Scarcely able to believe her senses, she had stood, almost paralysed with shock, while she listened to Dawlish issue his challenge. It was beyond her understanding that Marcus, who less than half an hour previously had been practically begging her to look favourably on his suit, should have chosen to while away the intervening minutes in a clandestine liaison with some other unsuspecting female—and a married one, at that! Righteous anger began to bubble up inside her chest, and she was just about to turn away from the distasteful scene in shuddering revulsion when she caught sight of the anguished appeal in Helstone’s eyes. She froze, as wild seeds of doubt began to plant themselves in her mind, and, unable to prevent herself, took a hesitant step forward—only to find herself being held back by Lord Bingham who, having been notified of the commotion by a diligent manservant, had recently arrived at her side.
‘What’s going on, Sophie?’ he asked, a concerned frown furrowing his brow as he attempted to make sense of the scene unfolding at the library’s threshold.
‘I’m not absolutely certain, Jack,’ she answered him shakily. ‘It seems that Sir Randolph discovered Lord Helstone in some sort of compromising situation with Lady Dawlish and has challenged his lordship to a duel!’
‘Good Lord!’ exclaimed Bingham, casting a nervous look over his shoulder. ‘Let’s hope my father doesn’t get wind of it—a thing like this is enough to put the dampers on the whole proceedings. Ought I to step in and put a stop to it, do you suppose? Wouldn’t do to upset the ladies, now, would it?’
Since it was clear that a good many of the gaping bystanders were of the female gender, Sophie could only suppose that the Viscount was attempting to lighten the atmosphere by uttering such a frivolous jest. She herself was unable to find any humour in a situation that might easily lead to Marcus being hurt or, God forbid, killed! No matter what he might have done to deserve it, the thought of him losing his life was more than she could bear to contemplate.
‘I was under the impression that duelling had been made illegal,’ she said worriedly.
‘Yes, it has,’ returned Bingham distractedly, his eyes still intent upon the interaction between Helstone and Dawlish. ‘Still goes on, of course—the participants just have to be careful not to get caught by the authorities. Certain imprisonment, I believe.’
‘I insist that you name your seconds, sir!’ barked Dawlish, his cheeks purpling with rage as the scowling Viscount continued to refuse to accept his repeated challenge. Then, with a derisive sniff, he turned to face the several other men who had accompanied him into the library, smirking. ‘It would appear that the great nonesuch has finally lost his bottle, gentlemen!’
Closing his eyes briefly, as a ripple of frustrated rage ran through his veins, Marcus was finally forced to concede that Dawlish had left him with no choice. Not that he was particularly bothered about having to face up to the man but, having registered Sophie’s look of total revulsion, it had become painfully clear to him that any hopes he might once have harboured in that direction were now doomed to failure. Alongside that depressing thought, the possibility of severe injury suddenly seemed of little importance.
But as to the matter of seconds? Marcus was not at all sure that any of his one-time associates would be interested in supporting him, given that he had made a point of shunning all such delinquent company since his recent renaissance. He had no doubt that his brother Giles—after treating him to a severe dressing down for landing himself in such hot water—would have been willing to oblige him, but unfortunately Giles was up to his neck in Home Office affairs and not immediately available.
A pensive frown sifted across his forehead. It was hard to believe that he, with so many friends and acquaintances, should be finding it a problem to drum up a single name.
‘Well?’ demanded Dawlish belligerently, thrusting his face mere inches from the Viscount’s own. ‘Are you going to admit you are at fault and apologise immediately or name your seconds—the choice is yours!’
Sophie was beside herself with wretchedness. ‘Do something, Jack,’ she beseeched Bingham, clutching frantically at his arm. ‘I don’t think I can bear another minute of this.’
‘I’m not altogether sure that there’s anything I can do now,’ returned Bingham, looking somewhat abashed. ‘Looks as if Sir Randolph might have a point, after all—messing about with another fellow’s wife, you know…’ His voice trailed away awkwardly.
