by Sandra Heath
Geoffrey could only watch her flee. For a moment his thwarted desire made him savage. God damn her, she’d been within his grasp but was free yet again without his thirst being slaked. He’d been too sure of himself and he’d misjudged her. Bitter fury darkened his eyes and made his lips a thin, cold line. He wasn’t used to being denied, especially not by a woman he regarded as little better than a servant.
Taking a deep breath to try to regain his calm, he took another cigar and lit it, watching the party on the croquet lawn. He’d promised himself success with the governess before he left for London in the morning, but now there was no hope of that; she’d seen through him once and for all. Suddenly the thought of remaining at Lawrence Park tonight wasn’t to be tolerated. He wasn’t in the mood to be amiable to his father’s guests, and he certainly wasn’t in the mood to endure Anne’s clinging jealousy. The cigar smoke curled into the night air. He’d leave for London straightaway and amuse himself at a certain house of ill repute in Covent Garden, where there was a golden-haired demimondaine whose charms would placate him for the disappointment with the governess; and after his business in town tomorrow, he’d return by way of the Green Dragon Inn in Brentford, where one of the plump serving girls could be relied upon for a night of pleasure. Drawing on the cigar, he began to walk toward the croquet lawn to tell his father of his change of plan.
Anne watched him approaching. The diamonds in her hair flashed in the lantern light, and the sequins shimmered on her mauve silk gown. An elegant feather boa was draped idly over her arms, and she toyed with her closed fan. Her face was very still, her eyes bright with jealousy. She’d seen Louisa fleeing from the summerhouse, and now she knew that Geoffrey had been with her. She’d feared his interest in the governess for some time; now she knew beyond a doubt that she’d been right. The jealousy intensified, burning through her like a flame. Louisa Cherington had to go, and the sooner the better.
Geoffrey sensed nothing as he approached his father, who turned irritably. ‘Geoffrey, where the devil have you been?’
‘I merely took a stroll.’
‘I’d appreciate it if in future you informed me of your whereabouts. I dislike having to make excuses when my guests ask after you.’
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t think.’
‘You seldom do,’ retorted his father caustically.
‘Well, it so happens that I’ve been thinking tonight, about my appointment in the morning. It occurs to me that I might be cutting it a little fine by leaving after breakfast, and that it might be wiser to go to town tonight. It wouldn’t do to be late for Lord Palmerston and the War Office. I can stay at Long’s, or at the club.’ He smiled a little blandly.
‘Very well, leave tonight if you wish.’
‘Thank you. I’ll bid you good night, then.’
‘Good night.’ Sir Ashley returned his attention to the croquet.
Geoffrey walked quickly away toward the house, and Anne could only watch. To hurry after him now would look questionable, especially as it was almost her turn to play. The jealousy still consumed her. Where was he going? To the governess’s room? Was he going to be that blatant?
After a while she heard hooves and looked toward the stable in time to see his curricle being led out. Her lips parted. He was leaving the house tonight! That at least meant he couldn’t be with the governess. As she watched, the groom halted the light vehicle before the house, and then Geoffrey emerged, dressed for traveling. He vaulted easily into the curricle and took up the reins. A moment later he was driving swiftly away toward the lodge and the London road; before he reached the capital, he’d pass through Kensington, where unknown to him, the duel was to take place at dawn.
It was some time before the party broke up and Anne was at liberty to inquire about his plans. She didn’t ask her husband; she went directly to the man who’d have been told the absolute truth – the butler. Geoffrey would have left precise word with him about his whereabouts, in case of an emergency; he’d only have told his father what he wanted him to know.
She found the butler in the drawing room, supervising the clearing away of the supper tables. ‘Ah, there you are,’ she said lightly, waving the other servants away. ‘Sir Ashley and I have been left rather in the dark as to Captain Lawrence’s plans. Where exactly will he be tonight?’
He colored a little, not wanting to divulge the truth.
‘I’m waiting,’ she said, her fan tapping impatiently.
‘He’ll be at – at …’
‘Yes?’ She raised a cold eyebrow.
