“The physicians have forbidden me to ride yet,” he said with both relief and regret.
“Then we could take the carriage,” she hurried on. “And we don’t have to go as far as Richmond, so your leg won’t be jostled. We could just take the coach to a grassy place off the carriage path in Hyde Park.”
He was tempted. Oh, how he was tempted. Sonia on a blanket in the sun, away from prying eyes and wagging tongues…
“And we’ll invite Hugh and Blanche to come along for propriety’s sake,” she pressed, determined to have more time with him, one way or another.
Thud, thud, tap. That was two legs and a cane coming back to earth. “And I suppose the dog, too? Very well, as long as he doesn’t dunk me in the Serpentine.”
*
The day set for the picnic was not ideal. Hugh thought it might shower. Blanche thought it might be buggy. Robb thought the ground might be too damp for the major to sit on. Sonia and Darius were going, period.
They took two carriages. To Hugh’s delight, he got to drive the major’s curricle, with the highbred bays. Blanche sat with Hugh, and Robb stood at the back as tiger and guardian of the beloved matched pair. Sonia and Darius followed in the dowager’s open landaulet, with Maisie and Fitz and the picnic basket. Ian rode with the driver.
Because the ton didn’t parade at such an unfashionable hour, they had the park nearly to themselves. Nursemaids and governesses found the day too dismal to linger with their charges. Sonia didn’t notice the overcast skies, and Darius was pleased the gabble-grinders would not have Sonia’s name to chew. Hugh found a spot where the tanbark dipped close to the river, and a little knoll and some trees made a pretty vista. They took a short walk while the servants tethered the horses and spread blankets and pillows and enough food to feed twice their number. Or half their number and Fitz.
They passed one other couple, Sir Wesley Norbert and Mrs. Quentin-Jones, who were less likely to run to the tattle-baskets than most, so Darius was able to relax. He was grateful, in fact, to sink down onto the blankets with his back propped against a tree and a cushion under his leg, after their brief stroll. He wasn’t used to carriage rides or uneven ground. Besides, sitting down, he didn’t have to concentrate on where he was putting his feet. He could stare at Sonia to his heart’s content, drinking in the sight of her in nile green jaconet, with clusters of yellow rosebuds and ribbons strewn around. Who cared if the sun did not shine? She was springtime to him.
The servants had a blanket and basket of their own, so Sonia got to fuss over Darius, heaping his plate, filling his glass, asking at least once a minute if he was comfortable. “You don’t have to try so hard, sweet Sonia,” he whispered. “I am content just being with you.” Neither Blanche nor Hugh commented on Sonia’s blushes or shy, answering smile. Blanche was discovering that Hugh’s war stories were even more exciting than her romance novels, and he was feeling less a Sunday soldier with a nice young girl hanging on his every word. Sonia and Darius could have been in another world for all they cared.
The food was gone too soon, and the ground was beginning to feel damp through the blankets, yet no one wanted to go home. There was still a bit of wine left and some lemonade, so they gave themselves another few moments.
Then a group of horsemen rode along on the path. Instead of passing by, they dismounted and tied their horses to bushes and branches, before approaching the little group under the tree. There were five of them, one with a cherry-striped waistcoat, one with canary trousers, and one with a satisfied smirk on his face. Ansel Berke.
*
Cry “Havoc!” and let slip the dogs of war.
Chapter Seventeen
Trust the bloodthirsty Romans to come up with a cheery turn of phrase like that. They really did have dogs of war, you know, whole packs of huge canines that they let loose before their invading armies, to soften up the enemy lines, as it were.
Do you know how they got those dogs to fight like that? They starved them! That’s right. They did throw them the occasional arm or leg, to teach them that people were food.
I can see an army of bees. Geese maybe, but dogs? If they were not starving or protecting someone they love, they’d be stopping off at every bush. And I’m sorry to say this, but we have been known to fight over the same bone. Then again, one bitch in heat and your whole battalion goes to the dogs!
