Ramsay smiled benignly when he saw him. ‘Ah, Killigrew. My lords and ladies, may I present Commander Christopher Killigrew?’ He spoke French for the benefit of the English gentlefolk present.
When Bullivant recognised the commander, he turned puce. ‘We’ve already met,’ he said coldly, and turned to Ramsay. ‘This is the damned feller who’s come to negotiate our release?’
‘So he tells me.’
‘I suppose this is Admiral Napier’s idea of a joke. Can’t say I appreciate his sense of humour. Mind you, what can you expect from a damned Whig?’
‘I’m sure Sir Charles’ only concern in selecting me for this delicate mission was that I have a smattering of Swedish,’ Killigrew said smoothly. If not the whitest of lies, it was certainly a very pale shade of grey.
‘I’m not sure I understand…?’ said Ramsay.
‘I once had the gross misfortune to be engaged to Mr Killigrew,’ explained Araminta.
‘Never did approve of the match,’ snorted Bullivant. ‘The thought of any daughter of mine being married to a mere naval officer…!’ He shook his head in disgust.
‘Never mind, darling,’ Dallaway told Araminta. ‘You’re better off without him.’
‘I realised that a long time ago,’ she sniffed.
‘Perhaps a glass of champagne, Commander?’ Ramsay said, to break the uncomfortable silence that ensued.
‘Thank you, sir.’
Ramsay rang a small glass bell and a flunkey entered. ‘Champagne for Commander Killigrew, Renholt.’ Ramsay turned to Lady Bullivant. ‘As one of the conditions of his parole, the commander insisted on being allowed to see you, to be assured that you were being treated well.’ The general chuckled. ‘I think he had a notion that you were chained in some subterranean dungeon with slime dripping down the walls.’
‘Well, I’m delighted to see that nothing could be further from the truth.’ Killigrew accepted the champagne flute the flunkey passed him. ‘I would ask after the ladies’ wellbeing, but I’ve only to look at them to see they are both the very picture of health… and of loveliness, may I be so bold as to add?’
Lady Bullivant sniffed, and Araminta rolled her eyes and looked away with a contemptuous curl of her lips.
Killigrew glanced at Ramsay for help. The general returned his gaze with an expression of sympathy bordering on pity.
The commander cleared his throat. ‘To tell the truth, when Sir Charles invited me to undertake this mission, I was delighted to accept it. I felt.it would give me a chance to make amends for my boorish behaviour at our previous encounter.’
‘Really?’ snorted Bullivant.
‘I cannot imagine anything you can do that could make amends for your boorish behaviour, Mr Killigrew,’ sniffed Araminta.
The commander became uncomfortably conscious of how loud the ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall sounded.
‘Any news from Helsingfors?’ he asked Ramsay.
‘It seems the matter has gone beyond Helsingfors. I received a telegraph from St Petersburg just before noon: the Tsar sent a special emissary to assess the situation as soon as he received word of the Bullivants’ capture. He should be here some time today.’
‘That should help expedite matters.’
‘Yes.’
‘Indeed.’
Tick…
…tock…
…tick…
…tock.
‘The weather seems to be remarkably fine today,’ said Ramsay.
‘Yes, but I think it will rain before long,’ said Killigrew.
The clop of hoofs and the crunch of wheels on the gravel drive alerted them to the approach of another carriage. ‘Ah, that will be our sixth and final guest,’ said Ramsay, in the same relieved tone with which the Duke of Wellington had doubtless remarked upon the arrival of Marshal Blücher at the field of Waterloo.
Bullivant knitted his brows. ‘Your sixth guest?’
Ramsay smiled. ‘The gentleman who brought us all together…’
‘Not sure that’s anything to be grateful for!’ Bullivant glowered at Killigrew.
‘…Captain-Lieutenant Count Mikhail Yurievich Pechorin.’
Killigrew saw Araminta lower her gaze, her cheeks flushed. He frowned. ‘Captain-Lieutenant…?’
‘Count Mikhail Yurievich Pechorin,’ Ramsay told him. ‘The captain of the Atalanta, the paddle-sloop that brought in the Milenion.’
‘“Brought in”?’ Killigrew chuckled. ‘That’s one way of putting it.’
Araminta glared at him acerbically. ‘Count Pechorin is a true gentleman,’ she said primly. ‘But then, good breeding always shows.’
