CHAPTER 6
Pistols at Dawn
In the gray half-light before sunrise, the dewy air of Hyde Park throbbed with the cacophony of countless birds hunting for their breakfasts. Their squawking and screeching, endless caws, and shrill tweets set Maggie’s nerves on edge.
She wished every feathered one of them would be quiet so she could hear herself think. Her heart was in her throat, and she still couldn’t believe any of this was happening.
Her efforts to stop the duel had failed.
A ring of fine carriages surrounded a remote grove, far removed from the well-traveled Ring, the Serpentine, and the border of Kew Gardens. Fashionable folk of all sorts had come to watch the duel, some two or three dozen in all.
There was not just Bryce and his friends, Amberley and his two peculiar companions, but coaches full of ton folk come to watch the grim spectacle, including a noisy, probably still-drunk group of dragoons in their showy uniforms, and, of course, Delia, Edward, and Maggie.
A bizarre sort of festival atmosphere hung over the grove, but for her part, Maggie felt freezing-cold with fear.
She pulled the pelisse she’d donned more tightly around her body. It was five thirty in the morning, and she was still dressed in her ball gown.
Delia chattered on beside her, eager to watch the pageantry unfold, as though this were a horse race at Ascot or some silly acrobatic show at Vauxhall—like that indecent, near-naked woman who walked across a tightrope as high as the roof there, with crowds waiting to see if she’d fall to her death.
Maggie felt a little like that woman right now after her secret visit to the duke’s.
She frankly couldn’t believe she was here now. But she had to know the outcome. She had not thought Delia would agree to come, but she should’ve known better. Her sister adored being close to the action.
As an eyewitness to the scandalous event, Lady Birdwell would relish describing every morbid detail to her followers in the days ahead. It was as good an excuse as any to make herself the center of attention.
Indeed, Delia’s only regret seemed to be that it was Maggie who was more directly involved in the drama than herself, as the lady being courted by one of the duelists.
But reflected glory would have to do.
Meanwhile, Delia’s husband and Maggie’s brother-in-law, the plump, unflappable Edward, Marquess of Birdwell, had insisted on escorting the ladies to the duel, thank God, though he found the whole thing reckless and distasteful.
He did tend to be the voice of reason in their family.
Maggie and Delia had climbed out of the coach to watch the proceedings, but Edward had lain down in his carriage to doze.
“Wake me up if anybody dies,” he had said.
Maggie didn’t know how she would bear it if anybody did.
She had poured out her pleading in a letter to Bryce and sent it off with a footman in the middle of the night, just to try. Amberley’s question, after all, had got her thinking.
It remained to be seen if her efforts would do any good. But at least she’d attempted to get through to him.
So far, the results were not encouraging. The duel had obviously not been called off yet, though it still might. No doubt that would disappoint the gawkers, but at least then both men would be safe.
She looked anxiously from the carriage of one to the other.
Bryce was pacing about, tapping his lucky beaver hat against his leg. It seemed he meant to wear it in the duel.
She knew he never played cards without it. He laughed when he said so, but he swore that hat was responsible for winning him hundreds of pounds at the card tables.
She watched him pacing back and forth, putting on a brave face for his companions, but surely, he must be frightened, she thought.
Her gaze then traveled to the opposite end of the grassy meadow, where Amberley stood perfectly still, feet planted wide, his hands propped on his hips, like a statue of Mars garbed in Bond Street clothing.
The two fellows from his house were there, moving around nervously. They seemed more on edge about this contest than the duke himself.
For a long moment, Maggie stared at him.
Of course, she was scared of anyone learning of her visit to Amberley House. But as for the man himself, she still did not know how to feel about him.
Having met him in person, spoken with him, having won the concession from him that she’d sought—though, Lord knew, it had cost her a moment’s immodesty—only increased her distress over all of this.
Bad as he was, the man had his charm, to be sure. She could not forget the soft pressure of his warm, muscular arms encircling her, the blue glow in his eyes as he’d held her lightly, the coaxing lilt of his deep, velvety voice.
When she had invaded his residence, her only concern had been saving Bryce. Now she realized she had asked Amberley to stand there across from his foe like some inert human target, declining to defend himself.
How could she do such a thing? How could the man have agreed, for heaven’s sake? For naught but a look at her ankles?
Surely he must have some trick up his sleeve. She hoped so. Because if anything happened to him, Maggie was not sure she could forgive herself.
She repented of her selfishness, and the fear that had blocked her from seeing it sooner. As the moment drew near, she begged divine intervention.
Maybe the angels could step in somehow and steer Bryce’s bullet wide of its target. Please, God, let there be no bloodshed today.
What still puzzled her, though, was the duke’s cheeky humor before the dawn’s battle. Show him her ankles indeed. She shook her head, baffled at what sort of courage it must take to be cracking jokes in the face of death.
She supposed he was used to it, and that, she found sad.
All that merriment must be simply a soldier’s defiant graveyard humor, but one thing she knew: there was no way that man was a murderer, as Bryce had accused him.
