Scandal Becomes Her

by Shirlee Busbee

  Julian saw Tynedale touch the scar and a cool smile lifted the corners of his mouth. At least I did that much for Daniel, he thought as he sipped his port, regretting that he could not have done more. In different circumstances he might have been willing to let bygones be bygones. Tynedale had brought Nell into his life and, despite the circumstances of it, for that Julian could have forgiven him much, but not for the ruination and death of an innocent youth. Julian’s jaw clenched.

  “Let it be,” Marcus said quietly, interrupting and guessing his thoughts. “Tynedale’s fate shall be none of your making now.”

  “Though it galls me to admit it, you are probably right,” Julian said. He glanced again at the scar. “At least his face is not so pretty anymore.”

  “Yes, I agree,” drawled Charles from behind Julian, “but it is a pity you didn’t finish the job. He wants killing.”

  Charles had been roaming around the room, being the perfect host as he stopped to chat with first this gentleman and then that. His circuit had eventually brought him to the area where Julian and Marcus were sitting with their chairs pushed away from the table.

  “Now why do you feel that way?” Julian asked with a raised brow, as Charles came to stand beside him.

  His eyes on Tynedale, Charles took a sip of the brandy he was drinking. “Daniel is not the only young fool to come under Tynedale’s spell.”

  Julian’s breath caught and he looked down the long table where Raoul sat in the group around Tynedale. “Are you saying that Raoul has fallen into his clutches?”

  Charles shrugged. “There has to be some explanation for his sudden fondness for the man. Raoul is not the gambler that I am, and I know that his mother has warned him that she will not tolerate massive losses at the gaming table.” He smiled thinly. “If I had to guess the reason for my brother’s present predilection for him, I’d say it’s because he owes Tynedale money.” Charles looked across the room where Raoul was laughing at something that Chadbourne had said. “I suspect that Raoul is postponing the evil moment that he has to go to my dear stepmother for the money to cover this latest batch of gaming debts. In the meantime, he allows Tynedale to batten down on him.”

  “Is that why you wanted the vowels? To bargain with him?”

  “It had crossed my mind.”

  “Well, why the devil didn’t you say so?” Julian demanded. “You know that under those circumstances I would have gladly given them to you.”

  Charles looked at him, an odd smile curving his hard mouth. “Perhaps, I just wanted you to trust me to do the right thing.”

  “Oh, good gad!” burst out Marcus. “Of all the maudlin…” He glared at Charles. “You always were too arrogant and puffed up with yourself for comfort.”

  “And you were always too bloody smug of your own worth,” Charles said, smiling sweetly at Marcus.

  Julian sighed. How often as children had they scrabbled thus? “Gentlemen,” he said softly, “could we please leave these infantile insults behind us?”

  Marcus and Charles stared at each other, neither giving an inch until Marcus made a face and laughed. “I will…if he will.”

  Charles grinned and bowed. “You have my word.”

  “So what,” Julian asked, “are we going to do about Tynedale?”

  His eyes once again on Tynedale, Charles said, “Kill him.”

  “I’d be happy to,” Julian murmured, his gaze also on Tynedale, “but short of murder, I see no way of that happening.”

  “I suppose I could challenge him to a duel,” Marcus offered, looking in Tynedale’s direction.

  Tynedale must have felt their collective gazes, because he glanced in their direction, his practiced smile freezing when he realized that all three men were staring at him. He recovered himself almost immediately and turned away, laughing apparently at some quip offered by Pierce Chadbourne. Made uneasy by the knowledge that the other three men were watching him, he managed to move his chair so that he was obscured from their view by a hideous sterling silver epergne that Mrs. Weston insisted gave the table elegance.

  Why were they staring at him? he wondered. That they held no fondness for him, he didn’t doubt. That they would shed no tears if misfortune was to befall him, he also knew. So what were they thinking? Were they planning some attack against him? He gulped down a glass of wine, stoking his courage, considering the possibilities. He had no argument with Sherbrook or Weston, either one, but by God! He would welcome the chance to meet Wyndham again…and kill him.