Why would dogs go to war anyway? Do you think the perros of Spain care whether it’s the French or the British who overrun their country, decimating the fields and forests? Between them they take every pollo and rabbit, leaving nada for man or mousito. Peon and pup will starve either way. Madre de gatos, war is hell on the hounds, too! Then again, some wars are inevitable.
*
“We have some unfinished business, Conover,” Berke announced when he was a few yards away. Hugh and the girls scrambled to their feet, and the servants hurried over, forming a protective ring around the blanket. Darius stayed where he was, reclining against the tree trunk.
“Not in front of the ladies, I think” was his only reply.
“He’s right,” one of the baron’s companions said. Sonia recognized him as one of Rosellen’s foppish court. “Not good ton, old man. Mustn’t sully delicate ears and all that.”
Berke scowled at the pomaded dandy. He’d only brought the pack of useless caper-merchants along because he did not want to confront Warebourne alone. The skirter was too eager to use his fists. And Berke had to get this settled soon. Conare had paid his most pressing debts, on the condition that Berke bring matters to a head. As soon as he’d received word from Sir Norbert that Warebourne was in the park, Berke knew he had to act today. Besides, he thought his bravado would make him look nobler in Miss Randolph’s eyes. Or Lady Blanche’s, if it came to that.
He bowed to Sonia, then to Blanche. He threw his chest out, in a new plum satin waistcoat printed with pink cabbage roses, and announced, “My apologies, ladies, but I dare not let the dastard get away.” He turned back to his hand-picked audience. “I’m afraid he’ll find another reason to cry off. First he hid behind his brother, then his uniform. Next he found a dog to make his excuses.” He paused while the men around him laughed. “Now he hides behind a woman’s skirts.”
Darius was still comfortably propped against the tree, an insultingly casual reaction to Berke’s cock-of-the-walk swagger. “I don’t consider a picnic in Hyde Park in broad daylight to be precisely hiding, Baron. I just find you de trop at this moment.”
Berke started to get red in the face. “I don’t care what you think, you makebait. I’ve been waiting and waiting for you to stick your nose outside. If you can stand, you can duel.”
“He can’t,” Sonia put in before Darius could answer. “We came in the carriages”—she waved to show how close they were parked —“and all the servants helped.”
Darius frowned. “Hugh, take the ladies away.”
“Dash it, Major, you said I could be your second. How can I make the arrangements if I’m off nursemaiding two chits?”
“That was not a request, Lieutenant,” Darius stated in a voice used to being obeyed, and instantly.
“Don’t you dare pull rank on my brother at a picnic, Darius Conover, because you cannot order me around anyway. I am not leaving.” Sonia was in her usual try-to-stop-me mode: arms crossed, feet firmly planted, a look of determination in her blue eyes that could have stopped Boney in his tracks.
Darius shook his head. Someone really had to take that chit in hand one of these days. He smiled, thinking about being the one. Then he turned to the dog, who was wagging his tail next to him. He put one hand on Fitz’s back to pull himself up. “It’s the least you can do, old son. Now sit, sir.” He reached down for his cane. “And stay. There has been enough interference from you willful Randolphs. The dog should obey me, at least.” He took two steps nearer Berke. “As you can see, I can walk.”
“Aha! What did I tell you?” Berke crowed to his cronies. “The pudding-heart was just stalling!”
“Sonia, sweetheart,” Darius said, looking right at Berke, “pour me a glass of wine, will you, my dear?”
Hugh’s mouth fell open, and one of the men behind Berke snickered. “Dutch courage, eh?”
Sonia bit her lip to keep from laughing, but Berke worked himself into a rage at the endearments, as Darius knew he would.
“Why, you miserable mawworm, to be insulting a gently bred female with familiarity like that! Dueling is too good for you. You ought to be horsewhipped!”
Sonia, meanwhile, poured the last of the wine into a glass and handed it to Darius. “Here, darling.” She smiled and batted her lashes at him.
