Meg threw back the covers and swung her legs over the side of the bed. She poked her toes around until she had located her slippers, and slid her cold feet into them. Grabbing her wrapper, she tied it about her waist as she opened the door into the hallway.
The sound of Terrence's raised voice gave her a start. Terrence seldom shouted, and almost never at servants. She crept quietly across the hall as the shouting continued, indistinct but obviously angry. Only a word here and there penetrated the thick wooden door. "Insult." "Seconds." "Never." "Pistols." "Sedgewick."
What?
Terrified, Meg shamelessly swung open the door to Terrence's bedchamber.
"... blow a hole through the bastard's—Meg! What are you doing here?"
"Dear God, Terrence, what is going on?"
"Go to bed, Meggie," Terrence snapped. "It is none of your affair."
"Oh, but, Terrence, I think it is."
Terrence handed a wooden box to Droggett. "Take this and do as I asked."
"Yes, sir." The valet cast an uncertain glance at Meg, and then scurried out the door.
"Terrence," Meg said, her voice barely above a whisper, "are you ... are you fighting a ... a duel? With Lord Sedgewick?"
"Stay out of it, Meggie."
"Oh, God!" She began to tremble uncontrollably and took several steadying breaths to slow her racing heart. "Terrence, how could you! How could you? Why, why are you doing this?"
"I have told you to stay out of it, and I mean it."
He shrugged into a plain, dark jacket with fabric-covered buttons, a sharp contrast to the claret-jacket with brass buttons he had worn earlier. Meg had heard that shiny buttons made clear targets in a duel, and the thought made bile rise to her throat. Terrence pushed past Meg and strode toward the door, but she stopped him with a hand on his arm.
"Is it because of me, Terrence? Is it something to do with me?"
"I have to go, Meg. Please, let me go."
"You must call it off! Please, please call it off."
"It is too late for that."
The tears gathering on her lashes finally began to fall. "Oh, God," she wailed, "You might be killed."
Terrence pulled her into his arms and rested his cheek against her hair. "I won't be killed, love. I promise you."
"B-But, you might kill him."
Terrence abruptly wrenched away and turned his back on her.
"Is that what you want, Terrence?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. "To kill a man whose life we fought so hard to save only a few months ago?"
Without a word, Terrence stormed out the door, down the hallway, and out of the house.
Meg covered her face with her hands and choked back sobs. Crying was useless now. She must think. She must act. She must do something.
She returned to her room and rang for Pansy. The poor girl was probably asleep, but she might be able to help. While she waited for the maid, Meg wore a path in the carpet as she paced nervously. The two people she loved most in the world were about to face one another with pistols. One of them might die. She did not believe she could bear it.
She must put a stop to it. Somehow, she must stop it.
A soft knock was followed by the entrance of Pansy, wide-eyed and clutching a shabby woolen wrapper.
"I am sorry to wake you. Pansy, but—"
"Oh, I weren't asleep, miss. I been restitching that flounce in your lilac silk."
"Good, good. Now, Pansy, I need your help."
Meg told Pansy everything she knew about the duel and asked her to ferret out as much information from Droggett as she could. Especially the time and place. "And, please hurry, Pansy. There is no time to waste."
"Yes, miss." The excited little maid dashed out the door and headed toward the back stairs.
The next half hour was almost unendurable. Meg paced and fretted and cried and wrung her hands until she was in a more agitated state than ever. What would she do if Sedge was killed? What would she do if Terrence was killed? Dear God, it was all her fault. Somehow, her brother must have found out about Sedge's offer. It was the only explanation. How he discovered it, she had not a clue. But it did not matter. He had found out and had challenged Sedge to a duel. And it was all her fault.
When Pansy returned, Meg literally pounced on the startled girl. "What did you find out? Tell me. Tell me!"
"It's a duel, all right," Pansy began. "Sir Terrence, he challenged Lord Sedgewick on account of some insult to you, miss."
Meg groaned. "Oh, God. I knew it. I knew it."
