Code of Honor

by Andrea Pickens

  It was Ashton's turn to let out a sigh. "I shall make it for the north clearing at Houndslow Heath. Tomorrow morning, then?"

  Branford compressed his lips into a grim smile. "I am acquainted with the spot. I shall see you there at dawn."

  The mist swirled in the grey dawn light, nearly obscuring the three figures that stood at the edge of the clearing. Two carriages waited a short distance away, black smudges against the hazy outline of trees. The only sounds were the muffled jangling of the harnesses as the horses shifted in their traces and the restless pacing of one of the figures.

  Lord Ashton turned back in the other direction, throwing another wrathful look at the two young men huddled close together. He muttered something unintelligible under his breath then shifted the wooden case that was clamped tightly under one arm.

  "Once again, I ‘ll ask you to reconsider this folly. Surely any imagined" — he stressed the word, adding a tinge of sarcasm — "insult can be settled by gentlemen in a more civilized manner than this?"

  Frederick Hartley glanced nervously at his friend.

  Justin did not raise his eyes from the ground. "No," he replied, barely above a whisper.

  "Very well. It's your own funeral," snapped Ashton, hoping with a touch of malice to put enough fright into the young man that he might faint dead away. It had happened before.

  Hartley's eyes blinked rapidly and he cast a surreptitious look at his friend. Though his shoulders flinched slightly at the harsh words, Justin remained silent.

  "As agreed, Hartley, I have engaged the services of a good surgeon," continued Ashton. "Though he naturally wishes to remain removed from these proceedings unless he is needed."

  Hartley swallowed and nodded.

  The sounds of an approaching rider caused all three heads to jerk around. A large black stallion materialized from the gloom. The rider pulled up next to Ashton's carriage, dismounted and tossed the reins to the lone coachman standing at the head of the lead pair.

  Branford walked purposefully to where the others were standing. His face was impassive, and he merely nodded a curt greeting to Ashton as he came to a halt and began to remove his gloves. Young Hartley swallowed once more as he took in the earl's cool demeanor. Beads of sweat began to form on his brow at the sight of the imposing figure clad in black. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but a quelling look from Justin caused him to reconsider.

  Ashton cleared his throat. "As it appears that all attempts to resolve this matter have failed, we shall proceed." He opened the lid of the box to reveal a brace of gleaming, long barreled pistols. "The pieces have been checked and loaded by me with Mr. Hartley as a witness. Agreed?"

  Hartley croaked a yes.

  Branford signaled with his eyes to Ashton. The other man frowned slightly, then extended the box towards Hartley and Justin.

  "Mr. Chilton, you may choose."

  Justin reached out and grasped a weapon with no more than a cursory look. His hand shook ever so slightly.

  Ashton offered the remaining one to Branford, who took it up casually, letting his hand fall immediately to his side.

  "Hartley and I have marked off the paces. You will move to your spots. When I give the signal, you may fire at will. One shot each."

  Both participants took up their positions.

  Ashton called "Ready?" and glanced to either side. Both men turned sideways and nodded.

  With a muttered oath, he dropped a white handkerchief.

  Branford's right arm came up in one swift motion. When it reached shoulder level, he adjusted his aim with a quick, precise movement and pulled the trigger.

  Justin's weapon had not yet risen above his waist when he heard the sharp crack. He squeezed his eyes closed very tightly and waited for the inevitable impact. His last thought was of how furious Alex would be at him to let it all end this way. But truly, for honor's sake, he had had no choice.

  He almost didn't feel the rush of air as the bullet whizzed past him, so far off the mark it was. His jaw dropped slightly in astonishment and it took an instant for him absorb the fact that he was indeed unscathed.

  Branford's arm dropped to his side and he stood motionless. Even in his black clothes he was clearly visible in the gathering light. Justin's own arm had automatically continued its arc up until it held the gun pointed straight at the earl's chest. All he had to do was take his time and make sure of his aim.

  How simple.

  So what was the matter with him, he thought as he sighted down the barrel? Why could he not shake the image of Branford's face, naked for that brief moment yesterday morning before his defenses had covered up the look of searing pain? Justin gritted his teeth. Go on, urged an inner voice — the man was a blackguard, a rake, a scoundrel!

  Justin jerked his hand slightly to the right and fired.

  At the same time, Branford turned straight on to face his adversary, exposing himself more fully to the young man's aim.

  "No!" cried Ashton, taking an involuntary step forward.

  The bullet tore into Branford with a sickening sound. He staggered backwards for a step or two, then collapsed on the ground.

  "Sebastian!" Ashton sprinted to his friend and knelt to cradle his head as a dark stain began to spread across the earl's shirt.

  Justin threw his pistol to the ground and ran over to Branford's prostrate form. Hartley came up behind him.

  Ashton shouted for the surgeon as he pounded his fist onto the ground in frustration.

  "Is he... " faltered Justin.

  Branford's eyes fluttered open. "For God's sake, Henry, get the lads out of here," he whispered weakly. "I depend on you — the doctor shall see to me."

