Georgette Heyer - [Alastair 02]

by Devil's Cub

‘No!’ cried Juliana, trying to fling her arms around him. ‘Vidal, you shall not! Frederick, please, please, be calm!’

  He disengaged himself from her clinging hands. ‘Madam, I have nothing whatsoever to say to you,’ he snapped. ‘Be good enough to stand away from me! Well, my lord? Which is it to be?’

  The Marquis was looking at Miss Challoner with an odd smile lifting the corners of his mouth. ‘Mary, you little wretch!’ he said softly. He turned his head, and his eyes hardened again as they rested on Mr Comyn’s pale countenance. ‘Either will do your business for you, you treacherous cur!’ he said. ‘Choose which you will.’

  Juliana wrung her hands. ‘Oh, you’ll kill him! I know you will!’ she wailed.

  ‘I shall,’ said his lordship silkily.

  Miss Challoner grasped the edge of the mantelpiece. ‘This has gone far enough,’ she said. ‘Please listen to me for a moment.’

  Mr Comyn, who was struggling with his top-boots, said quickly: ‘Nothing you can say will deter me from fighting his lordship! Pray hold your peace! We will have this out with swords, my lord, and I trust that I may be able to rid the world of one whose instincts are more those of a beast than of a gentleman of breeding.’

  ‘Oh, but you will never succeed in killing him!’ almost wept Miss Marling. ‘Oh, Frederick, I am sorry for everything! Don’t fight Vidal! I implore you not to!’

  Mr Comyn turned a flint-like face towards her. ‘Madam, I have already informed you that I have nothing to say to you. I do not know why you are here, but you come in excellent time to felicitate me. Miss Challoner has done me the honour to marry me.’

  Miss Marling clutched at a chair-back for support. ‘Married?’ she faltered. ‘Oh, oh, oh!’

  Only Miss Challoner paid any heed to this fit of mild hysterics. The Marquis took off his greatcoat, coat, and boots, and stood in his shirt and breeches, testing the flexibility of his slim blade. The Dresden ruffles of his shirt fell over his hands, but Mr Comyn rolled up his own sleeves with business-like haste. He cast his lordship a look of angry dislike, and as he pulled his rapier from the scabbard, he said in a low, unsteady voice: ‘You have called me by some names I will presently force down your throat, sir. I take leave to tell you that your persecution of the lady who is my wife –’

  But that fatal word fanned the flame of his lordship’s passion. He said, white-lipped: ‘Damn you to hell, you shall not long call her so!’ He thrust the table back against the wall, and turned. ‘On guard!’

  ‘I am at your service,’ said Mr Comyn.

  There was the briefest of salutes; then the blades hissed together with a venom that brought Miss Challoner from Juliana’s side in a flash. She cried out: ‘Shame! shame on you both! Put up! put up! I am not married, no, and shall not be to either of you!’

  Her words fell on deaf ears. The duel was too desperate an affair to permit of either man’s listening to her. Each was in a white heat of fury; each meant to make an end of the other.

  The rapier was not Vidal’s weapon, but his wrist had great strength and cunning, and he fought with a dashing brilliance disconcerting to the more careful fencer. His sword play was dangerous, he took risks, but drove his opponent hard. Mr Comyn’s fencing was neat, and it was plain he had been well-taught, but my lord had a pace which he lacked, and broke through his guard time after time. He recovered always, and by some dexterous parry escaped the death that threatened, but he was hard-pressed, and the sweat rolled down his forehead in great drops.

  Juliana, realising what was going on, abandoned her hysterics, and cowered in the chair hiding her face in her hands, and sobbing. Miss Challoner stood beside her, intently watching the swift thrust and parry of the swords.

  ‘Make them stop! Oh, good God, can no one make them stop?’ wept Juliana, shuddering as steel rang against steel in a scuffle of blades.

  ‘I hope very much that they will make an end of each other!’ said Miss Challoner, stiff with anger.

  ‘How can you say such a thing?’ gasped Juliana. ‘It is all your fault! Oh, but married ! married!’

