by Laura Martin
Quickly she returned to her bedroom and pulled on the groom’s clothes, tucking her hair under a flat cap. As she regarded herself in the mirror she knew she still looked like a woman, but perhaps on first glance no one would pay her too much attention. It wasn’t as though she were going to get close enough for either Mr Hemmingate or Mr Robertson to see her. She just wanted to catch a glimpse of the duel, it was her fault after all, and she didn’t like the idea of anyone being injured in her name.
‘Let me come with you,’ Richards suggested.
Georgina hesitated, wondering if she would look less conspicuous with the young groom as her companion. Thinking it might help her blend in, she agreed, sending him off to ready a horse.
They left the house before it was light, at first leading the horses through the streets and then, as they drew farther away from Grosvenor Square, mounting and riding. It was a fair way out to Hampstead Heath, and it would have been easier to take a carriage, but that wouldn’t have allowed her the same anonymity.
* * *
By the time they reached the Heath, Georgina was beginning to feel exceedingly foolish. It was a large area, hilly and open, but difficult to find exactly where this duel was meant to be with only the first rays of sunlight filtering over the grass. She supposed gentlemen just knew where the duels took place, but she was having to scour the entire area and so far the place was deserted.
‘We should go home,’ Richards said after ten minutes of riding. ‘I’ve heard that bad things happen to people who come out here.’
Highwaymen were less of a problem than they had been a few years before, but Hampstead Heath had a bit of an unsavoury reputation.
‘Five more minutes,’ Georgina agreed, ‘and if we can’t find them we will head home. I give you my word.’ She wished she didn’t have to creep around like this, wished that she had the same freedom of the young men of her class, but knew it would never be that way. She had been born a lady and that meant conforming to certain rules, and if you broke them, like Georgina was doing now, there could be harsh consequences.
Grumbling, the groom allowed her to lead the way. The sun was almost up now, the darkness dissipating with every minute, and Georgina wondered if maybe the two men had come to their senses.
‘Five more minutes,’ she repeated to herself. After that she would admit the foolishness of her plan and begin the long ride home.
* * *
Sam eyed the approaching men and groaned. He’d hoped Mr Hemmingate would decide his challenge to a duel was both foolish and unnecessary and send apologies. Lady Winston had advised him the evening before that reneging on a duel was actually far more common than going through with the fight, but it seemed Mr Hemmingate was not about to have his honour come into question.
‘Don’t kill him,’ Crawford muttered as he watched Mr Hemmingate and his second approach. ‘They wouldn’t just transport you for killing a gentleman, you’d get the noose.’
‘Doesn’t look like it would take much,’ Fitzgerald added.
It was true—in the cold light of the dawn Mr Hemmingate looked scrawny and unprepared for the fight to come. He was dressed in a morning jacket and trousers, with boots unsuitable for the muddy terrain.
Although duelling etiquette dictated bringing just one second, there had been no question about both Fitzgerald and Crawford accompanying him. These men were closer than brothers to him and he valued their advice and counsel equally.
‘Isn’t there meant to be a doctor?’ Crawford asked, as Fitzgerald broke away and strode out to meet Mr Hemmingate’s second.
Sam shrugged. He never sought out a fight, but had learned to defend himself in the years he’d spent on the transport ship and working as a convicted criminal in Australia. The men they’d been transported with were a mixture of thieves and brawlers, not all violent men, but when cooped up together fights were bound to happen. Sam had learned very quickly to avoid confrontation if possible, but if that wasn’t an option to strike quickly and with maximum force. He was confident he wouldn’t be the one needing a doctor.
Fitzgerald returned, looking grim. ‘He won’t back down, doesn’t want an apology, wants to follow full duelling protocol.’
‘What does that mean?’ Sam asked.
Shrugging, Fitzgerald grinned. ‘You’re mistaking me for one of these English lunatics.’
‘Fight to the death?’ Crawford asked.
‘Surely not.’
