The Hourglass

by Barbara Metzger

  He shrugged. “In the heights of passion, who is to say what might happen?”

  Genie made a fist, hauled back, and slammed it into his stomach.

  “Oof.” He staggered back, more in surprise than pain. “Odso, woman, what was that about?”

  “That was for thinking I am some fragile flower. I have thorns. I had to learn to defend myself when there was no one else to do so. You are bigger and stronger, and have… odd talents, but I am not without weapons of my own.”

  He rubbed his stomach. “I see.”

  “So no more excuses,” she said, coming closer to him again. “And no nonsense about a vow. You might have taken an oath to be a better man, and you are fulfilling it a hundredfold. Just look at all those people you helped today alone. But you also made a vow to me, to be my husband. Not my friend, not my banker, not my protector, but my husband, Ardeth.”

  She was right. Ardeth had wedded Imogene Hopewell Macklin to keep her safe, but her happiness was also in his hands. If the woman’s happiness depending on making love, well, he would just have to sacrifice his own concerns and be gentleman enough to oblige. For once, duty and pleasure came together; logic and lust could enjoy the same tumble; philosophy, philanthropy, and passion could all share the same bed. How nice. He would be careful and considerate and how quick could he get her to his chamber? He was not thinking of those scant four months, just the flight of stairs.

  “Coryn,” was all he said.

  “What?”

  “Tonight I would be Coryn, not the earl, not the Devil’s pawn.”

  She ignored the bit about the Devil. “Tonight?”

  He looked toward the window. “It is almost dark. Dinner will be served soon.”

  “But what if you find something else to do, someone else who needs—”

  “You are right again. I need you, Genie. Now.” And he pulled her toward him by the front of her gown, and kissed her the way he had been wanting to do his whole life, it seemed, both lives and what was between them. Now there was nothing between them, between Coryn and Genie, but layers of clothes he was busy unfastening, even as he deepened the kiss, tasted her lips, her tongue. Her tongue answered back, questing, seeking, meeting, melding, melting.

  He pulled the pins from her hair so he could run his fingers through it the way he’d dreamed of doing, asleep and awake. He thought he could never stop wanting to touch those fiery curls, not even in the deepest trance.

  Genie was helping with the clothes, with fingers that fumbled with the hurry, and because the kiss continued and flowed into many kisses without beginning or end. His jacket was gone, his neckcloth and waistcoat. Her gown was opened, the stays unlaced, so his hands could reach for her creamy breasts, while hers reached under his shirt for the muscles and sinews that strained to hold her closer, close enough to be one.

  He trembled.

  “Are you cold?” she asked.

  “I do not think I will ever be cold again.”

  “If you are, I will warm you. I am on fire.”

  “No, this is only a spark compared to what is ahead.”

  He fanned the flames with his kisses, his touch, everywhere he could reach. Then he bent to kiss where he had touched, and Genie cried out with the pleasure and the agony because the pleasure was not enough, not complete.

  She tried to find the fastenings of his trousers but he held her hand back. “Not yet.”

  “When?” she panted.

  “When I have worshipped every inch of you, my magical wish-granting Genie. When I cannot stand the exquisite torment anymore, when I have to join with you or burst.”

  She touched him anyway.

  “Right. Now. But not here. I am not going to make love to my wife on a desktop.” He looked longingly at the fur rug in front of the hearth. “Or on the floor.”

  She giggled, still in his arms. “I thought you were not the dignified earl tonight.”

  “No, but I am not a barbarian again. I am still a man who likes my comforts, and wants my bride to be happy. Besides, the library door is not locked.”

  “But I do not think I can walk up the stairs. My bones have melted.”

  So he picked her up and started to carry her out of the room. Genie pulled her gown up, in case they passed one of the servants. There was nothing she could do about her hair or her reddened lips or her shortness of breath except to urge him to hurry.

  Which meant he had to kiss her again, her eagerness more arousing, if possible, than the feel of her in his arms. Before he was ready to proceed upstairs—and that fur rug was looking more and more inviting—he heard voices outside the door.