  The possibilities blinded him. If Wyndham was to die…And Nell was to miscarry or the child was to be born dead, which would be easy enough to arrange…Weston would step into his cousin’s boots. Raoul would then be only one person away from inheriting the title and the enormous fortune that went with it. Tynedale smiled. He would be very happy to help Raoul waste it away. Best of all, Nell would be a widow, with a fortune of her own. His first attempt to coerce her into marriage had failed, but he was wiser now and he’d plan better. A crafty gleam entered his eyes. Why not? Why the bloody hell not? Time was against him; the sooner Wyndham joined the ranks of the dead, the sooner the grieving Countess Wyndham could be rid of the brat she carried and become Lady Tynedale—and gossip be damned!

  Tynedale stood up. Everything was falling into place. He even had his dueling pistols with him…He smiled again. They were very special, those pistols—one pulled ever so slightly to the right, the other to the left, but only he knew which one did what and could compensate for it, while poor Wyndham…He almost laughed aloud, picturing the expression on Wyndham’s face when his bullet found its mark and Wyndham’s did not. A febrile glitter in his blue eyes, he strolled over to where Julian, Marcus and Charles were still gathered.

  Approaching them, he bowed. “A most enjoyable event. Your mother is to be congratulated on her abilities as hostess,” he said to Charles, coming to stand beside him. Smiling at Julian, he said, “I do not believe that I have ever congratulated you on your recent marriage. What is it…six months now? Oh, and an heir on the way, too—congratulations.” He sipped his wine, his eyes never leaving Julian’s rigid features. “She is a lovely little thing—you are a lucky man,” he added genially. “Very lucky, indeed…So easily could she have slipped from your fingers and, alas, become the bride of another man.”

  Julian’s nostrils flared and Marcus grabbed his arm. Staring at Tynedale, despising him, Julian said flatly, “If you value your life, I would suggest that you take your loathsome self far away from me.”

  Tynedale’s eyes widened girlishly. “Oh, my, are you insulting me?” It was not his plan to be the challenger. He needed to be the one challenged—then the choice of weapons would be his.

  “Can you be insulted?” mocked Julian.

  They were not speaking in low tones and several gentlemen alert to brewing trouble turned to stare at them.

  “Oh, yes, I’m quite certain of it…if I allow myself to be,” Tynedale said, taking another sip of his wine. “But, you see, I have great command of my temper and do not allow myself to be goaded by the trite comments uttered by commoners.”

  Charles’s face turned to marble and Marcus started to his feet, only to be halted by Julian’s apparently careless but bone-crushing hold of his arm.

  “You are to be commended,” Julian drawled, his long body deceptively relaxed. “I, too, am somewhat impervious to insults, especially when they are uttered by offal like yourself.”

  Everyone was watching and listening to them by now and there was a collective gasp at Julian’s words.

  The squire rushed forward, followed closely on his heels by the vicar and Lord Beckworth. “Oh, I say now,” said the squire uneasily. “None of that, this has gone on too long.”

  Tynedale tittered but his eyes burned with hatred. “Dear me. Are you trying to force a duel upon me?” He glanced around the room. “I am afraid that poor Wyndham isn’t content with having already shed my blood. It would appear that he is lusting for more.”

&
nbsp; “You are wrong,” Julian murmured, “I do not want your blood, you licentious knave, I want you dead so that you can no longer swindle and cheat green boys out of their fortunes.”

  Tynedale went white with fury, but he held on to his temper. “Goodness! I had so hoped that you had gotten over your displeasure with your ward’s foolish acts, but it appears that I am wrong. You hold a grudge, my lord—how unsporting of you.”

  With a flick of his wrist Julian tossed the contents of his glass into Tynedale’s face. “And you, my Lord Blackguard,” he said quietly, “are a cur and a coward, nothing short of vermin that should be stamped out.”

  Enraged, Tynedale lost sight of his goal. “You smug bastard,” he snarled, “name your seconds!”

  “Gladly,” Julian said. His eyes never leaving Tynedale’s livid features, he said, “Marcus? Charles?”

  Not waiting for their assent, Julian drawled, “I believe that weapons are my choice—swords…and the time and place, here and now.”

