His Lordship's Last Wager

by Miranda Davis

  He’d made clear to the farmer that the English lord would not shoot or return fire. It did no good.

  According to Duane, Daly had one condition for accepting Seelye’s apology—if, and only if, he was permitted to kill the bear ‘for the safety of all.’ He was determined to teach Dick Martin a lesson.

  Seelye was incredulous. He didn’t want to die. There was Bibendum to free. And Jane to see home and shackled to some lovable buffoon. He had obligations—however distasteful.

  Who was Denis Bowes Daly to kill an unarmed man and a blameless animal? He was no gentleman, certainly. Did he deserve a gentleman’s consideration? Seelye questioned whether the circumstances were sufficiently extenuating to set aside his personal vow and defend himself after all.

  The temptation insinuated itself in his thoughts. Justifications multiplied. Wasn’t he right to defend his life against such a one? Daly deserved a lead ball or two, did he not? Only a coward without honor or conscience would kill a tamed bear. Or an unarmed man—

  His conscience reproached, ‘Are you not such a man yourself?’

  In the end, the other man’s character was not at issue. The question was what kind of man he himself chose to be. Would he be someone whose ‘honor’ was so malleable, it bent to suit all contingencies? Whose word as a gentleman was worthless when put to the test?

  Seelye resisted the answer until a final thought occurred.

  If, contrary to what he’d declared through his second, he loaded his pistols and used them, he would make himself a liar and a cheat capable of any treachery to save himself. However much he wished to live, he would not be that man.

  His pulse normalized. He took slow, deep breaths and relaxed into acceptance. The duel was at dawn in a meadow up the road from the castle.

  There was a great deal to do before then.

  * * *

  The morning after they arrived, Jane welcomed the opportunity to stroll the grounds and talk of commonplace matters with Julia Martin. The two women discussed family, the sweetness of the Martins’ little girl, and the womanly rewards of managing one’s own household.

  It was a comfortable conversation between equals in privilege.

  Julia Martin was an heiress in the upper echelon of Irish society, born to another of the Tribes of Galway. Impeccable manners and her innate warmth thawed Jane’s usual reserve with strangers. So much so that she found herself asking about Mr. Martin’s health, a subject otherwise too intimate for acquaintances to broach.

  “Mr. Martin was shot in the shoulder and the head, but the shoulder troubles him more because he uses it more frequently,” Julia joked. “Martin men are known for their hard heads.”

  “It’s a universal male trait, based on my observations of Lord Seelye.”

  “Too true or he’d not refuse to shoot in a duel.”

  “A duel?” Jane gasped. “Here? Why?”

  “I thought you knew,” Mrs. Martin faltered, “Oh, dear, I’ve spoken out of turn.”

  Jane struggled to make sense of Julia Martin’s slip. The previous day, Seelye had been in good spirits shambling up the road to Ballynahinch. He said nothing when the men joined the ladies in the drawing room after dinner. In fact, he was everything charming to little Mary Martin when the nanny presented her to the guests.

  Indeed, Mary fell under his lordship’s spell as precipitously as every other female. Yet, the little sprite managed to make him blush by saying, “You do smell better now. I’m glad.”

  Memories of their amusement evaporated.

  “You must tell me everything,” Jane said. “If Lord Seelye is to fight a duel, I must know why.”

  * * *

  London

  Not recognizing the seal, His Grace, the Duke of Bath, slit the letter open to read:

  10 April 1817

  My Lord Duke,

  I write to assure you that your sister will travel to London with the proper companionship of a lady’s maid from Athlingcourt tomorrow.

  Lord Seelye has kept her from harm and, with my assistance, she returns without mishap.

  Yours very truly,

  Thomas Stoker

  Rummer Inn

  All Saints Lane, Bristol

  George stood up from his desk with a grunt of disgust. That was written almost a week ago. He’d very much like to know where the devil was she? Who’d she shoot or bamboozle in the meantime? And where was that prat of a brother-in-law?