Sam shook his head in disgust. Of all the ridiculous ways to lose your life, duelling over a woman who could never be either of theirs seemed particularly foolish.
‘They’re just waiting for the doctor,’ Fitzgerald said.
A minute later a figure was seen hurrying over the grass, carrying the bulky black bag that signified his profession.
With a grimace Sam shrugged off his jacket and began rolling up his shirtsleeves. He’d dressed for the occasion, choosing simple trousers and a shirt. The whole outfit did not give the impression of a gentleman, but was what he felt much more comfortable in than the frills and fancy designs he’d been forced to wear to appear in society these last few weeks.
‘What’s the weapon?’ the doctor asked with no preamble as he arrived, a little out of breath from the walk over the boggy grass.
‘Fists.’
A raised eyebrow was the only indication this was not the norm.
‘I don’t want any dead bodies today, gentlemen,’ the doctor said.
‘Fine by me,’ Sam said.
‘We fight until I have my satisfaction,’ Mr Hemmingate said, although his voice lacked conviction. Sam wondered if he knew he was going to lose, but just couldn’t find it in himself to back down.
‘First blood?’ Mr Hemmingate’s second suggested. He looked uncomfortable to be there and Sam noted a slight similarity in appearance and wondered if this was a relative roped in to fulfil the role of second, a cousin, perhaps, or a brother.
Mr Hemmingate shed his jacket and approached slowly.
‘You don’t have to do this,’ Sam said quietly so only his opponent could hear. ‘We can just walk away, no harm done.’
‘After everything you’ve done? It’s a matter of honour.’
‘And being beaten in a duel is honourable?’
‘You assume you’ll beat me.’
Sam shrugged. He knew he would beat him. ‘Last chance,’ he said. ‘Once we begin I will not hold my punches.’
‘Neither will I.’
They circled one another, warming their muscles and trying to get an idea of their opponent. Sam waited for Mr Hemmingate to strike; he wasn’t going to deliver the first blow, but what he’d said a moment ago was true: once the fight had begun he would not hold back. It would be quicker and cleaner just to throw a couple of hard, accurate punches, draw blood from a split lip or eyebrow, and finish the duel within a minute or two. No point prancing around trying to save Mr Hemmingate some bruises.
Mr Hemmingate punched with his right, a well-formed right hook that lacked much strength. It pointed to a history of sparring matches and being taught to box at some posh school, but not to any experience in a proper fight. Sam dodged it easily and quickly went on the offensive, catching Mr Hemmingate under the chin with a forceful uppercut and then battering his head from the other side with a left hook to the cheek.
There was blood, a trickle from the split skin on Mr Hemmingate’s cheek and Sam immediately dropped his fists and took a step back, waiting to see if this would be enough for Mr Hemmingate.
The other man touched the trickle of blood with his fingers, then looked at the crimson stain on his fingertips. Sam could see the moment Mr Hemmingate’s eyes narrowed and his temper flared. The man began to lash out, forcing Sam to take a couple of steps back before he could mount a proper defence. A punch glanced off his chin, snapping his head back, but not causing any real damage. Quickly S
am rallied, landing a succession of punches, each harder than the last. Only when he saw Mr Hemmingate stagger back did he pull away, watching carefully to see if the other man would recover.
He tottered, his eyes rolling in his head, and then promptly fell backwards on to the grass.
No one moved for a moment. The doctor recovered first, stepping up and feeling for a pulse. Sam felt his heart hammering in his chest. He knew he’d given the other man every chance to back away, but he hadn’t ever wanted to hurt him. And he definitely did not want to have a man’s death on his conscience.
‘He’s alive,’ the doctor said after an agonising ten seconds. He pulled open Mr Hemmingate’s eyelids and inspected the pupils. ‘Hopefully no lasting damage, but who can tell at this stage.’