  "Sebastian..." Ashton began to argue but the earls had already lapsed into unconsciousness. The doctor pushed him aside and hurriedly applied a compress to the wound to staunch the bleeding.

  "We must be away from here," he cried, his voice betraying his nervousness. "Help me get him to the carriage."

  Ashton called for his coachman and the three of them lifted Branford and carried his limp form to the waiting vehicle. As soon as the door was shut, the coachman tied the reins of the earl's stallion to the back rail, grabbed up the whip and set the horses off at a gallop.

  "In the name of the devil, get moving!" cried Ashton to the others as he retrieved the weapons from the ground. He ran to Hartley's carriage where he none too gently shoved the two dazed young men up the steps towards the dark interior.

  "Spring ‘em," he snarled at the terrified driver. Then he climbed in himself and slammed the door.

  Every joint of the vehicle creaked and groaned as the wheels bounced over the rutted roads at high speed. For a time, Ashton was content to mutter darkly to himself, casting occasional glowering looks at the two figures hunched on the seat across from him before directing his gaze back at the small side window. Finally, though, he could contain his anger no longer.

  "So, are you well pleased with yourself, Chilton?" he asked bitterly. "You have perhaps ended the life of the best man I have had the honor of knowing. a man who has been nothing but a friend to you and your family — for some reason that eludes me, he liked you, damn it all. And this is how you repay him! Challenging him to a duel in which his own sense of honor would not allow him to defend himself..." he trailed off, smacking his fist into the palm of his other hand. "Damnation."

  Justin's face was deathly pale, his eyes hollow. "I didn't mean..." His voice caught in his throat. "The blood, there was so much of it," he whispered. "I..." He gave a sudden lurch towards the door. Hartley rapped a signal for the coach to stop. Justin staggered out, fell to his knees and was violently sick. When he climbed back inside, he slumped against the squabs and lowered his head into his hands.

  No one spoke for a time. Finally Hartley, a glazed look still on his features, cast a look bordering on awe at his friend. "Good Lord, Justin, " he breathed. "You... you actually bested Lord Branford in a duel."

  Justin's head snapped up. "Don't be a gudgeon, F
reddy," he said sharply. "We've both seen his lordship shoot. He was off the mark by more than three feet — he missed me on purpose."

  "At least you are not stupid as well as foolish," remarked Ashton. He turned to Hartley. "And you, you had better remember your oath of silence about this affair. If I hear even a whisper among the young bucks concerning this morning, you shall answer to me. And I assure you, I will not be as charitable as Branford."

  Hartley shrunk back in his seat.

  Ashton regarded Justin's haggard face. "Just what was this senseless bloodletting all about?" he demanded. " I have a right to know for what reason my closest friend may give his life."

  Justin looked uncomfortable. "I cannot discuss the particulars. But Lord Branford broke his word to me. Her promised he would not hurt my sister. He... took advantage of her trust — and mine."

  Ashton frowned. "I don't believe it. Sebastian would never do such a thing. His code of honor wouldn't allow it."

  "But he admitted it" cried Justin. He bit his lip. "He admitted it to her face."

  Ashton shook his head doggedly. "I don't care. I know him. It can't be true. He has nothing but... the highest regard for your sister."

  Justin's hands clenched in his lap. "If he is so honorable, what of the other duels he has fought over a lady's honor?"

  "Ah, the infamous duels." Ashton's mouth tightened. "Let me tell you about the first one. The lady in question was my sister-in-law. Her husband proved to be one of those so called gentlemen who amuse themselves when in their cups by beating their wives. It got even worse when she began increasing. Finally she fled to her sister, my wife, when she feared not only for her own life, but for the life of her unborn child. I was away on the Peninsula campaign. It was Branford who took it upon himself to protect my family. As you well know, the lady had no recourse under the law — she was her husband's chattel, with no more rights than a dog. " Ashton's face was rigid with the terrible memory. "Branford caused word to be spread that my sister-in -law was indeed under his protection in every sense of the term. Her husband had no choice but to issue a challenge or be the laughingstock of the Ton." He took a deep breath. "The world is a better place for the vicious Lord Underhill having taken his leave of it. If you think it dishonorable, would you care to meet a two-year-old with golden curls and a lady who may now venture out of her house without bruises covering her face?"

  Justin turned even paler.

  "Branford has never allowed me to tell the truth of the tale, for my sister-in-law's sake. I do so now, Mr. Chilton, to show you why I think you are wrong. I trust both of you will honor my insistence that the story never be repeated. And I can assure you, the second duel has an equally compelling explanation."

  Justin looked stricken. His head turned to stare out the window, hiding his expression. After a few minutes of silence, Ashton picked up the wooden box beside him and tossed it onto Justin's lap.

  "I was told these were for you."

  Justin looked totally confused as he fingered the polished brass fastenings. "What do you mean? These are his lordship's..."

  "Open it. Didn't you look at them carefully. Those aren't Branford's initials."