"His seconds are Lord Skeffington and Mr. Hawksworthy," Pansy continued, as if reciting a memorized verse. "Lord Sedgewick's seconds are Lord Pemerton and Mr. Herriot. The same Mr. Herriot what stayed at Thornhill, miss. Lord Sedgewick chose pistols. Sir Terrence will be usin' his own set. The viscount will be usin' Mr. Herriot's set. Lord Pemerton told Lord Skeffington that Mr. Herriot was set on usin' his own pistols. Real pushy, like. Lord Sedgewick didn't care one way or t'other, but Lord Pemerton thought it queer."
"But where, Pansy?" Meg wanted to shake the girl. Who cared about pistols and seconds? "Where is it to take place, and when?"
"Droggett don't know, miss."
Meg threw her head back and gave an inarticulate wail.
"We must find out, Pansy. How can I stop it if I don't know where it is?"
"But how, miss? How can I find out?"
"I don't know." Meg clutched her elbows and pressed her crossed arms tight against her abdomen. "I don't know. But we must do something. We cannot just sit here and wait until—Oh, God."
Pansy's face crumpled as she watched Meg's distress. "Lemme think," she murmured and began pacing the same path worn by Meg. After several trips across the room, she came to a stop and her head tilted up like a baby bird. "James," she said quietly to herself.
"James?" He was one of their footmen. "What about James?"
"He has a friend over to Mr. Hawksworthy's," Pansy said. "A footman. Thomas, from home in Suffolk, same as us. Maybe James could find out somethin' from Thomas."
"Yes!" Meg exclaimed. "James can find out something. Pansy, go find him at once and send him over to the Hawksworthy house. Now, hurry!"
"Yes, miss!"
A glimmer of hope began to flicker through the dark despair of the evening. James was a wily fellow. He would find out where this unspeakable outrage was to take place. And then maybe she could do some good for a change, and save two lives.
Charged with new energy, Meg tore off her wrapper and gown and rummaged through her wardrobe. She pulled out a heavy merino carriage dress—sensible and warm—and kid half boots, and began to change.
It was five o'clock when Pansy finally returned, bursting with news. The duel was to be held at six o'clock at Tothill Fields, near Willow Walk. Six o'clock? Meg had less than an hour to get there, and she had a vague notion that Tothill Fields was some distance away.
"Yes, miss, it's in lower Westminster, practically to Chelsea."
"Dear God, I'll never make it," Meg said. "And I don't know exactly where it is."
"Not to worry, miss," Pansy said with a smile. "Thomas wrote out directions. Here."
She held out a crumpled piece of foolscap that Meg grabbed and took to the nearest branch of candles. The directions were clear, but it was indeed some distance.
She began to rip off the merino dress. "Get my breeches, Pansy. I'll have to ride. And ride fast."
Chapter 23
Sedge arrived at Tothill Fields with Jack and Albert several minutes ahead of schedule. He had not slept—how could he?—but was not weary. Heartsore, but not tired. He was too nervous to be tired.
Jack had learned from Skeffington and Hawksworthy that Ashburton had issued the challenge as a result of an insult to Meg. An insult to Meg! What could be more ludicrous? No only had Sedge made her an honorable offer of marriage which she had baldly rejected, but had refused her own less honorable offer. What had he done that could possibly be construed as an insult? Dammit all, if anyon
e had been insulted it was him.
He could not apologize for what he had not done, so this duel was to proceed. Sedge had never before been involved in a duel, except once as a spectator, and was thoroughly unnerved by the situation.
"Don't worry, old chap," Jack had told him. "I've fought my share of duels, in my former dissolute life. I will get you through this one."
Sedge almost did not care how or if he got through this one. His life had been turned topsy-turvy ever since that carriage accident. The broken leg had left him with a permanently stiff limb. The knock on the head had left him prone to headaches and very possibly had affected his sanity. He had sunk into drunkenness. The woman he wanted to marry did not want to marry him. And he was accused of an insult he had not made. It all added up to a less than perfect life. If Ashburton killed him, so be it.
