Fortune's Son (20 page)

Sitting in his darkened room, Philip took another swig from the flask. Except for his missing coat and cravat, he was still fully clothed, having never gone to his bed. He hadn't wished to sleep, being preoccupied with the morbid thought that shortly after sunrise he might find eternal rest skewered on Weston's deadly blade. It wasn't that Philip was fearful of death, but rather regretful of the life he would have wasted. He'd lived for years eagerly anticipating his trust and mapping out a plan for his future, but overnight
she'd
dashed it all to pieces. He had pledged himself to pay debts he did not owe and defend honor other than his own. He'd spent the bulk of his modest fortune to save her and would now risk his very life for her. If she wanted his blood, it appeared she would soon have that too.

He'd never regarded himself as a man to suffer either melancholy or buffoons, but he now felt a great mixture of both. How had he come to such a pass? And all for what? It was unfathomable what an ass she'd made of him, but the worst of it was when the jade had refused him! Philip swallowed more of the cheap gin, enjoying the caustic burn as it flowed down his throat.

He had only thought to protect her when he made the offer of marriage and expected a modicum of gratitude for his sacrifice, but she'd thrown his proposal in his face, bloody well spurning him. Hell, he should have been relieved, but instead he'd felt rejected, mortified, and infuriated. Was he now becoming deranged? Perhaps he was a madman, after all.

He glanced to the window, now espying the pink and gold fingers slicing through the blackness, hailing the nascent dawn.

Taking another great swig, he tossed away the flask with a curse, strapped on his sword, donned his coat, and stuffed the crumpled cravat into his pocket. Tucking his tricorne resolutely under his arm, he departed his quarters.

Having imbibed a bit more than was wise, and wishing to clear his head, Philip set out by foot for the Cock and Tabard on the north side of Tothill Street. The timeworn single cock on the placard of the tavern had just come into sight when a voice hailed him.

“Ah, Drake!”

“Captain Godfrey? What are you doing here?” Philip asked in surprise.

“I understood you lacked for a second.” Godfrey frowned at Philip's dishevelment. “Though I am glad to see you arrived, you are looking the worse for wear.”

“Though my appearance may be wanting, I assure you my nerves are more than steady.”

“Bolstered, no doubt, by drink?” the captain chided.

Philip scowled.

“Don't take umbrage, lad! Many a trooper in Marlborough's army relied on a good shot of Dutch courage. Let us just pray your wits and reflexes don't suffer the effects. And if you've any inclination to cast up your accounts, I advise you to avail yourself of the alley
before
Weston's arrival.”

“I am far from soused, Godfrey.”

“Glad to hear it, lad, but for God's sake, put yourself in order.”

Churlishly, Philip buttoned his waistcoat and straightened his hat.

Godfrey plucked the cravat from Philip's pocket and handed it to him. “I also took the liberty of inviting an acquaintance who, though I hope to the contrary, might be called upon to render you some small service. May I make known to you John Pringle.”

A black-clothed gentleman in a bagwig stepped forward with a bow.

“Mr. Pringle?” Philip inclined his head. “Might I ask precisely
what
manner
of service my friend the captain believes I may need?”

“It is Dr. Pringle,” the gentleman corrected. “I am a physician and Professor of Moral Philosophy at Edinburgh University.”

“Then how do you come to be here?” Philip asked, looking to the Captain.

Godfrey explained with a grin. “Our dear Doctor Pringle lost a goodly sum to me at piquet last eve.”

“Otherwise, I assure you, I should be resting in my bed at this ungodly hour,” the doctor added.

“Then I am indebted to you both,” Philip said.

“I also have in my possession a smallsword of the finest German tempered steel, sent with the master's compliments. A finer weapon cannot be had.” Godfrey handed the sheathed sword to Philip.

“I am honored,” Philip said, drawing it reverently from its scabbard and balancing it in his hand.

“It's a shame you didn't have more time to prepare,” Godfrey said. “Figg remarked you show great promise and is regretful you had so little time under his tutelage.”

“He still believes me ill-prepared?” Philip asked.

“Let us say you lack the experience of your ill-famed opponent.”

