Lynkellyn held up one long white hand. "I do not wish to speak of it. Bellefield is my second. You may discuss it with him."
"But, Rogue..."
Robin remained adamantly silent upon the subject, saying only that the details had not been finalized.
"Well, you can at least tell me what you quarreled about." Tracy said. "It won't be a secret for long anyway. You know the wagging tongues of the ton."
"Yes, unfortunately I know them all too well." Robin sighed. "We fought over Lucia. Giles hurled one more insult at her than I could stomach. Are you satisfied?"
"Quite."
"And your other purpose for calling on me?"
Malkent beamed at him. "I wanted to tell you that I've thought over everything you said about Val's abduction; how we should have questioned the innkeeper and all, and I have decided you're right. We should have inquired further before assigning guilt. We will never know the truth for certain now, though, will we?"
"I know the truth," Robin said witheringly, "and I told it to you."
"Yes, well, I -- that is, Val and I want to forgive and forget. I'm ready and willing to stand your friend, Robin." Tracy held out his hand, a wide smile creasing his face.
Robin drew himself up stiffly. His eyes were molten granite, his knuckles white against the back of his chair. "I do not require your forgiveness, my lord, for I've never wronged you or yours and I cannot merely 'forget' ten years of my life wasted in exile, as you blithely seem to suppose. My grandfather and my brother died believing I was the worst sort of profligate and I shall never, ever be able to clear myself in their eyes. 'Tis infuriating and damnably depressing to think on."
"If you were innocent, why didn't you stay in England and stand up to your accusers?" Tracy said. "Fleeing the country certainly did not lend credence to your story."
Robin pulled his chair away from his desk and sat. "Despite my rakish reputation, Tracy, at twenty, I was still in many ways a babe in the woods. When Giles and you and Grandpapa, even Clayton, all swore that I had abducted Val, that I truly was a rogue in the vilest sense of the word, I was horrified and ashamed. In one day, I went from popular young buck to reviled pariah. Everyone I loved, respected, or admired was speaking against me. No one would listen to my side of the story. Then Grandpapa disowned me. He had his footmen throw me bodily out of the Castle. After that, I was sure that you would immediately swear out a warrant for my arrest. Emotionally devastated and terrified of imprisonment, I hadn't the stomach or the sense to stay and brazen my way through such a debacle. I took all that was left of my quarter's allowance, packed what few belongings I could carry, and ran first to France, then Italy, Austria, and America. Otherwise, as far from England as I could go. At the time, I didn't realize that others might interpret my flight as an admission of guilt." Robin's shoulders slumped and his hands coursed through his unpowdered locks distractedly. "My family; all my friends; even strangers were giving me the cut-direct. It was more than I could endure to see the mockery and laughter in Giles's eyes when the world praised him for his heroics. My life was crashing down around my head like a burning building and I was helpless to stop it. Terrified, appalled, and despairing, I fled. Can you blame me?"
"No, I suppose not," Malkent said, "but your presence here now would suggest that the situation has changed."
"Non, mon cher. I have changed. I've grown older and wiser. I am prepared to face Society's accusations with strength and dignity. Enfin, mon ami, after ten years of exile, I am ready to fight for the justice due me."
"I could still call a magistrate." Tracy said.
"If you intended to press charges against me, Malkent, you would have done so the minute you discovered I was back in England. Instead, you come here offering me a back-handed friendship that I cannot honorably accept."
"I don't understand you, Rogue, but I will stand your friend whether you wish it or not. I'd like to be at that duel, if you will permit it?"
Robin shrugged. "As you please, but you will have to apply to Tony for the details. I don't wish to speak of it."
***
When Sir Winston Rochedale's man, Bertie, answered an imperious knock on the door, Mountheathe stormed past him into an untidy drawing room. "Rochey! 'Tis the damnedest thing!"
Rochedale rose, tossing the newspaper he had been perusing aside. "Giles! Well met, dear boy. Is there a problem?"
"That blackguard has dared to challenge me! I've said you'd second me, Rochey."
"I'd be honored, my lord. You and your cousin have had words, then?" Sir Winston correctly inferred that 'that blackguard' must be the Duke of Lynkellyn, a gentleman whose name had haunted Giles's conversation of late.
"Words! I'll send the bastard to hell for meddling in my affairs!" Giles was pacing Sir Winston's parlor like a caged beast.