Sedge was a fairly good shot, having hunted game every year since he was a boy. But he was uncertain about how well he could do with a dueling pistol. He kept a pair, of course. Every gentleman did. And he had practiced with them on occasion. But it was almost impossible to shoot straight with the damned things. And that concerned Sedge just now. He did not mean to harm Ashburton. It was dishonorable to fire in the air, though, God knows, that is what he would prefer to do. Instead, he hoped to take aim and miss. But with the vagaries of a dueling pistol, he might just as easily kill the man.
After all, he had hit that blasted highwayman with a single shot, from an awkward position in a carriage.
Thoughts of that episode sent a shudder down his back. He would most definitely aim to miss. Miss wide.
On top of the general concerns, he would be using an unfamiliar gun. Bertie had been adamant. He seemed so proud of his new Mantons that Sedge hadn't the heart to refuse him. But it concerned him that he would not know how to compensate in his aim.
Ashburton and his seconds arrived a few minutes later, with the doctor following close behind. The carriages were lined up along Willow Walk like black crows against the pink sky of early dawn. The field dipped down a bit from the road, and then flattened. It was at this area that the men congregated.
The seconds came together to formalize, in the presence of the principals, the terms and the distance. Sedge listened with half an ear while he studied his opponent's face. Ashburton's mouth was set in a grim line, and he seemed to have acquired a permanent pair of creases between his brows. His anger was still very much in evidence. Sedge shuddered with a premonition that this man would kill him.
After terms were agreed upon, and the doctor took his place in the distance, the seconds brought out the gun cases and began to load.
* * *
Meg memorized Thomas's directions before setting out, for it would be too dark to read them along the way. As she galloped through Green Park and the Queen's Garden toward Pimlico, she was haunted by alternate visions of either Sedge or Terrence, bleeding and dying on some distant green. Please God, let her be in time to stop it.
She did not wish to be the cause of yet another of Sedge's unfortunate misadventures. Strange how he seemed to attract misfortune. Who would have thought that a private, though highly improper, discussion weeks ago at Thornhill would result in this? Pistols at dawn. Meg had never mentioned Sedge's offer to a single soul before telling Gram last evening. How on earth such private information could have reached he brother's ears, she might never know. Blame it on Sedge's run of bad luck.
Meg rode hell for leather through the parks, but had to dodge morning traffic as she reached James Street. The slower pace that took her through the less than savory area old almshouses and taverns made her glad she had dressed as she did. She would surely be taken for a young man, and hopefully left alone. At this hour the streets were filled with peddlers and draymen and vendors of all kind, getting ready for the day's business. She was likely in no danger. And if she was she was in too much of a hurry to care.
The plodding pace made her jumpy and anxious as she wound her way to ward Rochester Row. She must not be too late. She must not.
Consideration of all the possible impediments to a timely arrival sent her thoughts back to Sedge and his bad luck. First there had been the curricle accident. But Seamus had been certain it was no accident. Then there had been Gram's mix-up with the monkshood. Surely an accident, though Gram had never believed that. Then there had been the time when Sedge had almost fallen down the stairs. Another accident? Or had someone deliberately spilled the oil of vitriol? She had almost thought so at the time but had dismissed it.
If they had not been accidents, then who had planned them? And why? Meg had never liked the valet Pargeter. Could he have been responsible? He had not been in the curricle with Sedge at the time of the accident, but had been with him the night before. As she recalled, he had stayed behind with a mysterious illness. He had certainly had access to the still-room, for Gram had showed him herself where to find the herbal mixture for her infusion. And he admitted spilling the oil of vitriol.
Good Lord, could Pargeter be trying to kill Sedge? Or was her mind overly agitated by this morning's urgency? What cause would Pargeter have to kill his employer?
And then there was the highwayman. Meg knew little about that episode, but Pargeter had certainly been there. She would wager he had also been present at the time of the fire in Sedge's bedchamber. Dear heaven, could he have had something to do with this duel?
