Scamp's Lady

by Jackie Walton

  Kit took one step towards Tarleton and struck him across the face with his glove. “Here and now?” As it was wartime, military officers wore functional swords at all times, but Kit and Tarleton were under parole and unarmed.

  “Most certainly.”

  Kit looked over to General Vaughan. “Will you honor me as second, sir?”

  “Absolutely!”

  “May I also have the privilege?” Prince William joined the small group in the center of the ever-expanding empty space in the middle of the dance floor.

  Kit bowed as Tarleton yelled for Haversham and Dyre.

  Deborah put her hand on Kit’s sleeve. “No, you can’t have a duel!”

  Kit lifted her hand and kissed it. “Of course not, my dear. A duel in Mistress Nesbitt’s drawing room would be unconscionable. We will move to the garden.”

  “Kit!”

  “Don’t worry.”

  But she did. Tarleton was a noted swordsman, and the injury to his right hand did not diminish his sword fighting abilities one bit.

  Kit nodded to the Prince who stepped in to take her elbow. The entire party made its way to the garden. It was cold, but Kit handed his jacket to the general and took the heavy cavalry sword from one of the other officers. Tarleton did likewise.

  They lifted their swords in salute. Tarleton struck the first blow. Kit lifted his sword to easily parry it. In the first few minutes, the two tested each other. Then Tarleton executed a murderous set of strikes, driving Kit back. Deborah snapped the fan blades in her hands and stepped forward. Someone pulled her back as Kit came off the defensive and went on offense. Tarleton took blow after blow, but Kit was unable to get through his defenses.

  Kit’s blows drove Tarleton back to a tree. It looked like Kit might be able to win, but Tarleton caught Kit’s sword over their heads and pushed him back. With his maneuvering room once again established, Tarleton pushed forward. His sword sliced up and down, never striking at the same place twice, but Kit ably defended against each stroke.

  The fore and back rhythm began again. It could have been a macabre country dance, saving the music.

  Kit pushed Tarleton back and near another tree. Suddenly Tarleton grabbed a low-hanging branch and slapped Kit across the face with it. Blinded for a moment, Kit stepped back, but not far enough. Tarleton’s blow slices his left arm. Blood seeped down the pristine white sleeve.

  “Kit!”

  “Hush my lady, you’ll break his concentration.”

  Deborah covered her mouth to prevent any more outbursts. She took some comfort from the small flow of blood on Kit’s sleeve.

  One thing was clear, though, Tarleton was not going to fight fair. She had to do something. Looking around, she spied the Prince’s sword. It was ornate and heavy looking and might have a hard time with warm butter, but it would do the job here, if needed.

  She turned quickly and drew it. Prince William gaped, “What ho! Give that back.”

  She shook her head and took a step out from the crowd of spectators. The murmur from them grew louder. Feeling a movement behind her, she raised the sword and again shook her head. The Prince backed off.

  On the field of battle, Kit once again succeeded in driving Tarleton back. Tarleton gave ground until they came to a rock-lined path. As Tarleton backed across it, he slipped on one of the edging rocks and fell.

  The crowd gasped as Kit pounded the sword from his opponent’s hand and laid the tip of his own blade on Tarleton’s chest.

  “Kit! Don’t!” Deborah rushed forward, still clutching the prince’s sword.

  “Westridge!” General Vaughan warned. “Don’t be a fool!”

  Kit, breathing hard, glared at the general. “I’m not generally considered a fool, but I want this to stop.” He looked at the Prince. “If I spare his life, I want guarantees from him, and you both, that he will never so much as think an insult to my wife again. If he does, I want him permanently exiled,” Kit drew a deep breath, “here.”

  The consequence of exile in the colonies was lost on no one. Tarleton’s reputation here guaranteed a death warrant without a troop at his back. He squawked and tried to rise, but Kit’s pressure on the sword held him fast.

  “Done,” Vaughan agreed.

  “I will personally see to it,” Prince William affirmed.

  “Tarleton?” Kit demanded.

  “You God damned bas…” He stopped when the sword point pushed a little further into his chest.

  “Tarleton?” Kit repeated. “It would be no great hardship for me to let Vaughan think me a fool.”

