The Wedding Duel (The Dueling Pistols Series) (2 page)

Cold fury poured through Keene. "You, sir, are no gentleman. She is a lady."

"That, she is not. I have reason to know. Besides, 'tis not so uncommon a situation. At least the child is a girl; she shall not be George's heir."

In that moment Keene hated Victor. There was no dealing with the man. Keene heeled about and crossed the field to the cluster of men where he could make sure the pistols were properly loaded and primed.

"A shame you fight this battle with me, Davies. You should have picked an opponent less willing to shed your blood."

Keene watched the pistols being loaded; a single shot would have to be enough to quench his thirst. Amelia didn't deserve to be belittled for her weakness or the failure of her chaperons. George didn't deserve the unhappiness of a wife unfaithful to him before marriage. Life would not be so hellish for the offspring if men did not ruin good women and then leave them to make the best of it in a world that did not look kindly on impure gentlewomen and their by-blows.

They paced out their ten steps and turned.

"Stand and deliver."

Keene raised his gun, taking careful aim. He did not wish to miss. At the same time, his finger refused to tighten on the trigger. Victor's gun pointed straight at his heart. The burst came from Victor's pistol, and Keene held his involuntary flinch to a mere flicker of his eyelids. He waited for the burn of a bullet . . . and waited.

"Deliver, sir," said one of the seconds.

Victor stood his ground as he lowered his gun. How was it the bullet missed? Victor was nearly as good a shot as he was. Keene cursed his patient aim. He couldn't kill him. Victor's words echoed in his head. It is not my blood you want.
He lowered the nose of the pistol to aim at his opponent's left thigh. He would draw blood and let it fill Victor's top boot.

The shot rang out in the cool bright morning. Smoke wafted away from the barrel of his pistol as Victor fell to the ground, his hand clasped on his right shoulder over the blossoming red stain.

"I daresay you have ruined my linens, sir," Victor said.

"The yellow offends me. You need new."

"I won't stay away from her."

Keene strode toward the fallen man. All his precautions would be in vain if Victor spoke Amelia's name out loud when the other men could hear. "Shut your mouth."

"I won't. A moment of her pleasure is worth a thousand wounds."

"Next time I shall see you to hell."

"You cannot. You cannot shoot a man who has missed you. Damn, Davies, I had every intention of hitting you."

Keene whirled around to face his seconds. "Load the pistols again."

John stumbled out to him, bearing powder and balls. "You do not mean to fight again?"

"Load them."

John complied, while Victor lay bleeding on the ground.

"I must regretfully inform you that I cannot give you satisfaction at the present," said Victor.

"Quiet." Keene took the first pistol.

"Dear God, Keene, no," whispered Victor. "Please no."

Standing above Victor, Keene raised the gun.

The report sounded loud to his ears. Victor whimpered. Keene took as much satisfaction from that as anything. Perhaps Victor should feel enough humiliation from that sound as George felt upon learning his wife bore another's man's child.

The shot was high and to the left. A spray of leaves fell from the tree he wounded. He took the second pistol from John's hand and aimed once again for the trunk. The shot didn't hit the trunk, nor did any leaves pepper down.

"These are the most untrue weapons I have ever fired."

"Are they?" replied John.

Keene faced the young man. "Did you know?"

John replaced the pistols in their case. "Know what?"

"Know that the pistols are inaccurate?"

"How should I know that?"

It had been Keene's experience that John evaded questions more than he answered. "I ought to call you out."

John bit his lip, but managed to meet his gaze squarely.

Keene stalked toward his carriage. "Tell the damn surgeon to attend him." He paused before ascending the step. "John, return those defective weapons to the place you bought them. I have no wish to keep them."

John bowed.

Keene allowed the grin that threatened to overtake him to break only when he had shut the carriage door. The little milksop John had bested him. Legends of a winner's wedded bliss indeed. The only curse of those guns was that a man couldn't hit an elephant at six paces. Unless of course he aimed to miss, which was why a shot intended for Victor's thigh had hit him in the opposite shoulder.

Keene's grin died as he directed his coachman to George's house and the enormity of what he'd just done and why hit him.

* * *

Three weeks later he received a summons from his father. The trip home took a day and a half. After an impassive greeting, the butler led Keene to his father's library.

The old man sat by the fire, his face half in shadows. Keene crossed the room, splashed a healthy dose of brandy in a glass and sat down in the Morocco leather chair opposite Lord Whitley, the seventh baron in a straight line to hold the title.

Keene took a sip of his brandy and told himself to remain civil, no matter the provocation. The silence did not bode well for a prodigal son welcome. But then, he had never been the favored son. Keene realized he'd clenched his empty hand into a fist. He splayed his fingers out and forced himself to relax. "You wished to see me?"

"Word has reached me that you tried to kill a man."

No point in mentioning that his opponent had also tried to kill him. "I did not succeed."

"Ever you are a wild profligate. Now you are shooting men."

"Only one. I was provoked." Keene took a healthy swallow of his brandy. What would it be now? Would the old man demand he move out of the town house now that Richard was no longer there?

"I could have you thrown in jail for less."

"I'm sure many would find throwing your eldest son and heir into prison an interesting move."

Lord Whitley leaned forward. The firelight caught his florid complexion. His light eyebrows furrowed together. He shook a sausagelike finger at Keene. "You are a disgrace to my name, with your gaming and whores."

"Only one, and I let her go." He'd had to. With only his winnings from the gambling tables to support him, he couldn't afford to keep his high-flier in the style she deserved. But then, he preferred discreet liaisons with married women. In the long run they cost less.