‘Good breeding,’ agreed Killigrew. ‘Or in-breeding.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
Christ, did I say that out loud? wondered Killigrew. ‘I said: “Good breeding, indeed”.’
The door opened and those seated rose to their feet at the entrance of a man in the uniform of a captain-lieutenant of the Russian Imperial Navy: not the regulation black-green, but the pure black favoured by the more dashing officers posted away from St Petersburg, and immaculately tailored if Killigrew was any judge. Count Pechorin was thirty or thereabouts, a tall man – Killigrew was five foot eleven in his stockinged feet, but the count towered four inches above him – with the broad shoulders, narrow waist and strong thighs of a ballet dancer. His clean-shaven, square-jawed face was undeniably handsome, crowned with boyish blond curls beneath his jauntily tilted peaked cap. The Cross of St George adorned his broad chest, and a gilt-hilted sabre hung at his left hip.
‘My dear Lord Bullivant!’ this dashing figure announced in faultless French. ‘Delighted to see you again! I trust Ramsay hasn’t been boring you with stories of his heroism as a young ensign?’
The general grinned good-naturedly, as if pleased to be the butt of the captain-lieutenant’s humour.
‘Not at all,’ Bullivant assured with a smile.
‘You are well, I trust?’
‘Capital, thank’ee, Count. And yourself?’
‘All the better for seeing your charming wife again. Lady Bullivant…’ Pechorin glanced from Lady Bullivant to her daughter and back again, frowning with mock bewilderment. ‘Are you quite certain you are not sisters, and are only pretending to be mother and daughter to make game of me?’
‘Oh, Count Pechorin!’ protested Lady Bullivant. ‘You are the most incorrigible flatterer!’
‘Then be flattered I find you delightful enough to be worth flattering. And Miss Maltravers… what can I say? The first time we met, I was astounded by your beauty. Yet what I find even more astonishing is that each time we meet, my astonishment grows rather than decreases. You look lovelier than ever.’ He took her hand and planted a kiss on it.
Araminta flushed bright crimson and moved her lips, but no sound would come out.
‘Are you all right?’ Ramsay asked Killigrew, who raised a hand to clutch at his chest while Pechorin paid his respects to Fru Ramsay.
‘Just an attack of bile,’ said Killigrew.
‘And Lord Dallaway.’ Although Pechorin continued to smile, there was a thinness in it now, and Dallaway’s response was equally frosty. Hullo, thought Killigrew, some friction there, I think. But of course: Lord Dallaway could only have been brought on board the Milenion as a prospective husband for Araminta, and he had not cared for the warmth with which she had greeted Count Pechorin’s arrival. From the look in Pechorin’s eyes, the antagonism was mutual. Killigrew could not help thinking that if Pechorin did not like Dallaway, that was a point in the Russian’s favour.
Pechorin turned to face Ramsay and Killigrew. ‘And who is this? An officer of Her Britannic Majesty’s Royal Navy? Have the British invaded Ekenäs yet again? How many barques laden with salt will you take this time, Commander?’
Pechorin’s reference to the Arrogant’s dubious feat of cutting a merchant ship out of the harbour made Araminta laugh merrily as if the count had just come up with a bon mot that would have turned
Sheridan or Dr Johnson green with envy.
‘Count Pechorin, may I have the pleasure of presenting Commander Christopher Killigrew of HMS Ramillies? Commander Killigrew is here to negotiate the release of Lord Bullivant and his family.’
Pechorin tutted. ‘Surely you would not be so cruel as to rob Ekenäs society of these charming ladies so soon, Commander?’
‘If Lord Bullivant and his family are content to remain here, then no one would be happier than I to leave them to it,’ Killigrew replied with a thin smile.
‘Killigrew, Killigrew…’ Pechorin frowned. ‘No relation of the Lieutenant Killigrew who so distinguished himself in the Arctic last year?’
‘I was there,’ Killigrew admitted reluctantly. ‘Not sure I can honestly say I “distinguished myself” …although I damned near extinguished myself.’ He grinned at the jest, but his gaze met only blank faces.
‘Yes, I’d heard that the expedition was something of a disaster; although you seem to have been promoted to commander on the strength of it?’ Pechorin smiled. ‘How like you English, to celebrate your failures in an attempt to delude yourselves into thinking them victories.’
‘We are not all so lacking in fibre as Mr Killigrew,’ sneered Dallaway.
