Lysander's Lady

by Patricia Ormsby

  ‘You fool, Francis. Why did you do it?’

  ‘Because I could not bear for you to go on demeaning yourself and all of the family. Everyone supposed you to have tricked Derwent. I hoped that if I persuaded him to cancel the wager, some shred of decency might be saved.’

  ‘Jealous of my honour, were you, brat?’ The Marquis sounded amused, but his brother was not deceived.

  ‘Oh, get on and be done with it!’ he ripped out, his frayed nerves betraying him.

  ‘In good time.’ Wayleigh ran his eye over the slight, taut figure confronting him. ‘That’s a handsome coat you’re wearing—Schweitzer and Davidson, I take it?’ Receiving no reply he went on in the same idle manner. ‘Best take it off, I’d not like to spoil it.’

  Slowly Lord Francis did as he was bidden, then, in a last minute rebellion against the inevitable, he flung the coat at the Marquis and ran for the door. Wayleigh, alert for any such action, easily avoided the coat and, flicking out the whip, coiled it round his brother’s ankles to bring him crashing down.

  ‘Did you think to trick me? Get up and take your medicine!’

  As Lord Francis staggered uncertainly to his feet, Wayleigh drove his fist into his face again and again until the boy fell to the ground and lay there unmoving. Putting out a booted foot, the Marquis turned the insensible figure over and shutting the heavy door, he gave the whip a preliminary crack before setting to work.

  High on their vantage point above, Mr. Payne and Mr. Shoesmith exchanged glances.

  ‘What d’you think, Tobias?’

  ‘We can scarce stop him schoolin’ his young brother.’

  ‘Come to think on’t, our only reason for bein’ here is the young leddy.’

  ‘An’ we don’t know that she is here, do we?’

  ‘But we might find out while his lordship is otherwise engaged?’

  Mr. Payne nodded and, without another word, the two scrambled to their feet and began the descent. Some minutes later the Marquis emerged from the harness-room and, still carrying his whip, strode away towards the house.

  ‘Looks like he might have it is for someone else, Jem.’

  ‘Hope it ain’t the young leddy,’ said Mr. Shoesmith dolefully. ‘If so, don’t see as how we can help her, not knowing her whereabouts.’

  Miss Honeywell had, in fact, just arrived at Mount Trennick. The Dowager’s chaise, unused to such violent demands upon it, had lost a wheel on the way, which had necessitated a lengthy halt while Harvey sought out a sleepy and unwilling wheelwright to deal with the matter.

  Sophia was urgent that they should not show themselves openly.

  ‘Wayleigh could well be here already,’ she argued. ‘I must try to discover Francis while you, I think, had best stay hidden.’ Leaving Harvey to secrete the chaise in a place convenient for a hasty departure should one become necessary, they approached the house by a secluded path, then up a back stairway until Sophia’s bedchamber was reached. ‘You should be safe enough here,’ she said. ‘If I cannot find Francis I will arouse my father and together we will confront Wayleigh.’

  With that she was gone, and Miss Honeywell sank on to an inviting chaise-longue to stretch out her weary limbs, her mind a confusion of contrary notions. The servants at Berkeley Square must have told the Marquis of her departure with his sister in a hackney for Charles Street. He would conclude that they had joined up with Mr. Derwent there.

  At thought of that gentleman her hands clenched into two tight fists. He, no doubt, was engaged with the beautiful Miss Weston to the exclusion of all else! ‘Gone to make a call upon a lady’, indeed! And at a time when the lives of others were in danger! Well, now that she had seen him in his true colours, perhaps that would effectively suppress any lingering esteem she might have felt for him. Which sobering reflection so reduced her in spirits that she did not hear footsteps approaching the door of the bedchamber and so was greatly taken aback when, without the courtesy of a knock, the Marquis entered.

  ‘How excessively obliging of you, ma’am, to place yourself under my care once more,’ he drawled as he tossed the horsewhip he was carrying on to the bed and a trail of blood bespattered the covers. ‘Yes,’ he went on, observing her horrified gaze, ‘I have been forced to teach my little brother not to be so free with his tongue.’

  ‘He isn’t—you haven’t ‘ She found herself unable to continue, and could only stare at him in mute appeal.

