Philip was not so drunk that he couldn’t understand what Amberley was saying but he was by no means sober either and his brain was aflame with a hurt anger that no longer had very much to do with Rosalind. He wrenched his arm free and said softly but with tolerable clarity, ‘Not me – you. And I thought it’s what you wanted.’
The Marquis flinched but replied with unimpaired composure, ‘You’re drunk. And Lord Ansford make a mistake – did you not, my lord?’
‘Y-yeth,’ agreed the Viscount, glad to be offered a way out. ‘A mithtake. I beg your lordship’th pardon.’
‘Make it again,’ said Philip without stopping to think, ‘and I’ll cut your tongue out. As for you, my lord Marquis – you will meet me.’
There was a sudden mind-cracking silence and then, very gently, Amberley said, ‘Why?’
It was a good move but Philip was ready for it. And because when he looked at the Marquis all he could see was a pair of admiring pansy-brown eyes, he was able to deliver his excuse in a tone that, for one person at least, robbed it of any element of comedy.
‘Because it was you who taught that damned bird of Rosalind’s to spit – and it’s been spitting at me all day. There’s no peace in the house, thanks to you. And I’m sick of it.’
The tension around them dissolved into a ripple of amusement.
‘What bird?’ asked a baffled voice; and received a polyphonic reply of ‘Mistress Vernon’s parrot,’ or ‘Broody,’ from those who knew.
Someone said, ‘Give it up, Vernon – you can’t challenge a man over a parrot.’
‘You can’t know Broody,’ laughed another. ‘He could start a war!’
‘Well?’ Philip’s vivid, too-steady gaze never wavered from Amberley’s face. ‘Will you fight me – over a parrot?’
For a second or two, the Marquis stared measuringly back at him out of eyes that were hard as granite and then, though he had never felt less amused in his life, he achieved a smiling shrug and said carelessly, ‘Why not? Though, in my defence, I’d like to point out that if you hadn’t bought a bird of such boundless vulgarity, I wouldn’t have needed to teach it little tricks. One gets tired of being cursed to hell and back.’
This raised another general laugh and Harry Caversham said feelingly, ‘Don’t I know it!’
Jack Ingram finally succeeded in making his unobtrusive way to Amberley’s side. His eyes were anxious but he said pleasantly, ‘Don’t you think that the joke has gone far enough? You can hardly intend to fight over a parrot.’
‘Spoilsport,’ grinned Harry, blithely unaware of the dangerous undercurrents so apparent to Mr Ingram. ‘I’ll stand for you, Philip. That feathered limb of Satan has used me as target practice far too often!’
‘Thank you.’ Philip smiled mockingly at his adversary. ‘And your friends, my lord?’
Amberley glanced enquiringly at Mr Ingram. ‘Jack?’
‘Not me,’ came the flat reply. ‘I’ll have nothing to do with anything so damned silly.’
The Marquis smiled faintly and then looked back at Philip.
‘Rockliffe will act for me,’ he said with deceptive insouciance. ‘And now I come to think of it, there’s a certain poetry in restricting our little meeting to Broody’s more … intimate … acquaintances. You might even bring him along to watch.’
*
Twenty minutes later when Mr Ingram followed the Marquis out into the street, he found him leaning with closed eyes against a stone pilaster and was suddenly intensely worried.
‘Dominic – are you all right?’
‘Yes.’ Slowly, the grey-green eyes opened and focused. ‘How long do you think before they start realising that it’s not the farce it appears?’
‘Not long,’ came the forthright reply. ‘Tomorrow morning, perhaps.’
‘That’s what I thought.’ With a visible effort, Amberley stepped away from the wall and squared his shoulders. ‘Rock’s engaged with a party at the Cocoa-Tree. Are you coming?’
‘Yes.’ Already half-regretting his refusal to act as a second, Jack fell into step beside his friend and said curtly, ‘You could have said no. Why didn’t you?’
He had not really expected an answer and was therefore surprised when the Marquis said expressionlessly, ‘Because his lordship won’t rest until he’s given the opportunity to let a little of my blood.’
‘Why, for God’s sake?’
‘That doesn’t matter.’
