The Bewitching Hour

by Diana Douglas

  “Like a charm,” Rand said cheerfully. “I would imagine she has been invited as I doubt that Mother has given up on her as a future Mrs. Danfield, but I will make certain of it.”

  “I do appreciate it. Now, what have you really been up to in my absence? Give me all the sordid details.”

  Rand laughed and the two men spent the next hour enjoying their brandy and conversation over a light supper of beef steak and squab. As they waited out front for Rand’s Phaeton to be brought around, they were debating on whether to spend the evening at the tables or watching a few bouts at Jackson’s.

  “Lord Stratton?”

  Both men turned and looked at the tall, gangly, baby-faced, blond gentleman who had approached them. His attire was befitting a young dandy, with blue breeches, a green silk waistcoat, gold jacket and collar points so high he could scarcely turn his head. He seemed ill at ease.

  “Would it be possible to have a word with you in private, Lord Stratton?”

  Stratton paused, trying to determine who the young man might be, but no one came to mind. “I have no secrets from Mr. Danfield.”

  “He doesn’t,” Rand said. “I’m very discrete. And if it’s not too much trouble, could you possibly introduce yourself?”

  The young man's pale skin turned pink.“I beg your pardon. It’s just that I’ve never done this before and I’m not certain of the decorum. I thought it might be best if I appeared unfriendly. I am Nigel Munthorpe, Lord Bertram.”

  Stratton’s curiosity got the better of him. “What is your business with me, Lord Bertram?”

  “Lord Stratton, I believe you are acquainted with a certain young lady. You have managed to upset her greatly.” He stopped and took in a breath. “Forgive me if I am somewhat rattled.”

  “You want something from Stratton?” Rand asked.

  “I do.” Bertram nodded vigorously.

  “What? An apology? Retribution?” Rand ignored Stratton’s glare.

  “Yes. Exactly that.”

  “Which?”

  >The young man’s forehead creased as he considered this. “An apology, I suppose.”

  “Interesting,” Rand murmured. The Phaeton pulled round and he motioned for Bertram to take a seat on the high perch. “Please, my lord. As we don’t wish to be overheard, let’s continue this discussion while we travel along to our next destination.”

  Bertram eyed the high perch warily. “Wouldn’t we be terribly crowded?”

  Rand clapped him on the back. “Nonsense. There’s plenty of room. You’re skinny enough to fit. You can sit between us. Unless, of course, you are afraid of heights.”

  Bertram threw his narrow shoulders back and bristled. “Certainly not.”

  Once they were seated, Rand took the reins, flipped a coin to the lad who released the horse’s head and they were on their way. A few moments later Rand leaned toward Bertram. “I’m most anxious to know my friend’s misdeed. It must be truly spectacular to warrant such a response.”

  “I can’t divulge his misdeed, sir.”

  Stratton pulled a silver flask from his jacket and did a good imitation of taking a long drink. “Lord Bertram, I can’t think of anything I’ve done in recent memory that would distress a young lady.”

  The young man shot him a look of disbelief. “She claims otherwise, my lord.”

  Stratton shrugged then took another long swallow.

  Rand skillfully guided the Phaeton around a pile of debris in the midst of the cobblestone street. “You must tell us what Lord Stratton has done to distress this young lady so. We’re completely in the dark.”

  Bertram frowned. “That would be rather difficult as she wouldn’t tell me, but given her hysteria, it was quite serious. He must apologize.”

  “But for what?” Rand asked.

  “Whatever it was that he did.”

  “I don’t know what I did,” Stratton said. “Should I make something up?”

  Bertram clenched his jaw as he glared. “I fail to see the humor in this situation.”

  Stratton attempted to stand then fell back into his seat as the Phaeton wobbled. “Where is she? I’ll go apologize right now. I just won’t be specific. By the way, who is she?”

  Bertram colored. “There’s no need to give you her name as I’m disinclined to believe you don’t know whom I’m speaking of.”

  “Oh, hell.” Stratton muttered as he tipped his flask and watched the last drop fall to the floorboard. “Rand, give me your flask. I’m out.”

  Rand reached into his jacket and handed Stratton his flask.