  “I am family. I do not need to be announced,” Lorraine was shouting at Mr. Randolph. Then she burst into the library.

  She saw Genie in Ardeth’s arms and cried, “Oh, you have already heard the dire news.”

  “What news?” Genie asked, only to be polite. The sooner Lorraine relayed her petty gossip, the sooner they could return to paradise.

  “You mean you have not swooned at the catastrophe?”

  Genie’s senses were swimming, her heart was racing, and her knees were weak, but swoon? Not if it meant missing one delicious moment of her husband’s love-making. “No, I am well.”

  “Then whatever are you doing in Ardeth’s ar—? Oh. Before dinner?”

  Which might explain, Genie thought in her haze of heat, why Lorraine and Roger had only one son. Genie giggled again, but Ardeth set her on her feet. He kept one hand around her—helping to hold up her gown—and asked, “What news? What catastrophe? We have not spoken with anyone since our return from Richmond.”

  Out of Ardeth’s—Coryn’s—arms, Genie could notice her sister’s distress. “Is Peter all right?” Genie wanted to know, forgetting about her undress to think of the child suffering a reversal while they were ripping at each other’s clothes.

  “He is fine. It is my husband.”

  “What, has Lord Cormack developed a congestion of the lungs? He seemed fit this morning, and the day was clement.”

  Lorraine smoothed out the handkerchief she’d been clutching and held it to her lips. “He mph, mph, mrph.”

  “Good grief, he is not dead, is he?” Genie pulled the handkerchief away.

  “N-no, but he will be in the morning.”

  “Explain,” Ardeth demanded.

  “He went to his club when we returned. That dreadful man Willeford was there. And he was telling everyone that you had gone beyond the pale, turning funerals into festivities, holding parades for poor dead beggars. He even knew about that woman, the murderess. He said that if you were not insane, you were dangerous and should be locked up before you caused harm to someone.”

  “He has been saying worse.”

  “Yes, but that was before you saved our son and hosted all those funerals. Now he is saying that Peter’s cure was unnatural, when all the physicians could do nothing. He hints that you practice black magic or some pagan religion, that your deeds are unholy, heathenish. He says he saw you light a cigar without flint or matches.”

  Here was Genie’s worst nightmare. She wished she had a handkerchief to stuff in her mouth, too, before she blurted out her own doubts and fears.

  Lorraine was going on, explaining to Ardeth that Roger could not stand by and listen to him being slandered. “We are too much in your debt.”

  “The debt is paid. Cormack had Daisy released.”

  “No matter. You are still family.”

  Genie did not mention that until a mere few weeks ago she herself was not considered any kind of kin. “I hope Roger drew his claret.”

  Both Ardeth and Lorraine looked at her.

  “Bloodied his nose. Or darkened his daylights. That’s blackened his eyes. You learn a great many new expressions in the army.”

  Lorraine’s mouth fell open, and not just at Genie’s use of boxing cant. “What, you think that Roger should have… have indulged in fisticuffs at his club? He would have been asked to resign his membership.”
<
br />   “Oh. Then what is the problem?”

  Her sister’s lips trembled. “He… he challenged Willeford to a duel.”

  “Duels are illegal.”

  Lorraine ignored that irrelevance. “Willeford chose pistols. He is a soldier! An officer. His life depended on his skill with a gun. What chance does Roger have against a man like that? All he has done is shoot partridge and rabbits!”

  “When?” Ardeth asked.

  “Whenever we go to the country.”

  “No, when is the duel supposed to occur?”

  “Tomorrow morning. I made him tell me.” She grabbed Ardeth’s hand. “You have to do something. It is your fight.”

  Genie stepped between them. “You are the same selfish girl you always were, Lorraine. You think my husband should die instead of yours? He was not the one who challenged Willeford. Your bacon-brained baron did!”

  “But Ardeth is a warrior. He said so, did he not? Just look at him.”

  She did. He was paler than usual, the glow of love-making long faded. And he was cold. Genie could tell just looking at him. She found his jacket on the floor.