The major’s lips twitched as he took the glass and went another few steps closer to Berke. When only a foot or two separated them, he told the baron, “Very few things in this world will give me as much satisfaction as putting a bullet through you. Perhaps this is one of them.” With which he tossed the contents of his glass in Berke’s face. He watched as the red wine dripped down the baron’s chin and onto his starched cravat. “There, now your neckcloth matches your waistcoat. Perhaps you’ll start a new fashion.” He turned his back on the peer and carefully wiped his fingers on a napkin Sonia thoughtfully provided. “Thank you, my dear. Oh yes,” he tossed back over his shoulder. “Consider yourself challenged. If you’ll be so good as to name your seconds, I’m sure my enthusiastic young friend here shall be delighted to call.”
“No!” Berke raged. “We’ll settle the details now in case you decide to run off to the army again. Let everyone see the thing was done right. You challenged, so I get the choice of weapons.”
One of the Tulips lisped, “But you mustn’t pick swords, Baron. Not when the fellow’s practically a cripple. Noblesse oblige and all that.”
“Au contraire, mes amis.” Darius twisted the top of his cane. The sheath fell away and he suddenly held a long, thin rapier in his hand. Before Berke’s horrified eyes, the blade swished through the air, whistled past his ear, and sliced off, not one, but two of the buttons on his waistcoat. “Go ahead. Choose swords.”
“Pistols,” Berke croaked. “Pistols.”
“Excellent. Shall we say two days hence? That should give you enough time to find a surgeon, for do not fool yourself into believing I mean to delope. Unless, of course, you wish to retract your statements concerning a certain card game now, in front of these witnesses.”
“Never!”
Darius held the sword to Berke’s neck. “I do not believe we need to trouble the ladies further with the time and place, do you?”
“No, no. As long as it’s settled.”
“It’s settled, all right. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
*
The drizzle started when the subdued group was packing the baskets and blankets. Darius insisted Blanche and Maisie ride with Sonia in the landaulet, its cover drawn, while he rode in the open curricle with Hugh.
“Don’t argue, for once,” the major told Sonia when she protested. “Hugh and I have things to discuss. This will save time. And I have been out in far worse. I am not like to expire from an inflammation of the lungs in the next two days.”
Sonia was not amused. She climbed stiffly into the carriage and did not speak to Blanche or her maid on the ride home. She did clutch the damp dog to her side, oblivious to the damage to her gown.
Blanche’s aunt’s residence was closest, so they dropped her off first. A sober-faced Hugh got down to walk Blanche to her door, after she hugged Sonia good-bye.
Ian handed Miss Randolph out at Atterbury House. Marston started down the steps with a large black umbrella, until he saw the glum expressions on all the faces. He marched back up, umbrella and all. Bad enough he had to face disgrace in the hallway; he didn’t have to go outside looking for it.
Darius climbed down from the curricle and caught up with Sonia under the portico’s shelter. He was breathing hard from the exertion, and he looked back to see Hugh hunched over at the ribbons, sitting in the rain waiting for him. Robb was at the horses’ heads, stroking them. “Damn and blast!” Darius muttered. “This isn’t the way—”
Sonia put her hand on his sleeve. “I know, you mustn’t keep the horses standing.”
“I shan’t be in the park tomorrow morning, you know. There are too many things needing to be done.”
Sonia thought of how he must hire carriages and book passages, in case he had to flee. He needed to see his solicitor and his man of business and his bank. She nodded.
“It’s better this way,” he said, putting his hand over hers, then bringing her hand to his lips.
“Better for whom?”
“Just better. I hate good-byes. And we had today, didn’t we?”
“Yes, it was lovely.” She tried to smile for him.
“There’s my brave girl,” he said, still holding her hand. “I’d tell you not to worry, but—”
“But that would be foolish, like telling me not to breathe. I’ll pray for you.”
“I know you will. And trust me, Sunny.” He brushed a damp curl back under her bonnet. “I—no, just trust me.”
“I do. Now go before Hugh takes a chill and misses his big chance, and before you see I am not so brave at all.”
“No good-byes?”
She shook her head. “No good-byes, just Godspeed.”
He kissed her hand again and then bent toward her and quickly brushed his lips over hers. He turned and started down the stairs.
