Chapter 14

 

Val and Darius elected to walk to the club, since the evening was fine. The sun was sinking toward the horizon, orange-pink tones tinting the clouds with incipient fire. Val stuck his hands in his breeches’ pockets. “I have a request.”

“Another one?” Darius did not sound surprised, but he would be in a moment. “I have contacted your opponent’s seconds, and all is arranged. We’ve agreed on the weapons, and the exact spot. The usual one.”

Val nodded. “I know, and thank you. I know I ask a lot of you, but I want you to care for Charlotte if I should die tomorrow.”

“What makes you think you’ll die?”

“Kellett is an excellent shot.” He had made enquiries of his own. Fellow guests at house parties had mentioned how well Kellett shot on hunting parties, rarely missing his quarry. Would he hold his nerve tomorrow? He could shoot a target or a pheasant, but could he do the same to a human being?

“I see.” They walked in silence until they reached the next corner. Darius sighed. “You could renege.”

“I could not.”

“I know.” Darius paused. “Of course I’ll look after Charlotte. If you are no longer available, I’ll persuade her to marry me.”

Val halted and turned to face his brother. He did not attempt to hide his shock. “You don’t have to go that far.”

“Of course I do. Do you think Kellett would leave her alone once he knew you were dead?” His eyes flickered away and then back, the only sign Darius gave of the stress Val must have put him under. “She needs our protection. Besides, if I have a wife, society will leave me alone. You know our parents have discussed that and tried to persuade me to take a bride. The French call it a white wedding, where the couple marry but remain friends. Whatever her answer, I will care for her. You have my word on it. She will not marry that monster.”

They continued to walk. A watchman, sitting by his box, his only shelter in inclement weather, touched his hat and they nodded back. Val had changed from the red coat and waistcoat, but his garb was still fine, if somber. No point giving Kellett an easy target tomorrow. “You will ensure that the man doesn’t come within a foot of her.”

“I will.”

“You’re a good brother.”

“I know.”

* * * *

To his surprise, Val actually managed a few hours’ sleep that night. They did not sleep at the club, but at a house Darius owned that the family were not aware of. A modest though elegantly fashionable abode, Darius used it for his private trysts, although he assured his brother he had not planned any for that night. Situated in the City in a street more associated with merchants than the aristocracy, it was a comfortable place.

Reaching for his watch, Val discovered the time was four. They should make haste. Someone was moving around downstairs. Probably Darius. They had not exchanged many more words last night. They did not have to. They understood each other instinctively, a bond that Val was not sure would end with their deaths. If Darius died before he did, which admittedly appeared unlikely today, Val couldn’t conceive of living without his presence near to him.

He touched the document laid on the nightstand. His will. His betrothed would be quite shocked to discover how wealthy Val’s death would make her. With luck and a good following wind, she wouldn’t discover that for some time to come.

He had not discussed the ramifications of the Duke of Rochfort’s refusal to acknowledge his daughter. Presumably he would deny the terms of the contract. Val would have to sue him for restitution, a task he was not anticipating with any pleasure. If he survived the encounter, he would have to bestir himself. He would become more respectable than he had ever anticipated being.

Flinging the covers back, he climbed out of bed and checked outside his door. Sure enough, although the hour was early, a can of hot water stood there. Darius kept only one live-in servant here, but she must be a good one. Hot water was welcome. He made shift to shave himself, and get ready. Although his extravagant London clothes usually necessitated a servant, he was perfectly capable of preparing himself for the day.

He’d chosen a waistcoat and breeches of dark green, and a coat of deep brown cloth, fine but not outstanding. However, he would not forgo his neckcloth and white shirt. That would be the action of a coward.

His stomach fluttered. A man who went to his death without a qualm would be strange indeed, but Val refused to allow his fear to control him. He could control it. He had better, because his aim had to be true today. He meant it when he said he would try not to kill Kellett, but blood would be drawn.

Before he could let his second and third thoughts overwhelm him, he went downstairs. His brother was up, sitting in the quiet room at the back of the house, eating a hearty breakfast. The scent of bacon made Val’s stomach turn, but a good meal would help him this morning.

“I actually slept,” Darius told Val as he filled his plate.

“It’s not every day you kill a man in the morning and marry in the afternoon.”