  “Yes,” he breathed, the sword restricting the rise of his chest.

  “Yes, what,” Kit enquired, a little too politely.

  “Yes, you God damned…” Kit stepped on his sword arm, and Tarleton writhed as much as possible and still not impale himself.

  “I want you to swear on your honor that you will never insult my wife or make so much as an uncomplimentary remark about her ever again.”

  “I swear!”

  “I want you to apologize for this and all past insults.”

  “I apologize. I apologize for everything. It will never happen again.”

  Deborah read quite clearly the disgust on Kit’s face as he stepped away from the fallen man. The prince’s sword fell from her side as she ran to her husband. The hushed crowd burst into chatter.

  “Oh, dear God, we need to get that…”

  Behind her, Tarleton staggered to his feet. Clutching his trodden arm, he growled, “I’m going to kill you one of these days, you bastard.”

  General Vaughan bellowed for guards, who promptly escorted Tarleton away.

  Prince William handed Deborah’s broken fan to her. “I’m afraid they’ll never be the same.” Deborah accepted the pieces with a slightly hysterical laugh.

  Kit nodded to the General and his prince as Deborah led him inside.

  **

  Lady Vaughan had mentioned a miniaturist near the wharf area who did the most exquisite of pictures. Deborah thought a miniature of Timothy and her would make a perfect present for Kit. Hopefully she could schedule the sittings so that it would be done before they had to leave.

  Seated in the opposite seat of the carriage, Missy fretted about leaving Timothy in the hands of the nurse, even for an hour or two. “Wha’iffin he starts t’ fuss?”

  “He’ll be fine.” She looked out the window at the bustle of the wharf area. Rough didn’t adequately describe it. Kit had been right when he insisted that Mr. Thomson accompany them. Ships, laborers, and New York Harbor stretched out beside the clattering carriage. “Mistress McGowan is perfectly…”

  The horse squealed and Deborah felt the carriage jerk and accelerate down the embarcadero. She could hear John Coachman and Mr. Thomson swearing up on the box. Men and cargo flew by the side of the carriage, some by their own volition, some kicked aside by the out-of-control coach and horse. The water raced toward the carriage as it swerved toward the ships.

  “Hold on, Missy! Hold on!” She grabbed a strap. Missy wailed but reached for her strap.

  Deborah stiffened as she waited for the carriage to crash into something or someone or to dive into the water. After an eternal moment, the coach began to slow, the roiling ride stabilized, and eventually the carriage stopped. Deborah opened the door and climbed out. She looked back, looking for carnage. Mercifully, no bodies littered the road, but a number of boxes didn’t look so lucky.

  Mr. Thomson and John Coachman jumped down. John, going to the horses, said, “Methinks I saw something jus’ before they bolted. Ri’ over…here!” Deborah looked where he pointed. A jagged hole bled sullenly on the horse’s flank.

  Mr. Thomson gingerly poked a finger into the hole. “Damnme, begging yer pardon, my lady. He’s been shot!”

  **

  Kit’s fury made a rare sight. “It did what!?” Kit’s explosion rattled the glass window panes in the comfortable parlor. His contorted face blazed; it looked like he had run up the stairs to their sui
te.

  “We’re fine, Kit, really.” She put her hand on his arm to calm him. Since it had taken a fair while to calm herself, his upset was understandable. “Except for the horse,” she muttered, “but he’ll be fine. Mr. Thomson said the bullet wasn’t in deep. They took it out, and I gave them a poultice to prevent infection. He’ll be fine, really.”

  Deborah knew she was babbling and so, obviously, did Kit. He grabbed her by the elbows and shook her none-too-gently. She quieted with a small yelp, but he didn’t notice, being too busy inspecting her for damage.

  “Kit, let go! This hurts.” He released her with a grunt, and she dropped onto the rust-colored damask settee she’d been sitting in when he burst into the suite.

  “Sorry,” he flexed his hands, “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  “I’m all right.”

  Except for his opening and closing hands, Kit stood stock still with his eyes closed. Deep breaths and a furrowed brow told Deborah he fought for control. She waited while he won the battle.

  He dropped to his knees in front of her and gently stroked her fore arms. “Tell me everything that happened.”