  ‘No, no,’ he assured her in the kindest way imaginable. ‘I daresay there’s scarce an inch of skin left on his back, but he is still breathing.’ He flung himself into a chair and looked up at her quizzically. ‘Whether he continues to do so is for you to say, ma’am.’

  ‘M-me? How can I help him?’

  ‘Sorry for him, ain’t you? Well, he’s a pretty boy enough, I grant him that—looked at from one way, of course, at this moment. Shall I continue with what I have started, or do I have him tended to? What do you say?’

  ‘I—I don’t understand you, my lord,’ she quavered.

  ‘Tch! Tch!’ He got up and strolled over to her. ‘Your throat is causing you great discomfort, my dear.’ His long cruel fingers lightly stroked the discoloured skin. ‘Try to forgive me. I allow I have an abominable temper—something you will have to accept when we are wed.’

  ‘We are not going to wed, my lord.’ She forced the words out from between lips gone stiff with apprehension.

  ‘I have decided that we are. So much more simple for my purpose.’ He tilted her chin the better to inspect her throat. ‘Hmm. I think a scarf would be the thing. We must not offend Derwent’s sensibilities.’ He smiled at the sudden hope lighting up her eyes. ‘No, he’s not here yet, but I am persuaded he soon will be, so I must ask for your immediate decision. Will you do me the honour of becoming my wife, or do I complete my unfinished business with Francis?’

  ‘You mean—you’ll kill him if I don’t marry you?’

  He made her a slight bow. ‘I must compliment you on your understanding of the matter.’

  ‘How do I know you haven’t killed him already?’

  ‘Indeed, I well may have,’ he admitted carelessly. ‘But come and see for yourself.’

  ‘Wh-where is Sophia?’ she stammered as he drew her arm through his to escort her downstairs and out to the stables.

  ‘Shut up with her aunt until I need her. The stupid chit walked into me—hasn’t the half of your finesse, my dear. She would have been better advised to stay in London to see Bredon’s last drop than to interfere in my affairs.’

  Mr. Payne and Mr. Shoesmith, making themselves very inconspicuous, watched their progress and knew not what to think.

  ‘If that’s the young leddy she don’t look precisely unwillin’, Tobias.’

  ‘Nor would he be showin’ her his brother’s cadaver, Jem.’

  Had Miss Honeywell uttered a shriek at the terrible sight that confronted her in the harness-room, Mr. Payne might have reconsidered his opinion. But the relief of seeing Lord Francis move his head as she dropped to her knees beside him caused her to emit no more than a sob of thankfulness.

  ‘There, you see, ma’am, the lad still breathes!’ Wayleigh mocked her.

  ‘Small thanks to you!’ she blazed. ‘What sort of monster are you to treat your brother thus?’

  ‘The sort of monster that will complete the treatment now, ma’am.’ He tapped the whip significantly. ‘Do you marry me?’

  ‘Yes, yes, I must,’ she whispered brokenly and, unresisting, allowed him to raise her to her feet.

  ‘Then let us be about it! I own to be all eagerness to carry off my lovely wife!’

  ‘What—now?’ she gasped.

  ‘What better time? There’s no knowing that you might not change your mind once Francis is restored to health!’

  The following sequence of events ranked for ever in Miss Honeywell’s memory as a sort of walking nightmare. She was led back to the house, where orders were given for Lord Francis’s comfort, then her prospective bridegroom c
onducted her through several of the rooms that she remembered from her first visit to Mount Trennick until they came to the chapel. There, to her astonishment, beneath the glory of the great rose window, stood a chaplain with a book of service in his hand, talking to Sophia and another older lady.

  ‘In case you have any doubt about the legality of these proceedings, Miss Honeywell,’ his lordship informed her, ‘I have a special licence here in my pocket, which I obtained yesterday in London, and the chaplain is His Grace’s own man.’ Her expression of blank despair seemed to afford him intense gratification. ‘You weren’t thinking that I would be carrying you off to Gretna Green or some such impropriety? Not in my style, I assure you! Allow me to make you known to my aunt, Lady Mary Trennick; my sister, of course, you have met.’

  Kate found herself curtsying to the faded elderly lady, who uttered some meaningless expression of goodwill. Sophia said nothing at all, but stared at her brother out of eyes made red and swollen by much weeping, rather in the manner of a rabbit fascinated by a stoat.