  He put it on, but said, “I will not fight. I will not kill another man.”

  “Then put Willeford to sleep!” Lorraine insisted. “You can do that, I know you can.”

  Genie looked hopeful. Maybe her sister was not such a gudgeon after all.

  Ardeth shook his head. “Willeford will wake up. When he does he will be more certain I am in league with the Devil, or making a fool of him. He will still demand satisfaction. Men like Willeford confuse pride with honor, and they can never back down from a challenge.”

  “Then my son will have no father.” Lorraine started crying again, then shouting. “And it will be because of you, Ardeth. Roger’s blood will be on your hands, no matter that you do not hold the pistol. You will be the death of him.”

  “NO!”

  Chapter 20

  He was gone.

  Genie was so angry, she left her sister sitting alone in the parlor when she stormed off to the Hourglass Room and her little office next to it.

  Lorraine followed her, half out of curiosity and half out of not knowing what else to do. “Will he help, do you think?”

  “That depends what you consider help, I suppose. Ardeth will definitely do something.”

  Lorraine gasped when she saw what Genie was taking out of a lower desk drawer. “What are you doing with that thing?”

  That “thing” being a small pistol, the answer should have been obvious, even to one with Lorraine’s limited grasp of anything but her own concerns. “I am cleaning and loading it,” Genie said.

  “Whatever for?”

  “Lud, Lorraine, what do you think I am going to do with a loaded pistol, hold up a coach? I am going to stop the duel, of course.”

  “But… but do you know how to use one of them?”

  The answer to that ought to have been equally as obvious by the way Genie was efficiently checking the weapon and handling the powder and ball. “Of course. I told Ardeth—Coryn—that I had weapons of my own.”

  “He will be furious at you for interfering.”

  “What, should I sit here with my needlework waiting for Willeford to shoot him? We both know Ardeth is not going to let your husband take his place, even if Roger was cork-brained enough to issue the challenge.”

  “Roger is a very intelligent man!”

  “Intelligent men do not go twenty paces with a braggart and a buffoon.” Genie made sure the safety catch was engaged, then carefully placed the loaded pistol back in its leather pouch.

  “Are you… are you going to shoot Willeford?”

  “Or Ardeth if I have to. I will do anything to stop this ridiculous duel, although I doubt it will come to that. Ardeth does not wish to fight any more than I do, perhaps less, because I am so mad I could challenge Willeford myself.”

  “But women are not permitted at duels, much less allowed to meddle.”

  “Such rules are as buffle-headed as demanding satisfaction for a social insult with a sword. What do I care if I break a hundred taboos, if I keep my husband alive? You want yours to live past tomorrow, don’t you? That is why you came, and that is why Ardeth left. The difference between you and me is that I am willing to do what is necessary, not wait for someone else to step in. Now, do you know where they are meeting and when? I can send our butler to the pubs with a full purse. He’ll come back with the information, so you might as well tell me.”

  “I heard Roger tell his valet Hampstead Heath, near a lightning-struck tree, at daybreak.”

  “How very dramatic,” Genie said, with more than a bit of sarcasm, “and unoriginal. All it needs is fog to be a scene from some dreadful novel.”

  Lorraine read many of them. “Or a fine mist. That makes it more romantical.”

  “There is nothing romantic about two jackasses blowing each other to bits.”

  “But think how affecting it is, with you riding neck or nothing to your husband’s side.”

  “I will take the carriage, thank you, no matter how disappointing to your sensibilities. Why don’t you go home?”

  “Oh, then you do not expect me to go with you?” The sound of Lorraine’s relief was louder than the clock striking the hour.

  Genie shook her head. Her sister would be useless, likely dissolved in tears if not her atmospheric mist. “Go, check on your son. Wait for your husband to return.”

  Lorraine must have felt guilty for leaving Genie alone, because she asked, “What are you going to do until morning?”

  “I shall go to the dueling grounds well before dawn. Until then, I shall wait for my husband, the same as you.”

  “Maybe he will settle everything peacefully?” There was not much confidence in Lorraine’s voice.