What he might still expect of her, though, was cause for some worry. He’d made it plain that if he spared Bryce for her sake, Maggie would owe him.
She trembled to contemplate what that might mean.
As though he felt her watching him, just like in the ballroom, Amberley looked across the grove and captured her gaze. She went motionless; the rest of the park disappeared for a heartbeat.
He offered her a discreet nod of greeting, then turned away to chat with his skinny young friend.
Exhaling at last, she could not believe how nonchalant the man looked.
Maggie rubbed her hands on her arms, trying to warm up, but when she spotted Bryce coming over to see her, she licked her lips and fixed her face into a guarded smile.
“Lady Birdwell.” Bryce gave Delia a debonair nod, then bowed to Maggie. “My lady.”
“How are you?” Maggie asked softly.
“I’m quite well,” the earl said. “You?”
“Terrified,” she whispered.
He chuckled, though it sounded rather forced, and took her hand. “There, there, pet. It’ll be all right. I know such things can be difficult for ladies to watch—well, some ladies.” He glanced wryly at Delia, who was chatting merrily with her friends; one of the handsome dragoons had joined the banter.
Maggie ignored the lot of them.
“But I’m glad you’re here,” Bryce continued, gazing into her eyes. “It shows how much you care for me.”
She pressed her lips together, guilt pulsing through her. Guilt for the thrill that visiting Amberley had given her. Guilt for going behind Bryce’s back to try to save his blasted life.
Guilt for her motives in pursuing him in the first place.
How starkly she saw in that moment that she did not love this man. Not as one’s future husband deserved.
The unsightly fact of it stood out in her awareness like the scraggly branches of the huge dead tree emerging from the fog at one end of the grove.
“Of course I care.” She cleared her throat. “Y-you got my letter?”
“I did.” He nodded.
“Did you read it?” she asked, noting his lack of reaction.
“Yes, of course. It was most affecting.”
“But not enough to change your mind.”
He looked away with a superior smile. “A man’s got to do what a man’s got to do, Lady Margaret.”
She stepped closer to him. “You really think the duke killed your friend?”
Bryce glanced across the grove, eyeing his enemy. “I think he’s killed many people. He learned it at war.”
“But he wasn’t even in London at the time.”
“Of course he’d keep his distance to avoid looking guilty. He could’ve easily hired someone. Why could he not? With so much at stake. Fortune. Power.”
“But that’s just it! I don’t believe he ever wanted the title. Look at him. It doesn’t look to me as though he even enjoys being a duke.”
“Who wouldn’t enjoy being a duke?” Bryce laughed at her like she was a foolish chit of a girl.
“He should respect you…”
“Why are you defending him, anyway? It’s irksome,” Bryce said.
Maggie tamped down her impatience. “Please, don’t go through with this.”
“Sorry. It’s done.”
“Fine! If you won’t apologize, at least don’t shoot him.”
“But that’s the whole point of this.”
“Fire into the air,” she pleaded. “You can still delope without dishonor.”
“Why should I? You think the authorities will come after me, is that it? You’re worried I might get arrested?”
“I’m worried you might get killed!”
“No. Right is on my side. Such things have been decided by combat since King Arthur’s day.”
“Bryce, he was a legend, just like your theory. This is ludicrous!”
“If you don’t like it, then leave,” he said coldly.
She looked away, stung. If he kept this up, she might be tempted to shoot him herself. “Maybe I should go and fetch the constables, hmm?”
He smirked. “They don’t dare interfere when the fight’s between aristocrats. You know that.”
“Very well, then. What of your soul?”
He laughed. “My soul? You little silly-head. You should know by now I haven’t got one.”
She rolled her eyes. “Surely you don’t want to live the rest of your life with blood on your hands.”
At that, he peered more deeply into her eyes, and she saw that behind his outward bravado, he looked like a frightened boy.
He dropped his gaze, the morning’s breeze rippling through his golden curls. “I must avenge my friend’s death,” he said once more.
“Is this really what Richard would want? For you to kill his kinsman?”
Bryce did not lift his head, but sent her a guarded look. She was encouraged to think that perhaps he was finally listening to her.
Then he took her hands, and she noticed that his palms were clammy; his hands were shaking.
Instantly, Maggie felt a rush of compassion for the haughty fool, though she hid her surprise.
She knew then why Amberley had referred to him so many times in their chat as a lad. He must have seen through Bryce’s façade in a glance.
Jarring as this insight was, it doubled her resolve to stop the duel from happening.
“Listen,” she soothed, knowing this was her last chance to avert disaster. “Surely His Grace wants to know as badly as you do what really happened to his cousin. Instead of trying to kill each other, why don’t you work together with him to try to get to the bottom of this? If you truly suspect foul play—”
“I do, and that man has the strongest motive for killing him! Besides, he’s Irish, and everybody knows they’re just a race of barbarians. Now stop trying to talk me out of it!”
Maggie fell silent, offended enough by his tone and his bigotry to wash her hands of him altogether.
