by Shirl Henke
"Lemme see it," Pug demanded, being the bigger and older of the two.
"It's mine," Billy said, bouncing the ball defiantly under Pug's nose. When he tried to repeat the trick, Pug's hand snaked out and snatched at it, knocking it from Billy's grasp. The ball went bouncing erratically down the smooth surface of the walk. "Cor, see what you done," he cried, dashing to retrieve his lost treasure with Pug right behind him.
Billy ran with his eye fixed on the ball to the exclusion of all else. Just as he bent down and scooped up his toy, Pug overran him and they both went flying headfirst into a couple strolling on a crossing walk. The woman escaped untouched with a squeak of outrage, but the man bore the full force of the collision, stumbling back with a snarled oath. He quickly regained his footing and glared at the two ragged street urchins sprawled in the grass. They looked at his angry face guiltily, then began to scramble away in terror when he pulled a sword from the scabbard at his waist and swung the flat of the blade at them.
"What the deuce are you gutter-scum jackanapes doing here? The park is for your betters, you filthy little wharf rats!"
Pug succeeded in escaping their tormentor with only one stinging blow across his back, but Billy was not so fortunate. The officer seized his frayed coat collar and yanked him back, raising the sword to deliver more punishing blows.
Hearing the boy's frantic cries, Joss looked down the walk. Pug dashed into her arms, sobbing, "We didn't mean no 'arm, mum, honest! We wuz chasin' the ball—it's all me fault 'e dropped it!"
Joss instructed him to stand perfectly still, then raced toward the ugly scene. Good heavens above, the brute was beating the boy half to death! "Stop this instant, sir!" she cried out, picking up her skirts to run headlong, terrified that the blade might accidentally turn and cut the boy. "In the name of Christian charity, stop!" Joss screamed, reaching up to grab hold of the officer's sword arm when he raised it for another blow. That was when she recognized those cold yellow eyes.
Alex witnessed the commotion from his box on the gently sloping rise. "Chamberlain, you brutal bastard," he muttered as he vaulted over the side of the box and took off down the hill, leaving the redhead staring, her mouth a startled O.
Joss hung like a bulldog on Chamberlain's arm while he tried in vain to shake her off and at the same time keep his hold on the sobbing boy. "Get the bloody hell off of me, you half-blind bitch," Chamberlain yelled as he slammed Billy's squirming body into Joss.
"Thrashing women and little boys hardly seems the thing for a sporting fellow such as you, Colonel," Alex said in a deceptively soft voice. His grip on Chamberlain's arm, however, was as hard as iron.
Chamberlain released Billy, shoving him at Joss, who stumbled back, breathless from her exertions. She knelt and took him in her arms, soothing him as she glared up at the angry bully.
"I should have expected you'd materialize to champion your unlikely damsel in distress again. Tell me, do all colonials have your execrable taste in women?" Sir Rupert asked with an arrogant lift of his chin.
"In America, gentlemen respect women—or pay the consequences," Alex replied levelly, knowing he was being provoked and deliberately returning the insult.
"Really, I doubt there's been a gentleman set foot on that barbarous soil since General Cornwallis sailed in eighty-one," Chamberlain drawled.
"As I recall"—the young American smiled—"he did not really set sail. He set his tail between his legs and slunk back to his kennel. Perhaps you would do well to emulate his example."
Chamberlain's face, already flushed, turned almost purple. "If it were not for the vast chasm that exists between our social stations, I..."
"Ah, yes, the famous code duello. I've heard of it," Alex said dryly, then paused. "If you're too cowardly to challenge a savage red Indian ..." He shrugged insultingly and turned to help Joss to her feet. Chamberlain's slap stung the edge of his cheekbone. "I shall instruct my second to meet with yours this evening—that is, if you have a friend to stand by you in all of London."
Joss gasped. Sir Rupert Chamberlain was one of the most feared duelists in England. "No, Alex, please don't do this."
Chapter Seven
Alex stroked his chin, grinning wickedly at Drum, who had agreed to act as his second.