Meg spurred her horse to greater speed down Rochester Row to Willow Walk. She saw the line of carriages and reined in. From her vantage point above she saw Mr. Hawksworthy and Mr. Herriot loading the guns. Thank God, she had made it in time! She dismounted and prepared to dash down to the field when something made her pause.
She watched as Mr. Herriot poured a measure of powder into the muzzle of his long-barreled pistol, followed by a linen-wrapped bullet which he tamped down with the ramrod. But there was something wrong. Meg had been around guns enough to know that Mr. Herriot held this one strangely, as if it were out of balance. But if the gun was not balanced, he, as the second, should not allow it to be used. And yet she watched as he handed it to Sedge, who seemed too dazed to notice anything out of the ordinary.
A shadow of a smile crossed Mr. Herriot's face as he handed the gun to his cousin. It was that smile, that mere flicker, that brought all the pieces of the puzzle together for Meg.
It was not Pargeter after all. It was Mr. Herriot. He was trying to kill his cousin.
* * *
Just as the men had finished pacing off and were taking aim, Sedge became distracted by a figure running headlong down the slope.
Meg!
"Stop! Don't shoot!" she shouted, running pell-mell between them, arms flailing, straight toward Sedge. Just as she knocked the gun out of Sedge's hands, a shot from Terrence struck him in the shoulder. Sedge crumpled to the ground with a groan.
Damnation!
Meg dropped to his side and flung her arms around him, sobbing all over his good shoulder. Sedge began to assess the situation. If he thought he was confused before, it was nothing to what he felt now. What the devil was going on? Perhaps he was, in fact, the only sane person while everyone else had gone crazy.
"Oh, Sedge," Meg said in a shaky voice. "He almost killed you."
Sedge lifted his good arm without thinking and wrapped it around Meg, pulling her close. "No, he only winged me," he said.
In the next moment, Ashburton grabbed Meg by the arms, jerked her upright, and actually began to shake her. The quick movement sent a stab of pain through Sedge's shoulder. He winced and just then the doctor knelt by his side. He quickly removed Sedge's jacket, waistcoat, and cravat in a most painful manner, and began examining the wound.
"You fool!" Ashburton scolded, shaking Meg by the shoulders. "I told you this was none of your affair. Why couldn't you have stayed away?"
"Because if I had, Sedge would be dead."
"Not dead," the doctor calmly interjected while applying an alum poultice to the wound. '"Tis only a flesh wound. The bullet
struck the muscle, just here. Went clean through. Missed the bone, thank God. Messy, but not serious." He returned his attention to his patient and began winding a bandage tightly around Sedge's shoulder and under the armpit.
Ignoring the doctor, Ashburton returned his fulminating glare to his sister. "If you had not distracted me," he snapped, "I might have done more damage. But, what makes you so sure I would have killed him?"
"Not you," Meg said. Sedge watched in total astonishment as she turned and pointed to Albert. "Him." While all eyes turned to Sedge's cousin, Meg walked over to where the gun had been thrown and picked it up. She handed it to Lord Pemerton. "I think you will find this gun has been tampered with in some way."
Jack gently bounced the gun in his hand as a frown puckered his brow. "It's out of balance," he said. "Too heavy at the stock. Something's wrong here." He turned the gun over and unscrewed the base of the stock. "Good God," he exclaimed. "Look at this." Jack turned the gun upright over his palm, and black powder trickled out. And out. And out. When he held a sizable mound in his hand, he turned a furious glare on Albert. "What is the meaning of this, Herriot? A special chamber where the flint holder should be? A chamber filled with enough gunpowder to blow Sedge's head off?"
Skeffington and Hawksworthy were instantly at Albert's side, each grasping an arm so he could not escape. He looked down at the ground and said nothing.
"Good thing it wasn't cocked," Jack continued. "You might have jarred the hair trigger, Sedge, and been killed before the first shot was fired."
"Bertie? Is this true?" Sedge shrugged away the doctor's final ministrations while he studied his young cousin. His cousin who apparently wanted to kill him. "Bertie?"
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