“You fought, sir.”
Martin nodded once, a soldier’s habit as well. “I did a bit. Late of the 88th Foot, Connaught Rangers. Wounded at Badajoz.”
Connaught Rangers. Badajoz.
It took Seelye a moment to recall their significance. The Irish regiment. Full of unruly devils but none braver in the army.
“By God, Martin, it’s a wonder you survived,” he exclaimed. “Jane, we are met by a genuine war hero. It is I who am honored to meet you, sir.”
Martin flushed crimson.
“What the Rangers accomplished I won’t forget in a lifetime. They were the first over the wall,” he explained to Jane. “And didn’t that take stones the size of Gibraltar!” He caught himself, with a guilty start, “Beg pardon, Jane. Forgot myself.”
“A lady is always mystified by such talk, my lord,” she murmured.
“What mystified us, Jane, was how they managed it. Wellington ordered the Rangers to do the impossible. Walls 150 feet high, most of them still standing after artillery barrages. Time and again, attempts to enter the biggest gap failed. Most of the officers and hundreds of the regiment were killed on the ladders trying to breach it but the Rangers kept climbing through a hail of musket fire, masonry, barrels, pots, whatever else was at hand. They broke the siege of Badajoz. Your Mackie was first man over.”
“Indeed he was. I followed the lieutenant up, though I didn’t get as far as I’d like. Waste of a good climb, I’d say.”
“How are you now?”
“I’d tilt a bit without a cane, but I’m that happy it’s done and Boney’s gone for good. I’ve married since. We’ve a little girl you’ll meet. So I’m the luckiest of men.”
While the two men spoke, a dozen laborers carrying boxes on their shoulders trooped out of town, down the jetty and up the sloop’s gangplank. O’Malley’s crew commenced packing the emptied hogsheads with oilskin-wrapped bundles from the boxes.
From this purposeful chaos on deck emerged Mr. Stoker, helped along by Cushing. They reached the jetty and waited uneasily. The sloop’s crew deposited the passengers’ baggage at their feet.
It was time to take leave of the smuggler and hurry through the fading day to Ballynahinch, some miles inland. Captain O’Malley lounged down the gangplank like a dandy on the strut. He took up Jane’s hand and brushed her knuckles with his lips.
“Your servant, ma’am,” he cooed.
To Seelye, O’Malley said, “With my compliments, my lord,” and tossed him a paper-wrapped block.
One look at the label made Seelye snort: Galway’s finest Castille soap.
“Just what I wanted. How did you know?”
“You are not subtle in your wants,” the free-trader said with an insolent wink at Jane. “Adieu, my lady.”
Their party walked the jetty to shore. Seelye saw the ladies off in Martin’s carriage. He, Stoker, and the bear followed the gig up Roundstone’s main street but it rolled quickly out of sight as Bibendum dawdled.
Roundstone’s whitewashed houses welcomed the three pedestrians with brightly lit windows on both sides of the street, a cheery antidote for dank, dreary nightfall.
The street was otherwise empty. Or so Seelye imagined when they started up the narrow cobbled road.His Lordship's Last Wager
Chapter 40
In which push comes to shove. Or rather, slap comes to grief.
Mr. Stoker revived while walking through the village. Cool air and exercise seemed to improve his color as well. Seelye found the recuperating man pleasant enough company, though he did miss the frisson of having Jane close by.
“Feeling better?” he asked the runner.
“Better on dry land,” Stoker replied. “Sick as a dog, I was.”
“I was no better off than you,” he said and both stared ahead in embarrassment.
“That Lady Jane—” the runner began.
“Could’ve been a pirate queen herself in a past life,” Seelye finished the thought.
Hoyden Jane had resumed her guise as proper lady and was safely away. Dressed demurely by a meticulous lady’s maid, she was once again above a mere mortal’s touch, though not beyond his desire.
Despite her wool pelisse, the misty breeze molded her gown to her in a way that advertised her lower limbs provocatively. The sailors, O’Malley, hell, every male on board but the bear, was transfixed by the sight of her. She remained oblivious to her effect on them.
