In the Brief Eternal Silence

by Rebecca Melvin

  The butler showed St. James into a receiving room. He returned a few minutes later, saying that young Mister Tempton would be happy to accommodate his lordship if he could but wait a few minutes, and then he inquired if there were anything he could bring him.

  “A cup of coffee would do nicely,” St. James told him, and was sipping it with satisfaction when Ryan half bounded into the room.

  “I say, St. James! Hardly have known you to be up and about so early,” he exclaimed with pleased surprise. St. James turned to him at his entrance, and Ryan gave a little fumble in his eager walk. “Good God! Are you aware that you have the most blatant hand print I have ever seen upon your face?”

  St. James smile rather thinly. “As I was there when I received it, yes, I am very much aware of it.”

  Ryan seemed diverted by this happenstance and stared at the mark, grinning. “I only hope you got something worth the slapping!”

  “Let us just say I would take my chances again.”

  Ryan shook his head. “You stir up more trouble in three days than most people do their entire lives,” he commented, but he seemed quite taken with the idea of the intimidating Duke of St. James evidently having trouble with some uncooperative female.

  “I have a matter to take care of to day, Ryan,” St. James began, growing bored with the stir his besmirched cheek was causing with everyone he had so far encountered. “I thought you may wish to help me with it as you have made known your good instincts on horse flesh.”

  “I should be happy to do so! Are you in the market for something for your racing stable?” Ryan asked with eagerness.

  “No. Rather a lady's mount. Something suitable for riding in the park and such, but that would be equally suitable for country riding as well. I find to my dismay that I have taken Miss Murdock's only mount and as I have already had it taken to Morningside, I wish to acquire her a replacement.”

  “Oh, jolly good!” Ryan said. “And how is Miss Murdock? I daresay your attention has swayed rather quickly, but I am hardly surprised. You were very drunk you know. Do you mean to still keep her horse then?”

  St. James' eyes widened at this stream of artless questions. “Well, certainly I shall keep her horse. I still intend to marry her.”

  Ryan seemed taken aback at this pronouncement. “Well, Bloody Hell, St. James, you can't blame me for assuming otherwise with that—that mark upon your cheek!” He put his hands upon his narrow hips as he continued in indignation. “Rather in poor taste I should think, to bring your fiancé to town one night and earn that the very next from Lord Knows What Female. I certainly hope you will at least let it fade before taking her down the marriage aisle.”

  St. James rubbed a finger over his upper lip. “Do you think so?” he asked with perfect puzzlement. “Hadn't thought of it, I confess.”

  Ryan, perceiving that the duke was deriving a great deal of amusement from his outrage, accused, “You are having me on, milord. You do not mean to marry Miss Murdock after all and it only amuses you to let me believe it.”

  “No, young Ryan. I am quite serious.”

  “The devil you are!”

  St. James gave an elegant shrug. “I have determined to go to Almack's tonight in pursuit of that lady if that means anything.”

  The door opened to admit the stout figure of Lord Bertram Tempton. “Here, St. James, thought that was your mount I saw from my window above stairs,” he said in way of greeting. He was still in his brocade dressing gown, and it swayed around him as he walked across the room, making not for St. James or his brother, but the tray of coffee and cups set on the low table between them. “What ever has gotten you up and about at this time in the morning?”

  “I've come to ask Ryan to help me in finding a proper lady's mount, as I was quite impressed with his previous selection on my behalf,” St. James told him.

  “Oh, I'm sure between the two—” Bertie finished pouring his coffee and his gaze fell fully upon St. James' face, and although he looked a little startled, he merely interrupted himself by saying, “Oh, ho, St. James! Your true colors are showing!”

  “It is really that goddamned obvious?” St. James pronounced more than asked, his patience wearing thin at this final comment on his injury.

  Bertie, looking very much entertained at his old friend's discomfort, only said, “I can count all four fingers and the thumb. What ever did you do to earn that!”

  To which St. James gave him a single aggravated look from his expressive gold eyes and returned, “Not nearly enough.”