But Sophie, having taken a good look at the quietly weeping Christabel, would have none of it. She was finding it impossible to believe that such a little mouse-like creature as the curled-up female on the chair seemed to be would appeal to the Viscount in any way whatsoever. It was becoming increasingly obvious to her that not only was Marcus’s supposed transgression distinctly out of character, it would seem that there was a good deal more behind his clear reluctance to accept the baronet’s challenge than appearances might suggest. And then, as her mind dwelt upon the decidedly anguished look that had crossed his face when he had spotted her in the crowd, she became immediately convinced that, for some obscure reason or other, he had allowed himself to become a scapegoat. ‘You must do something about it,’ she said stoutly. ‘I’m sure that there has been some dreadful mistake. Helstone is not at fault—I would stake my life on it!’
Incensed at Marcus’s stubborn refusal to countenance either of his demands, Dawlish suddenly lashed out at the Viscount with both fists. ‘Name your seconds, damn you!’ he spluttered, becoming almost apoplectic with rage as Marcus, his highly tuned reflexes leaping instantly into action, moved himself well out of the baronet’s range.
All at once a ripple of excitement, followed by an expectant hush, ran through the by now utterly spellbound spectators as the young Viscount Bingham shouldered his way through their midst and stepped into the room.
‘If you’re in want of a second, my lord,’ he said, favouring Marcus with a brief smile. ‘I would be more than happy to offer my services!’
Chapter Seventeen
‘I still don’t understand why you just didn’t give the fellow my name and have done with it?’ exclaimed the exasperated Giles who, when the rapidly spreading rumours concerning Marcus’s unfortunate clash with Dawlish had reached his ears, had immediately downed tools and hastened back to Bradfield Hall. ‘Surely you must have known that I would support you?’
‘I wasn’t too sure how to get hold of you,’ returned his brother, emitting a weary sigh. ‘Quite apart from the fact that I really had no intention of taking up Dawlish’s challenge. None of it would have happened had the foul-minded swine been prepared to listen to reason but, no! It was clear from the very start that he was determined to make full capital out of the matter.’
‘You think the chap has some sort of a grudge against you, then?’
‘Well, it’s true that I’ve managed to relieve him of several thousand pounds over the last year or so,’ replied Marcus with a careless shrug. ‘And I did catch him trying to cheat in a poker game a couple of months ago—not that I mentioned it at the time, but I’ve always had the feeling that he knew I’d spotted his careless gaffe. But to involve that pathetic little scrap of a wife of his in the way that he did, simply to get back at me, must surely be the action of the lowest cur on earth! For that reason alone it would give me the greatest pleasure to put a bullet through one or other part of his slimy form!’
Giving a disapproving shake of his head, Giles felt constrained to point out that Sir Randolph was known to be a pretty fair shot himself, adding, ‘Don’t you think it might be better if we were to try and reach some sort of compromise? That, after all, is what a good second is supposed to do in circumstances such as these.’
‘Well, I refuse to give him some sort of grovelling apology, if that’s what you’re about to suggest,’ growled Marcus, heaving himself up out of his chair and striding across to the sideboard to replenish his empty glass. ‘I’ve had more than enough of that particular topic from the mater.’
‘Good Lord, ma
n!’ exclaimed Giles, a concerned frown crossing his face. ‘You’re not telling me that the parents have got wind of the affair?’
‘Just Ma,’ Marcus took pains to assure his brother. ‘Luckily, the vast majority of Whitcombe’s guests only learned of it long after it was all over, but naturally, Ma being Ma, she had to know everything, down to the last detail. And, since she spent the entire ride home last evening badgering me, I was finally goaded into confessing, on the strictest understanding that she kept it from the old man.’
‘Well, thank heaven for small mercies,’ breathed the Major, much relieved.
‘I’ll have you know that I’m not quite as dicked in the nob as you seem to be implying,’ muttered his brother, somewhat affronted. ‘I’m well aware that a shock of this sort is enough to bring on another attack—which was yet one more reason why I wasn’t too keen to drag you into this affair. I’m perfectly capable of dealing with the matter on my own—it’s not as though I haven’t had plenty of practice!’ he finished dryly.