"As the man challenged, you have the choice of weapons. Given that Sir Rupert is reputed to be a dead shot at forty yards and Domenico Angelo's finest fencing student, I doubt pistols or foils would be wise selections," Drum replied dryly. "Of course, you could choose muskets or war clubs ..." he added, arching one delicately thin eyebrow mockingly, then continued, "but after seeing your back-alley performance the night we met, I rather thought you would fancy my suggestion. Since you were that lethal foxed, I suspect you'll acquit yourself against the colonel well enough sober."
"I'll take care of Chamberlain. The devil of it is I haven't the vaguest idea why he's taken such a personal dislike to me."
"Heigh ho! You've only trounced him at the racecourse, had his wife fair slobbering on your breeches and then publicly accosted him in Vauxhall. Can't think of a reason on earth he should dislike you." Drum's expression was guilelessly somber.
"It's more than that. At our first introduction the fellow was insufferably rude, even by the obnoxious standards of haughtiness among the peerage. He goaded me into offering a wager higher than he thought I could afford."
"Obviously that chamber pot didn't expect to lose. I've heard rumors he's been out at heels ever since he ran through his wife's dowry."
"A rather common practice among the ton, I gather," Alex said sardonically, thinking of the odious relationship between Monty and Octavia. He could not resist a grinning jab at his friend. "You're always in dun territory, Drum. Ever think of leg-shackling yourself to a wealthy heiress?"
Drum clutched his throat with a look of mock horror. Then he carefully laid out a precise pinch of snuff on the back of his wrist and raised it to his nostrils, saying, "I never much fancied the fairer sex. A voluptuous pair of teats never had the same effect on me they most obviously do on you, old chap. But at times I envy your appetites." He met Alex's dark eyes and the two men exchanged a look of understanding.
After inhaling the snuff, Drum sneezed delicately into his handkerchief and went on briskly, "You must be careful of Chamberlain—he is a deadly adversary, battle hardened with ice-cold nerve. But you'll have to disable the bastard without killing him."
Alex looked puzzled. "I'd be better served to kill him and have done. He's not a chap to forgive an enemy."
"Kill a peer of the realm and you'll hang at Newgate," Drum said flatly. "Dueling, even though it's practiced, is quite illegal in this, the center of civility. Sir Rupert has powerful friends in the military, not to mention the foreign office."
"And as a crude colonial interloper, I wouldn't stand a chance of escaping the noose." Alex nodded. "Then I shall
have to be doubly wary, else my rather enjoyable life in England will be over."
"In England or anywhere else. Never underestimate the gravity of this situation, or Sir Rupert. Oh, by the by, I have a particular suggestion about how to approach this contest. I shall explain it tomorrow in route. Heigh-ho, I'm off to meet with the colonel's second. The arrangement should be for dawn tomorrow at Chalk Farm."
"Dawn?" Alex echoed balefully.
"It's the done thing, old fellow, the done thing," Drum said placatingly.
* * * *
A sudden spring storm blew up during the night, soaking the dueling ground, but by the time Alex and Drum rode up, the sky was clearing, with the mauve streaks of dawn giving way to bright pinks and yellows. They waited for Chamberlain, who appeared with his second a few moments later just as a third rider came up on the road. When he dismounted and joined the group, Drum introduced Alex, saying, "This is Sir Reginald Thompson."
Alex nodded and they shook hands gravely. The man had a reputation for impartiality and a rigorous adherence to the code in many such matters of honor.
; The small group gathered in the open clearing to review the preliminary rules already agreed upon. What a surprise stiff old Reggie will have when I open this case, Drum thought to himself. Pray God the idea goes off as we planned it.
The early morning silence was again broken when a hired hackney clattered up the road and lurched to a halt.
"What the devil?" Chamberlain said, his expression suddenly tense. This was his third duel in two years and General Pelton had cautioned him against any further sanguinary pursuits off the battlefield.
A dark-garbed female of uncommon height climbed from the coach before the driver could assist her. She thrust some
coins in his hand and made her way swiftly to where the men were standing.
Five pairs of hostile eyes fastened on her as she approached. Alex looked positively thunderous. "Joss," he exclaimed with an oath, "what the hell are you doing here?"