“Must say, my lord, that bear is well behaved, ain’t he?”
Seelye welcomed the chance to turn his thoughts in a wholesome direction. “Often better than the lady, Mr. Stoker. Bibendum is obedient unless—”
“Unless what?” the runner asked.
“We must hope there are no dinner parties along the way.” Seelye felt for sweets in his trousers pocket. “Turning him from his purpose can be a chore, even with horehound drops at hand.”
Halfway through the village, a door opened ahead of them. Candles within cast flickering light on the road until a shadow blotted it out. A squat man armed with a blunderbuss stepped into the street to bar their way.
“Turn back with that beast or I’ll deal with him,” the stout fellow said.
“And you are—?” Seelye replied with languid aristocratic condescension.
“Name’s Duane.”
“‘Fraid we can’t, Mr. Duane. Ballynahinch is that way.” Seelye gestured up the hill. “We’re expected at the castle.”
“And don’t I know it,” another man said and held a lantern in the doorway. Thick silver hair crowned his stern, angular face. A long, mostly straight nose bisected its center. Dense silver eyebrows beetled over a pointed, dark gaze.
Taller and better dressed than Duane, he was equally antagonistic, “You’ll not take that creature on my road, sir.”
He joined Duane in the middle of the cobbled road holding his lantern high.
“Hate to be a stickler, but you’ll address me as Lord Seelye,” he said with a perfunctory bow. “Y’servant.”
His two opponents did not challenge the absurdity of his dress and claim. Perhaps in the dark at that distance, they couldn’t see his tattered attire.
“I don’t care who you are,” the tall man said. “I am Denis Bowes Daly. I own the land south of this road. And I’ll not have that bear terrorizing my tenants, whatever Richard Martin or his son may allow north of it.”
“Bibendum won’t terrorize anyone. Let us pass and we’ll be out of your way, no harm done.”
“No harm done!” the taller man roared. “A bear set loose upon the land? Am I expected to sit back while it kills livestock? Or mauls my family? D’you think I’m cowed by Thomas Martin? Or by old Hair-trigger Dick himself? My arse.”
Seelye felt Bibendum’s low, corrugated grumble vibrate up the taut leather lead. Unless he remained calm, the bear was liable to live up to the man’s dire prediction.
“You’ve nothing to fear,” Seelye said pleasantly and played his trump card in the same cheerful manner. “Oh, pardon me, Mr. Daly, may I introduce my companion, Thomas Stoker of Bow Street.”
This elicited a surprised scowl, but his belligerence only sharpened. “This is Ireland, gentlemen. Different customs, different laws, separate jurisdiction. I should know, I am the local magistrate,” Daly trumped him, bent on confrontation.
“Ireland or England, no one owns the right of way except on toll roads, sir,” Stoker said. “We’re free to pass as a matter of law.”
Daly stepped forward, brandishing the lantern. “Around here, the law’s what I say.”
In a disputatious mood after the voyage, Bibendum growled audibly and tensed on all fours.
“See there, it’s snarling! Duane, shoot it.”
Seelye stepped closer to the bear. “Remain calm and there’ll be no trouble.”
“Calm, says he!” he choked. “The hell I will. Kill it, Duane.”
Taking exception to Irishman’s threatening manner, Bibendum charged a few steps ahead of Seelye with a throaty hu
ff and slapped the road with a paw.
“Bibendum, no!” Seelye commanded in a low, even voice and moved in front of the bear.
“Get yourself out of the way, rascal,” Daly said more emphatically. “Shoot it, damn you.”
The farmer refused to pepper an English lord with buckshot.
“Bibendum, sit for a treat,” Seelye said over his shoulder, attempting to distract his ursine bodyguard.
But no, the bear’s little eyes were fixed. Ignoring Seelye’s efforts, the animal heaved himself up onto his hind legs and growled from the depths of his chest. It was a harrowing sound Seelye hadn’t heard before.
The farmer jerked his weapon to his shoulder to take aim. “I’m shooting it where it stands, step aside, sir.”
Seelye threw his arms wide to shield as much of the bear as he could.