"Have you decided upon your weapon?"
"Yes. I was going to choose swords, but Malkent says that the Rogue has mastered the blade, so perhaps I'll select pistols, although firearms are not my strong suit. Bellefield is the Rogue's second. I'd be obliged if you'd call on him and arrange things."
"I shall do so in the morning, dear boy. Would you like to dine with me tonight? I've found a new gaming house that I thought we might visit afterward." Sir Winston's voice was a lyrical siren.
"Sounds amusing. Anything to take my mind off that damned interloper."
Just before dawn the next morning, Sir Winston Rochedale stumbled into his bedchamber while a drunken Mountheathe lurched off into the darkness, some three hundred guineas the lighter. Sir Winston smiled as he set Giles's purse full of clinking coins on his dressing table and disrobed. Mountheathe was one of the fattest pigeons ever to come his way and although his lordship's pockets were almost milked dry, Giles was good for several thousand yet. Rochedale intended to have every penny he could squeeze out of the man.
Unless the duke cut Giles's career short, and if Mountheathe died, all those golden guineas would slip through Rochedale's fingers. A grim thought, that. Sir Winston had never met the duke, but he had heard about him and the gossip didn't augur well for Giles. The duel would have to be stopped.
Getting into bed, Sir Winston blew out his candle and lay in the quiet darkness, considering his options. Perhaps Mountheathe might be persuaded to cry off, he thought, but when he recalled the way Giles had lambasted Lynkellyn all evening, he dismissed that possibility.
With a shrug, Rochedale rolled on his side and prepared himself for sleep. A solution would undoubtedly occur to him before long. One always did.
When Sir Winston called on Lord Bellefield the next morning, Tony was already entertaining the Earl of Malkent. Agreeing that it would be best for all concerned if the principals were persuaded to make peace, the gentlemen visited first Lord Mountheathe, then the Duke of Lynkellyn.
In Giles's library, Tracy reiterated past warnings, to no avail.
"If he is as good a swordsman as you say, I'll choose pistols! I'll not let him insult me, gentlemen," Giles said.
"Pistols won't answer at all." Bellefield said, leaning against the fireplace mantle, his arms crossed over his chest. "I served with His Grace in America and, although it has been some time since I saw him shoot, I never remember him missing his target. He could bring down a rabbit, or a man, at fifty paces. At dusk, mind you. And I doubt that he has allowed his aim to get rusty."
"Accusing me of cowardice! Meddling in my affairs! Telling me -- me -- whom I may befriend and whom I may not!" Railing on as if Tony had not spoken, Giles paced the room, fury in his stride. "He stole my legacy. Him and his little slattern! Hay-market ware, she is, and none can deny it! They've cheated me, the pair of them, and they deserve to die!"
Giles's guests stared at him uncomfortably. He stopped pacing and endeavored to calm his temper. "I choose rapiers and if the Rogue begs off, it will be clear who the coward is, will it not?"
"Well, my lord, when and where shall it be?" Sir Winston asked.
"Tomorrow at sunrise. In Hyde Par
k at the northwest end of Queen Caroline's new lake, the Serpentine." Mountheathe picked up a wine decanter and a glass from a small table. "May I offer you something, gentlemen?"
A flash of inspiration suddenly overwhelmed Sir Winston as he stared at the sparkling decanter in Giles's hand. An inebriated Mountheathe might be coaxed into missing the duel or perhaps the duke might consider him too drunk to fight. Rochedale accepted Giles's offer of refreshment with alacrity.
Leaving Giles and Sir Winston to their wine, Bellefield and Malkent called upon Robin to confirm the details of the encounter. Once the gentlemen were comfortably settled, refreshments in hand, in his study, Amberley said, "Well, my lords, may I hazard that you've come about my proposed encounter with Giles? I take it he has selected the place and the weapon?"
After glancing at Tracy, Bellefield leaned forward. "Well, yes, but..."
"He chose swords, did he not? Giles always favored the blade." Robin watched Tony over the rim of his wineglass.
"He's asked for rapiers, Robin, but we've come to ask you to cry off," Bellefield said.
"Cry off?" Robin's brows rose. "Do you doubt my prowess?"
