous smile never wavered as he picked up the other sword. "Perhaps that advantage will help to compensate for your advanced years —the years you denied my father."
Pearl watched the proceedings with growing horror, sorry she had spoken before. A fistfight would have been far preferable to this! "Luke, please." Somehow she had to stop this.
"I'm sorry, Pearl," Luke said, never taking his eyes from his adversary. "This is something I have to do. One way or another, the past must be put to rest."
Lord Marcus closed the sword case and stepped back. At his word, the two antagonists saluted each other with their weapons, and then the fight began. Not a person there doubted that it would be to the death, could either of them achieve that end— though Pearl was the only spectator who fully understood why.
The two men circled each other slowly, each feeling out the other's defenses, taking the time to prepare a strategy.
"Even if you best me, Uncle, you won't regain the earldom, you know," said Luke conversationally, feinting to the left, then the right, watching how the other man parried. "The Duke of Oakshire knows of your crimes, as does the Prince Regent. To allow you to profit might encourage other ambitious younger brothers."
Knox parried again, then thrust low— an illegal stroke, but one that Luke easily diverted with his own rapier. "If I cannot profit, neither shall you," he said. "Robbery sets a poor example as well, wouldn't you say, Saint?"