‘Don’t be a fool!’ retorted Giles, glowering. ‘If you’re determined to go through with it, then I’m happy to support you all the way—as you well know!’ Then, after taking a pensive sip from his glass, he leaned forward again. ‘You didn’t tell me how Dawlish reacted to Bingham’s offer,’ he observed. ‘I imagine the fellow wasn’t best pleased at the thought of Whitcombe’s son taking your side?’
‘Well, there was quite a bit of teeth gnashing going on, as I recall,’ replied Marcus, a faint smile creasing his face. ‘Then Dawlish just grabbed hold of his wife’s arm, yanked her out of her chair and was about to drag her out of the room when young Lady Bingham intervened and insisted on taking Christabel to the ladies’ room to recover from her ordeal—Bingham must have sent his wife some sort of sign, I suppose. Anyway, the long and the short of it is that Dawlish stormed straight out of the building, leaving his wife to God and good neighbours, as it were!’
‘Let’s hope the poor lass has the sense to remain there until this miserable business is over and done with.’ His brother sighed, as he reached for his glass once more. ‘Not that I would care to be in her shoes when she finally does put in an appearance.’
Marcus grimaced, his lips twisting slightly, as he replied, ‘Oh, I dare say Miss Pendleton-Flint will drum up some sort of solution to that particular problem—as soon as young Christabel recovers sufficiently to unburden herself of her troubles, that is.’
‘Miss Pendleton-Flint?’ repeated the Major, suddenly alert. ‘You didn’t mention that she was present at this event.’
‘Did I not?’ returned Marcus, with a self-deprecating shrug. ‘As it happens, our one-time governess was very much present, and had little difficulty in making her feelings on the matter pretty clear, as I recall.’
A curious expression on his face, Giles regarded his brother in silence for some minutes before asking, in a slightly offhand manner, ‘Do I take it that you are still carrying a torch for that young lady?’
‘Something of the sort,’ grunted Marcus, shifting restlessly in his seat. ‘Bit pointless, really, since it would seem that this latest escapade of mine has put the final damper on whatever chance I might once have had in that direction. The only husbandry that is likely to affect me in the near future is that which involves crop rotation and milk yields!’
Less than ten miles away, at Whitcombe Abbey, the subject of Helstone’s morose introspection was seated at Christabel Dawlish’s bedside, endeavouring to piece together that young woman’s tearfully stilted version of the previous evening’s melodrama.
Although Sophie had no doubt in her mind that the Viscount was innocent of any of the charges that Sir Randolph had flung at him, she had to admit to being distinctly curious as to how the whole distasteful affair had actually come into being. Unfortunately, trying to extract the bones of the matter between the various sniffles, gulps and self-condemnatory tears of the still badly affected Christabel was proving to be no mean task.
Eventually, however, her confidence bolstered by the many sympathetic nods and expressions of commiseration from both Elizabeth and Sophie—not to mention the numerous cups of hot chocolate and soft buttered rolls with which she had been plied throughout the night—Christabel managed to satisfy her listeners that their joint decision to whisk her away from her husband had been well and truly justified.
Having arrived at the scene just in time to witness Bingham offering his services to Helstone, his young wife had demanded to be told what was going on. After hearing Sophie’s brief but pithy explanation, Elizabeth had taken one long, lingering look at the wretched-looking creature still cowering in her armchair and had then, after a hurried consultation with her friend, taken it upon herself to waylay Sir Randolph on his exit from the library. Although, to begin with, it had been their intention merely to afford the baronet’s wife some sort of temporary respite from the ugly scene that was being played out in front of a score or more of voracious onlookers, neither Sophie nor Elizabeth could find it in themselves to feel a great deal of sorrow upon learning that Dawlish had taken off without Christabel.
A hasty discussion involving both Mrs Egremont and Countess Whitcombe had resulted in Christabel being tucked up in one of the abbey’s many guest bedrooms, but, since it had become clear that the girl had suffered too great a shock to allow her to fall asleep, Sophie and Elizabeth had taken turns at keeping her company throughout the night.