“What do you know of Weston, Godfrey?”

“He is accounted a man of considerable, if dubious, accomplishments. He's fought and won a number of duels. He is cold-blooded, Drake, and be warned he is not likely to be satisfied with a mere pinking.”

“Hence, Pringle.” Drake tossed his head toward the doctor with a contemplative half smile.

Godfrey replied with a wordless shrug.

“Then I'll take the greatest care,” Philip said.

Noting the arrival of two emblazoned sedan chairs borne by liveried footmen, Godfrey said, “It appears the hour is nigh.”

The Marquess of Weston issued forth from the first chair, joined anon by his second, John Spencer, grandson of the Duchess of Marlborough and a gentleman of equally dissolute repute. The morbid party of five paid their respective addresses in a most solemn and perversely civilized manner and set out across Tothill Street.

***

Tothill Fields was once part of a large marshy tract lying between Millbank and Westminster Abbey, spreading out to the Chelsea Road, beyond which lay the Five Fields extending to Knightsbridge.

With its swatches of open spaces, cloistered here and again by mazes of trees, it had made its name as a celebrated dueling-ground from the time that a Mr. Richard Thornhill fought and killed the Kentish gentleman, Sir Cholmley Dering. The infamous duel was reportedly fought with pistols so near that the muzzles touched, and the subsequent notoriety made the setting near-ideal for such appointments of honor.

Adding to its cachet was its history of being the place where the judges once sat to observe trials by combat, a bygone form of justice in which two disputants battled it out, with the loser judged as the guilty party. Aptly, it was now the site of the Westminster Bridewell prison.

For some minutes, the seconds scouted and paced the grounds, their disembodied voices penetrating through the fog-enshrouded fields, before settling on a partially obscured plot deemed suitable for the impending encounter.

Returning to the combatants, the seconds inspected and measured both blades while the antagonists dispensed with coats and waistcoats and, according to code, opened their shirts to lay bare their breasts. Satisfied that neither wore defense, Philip and Lord Weston received their weapons from their respective seconds.

As Philip rolled up his right shirtsleeve, Godfrey said in an undertone, “The blades are of a size, but the marquess has some inches on you which will give him an advantage of reach. If you wish to thrust, I advise you come to half sword and meet him as he advances.”

Philip nodded understanding as Godfrey handed him his sword and fell back with Spencer and Pringle to a comfortable distance.

Weapon in hand, Philip faced Lord Weston, who remarked conversationally, “I wonder at your eagerness to shed your blood over such a piece. Though I savored plucking her cherry so many years ago, after last evening I find her repertoire a bit bland for my taste.”

Philip's eyes blazed with loathing.

Weston's lips curled into a provocative smile as he added thoughtfully, “Though I've procured a magnificent French whore who might teach her some new tricks…”

“What are you saying, you filthy whoreson?”

“Tsk. Tsk. Such language ill-becomes a gentleman. Have you a death wish, Drake?”

“My apologies for my lapse, my lord. I had intended to say filthy
sodding
whoreson.”

“Wish granted,” the marquess replied fatally, and at a signal from the seconds, the antagonists saluted and faced off. While Weston assumed the guard in
tierce-carte
, blade pointed at Philip's face, Philip took up Hope's hanging guard
en seconde
.

Weston regarded Philip's hulking forward stance and gave out a derisive laugh. “What is this maladroit?” His tone and expression were contemptuously bemused. “You challenge me to swords and don't even know how to hold the blasted thing? Have you no study of the weapon you wield? I thought to have at least a moment of fun before killing you.”

“I believe my skills sufficient to the task at hand,” Philip replied. “Shall we?” he prompted.

“All too soon proven to the contrary.” Weston snorted his disdain and once more took up his position.

Remembering Figg had counseled attention to the blade, Philip warily tested his weight on the ball of his right foot, directing his full concentration on the deadly tip of Weston's sword.

The dance began with Weston at first toying with him in a cat and mouse fashion. But lithe as a cat himself, Philip evaded, springing, blocking, and countering his adversary's every move while the seconds watched in fascination.