‘Not matter? Of course it matters!’ There was a pause, and then, ‘You’re not going to tell me, are you?’
‘No.’
Jack sighed and then tried again. ‘But the fellow was drunk!’
‘Quite. So he’d have pressed it.’
Enlightenment dawned. ‘And you didn’t know what he might say next so you made a joke of it. Wonderful!’ he said sardonically. ‘What if he kills you?’
‘He won’t.’ The light voice was totally indifferent. ‘Don’t judge him too harshly, Jack. He thinks he has reason.’
Mr Ingram eyed him with shrewd resignation.
‘You mean he’s been listening to Robert Dacre. Do you mind if I say “I told you so”?’
‘Can I stop you? But that’s only a very small part of it.’ The Marquis paused on the steps of the Cocoa-Tree and smiled vaguely. ‘If it was no more than that, there wouldn’t be a problem. As it is, he’s learned something that I rather stupidly never envisioned. And it’s brought us to this.’
The tidings that he was to act as second in a duel prompted the Duke to exhibit faint signs of enthusiasm which revelation of its cause promptly intensified.
‘How original,’ he said admiringly. ‘I really must remember to offer Lord Philip my compliments for I doubt anyone ever fought over a parrot before. Only think … you will be making history.’
A withering remark sprang to Mr Ingram’s lips but, before he could utter it, he caught sight of the expression in Rockliffe’s veiled gaze and realised that it was unnecessary.
‘Just so,’ murmured his Grace suavely. And then, to Amberley, ‘I shall, of course, be delighted to indulge you with an hour’s practise if you feel your wrist to be in need of exercise.’
‘Thank you.’ A shadow of amusement crept into the Marquis’s eyes. ‘But there will be no need. We fight with pistols.’
There was a moment’s incredulous silence and then his Grace said plaintively, ‘Your choice, of course. I might have known.’
‘You might indeed.’
Rockliffe closed his eyes and achieved a delicate shudder. ‘So crude.’
Mr Ingram gave a reluctant laugh. ‘Disappointed, Rock?’
‘Scandalised.’ Allowing himself to recover, the Duke directed a gleaming glance at the Marquis. ‘But perhaps our young cavalry officer is something of a swordsman?’
‘That’s enough,’ snapped Jack, the amusement vanishing from his face. ‘You go too far.’
‘Frequently.’
The Marquis rested his chin on his clasped hands and said, ‘Careful, Jack. Rock is motivated by two aims – the first being to measure swords with someone. And if he can’t provoke me, I daresay he’ll make do with you.’
Mr Ingram eyed the Duke irritably.
‘Isn’t one fight enough for you? And, if and when I feel the need of a blood-letting, I’ll send for a leech.’
Rockliffe looked across at Amberley. ‘Foiled again. And my second goal?’
‘To hear all the gruesome details.’
The dark eyes glinted with lazy laughter. ‘And?’
‘Oh hell!’ the Marquis leaned back in his chair and dropped his hands flat on the table. ‘All right. There was an … incident … at Vauxhall last night which has compounded Lord Philip’s long-standing dislike of me and resulted in him issuing his cartel. As to the rest, I’m fighting because it didn’t seem I had much choice – except in the proffered reason; hence the bloody parrot. And I’m choosing pistols because they are quicker and less personal than a yard of steel. I don’t want to make a meal of
it. I simply want to get it over and done with – preferably tomorrow. The early morning will doubtless be out of the question since Lord Philip was showing every sign of making it a heavy night – but you must know of some secluded spot where we could meet at around noon. Well?’
His Grace sighed. ‘I do, of course. I also perceive that you now wish me to set off … er ... hot-foot for White’s in pursuit of Harry Caversham?’
‘Yes. That‘s exactly what I want.’
‘How very fatiguing.’ Rockliffe came reluctantly to his feet. ‘Doubtless this is a punishment for my little victory of this afternoon. I do hope that your shooting of tomorrow will be a thought better than your driving of today. Or perhaps you wish me to carry out what is, in fact, my foremost duty as a second – that of seeking a reconciliation?’
The Marquis looked up at him with reflective irony.
‘You can try,’ he said dryly, ‘but I imagine that even your unique resources are likely to prove unequal to the task. Lord Philip, you see, is convinced that he’ll be performing a public service.’