She squared her chin resolutely and swallowed. "Rumor of this duel has spread all over London. You must call it off before the constabulary comes to arrest you."
"Nonsense. I've officiated at numerous such occasions," Sir Reginald replied indignantly. "The authorities will not interfere in an affair of honor."
"I suggest, Mistress Woodbridge, that you attend to those wretched urchins you allow to run wild and leave this matter to be settled by men," Chamberlain said coldly.
Joss ignored the haughty Englishman, keeping her eyes on Alex's hostile face. "I'm not leaving without you. Besides, the hackney is gone."
"You look sturdy enough of limb to walk," Drum ventured with a scathing glance up and down her frame.
"I feel I was to blame for this whole debacle since it was one of my children who precipitated the incident. I have a right to be here, Alex. Besides, I've brought medical supplies—a habit I've acquired since making your acquaintance," she added, stubbornly ignoring Drum just as she had the others.
Alex's furious expression eased. "Your skill with a needle and thread may well be necessary before long." His eyes swept over Chamberlain grimly, then returned to her. A grin spread across his face. "Just stand back and keep quiet, Joss. I know you don't faint at the sight of blood .. . but you might keep an eye on Mr. Drummond."
"I shall deal with you later for that most ill-conceived bon mot," Drum replied dryly as he produced a wooden weapons case of proportions sufficient to contain sabers. When he opened the lid, Chamberlain's second, a hard-faced major named Brighton, muttered a ripe curse and glared at Alex.
"What the hell do you mean by this, sirrah?" he asked.
Thompson, too, seemed taken aback, but he held his peace.
"It would appear he means to carve up your fellow officer, old chap," Drum replied cheerfully.
Nestled inside the velvet-lined case were two wickedly gleaming, long-bladed, ivory-handled ... chef's knives. Alex gestured for Chamberlain to select one. "I believe it's customary for the challenger to choose first," he said, the soul of courtesy.
Holding up one of the long, razor-sharp blades, Chamberlain said, "This is not a dueling weapon! Why, all it's fit for is to split a capon."
"How observant you are, Sir Rupert," Alex replied, taking the other blade from the case.
Chamberlain's face reddened at the insult. Then he smiled coldly and said, "It's perhaps not all that different from a foil that I cannot use it to serve you up a brochette, you crude colonial mongrel."
Alex raised his blade in a mocking salute and clicked his heels. Both men stood silently as Thompson outlined the rules previously agreed upon by their seconds. "You shall fight until one combatant draws first blood or cries off. Thus shall honor be satisfied."
Honor! Joss fumed silently. Men were such idiots. And whatever on earth were Alex and that odious Mr. Drummond thinking about, using carving knives, for pity's sake!
After a brief conference between Chamberlain and his second, the major turned and said stiffly, "My principal is ready."
Alex watched Drum's mask of indolence slide back into place, as the smaller man turned to announce over his shoulder. "Thank God. You were taking so long my man almost dozed off."
The combatants and their seconds walked toward each other and halted a few feet apart in front of the elderly official. The man intoned, "Seconds, please take your places alongside me. Very good. Gentlemen," he addressed the duelists, "the contest will commence when I give the word. Understood?"
Alex nodded, but Chamberlain fixed the old fellow with a haughty stare. "My good man, I have heard the litany many times before, and I expect I will hear it many times in future—although I suppose it is a good thing for this young savage to hear it this once. I assure you, he shall never hear it again."
In one variation or another, Chamberlain had rattled opponents before with this taunt. He was more than a bit nettled when he turned his gaze on his young antagonist and saw Blackthorne grinning like a wolf... a very eager wolf.
The old man stepped back. "All right gentlemen, engarde!"
Chamberlain gracefully assumed a fencer's posture—right foot forward, the left a bit behind, both knees slightly bent. His right elbow was almost resting on his right hip as the tip of his blade pointed at his opponent. Alex dropped into a knife-fighter's crouch and began circling to his right.
The Englishman scoffed, "Pray tell, boy, do all of you savages fight humped over like dog-apes?"
