Bething's Folly

by Barbara Metzger

  Milbrooke wasn’t satisfied, nor pleased to hear Elizabeth’s name mentioned everywhere he went. He located the Count at one of the clubs that evening and politely, ever so politely, mentioned that Lady Carleton would not henceforth find pleasure in monsieur’s company. Contented, he moved off to watch a card game.

  Now the Count had not had a particularly satisfying day himself. He had miscalculated Lady Carleton badly, something he was not in the habit of doing. He had not only suffered a blow to his self-esteem but a financial setback also in those fancy dappled greys. They were certainly a handsome team, and very effective with his habitual black clothes, but costly. He had been counting on Elizabeth; now he would have to press Lady Palmerson a little harder. A shame, really, when Lady Carleton was so appealing in her own right, aside from the money and the chance to repay Carleton for the difficulties with Yvette. And now some young popinjay was warning him off...

  The next acquaintance of the Count’s to enter the club was treated to an enthusiastic description of de Rochefonte’s new team, and their price.

  “Come now, Giles, where’d you get that much blunt? I thought you didn’t have a feather to fly with.”

  “Ah, but I have ... friends,” the Count said, much louder than necessary. The room quieted considerably in the hope of a new scrap for the gossip mills.

  “Must be a good friend, indeed, to put up that kind of ready.” His acquaintance laughed, knowing full well what kind of friend the Count had in mind. “Where was this friend last week when you had to borrow the price of a ticket to the opera?”

  De Rochefonte looked around, making sure of his audience. “My friend only recently came into this money, a matter of luck, you might say, though I, of course, always took a great pride in our friendship.” The Count’s chuckle drowned in Milbrooke’s thrown brandy.

  “Monsieur,” Milbrooke announced, “I find your choice of waistcoats in deplorable taste. Black is so depressing.”

  Carleton arrived home late that evening. Elizabeth was peacefully sleeping, the household at rest, so he decided to find Ferddie at the clubs or wherever he may be to tell him he was back. He never met up with his friend, although rumours about him were flying. At first Carleton could make no sense of it ... the Count’s waistcoats, pistols at dawn? There was a sick feeling in the bottom of his stomach as he probed deeper ... Tattersall’s, matched greys. Ferddie would never have challenged the Count over anything like that; the Count was known to be a much better shot. Then the dread was not nameless any more ... Elizabeth, her prize money. He pieced the story together as best he could as he drove from club to party to his friend’s rooms, thankful he’d kept his own coach with him. Time was running short, and no one could tell him where the duel was being held. Neither Northwell nor Rutley was home, so they were in on it, but where? In desperation Carleton ordered his coach back to Milbrooke’s lodgings—not even Ferddie would undertake a duel without a night’s sleep. It seemed he would. Carleton grabbed his friend’s valet by the collar and lifted him in the air, preparatory to decorating the wall with him, when the man allowed he might have a guess as to the duel’s location.

  There was only one more detail the Marquis had to have and, thankfully, there was time for it. The coach raced for Grosvenor Square.

  “Elizabeth ... Elizabeth, wake up.” He shook her shoulder gently.

  “Carleton?” she asked, smiling sleepily, then when she saw his face: “What’s wrong?”

  “Listen to me, there is not much time. Did you go to Tattersall’s with the Count?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Elizabeth, what did you buy with your prize money?”

  She sat up in bed, righteously pulling the sheets up to cover the flimsy nightdress she wore. “My Lord, I do not like your tone! If you wish to start that again, it is none of your affair. The money was mine according to—”

  “Damnit, woman, Ferddie’s life may be at stake! Did you pay for the Count’s new greys?”

  “No, of course not. I think he wanted me to, but why would I?”

  “And you don’t love him?”

  “Love him?” she asked, incredulous. “I never want to see him again. He ... he made some very unkind remarks.”

  “And do you love me, just a little?”

  “I’ve always loved you, Alex, but what has this to do with Ferddie?”

  “The Count is saying you paid for his horses, as a lover would. Ferddie called him out.” He kissed her quickly on the cheek as he rose to leave. “I knew it was my fight, not Ferddie’s; I just had to make sure you wouldn’t mind if I won.”

  “Mind? My God, Alex, you could be killed! Don’t do anything foolish!”

  “No, darling.” He smiled. “I think I have done enough foolish things for one lifetime.”

  As soon as Carleton was gone Elizabeth raced to her wardrobe, pulling a long hooded cloak over her nightdress. She stopped on her way out of the bedroom door, turning back to rummage in her night table for the pistol before running off down the back stairs and out to the stables.

  She met Jeremy coming back inside from seeing what all the commotion was about, with his Lordship’s carriage tearing up and down the road. He knew he was in trouble the minute he saw Elizabeth, all wrapped up, heading for Juno’s stall.

  “Jeremy, we’ve got to go after him. You know where he went, don’t you?” When there was no answer, she went on: “The blacks can catch the coach, I know they can, if we hurry.” Jeremy only shook his head, until she pulled the gun from under her cloak and levelled it at him. “You can tell Lord Carleton I threatened you. As a matter of fact, Jeremy, I am going, with you or without you; if you try to stop me I shall put a hole right through you.”

  He was already lifting the saddles down and tossing her harness parts.

  Carleton was peering out of the carriage’s window for any signs of activity in the misty half-light. What if he had come to the wrong place? No, there were horses beyond those trees ... He leaped from the carriage before it came to a stop, dashed across the open space. Ferddie was just lifting a pistol from the box Rutley held when Carleton reached them. The Marquis squared his broad shoulders, drew back his right arm and brought it up with every ounce of his considerable strength, hitting his best friend squarely on the chin. Ferddie went straight down and did not move. Northwell and another man, the doctor, most likely, bent over him. Rutley’s mouth just hung open. Carleton bowed low to the Count.