Val’s hand did not waver as he spooned scrambled egg. “If I kill him, I won’t be marrying.”

“I think you should. Face what is to come as a married man.”

Turning around, Val knew fury. “And drag her right back to the scandal that terrifies her?” He took his place at the small round table. “I will do no such thing.”

“If you kill him, we’ll call it an accident during a friendly shooting contest.”

“I won’t drag Charlotte or the family into disgrace.” He chewed his way through a mouthful of succulent ham. It tasted like ashes.

Darius had the effrontery to laugh. “Don’t flatter yourself. And don’t assume they will let you go, either.”

Val still intended to travel abroad if the worst happened. No, the second worst. He would not marry Charlotte either. He would leave immediately and send word later. Although he would be hard put to deceive all the Emperors, he knew that.

Life wouldn’t be as enjoyable without problems.

Although they had talked last night, they still hadn’t discussed the matter of the murder. Val leaned back and picked up a mug of small beer, lifting it to his lips and taking a healthy draught before he spoke. “You know where the shirt is.”

Darius did not have to be told which shirt. “You told me.”

“If I am unable, and he is still alive, you must prosecute him. Stop him coming anywhere near Charlotte.”

Darius finished the beer in his own mug. “And any other woman. He will pay for what he did.”

“Peers are not usually found guilty of murder.” If the matter came to a trial, Kellett would be tried in the House of Lords, but probably found guilty of a lesser charge, or found not guilty, if he could influence enough people.

“It doesn’t matter. He’s ruined either way.”

“But alive,” Val said glumly. He would much prefer the man to be wiped off the face of the earth.

Darius pushed his plate aside. “There have been others.”

Val jerked his head up to meet his brother’s compassionate gaze. “Other women?”

“And boys. The man isn’t particular. His pleasure is to inflict pain on an unwilling victim. He is not satisfied with the tame pleasures offered by the House of Correction. I made enquiries. Some he left badly scarred, and others disappeared.”

“Janey would have gone the same way, were it not for you.”

Darius nodded. “He cannot be allowed to continue.”

Val asked no more. He didn’t need to ask how Darius had discovered the information. Darius had connections in the darkest circles of London life, where very few people dared venture.

Half an hour later, they were on their way.

They traveled to Hampstead Heath in an unremarkable black carriage, a two-seater post chaise that Val intended to commandeer if matters went awry. A fast journey to the docks, and he would contrive to disappear before Darius could muster assistance to prevent him. He would not bring trouble down on his family’s head. More trouble, that was.

He watched the city pass as they rattled through the streets. Even at this hour the place was busy, the markets open, selling the fresh food that he could expect to be on his plate before half a day had passed. Carts laden with goods rocked precariously. A flower cart passed, the heady fragrance of the blooms lingering on the air, finding its way through the open windows of the carriage to fill it with a mocking reminder of the funeral service.

Darkness was giving way to light, heralding dawn that was yet half an hour away. The gray sky was lightening and it was not raining. “It’s a pleasant morning for dying,” he said, only realizing he’d said it aloud when he heard the exasperated growl next to him.

“You had better not die. I will be sacrificing myself if you do. If she’ll have me.”

“Believe me, I have no intention of dying, but I have to let the man have his shot.”

Darius growled again. “Damned man insisting on pistols. First blood with swords would have been better. He probably knows how good you are.”

Val shrugged. He enjoyed exercising at the Bond Street fencing salon, but as a result, his prowess was well known. A less cowardly man would have chosen swords anyway. Not many knew how good he was with a pistol. Perhaps they would after today.

When the houses began to thin out, the gate to Hampstead Heath loomed before them. They were open, although strictly a toll was due. As they passed through, a white face appeared at a window of the inn that guarded the way, but nobody challenged them. The seconds to the duel had cleared the way.

If asked, the gatekeeper would say he must have left the gates open by accident, and he saw nothing.

The broad greensward spread out either side of the path, fresh dew glinting on the uncropped blades of grass. That would make the footing slippery. Val must take care to firmly plant his feet. He’d worn his favorite riding boots this morning, well worn, the leather molded to his calves. Leaning back, he crossed his legs, taking a lounging pose. No doubt this duel would be seen as another of his antics, once it became known.