He capitulated. ‘He’ll be at an, er, establishment in Covent Garden tonight, my lady, Jerry’s Coffee House, and tomorrow he’ll be at his club or keeping an appointment with Lord Palmerston at the Horse Guards. He intends to spend tomorrow night at the Green Dragon in Brentford.’
She said nothing, turning abruptly on her heel and walking away, her skirt rustling. So, he’d be in Brentford, would he? What a coincidence that it was in Brentford that the wretched governess had wanted to meet her brother. Her brother indeed! No doubt she hoped to be able to sneak away from her duties, after all, so that she could join him there and spend a cozy night à deux!
Anne’s mouth was set in a spiteful, malevolent line. It was time to sweep the house clean of governesses and spoiled brats; both would be gone before the end of the week, or Ashley’s life wouldn’t be worth living.
Trembling with inner rage, she went to her private apartment. The governess wouldn’t at any price be allowed to leave Lawrence Park tomorrow, and when dear Geoffrey arrived at the Green Dragon, he’d find a very different ladylove waiting for him!
8
Long after the lights at Lawrence Park had been extinguished and Geoffrey had arrived at Covent Garden to commence his night of debauchery, Tom Cherington was still sitting up in the apartment above the tea merchant’s writing a letter to Louisa. Dudley had retired to his small bedroom at the rear of the building and Kit had fallen asleep on a couch close to where Tom sat. A single candle illuminated the room, the pale light creating dark, dense shadows in the corners.
Tom put the quill down and sanded the paper. The candle flame reflected in his gray eyes as he read the letter, anxious to be sure he’d worded it so that his sister would do exactly as he wanted. He glanced at her little portrait, which he’d placed on the table before him. ‘Oh, Louisa,’ he murmured, ‘you must do this for me, you’re meant to be Lady Highclare and the next Countess of Redway, I know you are.’
Folding the paper, he held a stick of sealing wax to the candle and then allowed several thick blobs to fall on the fold. He pressed his signet ring into the wax and then sat back, drawing a long breath. He’d failed her in so many ways until now, but he was going to do right by her now, even if he had to do it from beyond the grave.
Behind him the room was quiet. Kit was deeply asleep, exhausted after the arduous journey from Cowes. His fair hair was tousled, giving him an almost boyish look, and his neckcloth was crumpled. Tom got up and went to look down at him as he slept. Kit had to give his solemn word to marry Louisa, and he had to promise to arrange the ceremony as quickly as possible, for any delay might see Thea’s return to complete favor. Tom felt no conscience about putting pressure on his friend, for he was convinced that the marriage was the perfect answer to everything. Thea might still linger in Kit’s heart, but she would become a mere memory once Louisa had entered his life, for Louisa Cherington was everything that cold, arrogant Thea was not.
Outside, New Bond Street had yet to stir. The street lamps cast pools of light over the deserted pavements, and the bow windows of the shops opposite were brightly illuminated. A carriage was approaching. Tom went to the window and looked down as Kit’s town coach drew up at the curb.
A cold, sinking fear passed through him, and he turned sharply from the glass, his tongue passing nervously over his lips. ‘Kit? It’s time.’
Kit stirred, and then sat up quickly. ‘Deuce take it, I didn’t mean to fall asleep.’
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br /> ‘It’s as well you did, one of us needs to have his wits about him this morning.’ Tom’s light tone belied the awful apprehension he felt within. He picked the letter up and gave it to Kit. ‘This is for Louisa. Will you be sure to give it to her if things go against me?’
‘You know that I will.’
‘And, Kit…?’
‘Yes?’
‘Remember what I suggested about her.’ Tom pressed the miniature into his hand as well.
Kit nodded. ‘I’m a man of my word. I’ll give it my consideration.’
‘I know.’
Kit put both items into his pocket. ‘Tom, you know there’s still time to get out of this mess, don’t you? You can retract your accusations, and Rowe’s so-called honor will be satisfied.’
‘No.’ The single word was uttered quietly, but firmly.
‘Please, Tom.’
‘No.’
Kit drew a heavy breath and said nothing more.