  In the end, he arranged for two armed soldiers to accompany Deborah whenever she left the tavern. She did not demurrer. In fact, she thought to commission Mr. Thomson to purchase a suitable knife for her pocket, but Kit offered the Barlow jack knife her father had given him.

  **

  The boulevard was not Rotten Row and the park on the other side of the street was definitely not St. James Park, but Kit was glad to get out of the hotel suite, luxurious as it was. They both needed some air and exercise, even if the sun had already started ducking behind the hills. Mr. Thomson, his own self-appointed bodyguard, and Deborah’s two guards trailed them at a respectful, but watchful distance. Scamp, on his leash, pranced in front of Deborah. Unfortunately, the walk was not turning out as he had planned.

  “I am not going to the Shippen’s tomorrow night, and that is final!”

  “Deborah, be reasonable. Edward Shippen is a very important man. He was Chief Justice of the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania, for heaven’s sake. He and his wife may wind up on the same ship to England as we’re taking.”

  “I don’t care! I am not going to publicly acknowledge the family of Benedict Arnold’s wife, and that’s final.” Scamp stopped to sniff a bush. Deborah tugged him along.

  “You’ve crossed political sides in your marriage, why can’t Peggy Shippen?”

  “Neither you nor I have committed treason as a result of our marriage. Peggy Shippen actively seduced her husband…ah!”

  As they crossed in front of an alleyway, a group of armed men stepped in front of them. Several wore British uniform coats, but a less likely bunch of soldiers Kit had never seen. Scamp growled and his hackles rose.

  “Well, wha’ we ‘ave ‘ere?” the obvious leader drawled. “A couple o’ ta fancy, jus’ right for ta pickin’.”

  Mr. Thomson and the guards came into sight. Weapons sprouted, and Kit’s sword came out, too. He pushed Deborah against the wall, away from the ruffians and swung at the nearest one.

  “Hey, wha’s this?” one of the attackers demanded. “Were’n supposed to ‘ave no ‘elp nor stickers.”

  The fight was short and vicious. Kit heard a masculine yelp behind him, One of the blackguards shouted, “Let’s get outta ‘ere.”

  The group ran into the park, one of them limping and one holding his arm, except for one of their number who lay dead on the street. His head held the imprint of the guard’s cudgel. Thomson and the guards followed, but Kit turned to Deborah. “Are you…Oh my God, you’re hurt!” Blood spattered over her cloak and dress. He rushed to hold her.

  “No, no, I’m fine. It’s not my blood.” She held up the small, but lethal blade from her father. “My father instructed me in the finer points of its use. I managed to acquit myself honorably in the engagement.” Her words were flip, but he could feel the tremors begin to take hold of her body.

  The soldiers returned from the park empty handed. Mr. Thomson blanched at the sight of the blood on Deborah.

  “She’s fine, man. Hail a hackney; I want to get her home. She’s not used to this sort of sport.”

  Inside the coach, Deborah curled into his arms. Mr. Thomson, sitting opposite with Scamp, looked grim as he pet the dog.

  “’Er ladyship’s got bottom, fer sure, but damnme, she shouldn’t ‘ave t’ be defending ‘erself like that.”

  “I couldn’t agree more.” He stared past Thomson’s ear for a moment. The look on his face made Thomson glad they were on the same side. “They had uniforms or at least pieces of them. Could they have been soldiers or deserters?”

  Thomson looked up like a dog catching a scent. “Could be. Couple o’em fought likes they might be.”

  “Why did one bother to especially go for Deborah?”

  **

  At the hotel, Kit had Deborah tucked up with a hot bath, tea, maids, and guards. He signaled to Mr. Thomson, “You’re with me.”

  The ride to the mansion the British commanders had taken over as their headquarters was made in silence. Kit strode in and found his quarry, almost immediately, in what had been the parlor, drinking and quite jolly.

  Tarleton saw him and snorted, “Had enough of the idle…”

  Kit hauled him by the cravat out of the chair. Mr. Thomson stood by to see they carried on their conversation undisturbed.

  “You bloody bastard! Did you set your gutter-sweepings to hurt my wife?”