As they approached the great oak, he felt certain it would become known. Quite a crowd gathered there, at least fifty men, murmuring and laughing as the carriage drew to a halt and Val waited for the footman to open the door.

He leaped down, pausing until his brother stood by his side, holding a box that held a pair of pistols. They would use a neutral pair, but there was no harm in bringing one’s own. His other second, Ivan, fell into step on his other side. Ivan’s job was to ensure a surgeon stood by and the course was untampered with. “I was here early, but his seconds were earlier,” he commented. “However, I changed the course a little, and all is well.” It would not be unknown for an opponent to drop a trail of oil on the intended path they would take.

A smattering of applause shocked him. The gentlemen crowding around the intended arena had probably decided to go for a stroll at five in the morning, and fortunately they’d brought their purses. The glint of gold betrayed them. They reached the table where the adjudicator stood. Val was surprised to see one. Usually seconds were sufficient, but when he saw the seconds Kellett had chosen, he understood. Lord William Dankworth, for one. Although the Emperors’ feud with the Dankworths was officially over, very few of them would voluntarily spend time with Lord William, who had stooped to the vilest subterfuges in order to win their fight. However, there had been no trouble recently, and Dankworth favored Val and his seconds with a curt nod. “Gentlemen, good morning.” He lowered his voice. “I’m in no mind to provide entertainment for the masses. What say you we finish this and leave?”

“That suits me,” Val said. “I’m marrying later today.” That would give Kellett pause.

Kellett turned his gaze on to Val. “If you survive.” His eyes burned with rage.

Val kept his demeanor cool. “Oh, I think I will.”

Kellett had dressed in black. A black shirt and stock, with a waistcoat so dark blue it might as well be black. He had finished his attire with black breeches, boots and a coat. Even his shoe buckles were black.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Val murmured. “Would you prefer a postponement, so you may attend to your mourning?”

Kellett’s gaze passed over Val’s ordinary-looking clothes. “I am not in mourning.”

The only touch of color about him was the gold pin fastening his neckcloth, the one Val had found on the floor of the death chamber at the House of Correction, the one he’d thrown in Kellett’s face in lieu of a gauntlet. “I see you have your lucky pin.”

“It was my father’s before me. I am glad to have it back.”

“I was glad to oblige you.” Val paused. The combatants were not supposed to speak before their encounter, but that seemed to be another tradition they had trounced that morning. “It is not the only souvenir I possess, though. I have a shirt with interesting stains.”

Kellett’s eyes opened a fraction wider. Val saw it because he was looking for the response. The exaggerated sneer curling Kellett’s mouth was not so telling, since it was deliberately added. “A shirt is a shirt.”

“Especially when it is monogrammed and it has laundry marks.” Val turned away, attending to his business here.

He decided not to kick off his boots. Some duelists might do that, but dew lay heavy on the ground and his boots had better grip than his stockinged feet. Besides, he had never appreciated having wet feet. But he did remove his coat and hand it to his brother, then tuck his linen ruffles away, folding his cuffs over them. Darius took his hat, and then Val loosened his neckcloth a small amount. He was ready.

When he turned, he noted Kellett’s careful preparations. He did not wear ruffles, and he’d removed his boots, neckcloth, coat, and waistcoat. He opened his mouth, but Val turned away. He was done talking.

The adjudicator, Lord Walton, a gentleman of nearly fifty and a veteran of such encounters, opened the box holding the pistols. Darius and Lord Dankworth took them, weighed them in their hands, and exchanged weapons before they set about loading them.

The crowd hushed, watching the preparations. Darius completed his task first, and handed the pistol to Val. He hefted it in his hand, getting the feel of it, letting the handle slide against his skin before he tightened his grip. “Acceptable,” he said.

Kellett nodded. Val was pleased to note that his face had blanched stark white, in startling contrast to his clothes. He would be a good candidate for a haunting.

Dawn sent its rosy glow over the scene. They would pace north to south, with the rising sun to Val’s right. The great oak tree, silent witness to who knew how many encounters stood on the other side, its leaves rustling in the spring breeze that sprang up from nowhere.

Val had done with speculation, or melancholy thoughts. He knew what he wanted to do here, and then he would leave and await the consequences. If he did what he wanted to, he’d walk away with honor satisfied. That would serve, for now. Perhaps he should not have warned Kellett that he had the shirt, but that little nugget of information had done its work; he’d angered Kellett, which would put off his aim.