  Stratton stuck the flask in Bertram’s face. “Care for a drink, my lord?”

  The young man grimaced as he pushed it away. “No, thank you.”

  Rand continued with his interrogation. “Since at present, an apology is fairly difficult, might we consider this matter closed? Given that we don’t know the lady’s name or the nature of the insult, you must understand that we’re finding all this very confusing.”

  “Without an apology, I have no choice. Her honor must be avenged.”

  Stratton took another drink. “I’m definitely getting foxed. I’ll stay at your place tonight if you don’t mind, Rand. Don’t want to listen to Aunt Mirabella or her damned dogs first thing in the morning. My head is sure to be pounding. As a matter of fact, it’s pounding already.”

  “Sound thinking. I don’t mind at all,” Rand said cheerfully. “I would, however, appreciate it if you didn’t empty the contents of your stomach on my rug. Last time you stayed with me, I had to spend a bloody fortune replacing the carpet.”

  “That could have been avoided, had you provided a proper receptacle. I was in no shape to look for one.”

  “Are you implying that it was my fault? Stratton, that’s the damnedest thing I’ve ever heard of.”

  Bertram sat there for a moment with his mouth open. “Lord Stratton!” he practically bellowed. Surprised, both men looked at him.

  “I mean to call you out,” he said between his teeth. “It’s a fair warning.”

  Rand stared at Bertram. “Wait a minute. Did you say you mean to challenge Lord Stratton to a duel?”

  “Yes, sir.” He nodded. “That’s exactly what I said.”

  Rand shook his head with obvious impatience. “What do they teach at university these days? Are manners no longer a consideration? There is a proper way to go about this, my lord. The first rule is that one never issues a challenge when one of the parties is foxed. And I would most decidedly consider my friend here, to be foxed.”

  He looked over at Stratton who was nodding his head. “Most decidedly.”

  Bertram chewed on the side of his mouth as if not certain what to do next. “Are you quite certain of this? I’ve heard otherwise.”

  “It’s beyond the pale, my lord. Some don’t care, but I would think that a gentleman such as yourself would want to follow proper etiquette.”

  “I didn’t know.” Bertram sounded apologetic. “As I said, I’ve never done this before. I can see the sense in it, though. One should be sober for a matter of this significance.”

  Rand looked at him seriously. “There’s much to learn about a duel. It’s not as simple as one would think. It’s a very serious matter. We should discuss this further. That is, if you are truly bent on this course of action.”

  “Oh, I am.”

  “Lord Stratton," he said loudly, causing the viscount to start. "Would you care to educate Lord Bertram on etiquette in the art of dueling? Or should I?”

  Stratton took another gulp of his drink and waved his hand in Rand’s direction. “Educate away,” he said with an exaggerated slur. “In my present state, I might forget something.”

  “Of course.” Rand turned to Bertram. “The first thing you must learn is that the challenge should be fair. That is of the utmost importance. How are you with a pistol? Stratton is an excellent marksman. Would you be evenly matched?”

  Bertram flushed. “I’ve not had much practice,” he admitted. “I don’t m
uch care for shooting.”

  “Fencing? Lord Stratton also excels at fencing.”

  The young man shook his head.

  “Lord Stratton would be the one who makes the choice of weapons, as he is the one who has been, or rather, is going to be, challenged.” Rand looked over at his friend. “Which would you prefer, Stratton?”

  Stratton rubbed his face as he considered the matter. “Pistols, I think. I haven’t shot anyone for a while. Only target practice and that isn’t at all the same. Yes, shooting someone sounds quite agreeable.”

  “I wasn’t certain how the decision was made,” Bertram said hesitantly. “As I said, I’ve…”

  “Never done this before,” Stratton said slowly, careful to pronounce every syllable.

  “Exactly.” Bertram nodded.

  “Would you care for instruction?” Rand asked.

  “Instruction?”

  “Lessons. How is your aim? You’ve said you haven’t much experience in shooting. I would assume you lack expertise?”

  The thin face clouded with uneasiness. “I’ve never managed to quite get the hang of it. I could use some practice.”