  Tarleton pushed away and plopped back into his chair. The price of Kit’s loosened grip was the tie of his neck cloth.

  “Bloody hell!”

  “Did you?”

  “I did not!”

  “What are you talking about, Westridge?” General Vaughan came up behind him.

  Kit looked over at the General, his face murderous. “My wife and I were just attacked by a bunch of soldiers or deserters. Yesterday, her coach was shot at down by the wharf.”

  “My God!” Vaughan breathed.

  “Well, I didn’t do it!” Tarleton exclaimed with some relief. “I’ve been bloody well cooped up here since the Nesbitt’s. Guess it’s a good thing.” He sat back with a look of satisfaction.

  “He’s right, Westridge. He’s been here the whole time.”

  “You can vouch for him.”

  “Yes.”

  “Been here the whole time,” another voice chimed in.

  Kit looked around and nodded once. He turned to Tarleton. “Apologies.” He turned and walked out.

  Chapter 25

  Kit brooding presented a fascinating, if unusual, sight. Deborah nursed Timothy as she watched Kit fidget and grimace and close his eyes and clench his hands. He’d given her an obviously abbreviated account of his visit to Tarleton. One thing was perfectly clear; having to apologize to Tarleton galled him. More important, to Deborah’s mind, was that no one seemed to think it was even possible for Tarleton to have orchestrated one, or both, of the attacks.

  Then who?

  She knew only a handful of people in New York, and Kit only slightly more. Who would, or could, do such things?

  Deborah finished feeding Timothy and rearranged her clothes. That Kit didn’t even glance at her as she did was an indication of the severity of his mood. Timothy, diapered and changed, was ready for bed to mercifully sleep through the night. She tucked him into his cradle in the bedroom and went back to the parlor.

  Kit popped out of his chair and began to pace. Scamp found a nice spot on the hearth rug and curled up in front of the fire.

  Kit went to stare out of the window at the dark, bare silhouette of the tree by the side of the hotel. By now, the scraping sound of the branches against the wall didn’t disturb, but Deborah still wished someone with a saw would trim the nearest branches. The sound was even louder in their bed chamber. Mercifully, it didn’t bother Timothy.

  She came up behind Kit and put her arms around his waist. For a while, she just
leaned against him, feeling the broad muscles of his back under her cheek, and drinking in his uniquely masculine scent. Finally she felt the stiffness leave him.

  He covered her hands with his and said, “I’m not sure which was worse, having to apologize to that horse’s ass or realizing while I did it that I didn’t have the bastard behind all this. Where do I look now?”

  She heard the frustration ring in his voice and sought to mitigate it with a soothing caress. His rock-hard belly delighted her fingers, however unintentionally. Almost of their own volition, her hands expanded their caresses. As thin as the cambric of his shirt was, it proved too much of a veil to her hands and she began unfastening his buttons.

  Kit cocked his head over his shoulder. “If you are intending to distract me from my megrims, my love, you have succeeded admirably.”

  Kit continued turning in her arms. His breeches did nothing to disguise the success of her distraction. “I’m most pleased and gratified by my success, my lord.”

  “In that case, I do believe that I shall practice my new career as lady’s maid. Of course, with only one lady to practice on, I shall have to practice a great number of times.”

  He turned Deborah around and began undoing the numerous buttons down the back of her gown. With each button, he chose another spot on the back of her neck to kiss. When he nibbled the spot under her left ear, Deborah shivered and drew a quick breath.

  “Ah, a most tender spot. I shall have to return to it.” The kissing field expanded as the opened dress revealed her upper back and delicate shift. Finally he eased the sleeves down and the outer garment fell to the floor. Running his hands over her arms, he guided her to the dressing table and sat her in front of the ornate mirror. She watched his fingers glide up her shoulders and then over her collarbone. When she leaned back into him, she could feel his arousal pressing into her back. Deborah closed her eyes and swayed from side to side against him. He stepped away, and she opened her eyes to see him wagging his finger.

  Ah, ah, ah! I’m the maid tonight. Tomorrow you can be my valet, but tonight I’m taking care of you.” He unhooked the topaz necklace and set it on the table. “We’ll see about some better trinkets when we get to London. The findings are rather scanty here.”