*
Although he did not obtain a reconciliation, his Grace of Rockliffe proved his worth not only by arranging the duel for noon of the following day but also by providing as a location the garden of a house in Kensington which he himself owned.
The day was a fine one and the Duke did his principal the honour of personally driving him to the meeting place. For a time, they maintained a flow of gentle conversation which had nothing to do with the flat mahogany box that reposed on the seat between them. The Marquis suggested that, Louis XV having gone to meet his maker, Rockliffe might consider taking advantage of Madame du Barry’s penchant for him. His Grace retorted that, if and when he wanted to consort with prostitutes, he’d visit a brothel. And then, with a swift change of topic that was the very essence of cunning, he said, ‘Why the hurry, Dominic?’
Amberley, immaculate in slate-coloured velvet and seemingly a good deal less tense than he had been on the previous evening, smiled a little and replied with rare candour.
‘I’m still trying to minimise the possible consequences. The only safe-guard of this affair is its apparent lunacy – but that can’t last because I doubt that either Vernon or I could keep up the pretence of it being nothing but a friendly jest. And then the fat would be in the fire.’
‘And the fair Rosalind’s reputation with it. Yes. It is rather difficult to understand why Lord Philip challenged you,’ said Rockliffe meditatively. ‘He is not a fool … and neither, as far as I am aware, is he in the habit of drinking to excess. Does he want to kill you?’
The Marquis shook his head.
‘No. He may think he does – and, in the heat of the moment whilst pitting his sword against mine, it’s just possible he may have tried. But not in the cold light of day at twenty paces. For that you either need the instincts of a murderer or a cast-iron motive … and Lord Philip has neither.’
‘No,’ agreed his Grace dryly, swinging his pair into a wide but extremely rutted and overgrown drive. ‘He is merely stubborn with a deplorable tendency to jump to conclusions. But the Dacre child ought to prove a match for him … and that should be interesting to watch.’ The phaeton drew to a halt in front of a shabby stable-block and the Duke surveyed it with distaste. ‘Dear me. The place appears to be falling apart. My apologies – I really had no idea.’
Amberley raised one quizzical brow.
‘I thought it belonged to you.’
‘It does. But I have only been here once before – what you might call a courtesy call, immediately following the death of my lamented father.’ He smiled blandly. ‘It was then – and for some time afterwards – the residence of the opulent and very accommodating actress whose … performances … proved too much for him. Or so my mother thought.’
Grinning, the Marquis jumped lightly down on to the cobbles.
‘And what did you think?’
‘That it was all too likely,’ came the languid reply. ‘In my opinion, she had too much of everything. Ah – this should be the doctor’s gig.’
It was and it was followed almost immediately by a second carriage bearing Philip and Lord Harry Caversham.
The Duke withdrew a chronometer from the pocket of his vest, flicked open the silver casing and smiled. It was five minutes to twelve.
After descending from his seat, Philip remained quite still, staring at the Marquis. The grey-green eyes looked gravely back at him and then Amberley bowed, silent and formal. That Philip hesitated to respond was due to the strange and rather sick sense of unreality that had clung to him ever since he had awoken – but hesitate he did and then the moment was lost as, having exchanged amicable greetings with Lord Harry, the Duke led the little party through a peeling door, once painted green, and into a large walled garden.
There was a sweet smell of new-cut grass and Philip heard Rockliffe explaining that he had ordered the ground to be scythed, since no gentleman could be expected to settle an affair of honour in a hayfield. Harry laughed and Amberley made what seemed to be a joke about Broody. Philip did not listen. He had given up wondering what madness had possessed him to issue this challenge and was foolishly annoyed with himself for failing to acknowledge his adversary’s bow. Then he remembered that in ten minutes time he might be dead – and after that nothing seemed to matter very much at all.
Rockliffe and Harry were inspecting the pistols. They belonged to the Marquis and were elegant things, their butts silver-mounted and inlaid with mother-of-pearl and their graceful ten-inch barrels delicately engraved with flowers and leaves.
‘They’re beauties!’ breathed Harry enviously.