Sam shook his hands, flexing his fingers and ignoring the throbbing pain. Punching someone was extremely painful—not at the time, when the exhilaration of the moment seemed to mask the damage being done to the tissues, but later, when the rush and heat of the fight had worn off and all you were left with were bruised fingers and a sense of regret.
‘Sloppy,’ Crawford said, grinning as he clapped Sam on the back. ‘You let him get a punch in.’
Sam had first met Crawford on the transport ship to Australia. Sam had been twelve, Crawford fourteen years old, frightened and out of their depth cooped up on a ship full of hardened criminals. They’d bonded immediately and from that day on had weathered many ups and downs together. It was Crawford who had stepped in when Sam was being shaken down for his measly rations every morning and night by a gang of much older men. And it was Crawford who had stood with him when a particularly cruel guard had taken a dislike to Sam and wrongfully wanted to punish him with ten lashes. It had cost them both twenty lashes, but it was worth it to know there was someone always to rely on.
Out of everyone he knew Crawford was the one he trusted most to tell him the truth, no matter what.
‘I think he’s coming round,’ Fitzgerald said, taking a step towards the supine Mr Hemmingate. ‘Did you bring a carriage?’ This was directed to the man’s second.
‘We left it at the bottom of the hill.’ He gestured behind them.
‘Good. Do you want to get him home? If that’s acceptable, Doctor?’ Fitzgerald asked.
‘No point in him lying on the cold, wet grass. I can see to him at home,’ the doctor replied.
‘How will we get him to the carriage?’ Mr Hemmingate’s second asked.
Sam suppressed a grin as Fitzgerald sighed, bent and hefted the unconscious man over his shoulder, lifting him easily as if he was nothing more than a bag of corn. George Fitzgerald might be loosely considered a gentleman, the only son of a second son of a baron, but he had earned his muscular physique just like the rest of them, with hard labour under a hot sun.
They followed Fitzgerald down the hill, watched him unceremoniously dump Mr Hemmingate in the carriage and waited for him to return.
‘Regards, gentlemen,’ Mr Hemmingate’s second said, as he stepped up next to the unconscious man. ‘I hope we do not have cause to meet again.’
Together they watched as the carriage disappeared. Sam was just about to suggest an early breakfast when a movement caught his eye about thirty feet away. Turning, he watched a small copse of trees for a few seconds, then heard himself growl. Without an explanation to the others he strode off quickly in the direction of the movement.
‘Don’t even think about it,’ he called, watching the lithe figure vaulting up on to the back of the horse with practised ease. He didn’t think many women would be able to mount so easily without someone to aid them and for an instant he could picture her in Australia touring his land or helping out at the stud. It was ridiculous, but he could imagine her fitting right in.
She glanced back over her shoulder, as if torn as to what to do, then sighed and relaxed her grip on the reins. He waited until she slipped back down to the ground and turned to face him before speaking.
‘Lady Georgina,’ Sam said through clenched teeth.
‘Mr Robertson.’
‘Please enlighten me as to why you’re out here in one of the most dangerous spots in London with no suitable escort.’ His tone was harsh and clipped, but really it was a miracle he wasn’t raising his voice.
‘I have Richards.’ She gestured to a scrawny-looking groom who was studiously avoiding his eye.
‘Not a suitable escort.’ Sam regarded the man for a moment. ‘Could you give us a moment?’ he asked.
The groom looked at Lady Georgina, who nodded her head quickly. Sam watched as the young man stepped away just out of earshot, turning his back and shuffling his feet.
‘I haven’t come to any harm,’ Lady Georgina said defiantly, although Sam could see a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. She knew she had been foolish, but was too stubborn to admit it.
He tried to rein in the feelings of panic that had seized him when he’d first spotted Lady Georgina. She wasn’t his to worry about...despite that kiss...despite how he had an overwhelming urge to gather her in his arms and hold her close to his body.
‘You forget, Lady Georgina, I know all about the bad people in this world.’ He held up a hand to stop her from interrupting. ‘Thieves, highwaymen, murderers, rapists. Men with no morals, men with no compunction. They do not care that you are the daughter of an earl.’