Bryce’s glare faded as he saw by her cool demeanor that she had just quit the conversation. He glanced around at the audience that had gathered to watch the duel, then looked at her again.
“Almost time. How about a kiss for good luck?” he said.
She gave him a withering stare. Are you jesting? After how you just spoke to me? “I think not,” she answered, but he laughed, leaned down anyway, and gave her a peck on the cheek.
Amberley must have been discreetly observing the two of them together the whole time, for when Bryce kissed her, the duke looked over sharply.
His glance reminded her that he was the one in real danger here, having already promised not to pull the trigger.
Bryce, for his part, had made no such pledge.
Then came the dreaded announcement.
A portly viscount whose name escaped her seemed to be in charge of the event, a neutral party.
“Gentlemen,” he called from the center of the grove, “if I may have your attention, it is time to begin!”
Bryce looked grimly at her, unaware he was quite safe, thanks to her covert maneuverings. “Farewell, my lady.”
Maggie couldn’t answer. Her voice had fled, having failed her in her effort to stop this madness. She just shook her head at him.
Bryce’s eyes hardened with the task ahead; he pivoted and marched back to his side of the battlefield.
Meanwhile, Amberley slapped his eye-patch friend on the back encouragingly; the one-eyed Mr. Godwin trudged out to the grove to shake hands with Bryce’s second.
Maggie’s heart took up an ominous drumbeat inside her ribs.
Amberley checked his pistol while Private Duffy stood by. Maggie noticed that the warrior duke held the gun naturally, with such familiar ease that it almost seemed an extension of his hand.
“Birdy, wake up,” Delia ordered her husband through the carriage window. “They’re about to begin!”
“All such stupidity,” Edward grumbled from inside the coach.
A ripple of excitement traveled around the ring of carriages. Wagers were being laid. The few ladies present fetched scarves, fans, and bonnets to hide their eyes with, in case watching the thing proved too ghastly.
The noisy dragoons were still boasting about their own victories as Edward tumbled sleepily out of the coach and yawned.
Maggie clasped her hands together and prayed hard.
Her pulse pounded as both contenders swaggered out to the center of the grove and received their instructions.
“Gentlemen: twenty paces, turn, and fire. Any questions?”
They had none.
“Godspeed to you both.”
Maggie winced and bit her lip, hugging her pelisse more tightly around her.
The next thing she knew, Bryce and the Irishman stood back to back.
Their seconds retreated from the field of battle, and Maggie noted that Amberley stood half a head taller than Bryce.
In every way, he was the more formidable man. Surely, Bryce had to see that.
What could have compelled her suitor to challenge such a dangerous foe? She still could not comprehend why Richard’s death should have affected him so deeply.
For some reason, it never crossed her mind to wonder whether Amberley would keep his word not to kill Bryce.
His honor she trusted. After all, he could’ve done much worse to her in that candlelit sitting room than demand a peek at her ankles.
She just hoped that her secret pact with Amberley to spare Bryce did not encourage the peacock to think he had won and that he should do this more often…
Then the portly viscount retreated, calling for quiet.
The spectators fell silent—even Delia, holding her breath.
The dragoons went motionless, leaning forward as a group, as though poised for battle themselves, one of their cavalry charges. Edward shook his head in regret at the foolishness of it all.
Maggie turned to him in distress.
Her kindhearted brother-in-law saw the panic in her eyes and offered his hand. She took it, and he squeezed.
“You don’t have to watch, Mags,” he reminded her softly.
Indeed, she couldn’t, when the crucial moment came.
One hand clasping her brother-in-law’s, instinctively, she turned away, shielding her eyes as the viscount numbered their paces aloud: “Seventeen, eighteen…”
As the duelists neared their ends of the grove, Maggie felt ill.
Stomach churning, she squeezed her eyes shut. Held her breath. God, don’t let him die.
Shots exploded in the grove, a twin crack-crack.
She heard a curse, smelled the acrid scent of gunpowder smoke invading her nostrils. Exclamations ran around the clearing.
She was afraid to look, but when she drummed up the courage to peek through her fingers, the field was a scramble of activity.
Both contenders were concealed by their helpers. The audience was murmuring.
“What happened?” Maggie asked Edward and Delia in alarm.
Edward was squinting at the two clouds of drifting gun smoke. “I’m not sure…”
But Delia was shaking her head in amazement. “Did you see that?” she cried.
“No!” said Maggie.
Delia pointed. “The duke just shot Bryce’s lucky hat clean off his head!”
“What? He shot Bryce in the head?” Maggie shouted.
“No, he shot Bryce’s lucky hat,” Delia said in amazement. “What a shot!”
Her sister started laughing, clapping for the duke. “Bravo, Your Grace!”
Even the dragoons applauded, looking impressed by the shot.
Maggie was trembling from head to toe as Bryce swept his black beaver hat up off the dew-covered ground, held it up, and peered through the hole in the crown. The brilliance of sunrise shone right through it.
“Oh no,” Delia said suddenly, standing on her toes to see through the hubbub. “I think Amberley’s hurt. He’s bleeding.”