‘And now,’ hiccoughed the girl wretchedly, at the end of her long drawn-out recital, ‘the p-poor man is about to get himself k-killed—and all because he tried to h-help me!’
Since Sophie had spent the past several hours endeavouring to rid her mind of such a devastating thought, Christabel’s unpleasant reminder was more than enough to send a shudder of dread running through her. Biting her lip, she took a steadying breath and forced herself to concentrate on ridding Christabel of the feelings of remorse that so clearly burdened the grief-stricken girl.
‘Come now,’ she said soothingly, as she patted Christabel’s hand. ‘I refuse to believe that it will come to that—Lord Bingham has assured his wife that he intends to take whatever steps are necessary to bring about some sort of conciliation.’
‘Sir Randolph is not the sort of man who can be easily appeased.’ Christabel sniffed and gave a mournful shake of her head. ‘He is so utterly self-centred that the only point of view that has any meaning for him is his own.’
Their eyes meeting across the bed, Elizabeth and Sophie shared a brief moment of compassion for the girl. That there was little love lost between Dawlish and his young wife was very plain to see.
‘Forgive my vulgar curiosity, my dear,’ ventured the Viscountess tentatively. ‘But how came you to marry such an unpleasant man?’
‘He had advanced my father a large sum of money for some business venture or other,’ Christabel sighed. ‘Unfortunately, when the time came to repay the loan, Papa had insufficient means at his disposal and was obliged to ask Sir Randolph for a postponement. Having already learned that the quite substantial amount of money that I was due to inherit from my grandmother on my twenty-first birthday would be paid if I were to marry in advance of that date, Sir Randolph agreed to forego the debt on condition that I married him—otherwise he threatened to haul my father into the debtors’ court.’ At the memory, her already red-rimmed eyes filled once more with tears as she hid her face in her hands with a choked, ‘I couldn’t allow that to happen, so I simply went along with it!’
‘Dear God!’ whispered Sophie, in the certain knowledge that her own father would rather have sold his own soul to the devil than sacrifice his daughter in such a way. Having observed clear signs of bruising on Christabel’s arms and back while helping the girl to undress, she could not forbear from adding, ‘And, not content with helping himself to your inheritance, it would appear that the horrid fiend beats you, too!’
‘It’s not the beatings I mind so much,’ faltered Christabel, dropping her eyes as her c
olour mounted. ‘It’s the—the other ways in which he chooses to punish me that I fear most of all.’
Even though the unspoken meaning behind the young Lady Dawlish’s hesitant disclosure was only too clear to her stunned and horrified listeners, both Sophie and Elizabeth were uncomfortably aware that there was little that they could do in regard to that particular aspect of the girl’s pitiable existence, other than try to keep her here at the abbey for as long as was humanly possible.
‘We’ll just have to tell Dawlish that his wife has suffered some sort of mental breakdown and cannot possibly be moved,’ whispered Sophie as, with a brief flutter of her eyelids, accompanied by a shuddering sigh, their exhausted patient finally allowed herself to succumb to the sleep that had eluded her.
‘Which is hardly a lie, in the circumstances,’ returned Elizabeth fiercely. ‘If I were a man, I’d gladly put a bullet into the vile creature myself!’
Her heart seeming to jump into her throat as she was confronted with yet another reminder of the looming threat to Helstone’s life, Sophie, clutching at her friend’s hand, drew her across the room towards the window, well out of hearing of the now soundly sleeping Christabel.
‘Has Jack managed to put a stop to this fiasco yet, do you know?’ she asked, her eyes full of concern.
‘He was very reluctant to tell me anything at all!’ sniffed the Viscountess in disgust, still somewhat piqued that her husband had refused to take her into his confidence. ‘However, I did manage to worm out of him that he had spent the better part of the night in consultation with Sir Reginald’s seconds—he wouldn’t give me their names, of course, but he does seem pretty certain that Dawlish has no intention of pulling out.’
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