‘How?’ she whispered.
‘How what?’
‘How do you know all about the bad people in this world?’
‘That doesn’t matter,’ he said quickly, remembering that she didn’t know the truth about his background. ‘What matters is the unnecessary danger you’ve put yourself in.’
‘I wanted to see what happened. It was my fault.’
He gripped her by both arms, aware of the groom standing a few feet away, but drawing her closer even still. ‘It was not your fault. That man, that fool of a man, had every opportunity to walk away.’
‘He did catch us in a compromising position.’
Momentarily Sam was taken back to the moment of their kiss. His eyes flicked to Lady Georgina’s lips, so full, so rosy and oh, so inviting.
‘And then we lied and made him out to be the dishonourable one,’ Lady Georgina continued, oblivious to the fact that she’d lost Sam a few moments ago.
Her cheeks were flushed, her hair scraped back under an ugly cap and she was wearing men’s clothes, probably something the groom had lent her. Not the poised and groomed Lady Georgina that society knew and loved, but there was something rather alluring about this version of her.
‘Will he recover?’ Lady Georgina said.
‘What? Who?’ Sam tried to focus, but found his eyes wandering again.
‘Mr Hemmingate. It looked like he went down quite hard.’
‘He’ll be fine,’ Sam said dismissively. He didn’t want to think about Mr Hemmingate right now.
‘But...’
‘Hush,’ he said, placing a finger on her lips. He needed her to stop talking so he could concentrate.
‘But...’
He kissed her. Pulled her bodily towards him and kissed her and didn’t stop until he was struggling for air.
Slowly he pulled away and traced a finger down her perfectly smooth cheek. She was lovely, far too lovely for the likes of him.
‘But...’
He kissed her again, deep and passionate, as if it were the last time he would ever kiss anyone. Running his hands down her back, he felt the flowing contours of her body beneath the oversized clothes and for a moment forgot where they were, wondering how quickly he could undress her.
From somewhere to their left, he heard the groom move a little farther away, rustling the undergrowth as he did so. He was happy to ignore it, but under his hands he felt Lady Georgina stiffen and then pull away. She looked at him with a mixture of raw desire and confusion, before glanc
ing guiltily at the back of the groom who was meant to be keeping her from danger.
‘Mr Robertson,’ Lady Georgina said quietly.
‘Sam.’
‘Sam,’ she conceded, ‘we can’t be doing this.’
‘I know.’
They had very different reasons, but the conclusion was the same: a dalliance between them was set to end in disaster. Lady Georgina could not afford to be caught in his arms, it would ruin her marriage prospects and see her wed to some less-than-satisfactory husband, someone like Mr Hemmingate.
And he—well, he was still set on revenge. Not even the allure of the beautiful and charming Lady Georgina was enough to wipe the memory of the pain and suffering her father had caused him. Ruining the Earl’s reputation and ending his political aspirations was nothing compared to what the old man had done to him, but Sam thought it would allow him to finally move on, to feel like some measure of justice had been served.
His problem came with needing to keep her close, close enough to gain access to her father, without letting his desire get the better of him. Normally he was more in control of himself.
Part of the reason for his success at self-control was how hard he’d worked to keep his heart shuttered, to not allow any relationships to form just in case he lost the person he cared about. It had been this way for a long time, probably ever since losing his family. Crawford and Fitzgerald had managed to penetrate his affections, but he’d never allowed a woman to get close enough to do so. It was alarming how easily Lady Georgina could slip under his defences. If he was honest, he cared too much about her already.
‘I shall escort you home, Lady Georgina,’ he said.
‘Georgina,’ she whispered, ‘if I’m to call you Sam. And we shouldn’t be seen together. Not at this hour of the morning. I shall be safe with Richards.’
Sam heard the low growl that came from his throat before he realised he’d uttered it.