Dudley had heard the carriage as well, and came into the room carrying the case of pistols. He wore a long gray coat and a low-crowned hat, and he looked pale and unhappy, avoiding Tom’s eyes.
A minute or so later the three left, descending the steps to the alley and emerging by the waiting carriage. As the other two climbed in, Kit instructed the coachman to drive to the Horse and Groom Inn, Kensington, from where they’d go on foot to the meadow.
The team’s hooves clattered on the cobbles, echoing sharply around the silent street as the carriage drew away, moving south toward Piccadilly, and then west in the direction of Kensington. They passed through the turnpike at Hyde Park Corner and then drove along the southern boundary of the park to the Knightsbridge turnpike. With this behind them, they passed on toward the little village of Kensington.
Tom gazed out the carriage window. This was the same road he’d taken in the past to Brentford to meet Louisa; now he knew in his heart that he’d never see her again.
Kensington was quiet as they drew up in the yard of the Horse and Groom in the village’s straggling main street. Lord Rowe’s blue barouche was already there, but there was no sign of either him or his second; they’d already proceeded to the meadow on Lord Holland’s land. At one time it had been the custom for duelists to drive boldly up to their chosen site, but recently there’d been an outcry about duels, with citizens alerting the Bow Street Runners or the constables, and so now it was the practice to prudently leave carriages at nearby inns, where they wouldn’t attract much unwelcome attention.
The first faint light of dawn was staining the eastern sky as the three alighted and walked north up a small lane between dark, silent houses. There were fields and enclosures ahead, and in the misty gloom the tall Jacobean chimneys of Holland House could be seen among the trees. Stepping through an open gate into a field, they quickly crossed the wet grass to a gap in a high hedge, and then they were in the secluded meadow chosen by Rowe. It was a silent place, with ghostly trees looming beneath a slowly lightening sky, and in the distance there was a large pond that glinted like steel. The air was cool, and there was the promise of more rain before long.
Rowe was waiting with his second, Jasper Dillington, a lisping fop who always dressed extravagantly, this morning in lilac satin. With them was a local surgeon, Mr Thomson, who looked decidedly uneasy about the whole business. William, Lord Rowe, was forty years old, and of slim, aesthetic appearance. His face was refined and aristocratic, but very cold and hard, and he was dressed in black. He had thinning dark hair, graying at the temples, and his eyes were a chill pale-blue; these eyes swung toward the newcomers the moment they appeared, giving them a calculating, malevolent glance that spoke volumes of the loathing he felt for them, especially Kit, because of the Mercury. He said not a word.
Leaving Tom standing with Dudley, Kit went to confer with Dillington. The main purpose of this preliminary discussion was to see if the duel could, with honor, be abandoned, but as the fop struck a pose and exuded an air of ennui, Kit knew that there was no hope of this.
‘I thay, Highclare,’ lisped Dillington, flicking open his snuffbox, ‘can’t we get thith wetched bithneth over and done with ath thoon ath pothible? I confeth I’m devlish hungwy, and the Horth and Gwoom do a thplendid beef pie.’
‘A plague on your stomach, Dillington,’ snapped Kit. ‘This is much more important.’
The fop was offended. ‘Ath you wish, of corth, though let me thay thwaightaway that me fwend here ith thet on eight patheth at the motht.’
Kit was appaled. ‘Eight paces? Convention demands twelve, no more and no less. I won’t agree to anything else.’
‘But—’
‘Twelve paces,’ insisted Kit, determined not to allow Rowe any more advantage than he already had over poor Tom.
Dillington closed the little box with a snap. ‘Vewy well, twelve patheth, if you inthitht. It don’t thignify much anyway, your fellow’th ath good ath dead.’
‘There’s no need for anyone to die, Dillington. All you have to do is get Rowe to admit he was a little slippery-fingered, and then we can all toddle off to the Horse and Groom for beef pie.’
‘Your fellow’th at fault, Highclare, he’th the one who mutht weetwact.’
‘If that’s what you believe, sir, we have stalemate.’
The fop affected to stifle a yawn. ‘Thith ith gettin’ tediouth, Highclare. Shall we pwotheed?’
‘Very well, but at twelve paces.’