  “Oh, ho!” Bertie repeated. “Someone has not fallen for the lethal Larrimer charm. I must meet this young lady.”

  Somewhat pushed past the point of discretion, St. James replied with dryness, “You already have.”

  Bertie and Ryan each stared at each other for a moment, perhaps wanting confirmation that they were each thinking the same thing, and then in quiet unison they said in wondering disbelief, “Miss Murdock?”

  St. James shot them an inscrutable look and took another sip of his coffee.

  “Hardly up to your speed, St. James. I'm surprised at you,” Bertie said.

  “You as much as promised that you would not sully her in any way,” Ryan pointed out with growing anger.

  “And as you can see, I did not get the chance to,” St. James returned. As Ryan did not seem in the least mollified, he added with ill-disguised impatience, “She is to be my wife, you know, young Ryan. It is not as if I were dallying with her merely for my amusement.”

  “You have others,” Ryan pointed out.

  St. James' jaw clenched but with self-control, he only answered, “When it was necessary.”

  “If I find that you have hurt one hair upon her head—!”

  “Enough, Ryan!” Bertie broke in. “You know nothing of what you talk about, either of the past or the present. It is none of your business, you know. St. James has said he will marry her and that is all that needs concern you.”

  But St. James set down his coffee cup as Bertie spoke and took two strides over to stand in front of Ryan, looking up into the youth's face. “No, let him finish, Bertie. You will what?”

  “Well, I—” Ryan fumbled. “I should have to call you out. I suppose.”

  St. James gave a tight smile but his gold eyes were snapping. “Call a man out for courting his own fiancé? That seems a little extreme, Ryan. Unless, of course, you have some interest in that Miss yourself?”

  “Egads, St. James. I only met her the once. Twice actually. But she seemed a most, well, innocent thing, and I just do not wish to see you hurt her in any way,” Ryan blushed.

  But St. James, rather than being mollified by Ryan's expressed concern for Miss Murdock's welfare, was more annoyed. “Let me tell you something very plainly, young Ryan. Do not ever suggest that you may call a man out. For many view the mere suggestion as damning enough to then call you out. And you may take it to your grave that I am normally one of those. Do you understand?”

  “I—I think so.”

  “Secondly, the fastest way to get yourself into a duel is to interfere with another man's wife. Miss Murdock is to be my wife. Do

  you understand this, young Ryan?”

  “I do.”

  “Thirdly, and I do not need to tell your brother this, but it appears that I have rather overestimated your good common sense, so perhaps I should tell you, if you speak of how Miss Murdock and I met or the means in which our marriage was brought about, or, for that matter, how I got this palm print upon my cheek and from whom I received it, I will call you out. Friendship or no friendship.”

  “Of course, St. James,” Bertie interrupted before Ryan could answer. “You have no need to remind him of that. Even Ryan, young as he is, would certainly be aware of this.”

  “I am merely making it clear. Ryan seems to have the belief that I mean Miss Murdock some dreadful harm, when for the past two days I have expended a great deal of energy seeing to it that whatever becomes of me, that she will be very comfortab
le indeed for the rest of her life. And if he could not gather this from the fact that I am wasting precious time today procuring her a horse when I have other pressing matters, then I have misjudged him. Have I, Ryan?”

  Ryan shook his head. “No, St. James. It is rather I who have misjudged you.”

  “Jolly good,” St. James replied in nearly a snarl. “By God, I need a drink.”

  “Help yourself,” Bertie said, seeming in no way shaken by the duke's unexpected display of temper.

  St. James turned and walked over to the sideboard, selected a fine whiskey and poured into a glass, leaving a rather stunned Ryan standing alone in the middle of the room. St. James glanced at him, said in a much more normal voice, “Care for one, Ryan, while I am pouring?”

  “If—if you don't mind,” Ryan swallowed.

  “I do not mind in the least,” St. James replied, and after pouring the second glass, he poured a third for Bertie. Then the duke turned, carried Ryan's glass over to him, told him, “Do not look so chastised, Ryan, these are merely a few things you must understand, you know, if you are to get on properly.”