  “Oh, no, no, we can’t have that!” exclaimed the squire, appalled at this turn of events. “Tynedale has not even named his seconds,” he added desperately.

  “Mr. Raoul Weston and Mr. Pierce Chadbourne will act for me,” Tynedale snapped. Both Raoul and Pierce looked dismayed, but they could hardly refuse, and both nodded and came to stand beside their man. “And I am ready,” Tynedale said, “whenever Lord Wyndham is ready.”

  “Upon my soul! This is highly irregular,” protested Lord Beckworth. “You must allow your seconds to attempt a peaceable outcome.”

  Julian had not moved from his relaxed position by the table, but like a tiger with his prey in his sights, his eyes had never left Tynedale’s face. “Irregular it may be,” he said, “but protocol has been met; by good luck, we have a physician in attendance and certainly we have enough respectable witnesses, in addition to our seconds. There is nothing to prevent the duel from taking place—here and now.”

  Tynedale gave a curt nod. “I concur. There is nothing for our seconds to discuss.”

  To Charles, Julian said, “I believe that you have an exceptional pair of swords—we shall use those.” His lip curled in contempt. “Unless, of course, Tynedale or his seconds have some objections.”

  “None,” said Tynedale, cursing inwardly that he had lost the advantage.

  “Then while Charles goes in search of the weapons, let us prepare,” Julian said.

  It was clear that there was nothing more to be done; the duel would be fought. Here. Now.

  While Charles disappeared in search of the swords, the other gentlemen, some muttering their displeasure, others voicing anxiety and still others with growing excitement, a few even placing wagers on the outcome, swiftly prepared the room. Candelabrums were placed out of danger; the table was moved to the far end; and chairs were shoved out of the way until there was a sizable space cleared in the middle of the large room, revealing in full glory the colors and design of a costly Turkish rug. When Charles returned with the swords, they were examined by the seconds and deemed acceptable. The principles and their seconds retreated to opposite ends of the room, the witnesses lining themselves up along the walls.

  “Are you mad?” Marcus hissed the moment he, Charles and Julian were alone.

  Shrugging out of his jacket, Julian murmured, “We are agreed, are we not, that he wants killing?”

  “Yes, but who decided that it would be you? Charles or I could do it just as easily. You have responsibilities…Or have your forgotten your wife? What about the babe your wife carries?”

  Taking the sword Charles handed him, Julian said, “I have not forgotten them and I trust that if the worst happens that you and Charles will look out for them.” He hesitated, an anguished expression crossing his face. Thinking of Nell and her grief should he die would do him no good. Nor was this the time to consider the wisdom of his actions. He needed a clear head, but he could not leave Nell without a final word. He took a deep breath. “If I should die, tell my wife that I love her, that she brought me immeasurable joy and that my last thought was of her and our child.”

  “Oh, bloody hell!” Marcus burst out. He glanced at Charles in exasperation. “For God’s sake, do something.”

  “Me? Why should I?” Charles asked. “If my esteemed cousin were unlucky enough to die tonight, I inherit.” He flashed Julian a lopsided grin. “Rest assured, my lord, that I shall grieve deeply and I swear to you that I will see that your lady is protected and that no harm comes to her.”

  Julian sent him a look. “Do you know, I never realized before,” he marveled, “that you have, at the most inopportune times, a decidedly flippant attitude.”

  “Better that than wringing my hands like that old maid, Marcus.”

  Marcus surged forward, violence in his eyes, but with a swift movement Julian prevented him from reaching his target. “I believe that I am the one fighting a duel,” he said quietly. “You two may cut each other to ribbons afterward if you wish, but for now, remember that you are my seconds.”

  Julian started to turn away, but Charles caught his arm. His expression grim, Charles said thickly, “You do know, my lord, don’t you, that if you fall, Tynedale will not outlive you by many moments.”

  Julian smiled faintly and nodded his dark head. “I never doubted it for a moment—despite your infernal impudence.”

  Turning away, Julian took off his embroidered waistcoat and laid it on top of his jacket. After rolling up the sleeves of his fine linen shirt, he picked up the sword and tested its balance, finding that memory had not played him false. It was an exquisite weapon. Too exquisite, he thought viciously, to use on Tynedale.