‘Whatever you thay,’ drawled Dillington, turning and strolling back to Rowe and the surgeon.
Kit returned to Tom and Dudley. Tom smiled a little nervously. ‘It’s all set, then?’
‘I’m afraid so. God damn it, Tom, why won’t you retract? To go ahead with this now is to throw your fool life away!’
‘If I step back from this, Kit, I’ll never be able to look anyone in the eye again. I have to go through with it, no matter what the price.’
‘None of this is worth your life.’
‘It is to me.’ Tom looked urgently at him then. ‘Kit, you must give me your word you’ll marry Louisa.’
Kit was startled. ‘Tom, I can’t just—’
‘Of course you can. Please, for it means everything to me.’ Tom knew he was being grossly unfair, begging such a thing when the circumstances were so very dire, but he was absolutely convinced that the marriage was the answer to everything. ‘Your word, Kit. I implore you.’
Kit didn’t want to promise anything, but the urgency in Tom’s eyes was very hard to resist. Reluctantly he nodded, hardly able to believe it was his own voice replying. ‘Very well, Tom, you have my word, but only if she wants such a match.’
Tom thought of what he’d written in the letter and smiled. ‘She’ll want it, you have my assurance of that. Marry her quickly, my friend, don’t give yourself time to fall back into your old ways. Thea will give you nothing, my sister will give you everything. Promise me you won’t delay. I want no respectful but pointless mourning for me, I want the marriage to take place immediately.’
‘You’re not dead yet,’ said Kit uneasily. He was being cornered and didn’t much care for it.
‘Your word on all I ask, Kit. Please.’
Kit nodded. ‘Very well.’
Tom’s eyes cleared then. ‘Thank you, Kit. I know I’m not being fair, but it’s too important.’
‘No, you damned well aren’t being fair, but you’ve got what you wanted, I’ve given my word and I’ll stand by it.’
‘I know you will.’
Rowe was taking up his position in the center of the meadow, and Tom went to join him, followed by Dudley with the open case of pistols. The morning light was pale and translucent, shimmering in the middle distance as dawn began to break fully. The two duelists selected their weapons, and Dillington and Kit tossed a coin to see who would call the commands. Kit won, and the fop retreated to join the surgeon, who was glancing nervously around, half-expecting to see the Bow Street Runners appear through the gap in the hedge. Duels were risky fo
r everyone these days, not just the two principals.
Rowe and Tom stood with their backs to each other. The meadow was very quiet, except for the first blackbird singing in a tree nearby. In the distance a dog began to bark, the sound seeming to carry too clearly. Tom’s face was pale and strained, but Rowe’s already bore an expression of anticipatory confidence.
Kit breathed in heavily, reluctant to issue the first command, but he knew he had to. ‘Twelve paces, if you please, gentlemen.’
They obeyed.
‘Turn and cock your pistols.’
The sounds clicked horridly over the meadow.
‘Take your aim.’
Slowly the barrels were raised; Rowe’s was steady and remorseless, but Tom’s was trembling and uncertain.
With a supreme effort Kit brought himself to utter the final command. ‘Fire!’
Two reports split the silence, reverberating through the trees toward Holland House. A cloud of rooks rose screaming into the sky, and every dog within a mile seemed to set up an immediate clamor. The noise was deafening.
Rowe gave a sharp cry, whipping around and dropping his pistol to clutch his left arm, where a stain of crimson blood was suddenly visible on the costly black cloth.
Kit and Dudley stared at him in astonishment, as did Dillington and the surgeon. Against all the odds, it seemed that Tom had emerged the victor. But then the little valet gave a dismayed cry, tugging Kit’s arm and pointing toward Tom, who was slowly sinking to the ground.
As Dillington ran to Rowe, who was still standing, the others hurried to Tom, who lay motionless on the grass. A bloody wound on his chest marked the place where Rowe’s ball had found its deadly target.
The surgeon knelt to examine him. Tom’s face was ashen, and he made no sound or movement. ‘He’s still alive,’ said the surgeon, ‘but only just! We’ll have to get him away from here, the law will be upon us within minutes!’