  Ryan took the drink but before sipping from it, he asked, “Is it really as you say, that if someone says they should call you out, that it is as much as a challenge?”

  “Indeed, it is,” St. James returned. “You must remember that, for if someone ever says such to you, you can not hesitate, but must immediately draw your glove and issue the challenge that was insinuated.”

  “Have any of your duels begun. . . in such a way?” he asked as though someone still trying to follow a difficult lesson.

  “Yes.”

  “And you did as you said, pulled your glove and issued the challenge because of the insinuation?”

  “I have.” St. James looked at him for a studying moment. “The threat is only the beginning. If you leave the threat go, the action will follow. No matter how much you may try to appease. Do you follow me, Ryan?”

  Bertie was standing patiently following this bit of unorthodox tutelage.

  “I'm not sure,” Ryan said.

  St. James sighed. “I should hit you.”

  Ryan stiffened, his face reddening in confused anger. “What?”

  “I said,” St. James repeated, “I should hit you.”

  Ryan balled his fist and if Bertie had not stepped in hastily, he would have smashed it into St. James' face, who had not moved or even blinked. But Bertie grabbed his arm, and Ryan stood still, furious, and said through clenched teeth, “Let go my arm, Bertie.”

  St. James raised a brow and asked with lethal softness, “Now do you understand, Ryan?” and as Ryan did not respond, he continued. “It is very hard to explain. If someone threatens to hit you, it is the same as hitting you. If someone threatens to shoot you, it is the same as shooting you.”

  “I understand,” Ryan said abruptly. He shook his arm free from Bertie and repeated, “Damn it. I understand, I say.”

  “I expect you do,” St. James replied, looking up at him. “Don't ever threaten to call someone out again, Ryan. If you feel that strongly about something, just remove your glove and commence.”

  “I will,” Ryan answered. He looked thoughtful for a moment as he stood there, his drink spilled and his feet still spread in belligerence. Then straightening himself, he said, “Thank you.”

  And St. James, with a little sigh, said, “You are welcome.” Then looking at Bertie, he told him, “You really should be teaching him this, you know.”

  “I've taught him all I can. He's graduated to your class, now, St. James,” Bertie answered.

  In a much surer voice, Ryan asked, “Are we ready to leave, St. James?”

  St. James threw him a warm, true smile, downed the remainder of his drink and said, “Yes. Bertie, care to join us? We'll wait if you do.”

  “No, St. James. For if I heard correctly upon my entrance that you intend to be at Almack's tonight, I have a few wagers to lay. Just do not kill my brother, is all I ask.”

  “Tsk, at the rate he is learning, it will be more likely that he kills me.”

  And Ryan, following milord duke out the door, had to reflect that for all St. James' roughness, he taught a very good lesson. But then, he guessed, his lordship had not had a kind teacher himself.

  Miss Murdock looked with disappointment at the patently uneven stitches on the small doily she had been working on. Not only was the work tedious, but not surprisingly, she showed no skill at it. And the back of her neck hurt.

  She glanced at Lady Lydia, who had made her belated appearance at breakfast, apologizing rather vaguely of not feeling well, and then had gone on to pick at her food. Now, she was bent over a piece of petit point, as seemed to be her sole occupation if she were not shopping, receiving callers or calling upon others. Andrew had left after breakfast to meet with a friend of his from his 'University Days' which he pronounced in such a way as to make the listener feel that he had been out for decades instead of not even a year. The duchess, as was her custom, had gone above stairs for a nap.

  Lady Lydia glanced up at Miss Murdock's sudden inactivity and said, “It takes time, my dear. Surely your mother should have taught you all this years ago.”

  “Indeed, I'm sure she would have if she had lived,” Miss Murdock responded absently, her mind more preoccupied with restless thoughts of the night before and the dreaded evening she had to look forward to.

  “Oh, I am so sorry,” Lady Lydia exclaimed. “I had no idea that your mother was not living.”