They’re lethal, thought Philip, walking absently away to stare at a straggling bush of wild roses. I should have written Isabel a letter. Just in case …
And then Harry was calling to him that they were ready.
The pistol was cold in his hand and for a moment he stared curiously at it, as if wondering what it was doing there. Then he looked across at his foe, deliberately reminding himself of the grievances that had brought him here and wishing that he could believe them as strongly now as he had last night. He had never before shot a man in cold blood. He wondered if Amberley had.
The Marquis was a little pale but as coolly composed as ever and even moderately relaxed. Philip watched him expertly checking the loaded pistol and resetting its trigger to half-cock. His hands were steady and his face showed nothing but concentration for the task in hand. Then he looked up into Philip’s eyes with a sort of wry understanding that he seemed to be inviting Philip share; and a faint smile touched his mouth.
Rockliffe’s soft voice was instructing them and Philip took his place, held his weapon so that its barrel pointed down at the bruised, scented grass and concentrated on keeping his breathing steady. He had never fought a duel in his life but everyone knew the procedure and in the army they had often joked about it. Philip wished it seemed funny now.
‘When I give the signal,’ the Duke was saying, ‘you will walk ten paces on my count, turn and fire at will. Are you ready, gentlemen?’
‘Perfectly,’ replied the Marquis calmly.
‘Yes,’ said Philip and, in the same instant, felt the spell around him dissolve. ‘Quite ready.’
Rockliffe stepped back to stand beside Lord Harry.
‘Very well, gentlemen. One … two … three … ‘
Philip and Amberley paced steadily away from each other in time with his Grace’s measured tones.
‘Eight … nine … ten.’
They wheeled smartly to face each other, levelling their pistols. Then the Marquis jerked up his hand to fire in the air and an instant later Lord Philip’s bullet sliced through his left arm just above the elbow.
With a gasp, Amberley dropped his own weapon to clamp his fingers hard over the wound from which blood was already pouring down over his hand and on to the bright grass. Then he glanced up to encounter the Duke’s astounded gaze and said, with what might ha
ve been weak laughter, ‘Damn you, Rock – where’s that confounded leech of yours? Or are you going to let me bleed to death?’
But the doctor was already hurrying across the turf and, smiling a little, Rockliffe strolled lazily after him.
‘My dear Dominic – you would be well-served if I did,’ he remarked resignedly. ‘I suppose you had to delope?’
The Marquis stifled a curse as the doctor helped him out of his coat and then he dropped to his knees.
‘You’re just peeved because I didn’t tell you,’ he replied breathlessly. ‘But you must have expected it.’
‘Yes.’ His Grace sighed. ‘You know … there are times when I wonder if you aren’t just too noble for this wicked world of ours.’
Amberley looked up and, with a grimace of mingled pain and irritation, demonstrated his nobility with one of Broody’s choicest phrases.
‘Your lordship has been most fortunate,’ remarked the doctor primly. ‘The bullet appears to have missed the bone by a fraction and passed straight through. However, the wound is not inconsiderable and will require further treatment if your lordship is to escape a fever.’
‘I know it’s not inconsiderable,’ muttered Amberley. ‘It hurts like blazes.’
All this time, Philip had been staring at the results of his marksmanship in utter disbelief. He heard Harry say blankly, ‘My God, Phil – I didn’t think you’d actually shoot him!’ And realised that he had not thought it either – any more than he had expected the Marquis to fire in the air.
White to the lips, he strode across to Amberley’s side and stared helplessly at the doctor’s attempts to stem the crimson tide trickling steadily down one tapering hand. And then he met the Marquis’s slightly furrowed gaze and heard him say cheerfully, ‘I don’t know whether to commiserate with you for failing to make a good job of it or congratulate you on hitting me at all – but I’m inclined to the latter. You shoot remarkably straight … for a grenadier.’
Philip flushed a little and then, just as he was about to utter a stiff reply, he made a discovery that was wholly astonishing. There was no mockery or anger in the grey-green eyes and the grin bracketing Amberley’s mouth was there to cover the fact that he was in pain. It was more than just unexpected - as it produced a stupidly illogical feeling of liking that flooded Philip’s brain with shocked incomprehension and set him at a loss.
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