"No, Rogue. It isn't your ability we're questioning, but Mountheathe's. The man hasn't touched a weapon with serious intent in years!" Malkent said.
Tony nodded. "It would be tantamount to murder, Robin. You'd be forced to flee the country!"
"Ah. The pair of you would add cowardice to the list of my sins. I am to cry craven, lest I spill a little Bridland blood and outrage the sensibilities of Society. I returned to England expressly to force the truth upon Mountheathe, messieurs. Perhaps, skewered upon my blade, he will finally admit his treachery."
"Robin! Be reasonable! What can you hope to gain by killing Giles?" Tony argued.
"Satisfaction and justice!" Robin said. "But you need not worry, mes amis. Giles will not die at my hands. Not yet, I want him to suffer for awhile. A bit of poverty and humiliation may humble him. Make him fit for human company. At the very least, he will get a taste of the fine life he missed by foisting his crimes onto me. How do you think he'll look with a scar just here," Robin drew two fingers from the corner of his eye to the rise of his cheek, "like the dueling students in Heidelberg, héin? On the Continent, 'tis considered quite dashing to be marked so."
"Won't you forgo this madness?" Tracy begged.
"No!" Robin said. "Giles may cry off, if he chooses. I have too much at stake."
"Very well." Tony sighed. "Let us discuss the details."
Chapter 15:
In Which Treachery Triumphs
A single burning candle illuminated Mountheathe's library, playing indiscriminately over the fine brocade of his robe de chambre and the wine-stained tatters of his midnight guest's filthy waistcoat. The visitor flung himself bodily onto a spindly chair which creaked in outrage at such punishment. "Got yer summons, guv'nor! What's the work?"
As his companion's singularly pungent aroma assaulted his senses, Giles lifted his scented handkerchief to his nose. "For heaven's sake, stand up, Garch! I'll not have my furniture soiled and smashed, if you please."
"Sorry, guv." Garch said, spitting green slime onto a fine Aubusson carpet. He hauled his hulking frame out of the chair and sheepishly tugged at his forelock.
"I sent for you because I am to fight a duel on Thursday."
"An' ye wants me to put the uvver cove's lights out afore the brawl."
"I want you to -- put his lights out after the -- brawl."
"Arter! 'At's a queer lay, guv'nor. Ain't ye afeared this uvver cove'll kill ye afore I can do 'is business fer 'im? What good would 'arter' do?"
"He isn't going to kill me," Mountheathe said, exasperated, "nor am I going to kill him, at least, not outright. I want his murder contrived so that I appear blameless in the affair. And it must be soon! I'll wager his doxy is already increasing."
Confused, Garch remained silent, thinking his lordship must have had a shove in the mouth too many. Mountheathe, who had had occasion to employ him before, always rambled on foolishly when he was in his cups.
In this instance, Garch's speculations were correct. Giles had needed to empty an entire decanter of brandy before he was sufficiently fortified to mandate his cousin's murder.
"We are to meet in Hyde Park at the northwest end of the Serpentine tomorrow at dawn," Giles said, his diction slightly slurred. "Before the encounter, you will hide in a tree. After the duel is over, I will drive off in my carriage. As soon as I am well away, you will shoot my opponent. Aim for the heart or head so he'll die instantly. Once you have done that, I suggest that you run. If you are caught, you will most assuredly hang and don't even think that mentioning my name will save your wretched hide. I shall deny the whole affair and, furthermore, I will be believed. Do you understand?"
"Lor', yes, guv'nor! Werry good at 'igh-tailin' it, I am!" Garch grinned. "But I'm queered if I knows what your lay is. Why not do 'im in yersel' whilst ye got 'im at yer mercy, 'stead o' wastin' yer blunt, 'irin me?"
"I told you. I don't want anyone to know I had anything to do with my cousin's death. The world will think he was killed during a chance encounter with a footpad in the park. Society will say that he got a proper punishment for his wickedness and that will be that. Now, as to payment, you shall have your customary fifty guineas when the job is done."
"Don't gammon me, guv!" Garch drew one grimy, grey sleeve across his running nose. "We bofe knows 'at murder is a cut above me usual line. I'm not that fond o' killin' people so I insists on more brass for it. I want five 'undred Yellow Georges afore I moves a inch towards that dook."
Giles stiffened. "How do you know he's a duke? I never told you!"