  “With Willeford? Maybe pigs will fly.”

  After Lorraine left, Genie went upstairs to Ardeth’s room. If he came home at all, he would change his clothes before setting out again. She also ordered Randolph to send for her if his lordship went first to the book room, and to wake her well before dawn if he did not return at all.

  She lay on his bed, the pistol beside her. Her husband was not insane, at least no more crazy than the average earl who wanted to save the world. He was not in league with the devil or dancing naked around a fire on the full moon. He knew a few magic tricks, that was all, and some Eastern spiritual methods for easing the mind. He was a good man! And she loved him. She could not lose him now.

  —

  Ardeth knew right where to go to find his quarry. His hours in London’s dark side gave him eyes and ears eager to serve him with information. Those on his payroll of spies would have supplied hired thugs, an arsenal of weaponry, even assassins, if that was his pleasure.

  For now, pleasure was a distant memory. He wanted Willeford with a fury he had not known since his berserker days. The man was threatening to ruin all Ardeth had worked for, to destroy his chances of staying past his allotted months. Besides, Willeford had cost him a night in Genie’s arms.

  Ardeth had known he would have to deal with Willeford before leaving London, so he was prepared. Maggots like the major thrived on rotten filth, envy and hate and fear of exposure. They had to be swept away or squashed, not merely ignored. Ardeth could guess the man’s eventual destination, but he would not hasten the journey.

  According to Ardeth’s informants, tonight Willeford was at one of the less fashionable clubs that catered more to military gentlemen than the wealthier aristocracy, instead of at some tonish ball, dancing attendance on his shrewish wife. He had been at the place for hours, since accepting Lord Cormack’s challenge.

  Ardeth took a seat, uninvited, at the card table where Willeford gamed with two other officers. The others left, by silent consent, leaving their coins and cards behind.

  Ardeth signaled a waiter for a glass of wine, then asked, “You do not think the spirits will affect your aim?”

  “My aim will be good enough for Corma
ck.”

  Ardeth raised an eyebrow at the man’s conceit. “He could get lucky.”

  “Yes, I might hit just his shoulder instead of his heart.”

  The muckworm’s aim must be good, Ardeth thought. Otherwise someone would surely have exterminated him by now. He sipped his wine and said, “This is not about Cormack, and we both know it.”

  “Oh, are you volunteering to take his place? I will have my seconds talk to his about the substitution.” He gestured to the two men who had moved to a nearby table. “If Cormack is willing, so am I.”

  Ar did not reply to that dare. “I thought we had agreed that you would not speak of me or my family.”

  Willeford sneered. “You agreed not to talk of me, then reneged. You must have said something, because there were hints at the War Office. They are not giving me the preferment that I sought.”

  Ardeth put his glass down, still full. “The rumors did not come from me, but from your men, the same source of my knowledge of events.”

  “The stories are untrue, all of ‘em.”

  “So we are both victims of unfounded gossip?” .

  Willeford would not meet his eyes. He shuffled the cards for something to do.

  “Ah, I wonder at your silence. Either you are guilty of what they say, or you truly think I am evil incarnate. Well, let me ask you this: Do you believe in sorcery?”

  The cards spilled out of Willeford’s hands across the table. “Of course not. That kind of rot went away with the Dark Ages.”

  “What of curses, then? Do you think a man can place a spell on another man, you know, turn him into a toad, or shrivel his manhood?”

  Willeford said no, but without his former assurance.

  “Yet you claimed that I practiced black magic. My brother-in-law took objection. Family is like that, I am discovering. They watch out for each other.”

  “No one else believed I meant it for a minute. We were all in our cups, was all.”

  Ardeth took out Satan’s lucky piece and placed it on the table. Willeford leaned back in his chair, farther away from the small bonelike thing.

  “Maybe curses are real,” Ardeth said, pondering the Devil’s charm. “They say this was from a relic from a saint, or bewitched by a fallen angel. No one knows, but it is valued highly by those who do believe in the Master of Evil.”