“Darius, wait!” Sonia ripped one of the sodden yellow rosebuds off her gown and tossed it to him. Darius caught the bit of silk in his hand, carefully placed it inside his coat, next to his heart, and bowed. Then he left without looking back.
*
Everyone in London knew of the duel. Berke made sure of that, especially since the location remained a secret so the authorities couldn’t interfere. Lady Atterbury closed the house to callers. If anyone was laying this pottage in her dish, she didn’t want to know about it. Uneasily she felt she might have done something to avoid the imbroglio, spoken to Rosellen or sent Sonia out of town. Deuce take it, she was just a tired old lady. She decided to have palpitations instead of pangs of remorse.
Marston was grateful. With no visitors, he didn’t have to dart into the butler’s pantry for a nip. He kept a flask of the old duke’s port right in his tailcoat.
Bigelow declared the whole household was going to hell in a handcart, then out of boredom she picked up one of the discarded novels. “Trash,” she declared. “Moral turpitude.” Then, “Oh my.”
So there was no one to insist Sonia keep her appointments, or keep her head up despite the gossip making the rounds. Which was a good thing, since Miss Randolph just stayed in her rooms. She didn’t read, wouldn’t see Blanche or Hugh, never opened her father’s latest letter. She did not eat much, and she even sent Fitz out with Ian for the dog’s exercise. Strange, Ian commented to Maisie, the dog’s coat was usually damper before his walk than after.
*
Swans mate for life.
Chapter Eighteen
More men than women remarry after the death of their spouse. Men are more conscious of a need for an heir; they are also more helpless. The men are used to having someone pamper them, or miss having a person around who cannot quit if she dislikes the position.
Women, conversely, remarry less, especially if they find themselves well off, like Lady Atterbury and her friends. For the first time in their lives they have a modicum of freedom and independence, with no father or husband as overlord. They have friends, entertainments, the willing paramour or two. For some women, one taste of married life is enough to convince them they do not need second helpings.
Of course, there are some women who wear black for the rest of their lives out of fondness for their departed husbands. Some of them just hang the crepe in their heart and never find another man they could love so well.
Miss Sonia is loyal. She never forgets her old friends; she never kept another “pet.” Her mar
e, Dilly, does not count; that’s transportation. She writes to her father every week, never speaks ill of George’s wife, Jennifer, does not buy French lace. She is true-blue. I taught her well.
It took Miss Sonia eighteen years to settle on Darius Conover. I did not have another eighteen years to wait for her to find another mate. Her heart broken, she might go back to Berkshire to mourn. I’d already tried my luck there at finding her a father for her children. Worst of all, by King Arthur’s Clavall, she might decide never to marry!
Besides, I like the major.
So it looks like I’m going to have to play Canis ex machina again. I’m ready, I just cannot see my way clear.
I cannot use the same technique as last time. The major is too downy a cove to fall for the same trick twice. And his legs are much stronger. I could knock the baron down, but there is no guarantee he’d break his leg, and they’d just go at it later. These two are determined to commit mayhem on each other.
I am preparing myself to make the ultimate sacrifice. I’ll leap between the major and the bullet if I have to. My father would face a horde of wolves to protect his lambs, if there were still wolves in England. My mother would fight to the death any threat to her pups. I could do no less. I was ready.
*
The gathering of gentlemen, mostly officers, at Ware House lasted well past midnight, with songs and laughter and fine wines and food. In the usual way of soldiers before battle, everything was spoken of except the duel. Conover’s friends left with hearty backslaps and calls of “See you tomorrow,” or “Remember that mill on Saturday next.”
After they left, Darius sent Hugh up to bed and told Robb to get some sleep, too: He opened the door for Fitz to go across the square, but the cork-brained mutt stayed sprawled by the fire. “Stay, then. I’ll send you home later.”
Darius went back to his study for a final check that everything had been taken care of. When he threw another log on the fire, the dog followed him, collapsing in front of the hearth with a sigh, as though the effort were too much. The major smiled and turned to his desk and the lists he’d spent two days making. Things had been so much easier when he only had to face death at the hands of the French. He had no property then, no dependents. Robb would see to his horse and personal possessions; Milo would look after everything else.
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