  “At your service, monsieur.”

  A babble of voices broke out: “Highly irregular.” “You can’t do that, Carleton.”

  “But I have done it. I trust it meets with your approval, monsieur? After all, what satisfaction could you get from old Milbrooke, while just think of the implications if you put me away, n’est-ce pas? Of course, I am a better shot than Ferddie, so your chances are not so good; but it all balances out, does it not?”

  The Count nodded, tersely accepting Carleton’s challenge over his seconds’ protests. The doctor was looking offended at the whole business. Ferddie still had not moved.

  Carleton removed his topcoat and inspected the pistol Rutley now held out to him. He stepped out to the open space, his back to de Rochefonte’s. It was curious, he thought while the seconds moved out of range. He really did not want to kill this man. He would gladly delope, fire into the air, if he had any thoughts the Count would follow suit. He could not chance it.

  “Fourteen paces, turn and fire,” someone said. “One ... two...”

  The Marquis was surprised at his mind’s clarity. Everything had happened so fast. Had he told Elizabeth he loved her?

  “Five ... six...”

  He could hear some noises intrude on the eerie stillness of the empty park, then two black horses loomed up from the shadows. It couldn’t be, he told himself. Not even Elizabeth would—“Ten...” She was off her horse, bending over Ferddie, then out of his line of sight. “Twelve...” She shouldn’t see—“Fourteen.”

  There were shouts. Carleton turned and
brought his pistol up, aimed. Elizabeth was coming into the line of fire, her pistol gripped in both hands, facing the Count.

  “No, Elizabeth, it’s empty!”

  The Count had turned, aimed, was startled by the commotion, fired. Elizabeth went down. Carleton steadied his own piece and fired. He dropped the gun without even looking at his opponent and ran to his wife. She was kneeling now, holding her arm. He tore her cloak off to look at the wound.

  “Good God, Elizabeth!” The wound was merely a graze at the top of her shoulder, but she was practically naked! He pulled the cape around her again and lifted her in his arms, heading for the carriage. He nodded the doctor and Northwell over to the Count. Rutley ran ahead of the Marquis to open the carriage door, tossing Carleton’s jacket in. Ferddie was standing up now, shaking his head, when Northwell called out, “He’ll live, Carleton!”

  “Ask him who paid for the damn greys,” the Marquis called back. “Then tell him to get out of the country.” As he reached the carriage with his burden, he noticed Jeremy mounted on Jupiter, struggling to hold the frightened mare. “Leave Juno for someone else to bring. You ride ahead for the doctor. And this time you are really dismissed,” he shouted angrily at the groom’s receding figure.

  “That’s all right, sir,” came back through the mists, “I already works for ’er Ladyship.”

  The carriage started up the minute the door was shut on Carleton, Elizabeth still in his arms. Now he turned her cloak back and pressed his folded neckcloth to the wound, which was just barely trickling blood. He never said a word.

  “Alex? Are you very angry?”

  “If I don’t warm your bottom over this, it’s only because I am a saint. Whatever made you do such an insane thing—or should I not ask?”

  “I had to, Alex, to tell you about the horse! I never told you what I did spend my prize money on at Tattersalls, only what I didn’t. It’s the mare Robbie wrote about; we’ve been waiting and waiting for a horse from that line, and the money to buy her. She’s perfect for the Pride, and for the Folly, to start a new line.”

  “You almost got yourself killed to tell me about your damned horse?”

  “Oh, no, Alex. She’s not my horse; she’s yours, your wedding present. I—”

  Whatever else she was going to say was forgotten in a very long, tender kiss.

  The doctor was there waiting in Elizabeth’s bedroom—at least they had waited for dawn for this nonsense—and Bessie with hot water, when Carleton carried her upstairs Henrys had a brandy poured for the Marquis as soon as he came back down. He was writing hurried messages when the doctor joined him, declining a glass.

  “At this time of the morning? Bah. Next you’ll be asking me to cure you of that! Well, you had better go on up to that wife of yours. She’s already raising a fuss, wanting to get dressed and come down, or some such nonsense. More spirit than sense, I’d say, but she’s in perfect health.” Carleton took the steps two at a time and opened Elizabeth’s door without knocking. She was trying to put a dressing gown on while Bessie was angrily protesting. Carleton just stood by the door.

  “She won’t listen, Lord Carleton, and I know you’re going to blame me...”

  “Out, Bessie, out.” He shut the door behind her, then slowly walked toward his wife. He untied the sash of her robe.

  “But, Alex, I’ve got to see about Ferddie and—”

  “Ferddie’s coming to dinner.” He gently lifted the robe off her shoulders, letting it fall to her feet.

  “But the doctor said I was perfect...”

  Laughing blue eyes moved over her body, naked except for a small bandage, and one corner of his mouth twitched up. “I know.”

  A long time later Elizabeth stirred and sighed. “How sad that we wasted so much time, Alex.”

  He pulled her closer and began kissing her again, while his hand caressed her.

  “You know what I wish?” she asked a minute or two later. “I wish you’d married me for love.”

  “You precious idiot, why else would I have?”

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Barbara Metzger is an artist and former editor who knows the colorful Regency period thoroughly and has the skill to bring it to life for her readers. Bething’s Folly is her first published novel. The author lives in Montauk, New York, at the easternmost tip of Long Island.