  Somehow the service was got through, Miss Honeywell being prompted in her stumbling responses by the anxious chaplain, who clearly was as fearful of his lordship’s temper as was the rest of the household. A broad gold band was slid on to her finger, her bridegroom gallantly kissed her cheek, and she was being escorted out of the chapel back into the saloon.

  ‘We will dispense with the wedding breakfast, I believe, my love.’ His love was moved to wonder just for whose benefit the Marquis was playing the attentive husband and concluded it must be for his own amusement. ‘Sophia,’ he flung over his shoulder, ‘pray inform His Grace that I shall be happy to bring my bride to wait upon him later today. My father is never abroad at such an early hour,’ he explained to his lady ‘but I have no doubt he will be most eager to meet his new daughter-in-law. Come, my dear.’

  He ushered her into a room which she recognised as being the state bedchamber. The covers had been drawn back from the four-poster bed which had a great eagle, crouching with wings spread upon the tester. She thought it a vicious-looking bird; it reminded her uncomfortably of the Marquis. A maid was sliding a warming-pan between the sheets, but a jerk of the head from Wayleigh sent her scuttling off like a scared mouse.

  ‘And now, my dear wife,’ he murmured silkily, ‘to consummate our contract. Every heir to the dukedom has been conceived beneath this tester. The next one must be no exception.’

  At that, a spring seemed to snap in Kate’s bemused brain and release her from her torpor.

  ‘If you lay finger on me, my lord, I’ll scream the place down!’ she threatened him. ‘I agreed to marry you, but no more than that!’

  He gave a shout of laughter. ‘Gad, you’re a prime ‘un! But it won’t answer, you know. Any screams issuing from here will be put down to my being unable to restrain my ardour, and flinging myself upon you with unbridled passion! Come, try for a little sense and we shall deal very well together. You’ll not find me unappreciative of your charms, I promise you.’

  ‘It wasn’t for my charms you married me!’ she challenged him.

  His teeth flashed fleetingly. ‘Oh, yes, it was—all two hundred thousand of ’em!’

  ‘You knew—but how could you?’ she wondered.

  ‘There are ways. Have I disappointed you sadly?’ he taunted her.

  ‘No,’ she said with perfect truth. ‘But having secured my fortune, why—’

  ‘Why trouble to play the husband? Because you are not twenty-one for another year, and until then I must keep the line and you must present me with a son. Also,’ his voice hardened, ‘when next I meet Derwent I want there to be no doubt in his mind that you are indeed my wife.’ As he advanced upon her, she whisked herself out of his way behind a table and his face darkened. ‘There’s no way out of this for you, my pretty vixen, the earth is blocked.’

  ‘There I beg to differ, my lord.’

  The cool voice coming from the farther end of the room, was so utterly unexpected that even Wayleigh was thrown out of his stride. Kate looked round to perceive Mr. Derwent sitting astride the low window-sill, and reminded herself in a strangely detached way that the bedchamber, being one of the state apartments, was on the ground door of the house.

  ‘Devil take it, Derwent, you’re a thought early for our appointment!’ protested the Marquis.

  ‘But only just in time, I imagine.’ Lysander swung his other leg over the sill and stood there, his eyes never leaving Wayleigh’s face. ‘I think you have broken faith with me, my lord.’

  ‘Circumstances have changed since last we met.’ The Marquis spoke as if deploring the necessity of having to impart such intelligence. ‘This lady has just become my wife, so she will not be returning to your household after all.’

  For the first time Mr. Derwent looked at Kate. ‘Is this true?’

  ‘I was forced to it, or he would have killed Lord Francis,’ she whispered, her hand touching her bruised throat.

  ‘I see. I feared something of this sort when Bates told me you had left for Mount Trennick.’ He was as pale as she, but in full command of himself. ‘I did promise you, Wayleigh, that if you hurt the boy you would answer to me for it. What’s your choice—pistols or swords?’

  ‘What? On my wedding day? Have you no delicacy, Derwent? Think of my young wife!’

  ‘I prefer to think of her as your young widow!’

  ‘I thought you might!’ The Marquis laughed exultantly and Kate, remembering that he was a noted duellist, caught her breath in despair. ‘Have you come prepared?’

