Fran Baker (24 page)

“Yes, my dear. Surely you did not call merely to stand staring whilst I drink my morning coffee?”

This time the sting of his words galvanized her. “You know perfectly well why I have come! How could you? I was like to swoon when I’d heard what you had done. You must stop this now!” Her wild green eyes swept the room, stopping at Maret. “You! Tell him he cannot go through with this.”

“My good woman,” Stratford said with a calmness belied by the lines settling on the sides of his mouth, “your ravings make little sense. If you refer, as I collect, to the impending duel with your husband, I take leave to inform you that it was he who issued the challenge to me.”

“But you provoked him to it! And there was no cause! You have not been near me since—since that night at Covent Garden, and then you did not so much as touch me! But Robert would not listen to me! I tried to tell him, to explain . . .” She sounded almost mournful.

The viscount set down the cup he had pressed to his lips. “My God! Never tell me you have formed a
tendre
for your own husband at this late date!”

“Robert has ever been kind to me. I know
you
could never understand, but I have always cherished a fondness for him.”

“My God!” Stratford repeated.

Thalia leaned forward, bracing her arms against the tabletop. “Please, Stratford, I beg of you to cry off from this meeting! He is so much older—people would call it a charitable act. As a favor to me, I beg of you.”

“It is . . . impossible.”

“If not for me, then perhaps for your precious Helen,” she grated with an angry sneer. “Do you think she’d enjoy a
tête-a-tête
with me? I’m sure I could tell her things she’s heard from no one else!”

“You think to threaten me?” he inquired softly.

“I can do more than threaten, my lord!” Her hand lashed out, grasping the wedgewood cup. Stratford shot out a hand to stop her, but she managed to throw the cup, spraying coffee through the air, until it smashed into the wall behind the viscount.

His lordship sighed. “When are you going to learn that your dramatics merely bore me?”

“And when are you going to learn that I hate you! I hate you!” Thalia cried with a stamp of her foot.

“Ah, t hen I see no reason to detain you any longer, my dear,” Stratford said coolly. He rose and moved to hold open the door.

With a violent shake of her coppery curls, she hissed, “You will regret this!”

“Undoubtedly. But not so much as I regret ever having involved myself with you, my pet,” he asserted before she flung out of the room. Stratford firmly closed the door behind her. “To think it shall be said that I’m dueling over such as she!”

“And, er, aren’t you?” Maret inquired with interest.

A guarded expression came over Colin. “Not a bit of it!” he laughed. “I am dueling, as ever, for my own pleasure. Though the thought that all London shall be convinced otherwise very nearly leads me to cry off after all.”

“But not quite.”

“But not quite, my dear Jacques, not quite,” Stratford agreed.

*****

Maret eyed with approval the viscount’s dark, tight pantaloons and black riding jacket, for he did not want his man to present more of a target than was necessary. With a nod of satisfaction, he stepped behind Colin into his lordship’s coach. Still doubtful of Stratford’s intent, Jacques had decreed they travel in this vehicle, prepared to fly should Loveday be mortally wounded. But reassured by that dark garb, he now relaxed on the seat.

On the box, Jem sat beside the viscount’s taciturn coachman, his thin, freckled face alive with excitement. He had not been in his lordship’s service on those previous occasions of honor and the young lad beamed with pride as the coach lumbered on its way.

Inside, Stratford lounged into the corner, extending his long legs and closing his eyes. They traversed the short distance to the house of the attending physician in complete silence. Studying his lordship’s casual pose, doubts returned to haunt Maret and a faint mark creased his brow. As the coach pulled to a stop, he leaned toward his friend.

“Promise me, Colin, that you’ll not kill him today.”

The viscount lifted open an eye. The unusual solemnity of Maret’s tone, the gravity of his countenance, brought a crooked smile to Stratford’s lips. “You think me such a fool, Jacques?” he asked gently. “I assure you, I’ll not kill Loveday today or any other day.”

Maret fell back in his seat, but the sense of dissatisfaction remained. He continued to search Stratford’s face even after the stout doctor had climbed heavily in. Displaying his tall, tapered instrument case with pride, the medical gentleman hasted to assure his patron that he was well prepared for the event.