And curse him, Daly screamed, “Shoot, you fool, shoot!” with ever greater agitation, to which Bibendum took ever more vociferous exception.
“Damnation,” Seelye growled in disgust.
Without thinking, he did what Jane had done to him and he had done to Percy to calm the bear. He stepped up to the Irishman and in a loud, clear voice, said, “Bad Bowes Daly, bad!” And gave him an open-handed slap across the face that snapped his head back.
The sound of flesh thwacking flesh echoed off the buildings. After which, silence.
The bear stopped growling.
Daly stopped hurling Celtic imprecations.
Farmer Duane and Mr. Stoker stood aghast.
Seelye turned, waved a hand downward, and prayed.
Bibendum dropped to all fours, then sat on his haunches with a last grumble.
He could’ve kissed the bear, but it wasn’t over yet. Daly seethed. Seelye recognized his ugly look from years of facing men bent on killing him.
“Name your second,” he said.
“Mr. Daly, I apologize most sincerely. I had to—”
“You don’t strike a man in Ireland,” he said, “unless you wish to duel.”
“That is not my wish, my sole concern was calming the bear.”
“If it takes hitting me to settle the beast down, it needs to be shot. It’s you or the bear, take your pick.”
“I meant no offense. Pray, accept my apology,” Seelye said.
“Feck your apology. I’m no rustic you can abuse. I demand satisfaction. We’ll settle this the way gentlemen do in Galway,” he said. “Duane, be my second?”
“I will, sir,” the farmer confirmed.
Over his shoulder, Seelye asked, “Mr. Stoker?”
“I will, if I must,” he replied and agreed to meet Farmer Duane in the morning to make final preparations for a duel at dawn the day after. As the challenged party, Seelye chose pistols and left the choice of location to the seconds.
With that settled, the Irishmen stormed back into the house, but not before Daly called out, “And bring the bear, might as well save me the trouble of hunting it down.”
He punctuated this last taunt by slamming the front door closed.
The Englishmen left Roundstone in stunned silence. Bibendum ambled beside Seelye untroubled.
“How can a magistrate demand a duel, Stoker?”
“Dueling is legal in Ireland.”
“Be that as it may, I won’t shoot him. Made a vow and mean to keep it.”
“You’ve agreed to it, my lord, you must give satisfaction,” Stoker said. “You could delope, I suppose.”
“I won’t load the pistol.”
“Neither one?” Stoker asked in disbelief.
Seelye’s head hurt more with each pounding throb of his pulse when he asked, “There’s more than one?”
“Each man has a pair,” Stoker said. “And uses both, I believe.”
“I’ve only just landed. Where am I to get a pair of dueling pistols?”
“A man ain’t called ‘Hair-trigger Dick’ for naught, sir. Chances are, there’s a set at Ballynahinch. I’ll speak to Mr. Thomas Martin privately when we get there. No need to alarm the lady.”
“No, the less said about my imminent death, the better for everyone.”
“It won’t come to that. Cooler heads will prevail. I’ll speak to Duane in the morning, tell him you’ll not defend yourself on principle. Mr. Daly won’t kill you knowing that. Might want to wound you,” the runner supposed most unhelpfully. “No telling if a doctor’s to be had. Gangrene could set in. So it might still end badly, but I’ll do what I can.”
Four men in a dray approached. Seelye led the bear into a field to avoid spooking the draft horse. The driver yelled they were sent to fetch the crate from Roundstone. Seelye waved them on. Later, he and Stoker cleared off the road again for the loaded dray’s return to Ballynahinch.
Night gathered, its darkness ominous in the isolation of Connemara. Neither man shared his thoughts aloud, but their meditations were much the same. Mr. Stoker feared he would witness the death of a foolish man; Seelye thought it likely he would experience it.
Chapter 41
In which our hero enjoys his second-to-last supper.
When they arrived, Seelye settled Bibendum into his crate, which was left at a distance from the stables and dairy shed behind the manor. From there, a groom brought the two Englishmen to the main house, where Thomas Martin introduced ragged Seelye with all ceremony to his wife, Julia, and their daughter, Mary.