  Justin picked up one of the beautifully crafted pistols, traces of wet earth still clinging to the bright steel barrel, and regarded the chaised silver cap on the butt. The carved initials read J.T.C.

  "He said he planned to give them to you on your birthday, but that you should have them this morning, as a gentleman should have a decent gun with which to defend his honor." Ashton took grim satisfaction in seeing the young man's jaw twitch uncontrollably. "See to it that you put them to more honorable use in the future," he finished harshly.

  The rest of the ride was completed in a miserable silence.

  Alex restrained the urge to rip the thick, grained paper into tiny shreds. It was terrible, she thought glumly as she stared at the half finished painting in front of her. The colors were dull and the curves of the leaves were stiff, as if chiseled out of stone. In a word, it was lifeless. With a sigh, she took the sheet from her easel and slid it away into a portfolio. As she began rinsing out her brushes, she looked over to where her aunt was perusing a rare eighteenth century translation of Homer.

  "I hope Justin is not beginning to associate with the wrong sort of set."

  Lady Beckworth laid aside her book and removed her glasses. "Your brother has always shown himself to be an extremely level-headed young man. Has something specific caused you concern?"

  Alex hesitated. "Well, I couldn't help but notice that he did not return home at all two nights ago. When he did come in late the next morning. he looked absolutely awful. It appeared as if he hadn't slept at all, his clothes were in disarray and he had, well, he had cast up his accounts as well, by the look of it."

  "Young men will occasionally drink more than is good for them and will spend some evening that they would no doubt like to forget in the morning," counseled her aunt. "Unless it becomes a habit, I shouldn't dwell overmuch on it or mention it. Let him sow a few wild oats."

  "No doubt you know best, but I can't help but be concerned." She couldn't add that as well as her concern for his behavior, her fears for his safety had been heightened by what had occurred the night Branford had followed her. If Justin were racketing around Town at all hours, doing Lord knew what, the risks were increasing exponentially. She had no doubt that whoever it was would strike again. But when?

  "I wish that we could leave London and go home. Things would certainly be less complicated there."

  Lady Beckworth gave her a long, searching look. "Justin is becoming a man, my dear. You cannot keep him under your wing forever. Neither of you would wish that."

  Alex pressed her lips together. "Yes. I know."

  Lady Beckworth let the silence stretch on for a time. Then she spoke again. "Would you care to discuss what it is that is really troubling you?"

  Alex turned and made a show of carefully arranging her painting materials beside her palette. "What do you mean?"

  "I know you think I see no farther that the squiggles on the pages three inches from my nose. But I'm not entirely blind to the real world nor am I completely in my dotage. I simply haven't wanted to pry."

  Alex's shoulders sagged. "Oh, Aunt Aurelia, forgive me if I seem ungrateful," she said softly, fighting back tears. "But I don't really wish to speak about anything. It is nothing I cannot handle myself, truly."

  "I shan't press you, but sometimes it can feel much better to share your troubles — you needn't carry every burden by yourself, Alex," she said gently.

  A knock came on the door.

  Justin poked his head in, He had on a freshly pressed shirt and the starched cravat was tied neatly in place but he still looked terrible, his eyes sunken with dark circles under them and his face pale and drawn.

  "I shan't be here for supper, and I will not be able to put in an appearance at the Claridge's rout either."

  Alex and Lady Beckworth exchanged looks.

  "Don't have anyone wait up for me. I shall let myself in by the scullery door. Good evening"

  The door closed softly.

  Alex bit her lip. She knew who she would have turned to for advice, but that now seemed impossible. After some thought, it occurred to her that she might approach Lord Hammerton. He seemed to have taken an interest in Justin and had spoken with good sense on the dangers that might ensnare a young man new to Town. Perhaps she had been hasty in taking an instinctive dislike to the man. After all, he did appear to be a man of taste and refinement. His manners were polished and she was almost sure it was he that they had overheard voicing concern regarding Branford's behavior.

  Yes, talking to Hammerton might be a good idea.

  Justin mounted the ornate marble steps of the fashionable townhouse and, after a brief hesitation, let the knocker fall emphatically on the heavy door.

  "Yes, sir?" The butler looked up and down, his expression clearly conveying his opinion of those who called at such an unfash
ionable hour.

  Justin handed his card to the man. "Please inquire whether his lordship will see me despite the hour. It is most pressing."

  In a few minutes the butler returned and bade the young man follow him.

  Lord Ashton lay down his pen as Justin entered the library and regarded him with a stern countenance. "Well, what is it, Chilton?" he demanded "I have seen quite enough of your face to suit me for some time."

  Justin squared his shoulders. "Yes my lord, I have no doubt of that. I'm sorry to disturb you at home, but I couldn't bear not knowing — that is, I wanted to know if you would tell me what word you have on... on Lord Branford?"

  "A little late for recriminations," admonished Ashton. His eyes narrowed. "Why do you ask? Why should you care, damn it?"