  While Julian had been preparing himself, Tynedale had been doing the same and a moment later the two men faced each other. They met in the center of the cleared space, their swords kissing as a prelude to the duel.

  In spite of several gentlemen being in the room, the air was hushed as the swords sang against each other for the first time. No one doubted that the duel would go beyond the drawing of first blood; many believed that they would see a man die.

  As Julian and Tynedale stalked each other, there was no stylish maneuvering, no intricate footwork meant to draw the admiration and respect of the spectators—this was a duel in which each of the opponents’ only thought was to kill the other. It began slowly enough; they had met before and had the measure of the other, and in an elegant dance of death, they tested each other’s strengths, looking for an opening, a weakness.

  Beyond the muffled sound of the booted feet of the swordsmen on the Turkish rug and the occasional scrape of blade upon blade, there was silence. Julian easily parried Tynedale’s feints as they fought, their blades flashing silver in the candlelight. For endless minutes the duel continued: feint, parry, thrust, disengage—only to begin again with neither man finding a clear opening for attack. Then, suddenly, Tynedale’s blade slipped under Julian’s guard and a long crimson slash appeared on Julian’s upper arm.

  “Enough!” cried the squire, his features anxious. “You have bloodied your man.”

  “But I do not claim satisfaction,” snarled Tynedale, and lunged at Julian.

  Julian danced away from Tynedale’s onslaught, only to come back at him, their blades shrieking as steel clashed against steel. His face dark and grim, Julian kept up the attack, relentlessly driving Tynedale backward, his blade striking like lightning, leaving Tynedale’s shirt torn and bloody from a dozen small nicks. Tynedale’s shirt hung in ribbons on him and he was gasping for breath, but Tynedale was an excellent swordsman and though Julian had been able to inflict insulting damage, he had not been able to find a chink in Tynedale’s defense that would allow him the killing thrust.

  Perspiration rolled down Tynedale’s face as once again his blade met Julian’s attack. His wounds stung and bled. His arm ached and his breathing was ragged. He had held Julian off so far, but he knew that he could not do so indefinitely. Fear uncurled like a snake in his belly and any thought of killing hi
s opponent vanished—Tynedale was fighting for his life.

  Fear and rage clouding Tynedale’s mind, his defenses wavered and in that moment, Julian broke through, his blade whistling across Tynedale’s as Julian went for the heart. At the last second, Tynedale moved slightly and instead of finding its mark, Julian’s blade sank deeply into Tynedale’s shoulder.

  Tynedale shrieked and fell to the floor as Julian pulled his blade free. Disgusted, Julian stood over his fallen opponent as Tynedale writhed on the floor. Of all the damn things! Julian thought as he stared down at Tynedale. He had failed again. Tynedale would live. To continue the duel would be to commit cold-blooded murder and Julian’s honor balked at that—no matter how badly he wished Tynedale dead. Damn and blast!

  “Once again you seem to have the Devil’s own luck, my lord,” Julian said grimly.

  Pierce and Raoul ran to their man and helped Tynedale to his feet. Sagging between them, his sword held limply by one side, Tynedale retorted, “Luck had nothing to do with it, my lord. Skill is the thing.”

  “Indeed. Believe that if you will.” Julian glanced around the room. “Tynedale cannot go on. The duel is ended.” Turning his back on Tynedale, he began to walk to the other end of the room.

  Seeing his enemy walking away from him, realizing that all his schemes and dreams would not come to fruition unless Wyndham died, Tynedale went mad. “No!” he screamed. “It does not end thus!”

  Astonishing everyone, Tynedale threw off the hands of his seconds and stood swaying in the middle of the room.

  Julian turned back to Tynedale. His cold gaze swept up and down Tynedale. “Even the desire to eradicate vermin such as you will not compel me to commit murder.” Contempt in every movement, Julian spun on his heels and walked away.

  Tynedale gave a strangled cry and charged after Julian. It was clear that in his maddened state Tynedale intended to drive his blade into Julian’s unprotected back.