The little imp stepped forward to curtsey, wrinkled her nose, and disclosed that he smelled.
“Of course, I do,” Seelye knelt down to say. “One of my dearest friends is a bear.”
“A bear?” she breathed, “noooo.”
“On my honor, Miss Martin, it’s true. But by dinner, I shall smell more like a gentleman and less like my friend.”
She eyed him skeptically before informing him, “I’m not allowed at dinner.”
“Perhaps you’ll come down afterward and find I’m a man of my word.”
She accepted this and the adults concluded their introductions.
Seelye was led upstairs to a long hallway. He heard Cushing’s and Jane’s voices through the closed door of the first guest room, and was shown to his room at the far end, wherein he found a copper hip bath filled with steaming water. His one change of decent clothes—woeful for full dress—was cleaned, pressed, and ready on the bed. On the floor were his boots restored to a decent gloss, something he despaired of ever seeing again.
The prospect of a hot bath crowded out most thoughts of Jane luxuriating in her own bath, running soapy hands over her arms, breasts and long legs, all of her rosy and slick, sighing with pleasure, a cascade of ivory satin hair her vestal veil—
Thomas Martin’s valet cleared his throat.
“My apologies,” Seelye said to the man. He insisted on disrobing himself and handed the man the wadded-up worker’s clothes he’d lived and sweated in for much too long. “Burn them.”
“With pleasure, my lord,” the valet said, bland expression unaltered.
Dinner was equally restorative.
After the ladies withdrew, Seelye brought up the altercation in Roundstone to his host, assuming the duel was the sort of bombastication to which some Celts were prone. Mr. Martin’s somber expression told him otherwise.
After expressing outrage over Daly’s interference, Martin predicted Mr. Stoker had no hope of negotiating peace between the parties. He went on to explain local dueling protocol so Seelye wouldn’t find himself at a fatal disadvantage.
“You’ll stand 15 paces apart, facing each other,” Martin said. “When the handkerchief falls, start toward your man and fire at will.”
“With my body broadside to my opponent?”
“That’s how it’s done here, my lord,” he said. “If your first shot misses and you’re able, move in for your second. In his salad days, my father was known for closing till pistol muzzles almost touched before firing. You’ll use his Mantons, of course, they’re nicely balanced. Practice as much as you like with them tomorrow to get their feel.”<
br />
“I don’t intend to fire at him, as Mr. Stoker will tell my opponent’s second.”
Stoker shook his head, a very troubled bulldog and said, “I think it a poor idea, Mr. Martin.”
“Lord Seelye, you cannot give Daly two shots to none,” Martin agreed.
“I believe Mr. Stoker can resolve this misunderstanding without bloodshed. When his second learns of my intention—”
“It won’t help,” his host said. “Refusing to shoot is as insulting as the original offense.”
“But a gentleman would accept my apology under the circumstances.”
“That may be. Yet, I predict he will shoot you twice if you let him,” Martin said. “High-mindedness won’t save you, my lord. The man has too many scores to settle with my father to hold his fire. It’s too choice an opportunity to humiliate our family.”
“In that case, I must take Bibendum someplace remote tomorrow while I can. Daly’s bent on hunting him for sport and after the trouble I’ve gone to, I want him safely away. I won’t have Lady Jane’s heart broken by the local bully.”
“We’ve two hundred thousand acres, most of it remote,” Martin said. “So while I don’t underestimate his spite, I’m confident he’ll never find the bear once we let it go. The trouble is it’ll take time to find a spot where the bear can thrive.”
“We must do what we can in the time we have. ”
“For my part, I promise that if he shoots you, my men and I will shoot-to-kill any trespassing hunters in your honor.”
“I appreciate the gesture, but I’d rather not cause a blood feud by getting myself shot.”
“Oh, you wouldn’t be the cause, only the latest excuse to continue it,” Martin replied with a quirk of his lips.
“That’s a relief,” Seelye said dryly.
The next morning, Mr. Stoker set off for Roundstone on horseback to parlay with Daly’s second. He returned with a discouraging report.
His Lordship's Last Wager Page 34