  “And how could you?” Miss Murdock replied. In a sudden yielding to defeat, she placed the doily away from her onto the arm of the chair. “For I do not recall mentioning it before to you, and it is not as if you have known me long.”

  Lady Lydia continued her sewing even as she spoke. “Somehow I feel as though I have known you longer.” She pulled the thread further through. “I had my reservations about you, Miss Murdock, as I am sure you are not surprised to hear, but looking at you now, only two short days since you arrived, I must pronounce myself pleasantly surprised.”

  “Why, thank you,” Miss Murdock said, very much surprised herself.

  “You get along quite well with my son the Earl, do you not?” Lady Lydia asked while continuing to sew.

  “Oh,” Miss Murdock said. “He is the most pleasant sort, I agree.”

  Lady Lydia glanced at her again, but Miss Murdock had turned her face toward the window. “It is such a beautiful day,” she continued.

  “It is,” Lady Lydia agreed.

  “Do you think that the Duchess has any mounts?”

  “I expect not,” Lady Lydia said frowning, “as she has not ridden for many years and I myself have never ridden.” She gave a slight shudder at the thought. “Of course Andrew rides, but I can not recommend your riding his horse as he is quite temperamental even if he did not have it out presently. I have often told him he should get something easier to control, for I positively live in dread of his spilling and being seriously hurt.”

  “He is not a child any more. I am sure that he shall manage,” Miss Murdock responded, uncertain herself whether she meant to be comforting or critical.

  “As he has often told me himself,” said Lady Lydia, and picked up her small gold sewing scissors and snipped through the thread with ferocity. “It just goes to show that he does not fully appreciate how important it is that he does not do himself harm or take unnecessary chances, despite how often I have tried to tell him so.”

  Miss Murdock turned her head to study Lady Lydia. “No young man, I expect, ever takes the thought of his mortality seriously,” she said, sensing that lady's very real concern for her son. “I am sure he will come around in just another year or two.”

  “If another year or two is not too late. But it is not your concern, is it, Miss Murdock, and so I do not mean to burden you with my motherly misgivings. Let me only say I am glad that the two of you seem to be such chums.”

  “Chums. Yes,” Miss Murdock agreed. “Or a brothe
r. I think he feels it is his responsibility to get me up to snuff for Almacks tonight, which I think is very dear of him.”

  Lady Lydia smiled with a radiance that showed in detail the remnants of the incomparable she had once been. “It is dear of him, isn't it?” she asked. “When ever I begin to positively despair, then he does something like that which reassures me that. . . well, never-mind. It is just so hard, Miss Murdock, when so often he seems determined to follow in the footsteps of his cousin. And as you have had your own experience with that man, I need not tell you how much I object to Andrew turning out the same.”

  “I can quite understand,” Miss Murdock said with sympathy, thinking of the conversation she had in this room with Andrew yesterday afternoon.

  “You know, I saw the most odd thing last night,” Lady Lydia continued. “A carriage leaving here, perfectly black and plain, I almost think it must have been hired. It was after two, I believe, and I'm certain it must have dropped someone at the door, for I saw a groom coming back around from the front of the house before it left out of our mew.” She glanced in question at Miss Murdock, but Miss Murdock had decided she might have a fresh try at her embroidery after all. She picked it up and bowed her head over it in devoted concentration.

  “I asked Andrew this morning if he had someone drop him off, for I know that he was out quite late, and do you know, he acted most perfectly surprised and said he could not guess who it could have been or what it could have been about. Do you think he may have been lying to me?”

  Miss Murdock bowed her head further over her work in a frenzy of endeavor. “Oh, I do not think he would lie to you, Lady Lydia. I am quite certain he would not.”

  Lydia made a little noise of astonishment. “Well, I am puzzled then, for if it were not him, whyever would a strange coach be at our house in the midst of the night?”

  “I am certain it is most odd,” Miss Murdock agreed. She winced

  as she bloodied her finger with the needle. “Ouch!”

  “Oh, dear!” Lydia said. “Did you hurt it very badly?”