  This was Seelye’s fault as much as his sister’s. If it weren’t for him, she’d have never undertaken a lunatic scheme like this. Seelye gave her the gumption. Always did, the fool. His grace was sorely tempted to cane all the gumption out of both—if only he could get his hands on them.

  Although, come to think of it, George doubted Seelye would let himself be thrashed. He wasn’t gargantuan like his comrades Clun or Ainsworth, but tall enough. With solid science in pugilism. Had a punishing right—

  His thoughts momentarily wandered from his original point: fury over Jane’s delay and disgust over Seelye’s failure to use the thimbleful of commonsense the Almighty had given him.

  Having returned to the topic, he said, “That does it. Unless he’s eaten by the bear, I will not forgive this.”

  He stormed off to look for Gert and tell her as much.

  Chapter 42

  In which our hero faces his demons.

  A knock on his bedchamber door announced someone’s precipitous entrance well after midnight.

  Too tense to retire, Seelye sat hunched over a desk in the guest room, barefoot, in pantaloons and partly unbuttoned shirt. Jane gave him no time to think, much less make himself decent.

  “Seelye, we must speak at once,” she said. “This stupid duel will not take place, do you hear me?”

  “Yes, I hear you.” Without turning or looking over his shoulder, he added, “A duel you say?”

  “Don’t deny it, Mrs. Martin let it slip.”

  “Ah.”

  In the candlelight, he finished dressing a quill, straightened the sheet of foolscap, and uncapped the ink standish.

  Earlier in the evening, Seelye had accepted the writing materials from Martin without demur. It was customary to put one’s affairs in order prior to an early morning meeting. He’d already written and sealed a letter to George taking the blame for Jane’s escapade.

  “You know that it’s stupid?” she asked.

  “I do.” He was in no mood to debate. “But you’ve taught me that one cannot always be true to oneself and please others.” He dipped the quill and began to write while she sputtered.

  “Well, that’s so, but surely in this case—What’s that you’re writing?” she asked more quietly.

  Modesty kept him facing the desk when he said, “A letter to the family solicitor.”

  “What sort of letter?”

  “The usual sort, just in case, stating wishes, how to dispose of things—what little will remain after Mrs. Carmody helps herself. She’s a felon at heart, that one. You’ll see it’s delivered to Lincoln’s Inn, won’t you?”

  “A will?”

  “It’s long overdue. Thought it might jinx me during the war.”

  There was an audible sniffle before she repeated, “Just in case?”

  “Oh, for the love of God, must I lend you my last, clean pocket square?” He pulled it from his pantaloons pocket and held it out without turning. “If I had my watch to give,” he said to himself, scanning the page. He paused then dashed a sentence off with a flourish. “Clun may have my quizzing glass, he’ll enjoy the absurdity of the gesture.”

  “That’s not funny,” she said, just behind him.

  He kept his seat rather than stand to take her in his arms, something he longed to do to console himself in his final hours.

  “Is that all?” he said brusquely.

  “I don’t need your pocket square. I won’t shed a tear for you, if that’s what you prefer.”

  “I do. Much,” he lied. “And although it may disappoint you, I am still
optimistic that Daly won’t shoot me when reasoned with.”

  “And if he can’t be reasoned with?” she demanded most unhelpfully. “I thought you clever but you’re not. You’re an idiot and a cad. If you are set on doing this, you won’t mind if I malign you after you’re dead.”

  “No. Have at it,” he replied before her comment registered. He twisted around in the chair. “The devil you say? I’ve been a gentleman—no, a bloody saint! I should be beatified for all the miracles I’ve managed on your behalf. Slander would be too shoddy.”

  “Only a cad would disappoint me, you said so yourself. Besides, you’ll be dead, no reason for you to care what I say.”

  “Even a penniless dead man wants to leave behind his good name. How could you be so ungrateful?”

  “I’ll be very cross with you for getting yourself killed,” she said. “I will hate you for it.”

  “Is that so? Lest you forget, I am defending your bear and my principles.”

  “I am notoriously ill-tempered.”