"I ain't a nodcock, milord. I listens to the gossip. The 'ole world knows you only got two cousins an' one of 'em's a gentry mort. Since you ain't likely to be duelin' wi' 'er, it must be yer uvver cousin, the Dook o' Lynkellyn." Garch grinned. "A dook ought to be worf at least five 'undred! Up front!"
"Two hundred fifty now and the rest to be paid when the work's done," Giles bargained. Garch nodded his acceptance of the offer.
Giles crossed to his desk and took a purse heavy with coins from a drawer. Counting out two hundred fifty guineas, he gave them to Garch, who swept his fee into a grimy cloth bag. "Come back tomorrow night for the rest of your money; and, Garch, you'd better do the job right or you'll face the magistrate, alone."
***
On Thursday morning, several hours before dawn, an insistent pounding upon Giles's front door roused him from a fitful sleep. He lay abed, listening as his butler, McGiver, answered it. Rochedale's voice floated up to him. It must be time to go to the encounter, he thought. His stomach rolled like an ocean wave.
A few minutes later, Barker entered his bedchamber on chary feet. "My lord?" he ventured hesitantly. "My lord, Sir Winston Rochedale is below. He says you're expecting him?"
"Yes! Yes! What is the time?" Giles growled as he sat on the side of the bed, holding his head.
"Half past three, my lord."
Giles groaned. "Very well. The plain black, Barker! And no jewelry."
"Your mourning clothes, my lord?"
"Yes, damn you! And be quick about it!" Mountheathe lifted his head to glare at his servant. "I don't want to keep Sir Winston waiting."
An hour later, Giles found Rochedale pacing the Jade Salon, anxious and excited, his words tumbling out like acrobats. "Giles, dear boy. I trust I find you in spirits this morning. Won't do to be moped when you're going to an encounter."
"Calm yourself, Rochey." Mountheathe glowered. "We've some time yet. Shall I ring for brandy?"
"An excellent notion, dear boy." Sir Winston said, amazed to see his plan fall so easily into line. "It will put heart into you, not that you need any, of course."
For quite some time, the gentlemen remained in the Jade Salon, drinking brandy. As soon as Mountheathe's glass was empty, Rochedale encouraged him to fill it again. For every glass Sir Winston downed, Giles downe
d two.
When the gentlemen had emptied the first decanter, they rang for a second. Giles paced the drawing room, favoring his guest with a pithy diatribe on every aspect of the Duke of Lynkellyn's existence. Rochedale listened with complacent amusement, his smile broadening when Giles began to stagger, giggling inanely at his own clumsiness.
"'Tis almost six, dear boy." Sir Winston grinned. "We'd better be going or the duke will start without you." Tittering at this sally, he stood unsteadily.
"Just one more for luck." Mountheathe's words slurred as he stumbled over to the decanter. He shakily poured the last of the brandy into his glass, saying in a sing-song voice, "So sorry, all gone. None left for Rochey."
Sir Winston smirked. "Drink up, dear boy! The Lord knows you need it more than I."
"Why, so I do." Giles blinked hard to bring his vision into focus and made a toast. "Death to the Rogue," he said and downed his brandy in one swift gulp.
***
The cold, steely grey of the early morning sky echoed the bleakness of Robin's eyes as he stepped from his carriage at the appointed dueling site. Lord Bellefield followed him, gingerly placing elegantly booted feet on the drier patches of ground.
"Curst rain!" Tony muttered. "It would have to fall last night."
"It seems we are the first to arrive," Robin said. "Bon. I shall have time to go over the ground." He paced the dueling site, endeavoring to memorize any small hazards that might cause him to trip.
Watching him, Bellefield shivered in the dawn chill. He pulled his cloak closer about him and leaned against the coach, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. Above him, the trusted Fletcher, serving as Lynkellyn's driver, lounged at his ease on the box.
Clutching a loaded pistol, Mr. Garch eyed this scene from his perch on a tree branch, trying futilely to focus his gaze on his quarry. He had chosen to spend some of the advance money Mountheathe had paid him on vast quantities of gin and the winsome favors of a certain free and easy lass. Consequently, it was almost all Garch could do to balance himself, much less take clear aim at his target. Like Lord Bellefield, he shivered in the chill air, wondering sullenly why the nobs couldn't butcher each other at noon when it was warm.
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