He had seen death in Kellett’s eyes—his death, to be precise. Val had to rely on Kellett not being a good enough shot, but with twenty paces separating them he would not have to be that good.

“Ten paces in opposite directions,” Darius said. “Then turn and fire in your own time. Are we clear, gentlemen?”

“Perfectly,” Val said. Darius mumbled something. They held their weapons up in the approved position, and stood back-to-back.

“One,” Lord Walton said.

The crowd grew completely silent. The sudden quiet enhanced the dawn chorus; the birds heralding the coming of the new day. Val breathed deeply once, twice, but then changed his breathing to normal. His hand remained completely steady as he took his first step.

He paced in time to the steady counting. On five he nearly hit a hole in the ground, something caused by an animal, not deep enough for a burrow. If he’d stumbled, he’d have gone down like a rock. He avoided turning his ankle and continued.

“Nine.”

He had lifted his foot to take another step when a shot whistled past his ear, sending a thread of fire along the rim. Val’s senses flashed into life, but he waited for the end of the word “Ten!” before he turned around.

Pivoting on one heel, he turned to face his opponent.

Kellett held his weapon pointing to the ground, its barrel smoking, the butt steaming in the damp May warmth. The stink of black powder tainted the air. As Val turned, Kellett stood to the side, making himself a narrower target. That white face was all Val needed.

Anger simmered deep, but he breathed it away. The last thing he wanted was emotion coloring his shot. He could delope, of course, but why should he? The man would probably apologize profusely, but the damage was done. He had not allowed the count to finish before he fired. Now he had to take whatever Val decided to give him. What honor the man had left depended on that.

Val took careful aim, as he’d always planned to do, but Kellett had made his task more difficult. He waited a moment but if he paused much longer the weight of the weapon would put him off his stride. He owned a pair of pistols very like this pair, probably from the same maker. It would be ironic if they belonged to Dankworth, but they were good weapons.

Putting all other thoughts out of his head, Val did what he did best; he pushed every thought out of his head except for the current task. What was happening now, this minute, mattered more than anything else in the world. He’d lived his life by that creed, and it came to his aid now.

Nothing mattered except the white face and dark clothes beneath. He aimed at the body, cursing his target when he shifted a little, and then settling again. Damn, but that improved matters. He wasn’t quite so side-on now.

Cold resolution took Val as he aimed and fired.

All hell broke loose. The surgeon leaped forward before Kellett hit the ground.

Dankworth strode forward, and Val handed the pistol to him with a word of thanks. “As you can see, I’m unharmed.” He touched his ear. It was warm, but not bleeding. “The man’s aim must be execrable.”

“Do you wish to press charges?”

Val shook his head. “Not particularly. No harm was done. I’m sure he only preempted because he was nervous.” That would probably anger Kellett more. If he was alive. The surgeon stood, his hands bloody, but he searched out Val and nodded. Then he returned to his task.

“If you will excuse me, gentlemen, I have a wedding to attend.”

Val didn’t wait. He headed for the carriage. The footman hurried to open the door, stumbling in his haste.

The world rushed back to him, sounds pouring into his senses, the glow of the sun behind a bank of clouds warming him, the first time he was properly warm that morning. He turned before he climbed in.

By the time he’d taken his seat in the carriage, a fine tremor had suffused him. Darius joined him, took one glance, and sat next to Val, handing him his hat and coat. He rapped sharply on the roof of the vehicle, and the coachman gave the horses the office. Unless ordered otherwise, they would return to town. They left the scene of carnage behind them.

“How bad?” Val said quietly.

“You have time to get married,” Darius said. He leaned back in the corner, folded his arms and watched his brother struggle into his coat. “Probably time to have a couple of children, too. You winged him.”

Relief swamped Val. “There was a lot of blood. I thought he might be taken home so he could die in peace. Because of his damned clothing, I couldn’t be sure. He was standing directly in front of a tree, which didn’t help when it came to taking aim.”

“I put a hundred guineas on you being the victor. I didn’t specify if you would kill your man or not.”

“Damn you,” Val said without heat. “Isn’t a second supposed to remain impartial?”

“Whatever gave you that ridiculous idea?”

The brothers burst into laughter.