  “Right.” He swung back to the desk and started scratching angrily at the paper with quill. “Then I’m adding a nasty codicil (scritch-scritch-scritch-scritch) to make clear why (scritch-scritch) you deserve no token of remembrance, having been the agent of my demise.” He stabbed the quill down, splitting it. “There.” He turned back to glare at her and noticed her wringing his handkerchief. “I’ll have that back now, if you please.”

  “What?”

  He stuck out a hand. “And I shall remain disgusted with you from beyond the grave, should I find myself there,” he said and turned his back. “The ruddy cheek!”

  “I will never forgive you if you let that awful man kill you,” she whispered.

  With no response at the ready, he peeked at her out of the corner of his eye.

  “I’ll hate you as long as I live,” she added. “And that is my final word.”

  He watched her let the mangled linen fall and rush from the room.

  After she left, his temper cooled to heartache. He would die loving her and she would hate him until she forgot all about him. Perhaps it was best that way. On the other hand, how dare she hate him? Or threaten posthumous character assassination for dying in a duel over her damned bear? The least she could do is send him off with a heartfelt ‘Good luck and Godspeed.’

  Was that too much to ask?

  He stewed for minutes, sick with the witty rejoinders he might’ve said, if only he’d thought of them in time. L’esprit de l’escalier was a torment not to be borne on one’s last night on earth. Tonight, he would have the absolutely final, final word with Lady Jane Babcock.

  Seelye padded barefoot down the long hall to her room. He flung the door open and swept the room with smoldering eyes. It was empty. Cushing had long since retired to the servants’ quarters.

  “Where are you?” he growled.

  He tiptoed to a door, jerked it open, found an empty dressing room, and shut it.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he spied the curtains of the four poster bed twitch. He stomped over, grabbed the fabric to fling it apart.

  “Aha!” was the last thing he said.

  Whump! the last thing he heard.

  A faceful of mattress, the last thing he felt.

  Seelye woke up chilled. His head ached when he moved it and his brain sloshed uncomfortably. He tried to rub his forehead where it hurt but couldn’t.

  Odd.

  Both his arms were flung wide. His legs weren’t numb or paralyzed like his arms, but he couldn’t very well massage his throbbing temples with a foot.

  What happened?

  Ah, yes.

  “Jane,” he said.

  He heard a rustle before the bed curtain was whisked open. Jane took up a candlestick, its dancing flame quite blurry. He blinked and tried to rub his eyes clear but couldn’t. What the devil was wrong with his arms?

  She stood by the bed, her hair hung past her waist in long, lank streams of palest gold.

  “Does your head hurt?” she asked without remorse.

  “Like the devil. What happened?”

  “I hit you with a heavy book,” she said, “You’ve been snoring since.”

  “You what?” He struggled to sit up without success. He looked at the end of his right arm and found his wrist bound to the bedpost with a silk stocking with clocks. So was his left.

  “Are those your—”

  “I had nothing else at hand. Sturdy though, aren’t they?”

  “Very.” He tested them with a hard yank. “Untie me.”

  Only then, he noticed she wore a dressing gown over a thin chemise. He hadn’t taken note of her getup when she barged into his room spoiling for a fight.

  Astonishing how much one misses when distracted by mortality.

  “Years ago, I realized being impossible was the best way to stay unmarried long enough to marry the man I loved,” she told him. “I was difficult a thousand ways to Sunday, because I’ve only ever wanted to marry one hopelessly thick man.”

  “Forget Ralph. There are other men, worthier men, cleverer men, I promise you.”

  “I became the Ice Maiden, the Intolerable, et cetera, all to achieve my end,” she continued, ignoring his outburst. “But now, I comprehend how pointless that was. What I felt for you was hopelessly juvenile. Nor would you welcome it, if I were still infatuated with you.”

  “Me?” he croaked, his mouth suddenly dry.

  “But I have no childish tendre for you to dismiss, or mock, or whatever you’d be inclined to do, Seelye. I am a rational person doing what I must to save a stupid, stubborn friend.”