  “If you would like to meet me at Manton’s tomorrow afternoon around one-thirty--no, best make it the day after for I’m certain to be dreadfully hung over tomorrow--I’ll be more than happy to offer instruction.”

  Bertram lifted his brows in surprise. “Why would you make such an offer? Lord Stratton is your friend.”

  “To make the challenge more evenly matched. Otherwise, you might as well put a bullet in your head and be done with it." He lifted his shoulders in a faint shrug. "What's the point of that? With a little instruction you might have a chance, though I must admit, not much of one. You could at least draw a little blood. There would be no honor in completely missing your target.”

  The young man swallowed nervously. “That’s frightfully decent of you. I never expected you to be so accommodating about this. I’m much obliged.”

  “You will wish to find a sawbones, as well. Just in case you aren’t killed.”

  “I have a physician,” Bertram said. “Dr. Chisholm. He’s been my doctor since I was born.”

  “I doubt the good Dr. Chisholm would be willing to stand around and watch you get shot. You need a less reputable physician for a duel.”

  “I see.” Bertram appeared somber. “Who would you suggest?”

  Rand looked at Stratton who shrugged. “I’ve never made the arrangement for a sawbones at a duel,” he drawled out, neglecting to mention he’d never been foolish enough to participate in a duel. He stopped to hiccup. “Pardon me.”

  “As Lord Stratton's second, I'll take care of that. Now, have you decided on a second?” Rand asked.

  Bertram moistened his lips and swallowed. “Not yet.”

  “You understand, don’t you, that a duel is illegal?” Rand asked. “If you aren’t dead, you could be arrested. There’s much to think about. Perhaps you should consider this more carefully.”

  Bertram’s face lost some of its color, but he said, “A gentleman has a duty to protect the honor of a young lady. As reprehensive as this deed is, I must carry it out." He stared at his tasseled boots a moment. “If you don’t mind letting me off at the next corner, I should be going. It wouldn’t do to be too social at this point, and I’ve taken enough of your time.”

  Stratton held up his flask in a farewell greeting as Rand pulled the Phaeton over to the side of the street. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Lord Bertram,” he slurred. “Have a delightful evening.”

  Bertram jumped down and made a small bow. “Thank you, gentlemen. The pleasure was mine.”

  Stratton and Rand watched as he walked down the street.

  “Bloody nuisance,” Stratton said evenly without a hint of his previous slur.

  “Quite so,” Rand agreed. “I can’t see the lad as Miss Hawthorn’s beau. She’s far too much sense and I haven’t heard a word about it. What other young lady have you upset recently?”

  “None that I know of. It must be her.” He shook his head. “What an odd fellow. He doesn’t have the slightest idea what this is about yet he’s ready to take a bullet to avenge his sweetheart. Lad’s got more nerve than brains. I can’t let Miss Hawthorn marry him.”

  “I wish you luck in that. Until you can get this ironed out, you’ll have to do whatever you can to avoid the man.”

  Stratton shrugged. “Either that or shoot him.”

  “You simply must do something, Eugene,” Cecelia moaned. She had caught her brother in the early afternoon, just as he was unlocking the door to his study.

  Stratton took note of her perturbed expression and the fashion journal she clutched tightly against her chest. Heaving a sigh, he indicated with a nod that she follow him inside.

  “Sit,” he ordered as he closed the door behind him. “Now, let me guess,” he continued. “Aunt Mirabella?”

  She nodded vigorously as he settled into the comfortable leather chair behind his desk. “I can’t spend another day with her at the modiste. I simply can’t do it. Madame Claudette and I are at our wit’s end. She doesn’t know how to handle Aunt Mirabella and neither do I. All we do is argue and that’s getting me nowhere." She set her copy of the Journal des Luxus und der Moden on his desk and tapped her finger against the open page on a simple flowing silk gown with tiny pleats beneath the bodice and a narrow, pearl studded shawl. “This is what I want.” She slipped out a loose fashion plate from another magazine. “This is what she’s insisting we have this made up for my coming out ball. Can you believe it? I’d be the laughing stock of the season.”