“You needn’t fear, my lord, that I’ve not had experience in these matters, for as I told Mr. Maret, many’s the time Cyrus Barnett’s been called upon to render service for such affairs. I trust I’m the man to meet your needs on this occasion.” Dr. Barnett then embarked on a detailed explanation of his previous outings. Stratford did not bother to stifle his yawn before again closing his eyes.

Theirs was the sole carriage disturbing the quietude of Putney Heath. The three fell silent as they stepped down to tread the field that was soon to be the tableau of drama. Even the loquacious doctor found he had no comment with which to interrupt the dawn’s peaceful beauty.

The sky was a bright gray flecked with pink and the morning air smelled freshly clean following the night’s gentle rain. Birds sang merrily out to one another, piercing the stillness as the men crossed the damp green carpet of the heath. Of all these things was Stratford keenly aware.

Maret’s green eyes narrowed as he watched his friend. Never had he seen Stratford so calm. The air of tranquility which sat about him was so foreign to his lordship’s nature that Maret knew a stab of anxiety he was unable to dispel.

“Stratford, about this meeting,” he began with a note of worry he could not fully conceal.

“Have you bespoken breakfast anywhere?” Colin interrupted to inquire.

“But of course,” Jacques replied, relieved. “Is that not the most important duty of a second? We shall soon grace the Boar’s Head with our patronage.”

“A fine choice,” the viscount remarked absently, his attention captured by the rumbling sounds of a fast-approaching carriage.

The instant he disembarked from his vehicle, Loveday, pale and tight-lipped, indicated with a curt nod of his head his readiness to begin. Carrying a low, flat case. Swanson signaled to Maret, who joined him at a point midway between their principals to closely examine the contents of that velvet-lined case.

Breathing heavily, the portly physician planted himself at a spot atop a sloping knoll from which he hoped to procure the best view of the duel. Not that he expected much action, for having, as he had told his patrons, attended many such affairs, he had eased to expect the fatal ending usually ascribed to duels by the misinformed. Not once had he seen a man killed and only rarely had he been called upon to tend any but the most superficial wounds. But, he thought with a sigh, he meant to enjoy himself nonetheless and he fell to considering just what he should order for his breakfast as he watched the seconds pace out the proper distance.

Stratford and Loveday selected their weapons and stepped to stand facing one another sideways across an expanse of greenway. Both men pointed their slender pistols downwards; both cocked their weapons upon the command to do so.

“Gentlemen,” Swanson said loudly, pulling a large white handkerchief from his pocket, “as I drop this, it shall be your signal to fire.” He stood to the side, centered from either man, with his hand extended. The linen danced in the breeze. A moment later it fluttered on its way to the ground.

On the instant Stratford’s hand jerked upward, directly upward, as he discharged his shot into the air. Too late did Loveday realize that the viscount was deloping. His finger had already pushed against the pistol’s mechanism and though his hand pulled to the left, Loveday’s aim had been well taken. When the smoke cleared, he saw with horror the form of the Viscount Stratford prostrate upon the ground. He ran forward and though he was pushed roughly back by his friend Swanson, he managed to see the blood seeping through Stratford’s clothes to vividly stain the grass beneath him.

Chapter 17

Maret knelt over Stratford’s still form and set grimly to work. He wrenched the floppy cravat free from the viscount’s neck and tore open his clothes, then pressed the wad of muslin against the gaping wound in an attempt to staunch the flow of blood. The doctor ran clumsily across the grass to bend awkwardly over Stratford’s other side.

“Oh my. Oh my,” he mumbled as he pulled his case from his pocket. He continued to cluck under his breath while his hands probed the area of the wound, setting Maret’s teeth on edge.

“Is he—will he?” Loveday whispered in fearful hesitation.

“I do not know,” Maret replied flatly. “You should be off. I will contrive to get word to you if there should be need for you to leave England.”

The older man paled at this. “Had I but known he meant to delope! But I was certain—I did not mean—“

“For God’s sake, man, be off before you are discovered!” Jacques cut in sharply. With a quelling stare upon the shaking man, he added brusquely, “There is nothing for you to do here.”

With Swanson tugging persistently at his sleeve, Loveday allowed himself to be dragged over to his carriage, but still he did not mount the step, seeming unable to tear his eyes from the critical activity surround the man lying motionless upon the grass. He had not expected to be the one to deal death this dawn.