  The stockinged feet padded on the bare floor; Mr Comyn, disengaging above the wrist, was forced back hard against the table. Miss Challoner saw his guard waver, and knew all at once that he was spent. The Marquis followed up his advantage ruthlessly, and Miss Challoner, forgetting her pious wish, seized one of the discarded coats, and ran in on the swords, catching at them through the heavy cloth. She threw herself in the way as the Marquis lunged; Mr Comyn’s blade was entangled in the coat, but his lordship’s point flashed under it, driven by the whole force of his arm. It seemed as though to check were an impossibility; Juliana, peeping through her fingers, gave a scream of warning and horror. The Marquis’s point glanced up Miss Challoner’s arm, ripping her gown at the shoulder, and was wrenched back.

  The sword went spinning, my lord caught Miss Challoner’s swaying form in his arms, his face as white as hers. ‘Mary! Mary!’ he said hoarsely. ‘My God, what have I done?’

  ‘Murderer! You have killed her!’ panted Mr Comyn, and came up close as though to snatch Miss Challoner away from him.

  He was thrust aside. ‘Stand off from her!’ the Marquis shot at him. ‘Mary, look at me! Mary, my little love, my precious girl, I’ve not killed you!’

  Miss Challoner, who had half fainted, more from shock than actual hurt, opened her eyes and achieved a wan smile. ‘It’s nothing,’ she whispered. ‘The – the – veriest pin-prick. Oh, what did you call me?’

  The Marquis lifted her quite off her feet, and carried her to the armchair just vacated by Juliana. He put her gently down in it, and saw the red stain at the neck of her gown. Over his shoulder he threw an order at Mr Comyn. ‘Get the flask from my greatcoat!’

  Juliana cried: ‘Oh, there is blood on her dress! Mary, are you dreadfully hurt?’

  Without the smallest hesitation the Marquis ripped open the front of Mary’s grey gown, and laid bare the injured shoulder. It was a very slight wound, the sword point having caused no more than a long scratch, but it was bleeding a little. Mary tried to pull her gown up over it, repeating that it was nothing, but was told not to be a fool. This was very much in his lordship’s usual manner, and she could not forbear a smile.

  ‘No, it’s only a scratch,’ Vidal said, with a sigh of relief. He pulled his handkerchief from his breeches pocket and bound the wound up deftly. ‘Little fool!’ he scolded. ‘Do you know no better than to run in on a fight? You might have been killed!’

  ‘I thought I was going to be,’ said Miss Challoner in rather an uncertain voice. She lifted her hand to her head. ‘I feel a little dizzy. I shall be well in a moment.’

  Mr Comyn, whose face now wore a very thoughtful expression, came to my lord’s elbow with the flask of brandy. Vidal snapped it open, and put it to Mary’s lips, his other arm encircling her. ‘Come, drink this!’ he said.

  Mary tried to push it away. ‘Oh, no, I so very much dislike it! I am better now – truly, I am better now!’

  ‘Do as I bid you!’ commanded his lordship curtly. ‘You know me well enough to be sure I’ll make you.’

  Mr Comyn said protestingly: ‘Really, sir, if she does not want it –’

  ‘Go to the devil!’ said his lordship.

  Miss Challoner meekly sipped a small quantity of the brandy, and raised her eyes to see the Marquis smiling down at her with so much tenderness in his face that she hardly recognised him. ‘Good girl!’ he said, and dropped a light kiss on her hair.

  His eye fell on Mr Comyn again, and hardened. He removed his arm from about Miss Challoner, and stood up. ‘You may have married her,’ he said fiercely, ‘but she is mine, do you hear me? She was always mine! You – ! do you think I shall let you take her? She may be ten times your wife, but, by God, you shall never have her!’

  Mr Comyn, having regained control over his temper, showed no sign of losing it again. ‘As to that, sir, I believe a word with you alone would be timely.’ He looked fleetingly at Juliana, who was
standing by the window, her face quite rigid. ‘Juliana – Miss Marling –’ he said.

  She gave a shudder. ‘Do not speak to me!’ she said. ‘Oh, Frederick, Frederick, how could you do it? I did not mean a word that I said! You should have known I did not! I hope I never set eyes on you again!’

  Mr Comyn turned away from her to Mary, who was trying to collect her scattered wits. ‘Madam, I believe nothing will serve now but frankness. But I await your pleasure.’

  She got up, steadying herself with a hand on the arm of the chair. ‘Do what seems best to you,’ she said faintly. ‘I must be alone a little while. I am not quite myself yet. I’ll go up to my chamber. For God’s sake, gentlemen, let there be no more fighting. I am not worth it.’

  ‘Juliana, go with her!’ said Vidal sharply.