Pechorin looked him up and down with a smile of amusement. ‘So I see, my lord.’
Renholt returned to announce that dinner was served. As they filed through into the dining room, Dallaway took time off from glaring daggers at Pechorin to catch Killigrew by the arm. ‘We still have unfinished business, you and I,’ he hissed in the commander’s ear.
Killigrew shook his arm free. ‘I think not,’ he said quietly.
‘I beg to differ.’
‘Is there a problem, gentlemen?’ asked Ramsay, who had already taken his place at the head of the table.
‘Only a matter of honour,’ said Dallaway, taking his place next to Lady Bullivant and opposite Araminta, who sat beside her father. ‘A quality of which Mr Killigrew seems to be singularly bereft.’
Killigrew smiled as he sat down in the only chair left: next to Dallaway and opposite Pechorin. ‘Honour being in such short supply, I prefer to ration mine.’
Ramsay knitted his brow. ‘I’m not sure I understand…?’
‘Lord Dallaway challenged Mr Killigrew to a duel,’ Bullivant explained while Renholt made his way around the table, filling everyone’s wine glass. ‘Mr Killigrew refused to accept.’
‘To the contrary,’ said Killigrew. ‘I accepted, and we fought there and then: on my terms.’
‘Fisticuffs,’ Bullivant explained to Ramsay, rolling his eyes. Pechorin looked bemused. ‘Hardly the preferred way for a gentleman to settle an affair of honour.’
‘I was merely mindful of the law, which prohibits duelling,’ explained Killigrew.
‘Really?’ Araminta said disdainfully. ‘Are you quite sure you were not mindful of the fact that Lord Dallaway is the finest swordsman in all England?’
Pechorin chuckled.
‘Something amuses you, Count?’ asked Dallaway.
Pechorin shook his head. ‘Nothing of importance, milord.’
Dallaway took umbrage. ‘No, do tell me, Count,’ he said in the hectoring tone of a schoolmaster berating a boy for sniggering in class. ‘What is it you find so amusing?’
It was Pechorin’s turn to take umbrage. ‘I was merely reflecting that being the finest swordsman in all England is a somewhat dubious accolade. No offence intended, I assure you, my lord,’ he added hurriedly as Renholt returned with a tureen of consommé and began to ladle it out. ‘But you understand, if you had told me you were the finest swordsman in all France, or all Italy, we might have more cause to be impressed.’
‘And you are an expert on fencing, I suppose?’ sneered Dallaway.
‘I dabble a little,’ said Pechorin.
‘Count Pechorin is being too modest,’ said Ramsay. ‘He has won the fencing championships of all the Russias for the past three years in a row.’
‘But Russia, like England, has no reputation for good swordsmanship,’ Pechorin said quickly. ‘I’m sure I am no match for his lordship.’
‘We could find out easily enough,’ said Dallaway.
‘Indeed,’ said Bullivant. ‘Since we’re fortunate enough to have the finest swordsmen of our respective countries here in this room, we should have a match; see who comes out on top, hey? My money’s on Dallaway.’
Pechorin shook his head. ‘I think not. It would not be seemly: Lord Dallaway is a prisoner of war; what would people say?’
‘Pay no need to my status,’ said Dallaway. ‘I’m game if you are… or could it be you’re afraid?’
Pechorin smiled at the accusation and shook his head.
‘I see no harm in a friendly little bout, provided both parties are in agreement,’ said Ramsay. ‘But we will need an independent judge…’
‘Why don’t you act as judge?’ suggested Bullivant, and Dallaway nodded. ‘I know you’re a Russian, but I think we can rely on your impartiality as a gentleman of honour.’
‘You flatter me, my lord. But then Count Pechorin will have no one to second him.’
‘I’ll second the count,’ said Killigrew. For reasons of his own, he wanted to see this, and was determined not to let the absence of a second for the Russian impede matters. ‘If you’re willing, Count Pechorin?’
‘I should be honoured,’ said Pechorin.
‘Trust you to side with the Russians, Killigrew!’ sneered Bullivant.
‘If we can lay aside the fact that our countries are at war for the duration of dinner, I see no reason why we cannot extend the truce for a fencing bout,’ Killigrew returned evenly.