Although the marquess's superior skill was evident in the elegance and finesse of his every action, he was counterbalanced by Philip's superior reflexes that thwarted each attempt the marquess made to get under, around, or otherwise through Philip's guard.

The marquess pressed on, repeatedly testing and taunting Philip, who resolved to retain his defensive posture. Philip met and crossed blades with each advance, successfully parrying with little expended effort.

Growing impatient, Weston advanced in a flash of metal, once more meeting Philip's vertical parry. Several more rapid passes ensued, each foiled by the grating sound of Philip's connecting steel.

The combatants waged on, performing the elegant figures of the deadly dance. Advance. Lunge. Thrust. Parry. Retreat. The marquess circled as a wolf evaluating its prey, seeking any opening, any exposure or vulnerability to exploit and impale his blade into his foe's flesh.

For Philip, whose every muscle was tensed in expectancy, the minutes dragged as hours. His sword arm grew heavier with every move, his calves threatened to cramp, and the sweat dampened his brow and stung his eyes… until the fatal moment he blinked.

In that crucial millisecond when perspiration blurred his vision, the marquess struck. With a beat and feint to Philip's left, he cut around and beneath Philip's blade in a circular counter-parry, and with lightning speed and the greatest dexterity, followed through with a thrust to Philip's vulnerable outside.

Aware of his blunder, Philip spun left to deflect the thrust, but reacting too late, the point penetrated his right side below the elbow. As the blade speared his lower rib cage, Philip imagined that he heard the crunch of bone before actually feeling the explosion of agony.

Weston's malevolent smirk invaded his pain-clouded vision, as he made to follow through with full penetration of the thrust. With his clear intent to bury his blade to the hilt in Philip's body, Philip moved to preserve himself with the desperation that precedes impending death.

Grasping the blade with his left hand, he wrenched his body to the right just as Weston moved to complete the thrust. With a great anguished groan he succeeded to dis-impale himself, but the excruciating effort brought him, depleted and copiously hemorrhaging, to his knees.

Panting from his own exertions, Weston loomed over Philip with a leer. “While your mistress has already endeavored to oblige me, I have yet to exact redress for your insolence.”

“Burn in hell, you lying, poxy bastard,” Philip grunted, spasms racking his body with every breath. He attempted to raise himself, but only managed semi-upright by leaning heavily on his sword.

When Weston failed to back down, Captain Godfrey stepped forward in protest. “You go too far, my lord. Honor is satisfied when a man is incapacitated.” He looked to Philip's blood-soaked shirt and ashen countenance. “Nothing further need be demanded of the lad; I would call this affair quite finished.”

“It is finished when I say it is, Godfrey. Any further objections may be voiced with your own blade!”

Godfrey signaled Pringle and Spencer to intervene and Weston turned malevolently back to Philip. Pointing his crimson-coated blade to his sternum, Weston looked down at Philip's kneeling figure with a prurient smirk. “Of course, if apology is not to your inclination, you are in the perfect posture to offer me satisfaction of quite another kind… I find the
duello
brings on a tremendous cockstand.”

In a burst borne of unadulterated rage, Philip struck out with his left hand in a parry, while blindly thrusting with his sword. Having caught his foe off guard, Philip felt the pleasure of his point penetrating flesh, just before falling insensible to the ground.

***

Philip awoke to a low murmur of voices. Disoriented, he blinked several times to clear his vision. He was damnably cold, lying on sweat-soaked sheets, and his teeth chattered uncontrollably, though a fire blazed in the small, unfamiliar room.

“Back to the living, are you now, Drake?” asked an annoyingly familiar voice.

“Bosky.” Philip turned his head. “Where am I? And what are you doing here? I thought you'd forsworn all the merrymaking.”

“One question at a time, eh? You're at the Cock and Tabard, where Godfrey and I have taken turns as nursemaid while you've lazed abed for nigh on three days, you no-account laggard.”

“Is Godfrey here then? I've yet to thank him.”

“No thanks needed,” the captain said. “I am honored to have been of service.”

“How bad is it?” Philip asked with a groan. “I feel as if I were pierced straight through.”