"I cannot break the entail, but only the old manor house and ten acres are assigned to it. The rest I have willed to your cousin Sophie Farthing."

The house in London, the farms that supported the estate, still wouldn't be his. Keene gulped a drink of his brandy. Damn, now the glass was dry. It wasn't that he wanted the money. He was content with very little. Maintaining appearances was another thing. When one was the presumed heir to a rich baronial estate, others expected more.

As a gentleman, trade was not an option, not that he would know how to make a living working. The only thing he cared a fig about was his father's right to sit in the House of Lords, an honor Lord Whitley didn't bother to exercise, but Keene would be a sitting member of Parliament when his time came.

That and the house in London, which had been his home these last ten years, were the only important things. Otherwise he should have left to seek his destiny far away from here.

"Not much has changed then," commented Keene mildly. Lord Whitley had intended the bulk of his estate to go to Richard.

"Everything has changed. I spoke with my solicitor. He says if you are exiled I might be able to break the entail."

As far as Keene knew there were no male relatives in line to inherit. "But then the barony should pass into oblivion. Or had you a mind to sell the title?" Or it could revert to the crown to be bestowed on whoever the prince regent fancied. A scary thought at best.

"I had in mind that Sophie carries my blood, albeit through my father's sister."

"Are you hoping she whelps a boy before your demise? That still will not get you around the rules of primogeniture." Keene had spoken with solicitors, too. His father's title had to pass through him. There was no way for him to renounce his right to the title before it was his. Now, there was no need.

Keene raised his glass to his lips and remembered with frustration it was empty.

"I have decided you shall marry your cousin, or I will have you charged with attempted murder."

Keene stared into the empty glass. The last time he had seen Sophie she had been sitting in a tree spitting cherry pits. She hadn't been that young, either. At least fourteen or fifteen. She was a hoyden. She ran through her father's house. She laughed too loud. Once he even heard her swearing at an uncooperative fence gate. He shuddered and swallowed hard.

A year ago he would have laughed. He would have stuck to his guns that he would never marry. Certainly not that awful, unruly girl. Not marrying had been the one sure way he could give his father what he wanted. "If that would please you, sir."

His father guffawed.

Not the expected response.

"What happened to your pledges of eternal autonomy? Were you not the one who said fifty horses could not drag you to an altar?" asked the old man.

Had his father hoped he would chose exile? "That was when Richard was
my
heir."

Lord Whitley's eyes sparkled with a dewy glitter.

Keene stood and crossed to the brandy decanter. He poured a glass full and downed it in practically one swallow. "I am standing here in my dirt." He pulled the bellpull. "I shall attend you at dinner, where you may inform me of particulars. I assume, as I am willing to do your bidding, that you will see fit to allow me the wherewithal for a wife."

"That's it, you sniveling cur. You would marry that girl for the money."

Keene brushed his sleeve. No, that wasn't it. "I am sure that I could find a much more suitable and demure heiress who would accept my suit. Sophie is your choice, is she not?"

Keene moved to the door; fortunately, the butler arrived to show him to rooms he hoped had been prepared for him.

He dreaded the coming evening. Without Richard, who had loved them both, to buffer them, it would be an ugly business.

The next day he eagerly climbed into his carriage to travel to the Farthings. As he drew out into the lane, he laughed, realizing he was so glad to be free of his father he actually anticipated seeing Sophie again. He could hope that someone had taught her the meaning of the word demure in the last few years.

* * *

Sophie hitched up her skirts and skittered down the hall. She would have run, but she feared her footfalls would be overheard. Her thin slippers made little sound against the thick carpet. She ducked into her room, pulling the door shut ever so gently.

"Oh, miss—"

Sophie jumped and hit her head on the door.

"—you are wanted in the drawing room."

Sophie rubbed her forehead. "Lord, Letty, you gave me a fright. I didn't know you were in here."

"I was sent to fetch you."

"I'm not going. I saw Squire Ponsby's carriage. He'll just ask me to marry him again, and I'll have to say no. Then there will be nothing but unpleasantness for the rest of the day."

"Please, miss." Letty wrung her hands.

Who was foolish enough to send her maid to fetch her? Letty wouldn't have any more success than if one of the carp from the fountain had come calling. Sophie kicked off her slippers. She reached for a pair of shoes and sat on the bed to put them on. "Just tell them that I have gone out and you don't know where."

"Please, miss. Your mother said I had two minutes before she would come herself."

That was why they had sent Letty. She was to stall Sophie long enough so her mother could find her. Sophie dropped her shoes and sprang off the bed. "Oh, Ludcakes."

"There is another visitor coming to see you."

"Dash it all. Is it the vicar? Because I tell you, if he proposes and I refuse, I shall be damned to hell."

"Miss, please."

Sophie hardly knew if Letty was protesting her language or her sentiments. She was too busy pacing the room, looking for a hiding place. Her mother would check the wardrobes, and Letty wouldn't be able to contain herself if Sophie hid under the bed. Sophie's gaze fastened on the windows.

"I just can't take another proposal, Letty. Papa is so sure that I am about to wither and die on the vine at the grand age of one and twenty that he encourages any remotely eligible man to propose. Do you remember the widower from Cornwall, Sir Gresham? Papa led the poor man to believe I should be glad to entertain an offer."

Sophie threw the casement back.

"What are you doing, miss?"

"I'm going out."

Letty wrung her hands. "It's three stories down."

"I won't fall. Don't give me away."