  Miss Challoner shook her head. ‘Please let me be alone. I don’t need Juliana, or anyone.’

  ‘I’ll not go!’ Juliana said. ‘If she is hurt I vow it serves her right! She stole Frederick from me by a hateful trick, and I wish her joy of him, and she shan’t have him!’

  Miss Challoner gave a little laugh that broke in the middle, and went to the door. Mr Comyn opened it for her to pass out, and what seemed to be the entire staff of the inn was disclosed in the passage. The landlord and his wife, two serving-maids, a cook, and three ostlers, were all gathered round the door, and had evidently been listening to everything that had been going on inside the parlour. They looked very sheepish upon the door being so suddenly opened, and dispersed in a hurry. Mr Comyn said sarcastically that he was happy to be a source of so much interest, but since he spoke no English no one understood him. The landlord, who had stood his ground, began to say that so scandalous a fracas in a respectable house could not be permitted. Lord Vidal turned his head, and spoke one soft, short phrase. The landlord looked very much taken aback, excused himself, and withdrew.

  Meanwhile, Miss Challoner had walked straight past the group of servants, down the passage to the coffee-room, out of which the stairs rose to the upper floor. She entered it, holding her torn dress together, in time to hear a jovial voice say in English: ‘Burn it, the place is deserted! Hey, there! House!’

  Miss Challoner looked quickly towards the door. A tall, rakish man of middle age was standing there, his Rockelaure thrown open to display a rich suit of purple cloth with gold lacing, and a fine flowered waistcoat. He did not perceive Miss Challoner, and conscious of her dishevelled appearance, she drew back into the ill-lit passage. The landlord, hearing the shout, came hurrying past her, and was greeted by a fluent demand to know what the devil ailed the place that there wasn’t so much as a groom to be seen.

  The landlord’s apologies and explanations were cut short by the somewhat tempestuous entrance of a copper-headed lady in a gown of green taffeta, and a cloak clutched round her by one small hand. ‘It is not at all deserted, because my son is here,’ asserted this lady positively. ‘I told you we should find him, Rupert. Voyons, I am very glad we came to Dijon.’

  ‘Well, he ain’t here so far as I can see,’ replied his lordship. ‘Damme, if I can make out what this fellow’s talking about!’

  ‘Of course, he is here! I have seen his chaise! Tell me at once, you, where is the English monsieur?’

  Miss Challoner’s hand stole to her cheek. This imperious and fascinating little lady must be my lord’s mother. She cast a glance about her for a way of escape, and seeing a door behind her, pushed it open, and stepped into what seemed to be some sort of a pantry.

  The landlord was trying to explain that there were a great many English people in his house, all fighting duels or having hysterics. Miss Challoner heard Lord Rupert say: ‘What’s that? Fighting? Then I’ll lay my life Vidal is here! Well, I’m glad we’ve not come to this devilish out-of-the-way place for nothing, but if Vidal’s in that sort of a humour, Léonie, you’d best keep out of it.’

  The Duchess’s response to this piece of advice was to demand to be taken immediately to her son, and the landlord, by now quite bewildered by the extremely odd people who had all chosen to visit his hostelry at the same time, threw up his hands in an eloquent gesture, and led the way to the private parlour.

  Miss Challoner, straining her ears to catch what was said, heard Lord Vidal exclaim: ‘Thunder an’ Turf, it’s my mother! What, Rupert too? What the devil brings you here?’

  Lord Rupert answered: ‘That’s rich, ’pon my soul it is!’

  Then the Duchess’s voice broke in, disastrously clear and audible. ‘Dominique, where is that girl? Why did you run off with Juliana? What have you done with that other one whom I detest infinitely already? Mon fils, you must marry her, and I do not know what Monseigneur will say, but I am very sure that at last you have broken my heart. Oh, Dominique, I did not want you to wed such an one as that!’

  Miss Challoner waited for no more. She slipped out of the pantry, and went through the coffee-room to the stairs. In her sunny bedchamber, looking out on to the street, she sank down on a chair by the window, trying to think how she could escape. She found that she was crying, and angrily brushed away the tears.

  Outside, the Duchess’s chaise was being driven round to the stables, and a huge, lumbering coach, piled high with baggage, was standing under her window. The driver had mounted the box, but was leaning over to speak to a fat gentleman carrying a cloak-bag and a heavy coat. Miss Challoner started up, looked more closely at the coach, and ran to the door.