After that, conversation was rather stilted at the dinner table until the dessert wine had been served. The ladies withdrew to the drawing room while the men made their way out on to the neatly clipped lawn at the back of the house. Renholt emerged with four swords: two épées boutonnées, and a couple of sabres. ‘You did not say whether the gentlemen wished to fence boutonnés or sans boutons, sir.’
‘Boutonnés or sans boutons, it’s all one to me,’ Dallaway said blithely, stripping off his tailcoat and handing it to Lord Bullivant.
Pechorin removed his tunic. ‘Boutonnés, I think.’
‘If you haven’t got the nerve…’ sneered Dallaway.
The count smiled. ‘I was merely thinking that we should keep this friendly. You are a… ah, shall we say, a guest? …in my country. It would not do if a man in Russian custody were to be injured.’
‘And I dare say you’d like it even less if a Russian officer were injured by a British civilian,’ said Bullivant.
‘As our guest, you may have first choice,’ Pechorin told Dallaway.
The young aristocrat chose one of the épées, and Pechorin took the other.
‘The usual rules,’ said Ramsay. ‘First to five hits wins.’
Dallaway and Pechorin stood facing one another.
‘Salute!’ ordered Ramsay.
The two combatants raised their swords to one another.
‘En garde!’
The ring of steel against steel rang out across the garden as Dallaway lunged and Pechorin parried. Dallaway’s first thrust was a feint, of course, and when his blade changed direction Pechorin was too slow to parry it.
‘Touché!’ Pechorin called it himself, backing away from the fight.
Dallaway smiled.
‘En garde!’ commanded Ramsay.
The two men closed again. This time it was Pechorin’s turn to make the first lunge, but Dallaway parried it quickly, touching the Russian a second time on the follow-through.
Pechorin grinned ruefully. ‘It seems English fencing is better than I gave credit for.’
‘En garde!’
Dallaway lunged and feinted; this time Pechorin parried successfully and riposted, parrying Dallaway’s counter-riposte. The two parted, and Pechorin lunged, his thrust turned aside at once by Dallaway’s parry and riposte.
> The two of them fenced back and forth across the lawn, watched intently by Ramsay, Killigrew and Bullivant. Pechorin was good, there was no hiding that, but he seemed totally out-classed by Dallaway, who maintained the initiative and kept the Russian on the defensive. After a couple of minutes of some of the best fencing Killigrew had ever seen, Pechorin received another hit.
‘So much for Russian swordsmanship,’ Bullivant muttered to Killigrew. ‘Fancy a wager?’
‘All right,’ said Killigrew. ‘Ten guineas on Count Pechorin.’
Bullivant stared at him. ‘You’d back the Russian? As you will. A fool and his money…’
By now Pechorin seemed to be getting into the swing of it, but Dallaway kept him on the defensive, and after a couple more minutes he hit the Russian a fourth time.
‘Care to concede now, Count?’ jeered Dallaway.
‘It’s tempting,’ Pechorin admitted. ‘But I’ll see it through to the end, if it’s all the same with you. My luck’s bound to change sooner or later.’
‘Luck ain’t got nothing to do with it, Count,’ said Dallaway. ‘It’s all about speed, agility and skill.’
The two men squared off again. ‘En garde!’ called Ramsay.
Dallaway and Pechorin crossed swords once more. Like Pechorin, Killigrew dabbled in fencing himself, and he had to admit Dallaway was a fine swordsman; but what happened next came as no surprise to him at all. The aristocrat lunged; Pechorin parried with a careless flick of his wrist, and touched Dallaway in the shoulder.
‘Touché!’ said Ramsay.
‘A very palpable touché,’ agreed Killigrew.
Bullivant scowled. ‘Sheer luck!’
‘You heard Lord Dallaway, milord: luck ain’t got nothing to do with it.’
The épées clashed again. The faces of the two men told the whole story: Dallaway was grimly determined, wearing the expression of a man racked by chagrin at having allowed himself to grow overconfident; Pechorin’s was calm – bored, almost – and a moment later he had touched Dallaway again.
When they set to once more, Dallaway was all over the place, his rage and frustration getting the better of him as Pechorin effortlessly held him at bay. Just as Killigrew had suspected, the Russian had been toying with Dallaway all along, letting him get the first four touches as he learned the Englishman’s set pieces and got a feel for his fencing style, without ever doubting that, once he set to in earnest, he would have no difficulty defeating Dallaway.
Killigrew’s Run Page 13