Alex did not waste his breath on a reply as he circled, determining his strategy. With an expert's economy of movement, Chamberlain shifted slightly to keep the tip of his blade fixed on the younger man. Then, the young fool committed the mistake that the seasoned duelist knew he would make, sooner or later. Blackthorne moved into range. Chamberlain executed the perfect lunge that could have driven the tip of his blade into the young clod's throat. But as the Englishman's arm fully extended, the "young clod" twisted to his own right and swung the razor-keen chef's knife in an upward slash and then down again in a movement almost too quick for the onlookers to follow. As Chamberlain gasped in agonized surprise, Alex stepped back.
The knife dropped from the Englishman's useless hand—tendons, muscles and artery had been severed to the bone just a few inches above his wrist.
Joss bit her lip to keep from screaming. What if it had been Alex?
As if Thompson were a croupier at a hazard table, he announced in a professionally dispassionate voice, "First blood. The contest is finished."
Chamberlain's voice was shrill. "I'll be demned if it is. I can continue." He was attempting to squeeze off the blood spurting from his wound with his left hand, while trying to pick up the knife with his right.
Both seconds had moved closer and were watching the grotesque fumbling. Drummond's voice broke the silence. He sounded for all the world as if he were discussing a guest's boorish table manners. "I say, Chamberlain old fellow, this really is not the thing. Your fingers are as limp and floppy as uncooked sausages. Please do stop that groping. 'Tis most unsightly."
The wounded man cursed and tried clumsily to pick up the knife with his left hand. Sir Reginald moved forward and placed his foot on the blade. "Give over, sir. You are incapable of continuing. The duel is concluded."
"Humanely done, sir," Drum approved. "Humanely done. It would be beastly if my principal had to disable the chap's other hand. A gentleman with two useless hands! How would he ever take his snuff? He'd have to stick his nose in the box and snort, like one of those French pigs rooting up truffles. Would never do."
Joss, who had been standing frozen at the sidelines, at last reacted to the little dandy's flippant remarks. "A man has his lifeblood pumping out onto the ground and you prattle about snuff!" she admonished, brushing past him to where Chamberlain slumped in a sitting position on the turf, his face chalk white, the glaze of shock unmistakable in his eyes. "I am trained as a surgeon's assistant. Let me help," she said to the major, who knelt beside his friend.
"Get away from me, you bitch," Chamberlain snarled, but his voice was thready and his breathing labored.
Having spent years on the battlefields of Europe, the man knew she was right. "Rupert, you'll die if we don't stop the bleeding."
Before the argument could proceed further, Chamberlain obligingly passed out. Joss set to work, opening the bag she had brought with her and laying out her equipment on a clean white cloth, all the while issuing instructions to the major about applying a tourniquet.
While Joss and the major administered to Chamberlain, Alex and Drum walked with Reginald Thompson to where the horses were tied some distance away. Alex held the old man's mount as he swung into the saddle with surprising agility. Then Thompson looked down at Blackthorne.
"I have never seen the like of this duel, sir. Demndest thing ever, but your performance was honorable ... if a trifle unorthodox." With that stiff pronouncement, he rode away.
"Unorthodox," Alex snorted. "Chef's knives are that, I warrant. Why the devil did you pick them?" he asked Drum.
"Had to have a matched set and that marvelous pig sticker of yours will never see its like on this side of the Atlantic. On such short notice, the knives were all I could find. The cutlery was adequately large and sharp and available . ., and you owe me twenty-five pounds, old chap."
Alex threw back his head and laughed. "And most probably my life as well, dear Drum." He sobered then, looking across the clearing to where Joss worked intently over the unconscious Chamberlain. "I still think it's dangerous to leave such an implacable enemy alive. He shall hate you as much as he does me."
"That walking chamber pot has already been my enemy for years."
"But the colonel gave no indication he even knew you," Alex replied, puzzled as well as startled by his friend's cold, cutting words.
"He does not know me. We shared a mutual... acquaintance several years ago. We were very close, that fellow and I. Then I was sent off by my family to the Continent. The tour thing, you know. When I returned, I learned that my friend had called Chamberlain out." Drum swallowed and his voice was choked with emotion. "Poor dear Heath, the kindest, gentlest man I've ever known. It was little more than an assassination really. He never stood a chance against the colonel."