  Stratton looked down at the fashion plate and winced. The ball gown was truly hideous, embellished with ruffles, ribbons and rosettes and a cumbersome train that could prove perilous on the dance floor. A sequined turban was topped with three very long ostrich plumes. The matching cashmere shawl was trimmed with sequins as well.

  “She wants to have it made up in pale tangerine. And the turban! I won’t be able to get through the doorway with those ridiculous feathers. Madame Claudette told her it wasn’t appropriate for my first season, but she won’t listen.” Cecelia looked at him pleadingly. “Please Eugene, I can’t wear this.”

  “No, you can’t,” he agreed. “As much as I hate the idea of involving myself in your current battles with Aunt Mirabella, I must do something.”

  “But what? The other gowns she has picked out are almost as bad. I wish Mama was here. I know she can be difficult, too, but she has much better taste.”

  Stratton gazed at his sister with sympathy. She had certainly had a time of it with Aunt Mirabella, who seemed determined to see her trussed like a peacock and married off by the end of the season. There was no need for their aunt to fret over Cecelia’s popularity. There would be plenty of suitors. Cecelia was titled, she was rich and though she did not meet the standards of the typical English beauty, she was a striking young woman. Like him, she had inherited their father’s height. Her red hair, brilliant green eyes and fair skin came from their mother’s and Aunt Mirabella’s side of the family.

  Only six months ago, she seemed awkward, a little too tall and a little unsure of herself, but recently she had begun to carry herself with confidence and it made all the difference. But if she wore the atrocities Aunt Mirabella chose, her season would be over before it started. Even the rich and titled couldn’t escape the cruelty of the ton.

  He stood and reached for the bell pull.

  “What are you doing?” Cecelia asked.

  “We’re about to have a talk with Aunt Mirabella. If Aunt won’t listen to reason, I’ll inform Madame Claudette that every one of your gowns must meet with my approval or it won’t be paid for.”

  “Thank you, Eugene.”

  He scowled as he noticed the narrow band of satin that made up most of the bodice of the gown his sister had selected. “Don’t be too quick to offer your gratitude. I intend to make certain you are well covered as well as tastefully dressed.
The cut of this first gown is far too revealing.”

  Cecelia made a sound of exasperation. “I’m not twelve years old any longer, Eugene, and the current styles all have a lower cut. And,” she added, “it has a shawl.”

  “This shawl doesn’t cover up a thing and you would positively swelter in one that did,” he said then looked up as their butler knocked and entered the office. “Reeds, please ask Lady Fitzberry to join us.”

  “Of course, my lord.

  “And impress on Lady Fitzberry I would like to see her now. Otherwise, she’ll keep us waiting for hours. And please bring some Ratafia and almond cake. The combination always seems to put her in a good mood.”

  ”Very good, my lord.” Reeds bowed and disappeared.

  Stratton glanced over at Cecelia who was looking very glum.

  “We shouldn’t be too hard on Aunt Mirabella,” he said. “Her heart is in the right place even if her judgment and her taste are flawed. She wants you to have a successful season.”

  Cecelia grimaced. “I know. She’s told me often enough. But a successful season means marriage and I don’t want to get married. And with Mama and Papa in France, Aunt feels it her duty to stay by my side until they return or I’m wed.”

  The prospect of Aunt Mirabella staying in residence any longer than necessary was not something Stratton wanted to think about. If Cecelia wasn’t planning on getting married they could be shackled with their aunt and her dogs for quite some time. He took in a breath as he fought to keep the rising concern out of his voice. “Why don’t you want to get married, Cecelia?”

  In spite of her misery, a glint of humor lit her eyes and she laughed. “You should see the expression on your face. You look positively horrified. I didn’t mean forever. I meant I don’t want to get married now. I can’t even imagine it.”

  “But why? Isn’t marriage the point of having a come out?”

  “If someone comes along whom I think will suit, I very well may change my mind. But I wish to enjoy my first season and if I’m required to regard every single man I’m introduced to as a potential husband, I won’t have any fun at all."

  Though he sincerely hoped that Cecelia would quickly find a match, Stratton understood her reasoning. He winked at her as he cautioned, “Don’t tell Aunt Mirabella that. She’s apt to have apoplexy.”