  One of the abigails who had lately had her ear glued to the parlour door, was crossing the upper landing. Miss Challoner called to her to know what was the coach at the door. The abigail stared, and said she supposed it would be the diligence from Nice.

  ‘Where does it go?’ Miss Challoner asked, trembling with suppressed anxiety.

  ‘Why, to Paris, bien sûr, madame,’ replied the girl, and was surprised to see Miss Challoner dart back into her room. She emerged again in a few moments, her cloak caught hastily round her, her reticule, stuffed with her few belongings, on her arm, and hastened downstairs.

  No one was in the coffee-room, and she went across it to the front door. The guard of the diligence had just swung himself up into his place, but when he saw Miss Challoner hailing him, he came down again, and asked her very civilly what she desired.

  She desired a place in the coach. He ran an appraising eye over her as he said that this could be arranged, and asked whither she was bound.

  ‘How much money is needed for me to travel as far as Paris?’ Miss Challoner inquired, colouring faintly.

  He named a sum which she knew to be beyond her slender means. Swallowing her pride, she told him what money she had at her disposal, and asked how far she could travel with it. The guard named, rather brutally, Pont-de-Moine, a town some twenty-five miles distant from Dijon. He added that she would have enough left in her purse to pay for a night’s lodging. She thanked him, and since at the moment she did not care where she went as long as she could escape from Dijon, she said that she would journey as far as Pont-de-Moine.

  ‘We shall arrive before ten,’ said the guard, apparently thinking this a matter for congratulation.

  ‘Good heavens, not till ten o’clock?’ exclaimed Miss Challoner, aghast at such slow progress.

  ‘The diligence is a fast diligence,’ said the guard offendedly. ‘It will be very good time. Where is your baggage, mademoiselle?’

  When Miss Challoner confessed that she had none, he obviously thought her a very queer passenger, but he let down the steps for her to mount into the coach, and accepted the money she handed him.

  In another minute the driver’s whip cracked, and the coach began to move ponderously forward over the cobbles. Miss Challoner heaved a sigh of relief, and squeezed herself into a place between a farmer smelling of garlic and a very fat woman with a child on her knee.

  Seventeen

  Upon the Duchess of Avon’s entry into the parlour, Vidal had come quickly towards her, and caught her in his arms. But her opening speech ma
de him let her go, and the welcoming light in his eyes fled. His heavy frown, so rarely seen by her, descended on his brow. He stepped back from Léonie, and shot a scowling look at Lord Rupert. ‘Why did you bring my mother here?’ he said. ‘Can you not keep from meddling, curse you?’

  ‘Easily, never fear it!’ retorted Rupert. ‘Fiend seize you, d’ye think I want to go chasing all over France for the pleasure of seeing you? Bring your mother? Lord, I’ve been begging and imploring her to come home ever since we started out! God bless my soul, is that young Comyn?’ He put up his glass, and stared through it. ‘Now what the plague are you doing here?’ he inquired.

  Léonie put her hand on Vidal’s arm. ‘It is of no use to be enraged, mon enfant. You have done a great wickedness. Where is that girl?’

  ‘If you are speaking of the lady who was Miss Challoner,’ replied Vidal icily, ‘she is upstairs.’

  Léonie said quickly: ‘Was Miss Challoner? You have married her? Oh, Dominique, no!’

  ‘You are entirely in the right, madame. I have not married her. She is married to Comyn,’ said his lordship bitterly.

  The effect of this pronouncement on the Duchess was unexpected. She at once turned to Mr Comyn, who was trying to put on his coat again as unobtrusively as possible, and caught his hand in both her own. ‘Voyons, I am so very glad! It is you who are Mr Comyn? I hope you will be very happy, m’sieur. Oh, but very happy!’

  Juliana gave a strangled cry at this. ‘How can you be so cruel, Aunt Léonie? He is betrothed to me!’

  ‘Damme, if he’s betrothed to you how came you to go off with Vidal?’ demanded Lord Rupert reasonably.

  ‘I didn’t!’ Juliana declared.

  ‘I said it was not so!’ said her grace triumphantly. ‘You see, Rupert!’

  ‘No, I’ll be pinked if I do,’ replied his lordship. ‘If it was Comyn you ran off with, why did you say you’d gone with Vidal, in that devilish silly note of yours?’

  ‘I didn’t run off with Frederick! You don’t understand, Uncle Rupert.’