  “But I thought—”

  “How could you think I fell in love with Ralph? I was young and foolish, granted, but never such a ninny as that. I loved you. I vowed to marry you.”

  His mind balked. “Me.”

  Poor Jane, what an idiot I am. And now, it’s too late.

  “—Call it principle or honor, I don’t care,” she was saying. “I will not let you to die for it.”

  “Let me go before any harm’s done,” he said with growing desperation, “—and stop saying I’ll die. It’s not a given that I will.”

  “I won’t take that chance,” she said with an obstinate lift of her chin. “You shall stay here till the hour of the duel has passed.”

  “You will not make a coward of me, Jane, I’ll reschedule,” he said angrily. “You can’t keep me here much longer anyway. An upstairs maid will come along at first light to stir the coals. You must release me now, for if anyone finds me here like this, the scandal would ruin you.”

  He welcomed her furrowed brow and pursed lips.

  “You’re absolutely right,” she said slowly, perfectly calm. “I take it back, Seelye, you are clever. That’s much better than my plan. A delay is no use if you can reschedule. What’s needed is scandal.”

  “Wait, what?”

  She set the candleholder on the bed stand. Glaring at him, she slid the dressing gown off her shoulders with defiant deliberation. The silk whispered down her arms. Its seductive sibilance made his skin prickle all over. Nothing but a wisp of cotton lawn covered her.

  “Storming into my room was most improper. And by doing so, you have compromised me.”

  “It wasn’t proper, I’ll admit.” He swallowed hard. “But you clobbered me to preserve your virtue. There’s a lump on my head to prove it.”

  “Strictly speaking, your intrusion compromised me, lump or no,” Jane insisted primly. “But if you will not concede the point—” She weighed her options in thoughtful silence before saying, “I must be ruined before witnesses.” She moved closer to the bed’s edge to lean over him. “I regret having to use your precious honor against you, but I will if I must. We are alone. You are in my bed, practically undressed. As am I—”

  “No, no, we’re mostly dressed and must stay that way,” he babbled, staring at the ribbon bow that gathered the neckline of her diaphanous chemise.

  “Well, if you’re going to b
e a stickler,” she sniffed and straightened up. She squared her shoulders and with steady hands started to pull the bow’s ends.

  He meant to protest but his heart had stopped and its seizure left him breathless. He lay transfixed by the sight of her about to disrobe. That is, until his conscience nagged and he commenced struggling to free himself with eyes clenched shut. The bed frame, sturdy as it was, never creaked.

  “The facts are that you barged in here in bare feet and deshabille. I can see your naked chest, sir. There’s no denying that whoever discovers us in this state will be deeply mortified,” she said somewhere close by. “But I know you are a gentleman. You won’t ruin me and abandon me to fight a duel you cannot survive. I’ll call for Cushing now. That should do, don’t you think?”

  “Cushing’s loyal to the family, she won’t betray you,” he said.

  “Would you really rather die than have to marry me?”

  Startled by the anguish in her voice, he opened his eyes to find her holding the loosened chemise over her breasts, looking absurdly indignant.

  “That’s not the point and you know it,” he said, feeling the stirrings of arousal.

  “If the appearance of impropriety won’t compel you,” she said with steely emphasis, “you must ruin me in fact, for a gentleman must marry a maiden he’s debauched, isn’t that so?” Her militant blue eyes blazed. “You may hate me for the rest of your life, Seelye, I won’t care.”

  He stopped straining at his bonds.

  “Oh, Jane,” he said. “Look at me.” He waited for her to meet his gaze before saying, “I have never hated you. I have only wanted what’s best for you. Please let me go.”

  “Call off the duel.”

  “I’ve been challenged. It’s a matter of—”

  “Stubborness,” she hissed at the same moment he said, “honor.”

  They glared at each other.

  “Servants will be up soon,” Seelye said. “Stoker may come looking for me, too.”

  “Better yet, my brother’s runner shall find us in bed. Together,” she said, blushing furiously. “Beyond redemption.” She inhaled, turned her head, and let the chemise slip down her body to the floor.