Searching for the bullet, the doctor’s fingers continued to tentatively stab at the viscount’s bloodied shoulder. He was none too gentle about the business and soon he drew a moan from his lordship.

“The devil take you! Can’t you be more careful?” Maret snapped.

With a sudden restless movement, Stratford’s eyes flew open to gaze unseeing into his own. Jacques thought his heart would stop in the moments it took the cloud to lift from those dark eyes, but at last the light of intelligence flickered as Colin struggled to sit up.

“I want . . . to go . . . to the Keep,” he said with effort.

“Impossible,” Dr. Barnett said instantly. “The bullet must be removed and the wound dressed as quickly as possible. He cannot travel in this condition.”

“I am going . . . “Stratford persisted, trying again to sit up.

“Don’t be a fool, Colin!” Jacques pushed him firmly back into the grass. “You are going to lie still and have your shoulder attended to.”

“Take me to the Keep, damn you!” Colin rasped through lips whitened with pain.

“I tell you, he cannot make such a journey,” the doctor objected.

Ignoring him, Maret stared down at the lines of discomfort cut into Stratford’s face, at the eyes once again dulled with pain. His own eyes shadowed as he came to a decision. “All right, Colin. I’ll take you to the Keep. Just lie still a moment longer.”

“Sir! I must object,” the doctor burst out.

“Then do so by all means, but some other time, if you please!” Maret said hotly. “For the moment, all I ask if that you help me properly bind this wound.”

With a deep grunt, the doctor set about padding a square of heavy cloth over Stratford’s shoulder and tying it securely into place. “I tell you plainly, Mr. Maret,” he said as he finished binding the bandage, “I’ll wash my hands of the case if you persist in moving his lordship.”

“Very well.” Maret wrenched a small velvet bag from his pocket and tossed it across to the portly man. “I’m certain I need not caution you to keep your own counsel over this.” Without waiting to see the physician’s indignant reaction, Jacques turned his attention to the two servants behind him. “Jem, take one of the wheelers and ride on ahead. See that fresh cattle await us at every post-stop and warn the earl that we are coming.”

The lad accepted this order with a doleful nod and turned to run to the carriage. His way was blocked as Loveday stepped out of the shadows. “Take one of mine. You’ll need a full team.”

Jem hesitated, betraying his distress with trembling lips and clenched fists, but Maret called out impatiently, “Do as he says!”

As the groom scrambled to unharness one of the bays from Loveday’s trappings, his master’s friend and foe scrutinized each other for a pungent moment. With his eyes still riveted on the man for whom, oddly enough, he felt a great pity, Maret abruptly addressed the doctor. “I suggest, Barnett, that you beg a journey home with Mr. Loveday. I fear we shall be unable to take you up.”

At that, Robert Loveday pivoted and climbed at last into his carriage. Maret did not watch to see the doctor enter behind him, but signaled to the viscount’s coachman, who appeared at his side on the instant. Between them, they lifted Stratford to his feet, but his lordship pushed their supporting arms away.

“I can . . . walk,” he gasped. He staggered a few steps, then leaned heavily against Maret. Weaving drunkenly, they crossed the grass to the coach where Stratford sagged against the crest on the door. As Jacques caught him, he whispered hoarsely, “Loveday?”

“Has gone, Colin,” his friend answered. Together with Harry, he lifted the viscount onto the cushioned seat and the viscount mercifully lost all consciousness.

As they traveled the long miles to Hallbrook, Maret cradled Stratford’s limp form in his arms, cursing each rut they hit, yet urging Harry to spring the horses as fast as possible. He felt as if he were in a death vigil, watching the life drain out of his friend as the continued loss of blood washed all color from Stratford’s face. Colin appeared all too much like the corpse Jacques feared he soon would be.

The first stop was accomplished in record time. A pair of waiting ostlers ran forward as the carriage rolled into the courtyard to quickly undo the horses’ trappings, bearing evidence that Jem had been before them. Since Stratford kept his own animals stabled along this oft-traveled road, the fresh team led to the coach consisted of only the best blood, regular sixteen-mile-an-hour tits, Harry informed Maret as they pressed onward. They covered mile after mile, with the sun climbing ever higher. The bright beauty of the summer morning jarred with the nightmare of the journey as Jacques tried to make sense from a senseless act.