  ‘Certainly I have.’ Mr. Derwent leaned out of the window, and a moment later two gleaming rapiers were tossed on to the table. The Marquis looked disapproving.

  ‘I would have preferred pistols,’ he complained.

  ‘I thought you might!’

  Wayleigh was forced to grin at the mimicry. ‘You’re a cool hand, Derwent, I give you that!’ He picked up one of the blades and weighed it in his hand. ‘A handsome weapon,’ he conceded. ‘I’ll take it.’

  His wife of half-an-hour shrank back against the wall, knowing herself to be forgotten as the furniture was pushed away, leaving ample space in the middle of the room. The two gentlemen stripped to shirts and breeches and, after a cursory salute, the blades engaged with a speed and ferocity that spoke of their mutual desire to make an end of each other.

  The Marquis had the advantage of height and weight, but against that, Mr. Derwent was more nimble of foot, and his slim body looked, to Kate’s eyes, to be as flexible as his sword. During the swift exchange of thrust and parry the Marquis was ever the aggressor, fighting with ruthless intentness, seeking for the weakness in his opponent’s guard that would give him the opportunity to finish off the contest.

  More than once was Mr. Derwent forced back against the table or the bed, but extricated himself with easy agility, seemingly unperturbed. During one such passage he stumbled slightly, but recovered at once, and Kate perceived that he had set his heel upon a corner of the tablecloth which was trailing on the floor. Realising the danger, she began cautiously to work her way around the wall towards the table. Wayleigh was quick to guess her intention.

  ‘Stay where you are, my lady! ‘Tis an equal hazard to both!’

  ‘Not if only one takes advantage of it!’

  So saying, she darted across the intervening space and snatched up the cloth. For an instant Lysander’s attention was distracted by her swift action and his guard wavered. At once Wayleigh, seeing his opportunity, lunged forward. Without hesitation Kate threw the cloth over his blade, forcing it down. Lysander, however, had begun to parry and thrust, and his point passed through the folds of the cloth and continued on to rip up the sleeve of her gown before he could check it.

  ‘Kate! Kate! Are you mad? Have I hurt you?’

  Tossing his rapier aside with no more regard for the Marquis than if he had been a disinterested bystander, he caught her in his arms and lowered her gently to the floor.

  ‘It—
it’s all right!’ she gasped faintly. ‘It’s no more than a scratch! I th-thought he was going to kill you!’

  ‘That situation, my lady, remains unchanged!’ Lysander raised his head to see Wayleigh’s blade poised unwaveringly above him. ‘Say your prayers, Derwent!’

  He drew back his arm to make the fatal thrust and a shot rang out. For a moment Wayleigh stood motionless, an expression of almost ludicrous disbelief on his face; then, quite slowly, he sank to his knees, the rapier fell from his grasp and he pitched forward to lie still. Standing in the open doorway behind him, holding a smoking pistol in his hand, was Mr. Payne, and at his elbow, Mr. Shoesmith.

  ‘Who the devil—?’ Mr. Derwent looked from one to the other. ‘Oh, the Runners, I suppose.’

  ‘That’s right, sir,’ nodded Mr. Payne. ‘Now who is this leddy?’

  ‘I am Miss—Lady Wayleigh. Is his lordship dead?’ asked Kate, not wholly able to believe in her changed circumstances.

  Mr. Derwent made swift inspection. ‘Yes,’ he said briefly. ‘A very pretty shot, if I might say so.’

  ‘And one that has rid me of an unwelcome husband, for which I must thank you, sir.’

  Cradling her injured arm in the other, her ladyship stood her gaze fixed immovably upon the embarrassed Mr. Payne, until Mr. Derwent was recalled to a proper sense of his culpability.

  ‘Miss Honeywell—my lady—Kate, your arm! Forgive me, but I had no notion of what you intended.’

  ‘No, indeed, how should you?’ she replied, still speaking as one in a trance. ‘Since your back was turned to me.’ Then, as he stepped forward to offer her his support, remembrance of his perfidious conduct came to her and she drew away. ‘Pray do not disturb yourself on my account, sir. I—I shall do very well.’

  ‘Despite having been married and widowed within the hour?’

  How dared he look at her with just that expression of tender amusement—the same as he adopted with all his lights of love, no doubt!