HeirAndEnchantress_PGolden-eBooks

by Golden, Paullett

  Extending his hand, Harold shook Brooks’s before asking, “Does Lord Driffield wish to forego the duel by apologizing of all wrongdoing to both Lord and Lady Kissinger?”

  “From Lord Driffield’s point of view, no wrongdoing has occurred.” Brooks’s tone inflected an arrogant boredom that had no place on a battlefield.

  Harold nodded, then loud enough for all to hear said, “Make ready. Disarmament satisfies honor. Let there be no bloodshed.”

  Harold returned to Patrick’s side, his heart thumping wildly.

  The weapon of choice was the rapier. Patrick had admitted his disappointment. He had hoped for pistols. Driffield had a keen advantage over his opponent, for while Patrick had experience fencing with the rapier, it was not extensive. Enough, he hoped, to block and disarm.

  Readying his sword, Patrick took several deep breaths before heading out to meet the earl.

  Like Patrick, Harold had minimal skill with rapier fencing. Should they both walk off the field today, he vowed to strengthen that skill. A great sport, really, since he could wield a sword indoors during the winter months, something he could not say about rowing. How different was it from painting? The sword was an extension of the arm, just as the paint brush, the flicks of the wrist narrating the canvas. God willing, he would not have to find out today the accuracy of the comparison. Tugging his greatcoat tighter, he huddled against the cold and wet drizzle.

  The two gentlemen faced each other, bowed, and positioned for battle. In a heartbeat, the rapiers thrusted.

  Unlike sabre bouts, the movements were more subtle and nuanced. The best way Harold could describe the scene was painting impasto. The thrusts of the rapier were bold but also smooth and delicate, each designed to guide the focal point, to control the opponent’s next move. It was a style he had never used when painting, his hand and eye preferring the dramatic relationship between light and dark, chiaroscuro. There was no contrast in the duel, no light or dark, no blending or shading. There was only a harmonious texture of thrust and retract, the sword drawing the directional line, giving the illusion of distance and proximity, power and retreat.

  Harold blinked.

  Neither man’s torso moved, only the feet, only the wrists.

  Driffield thrusted. Patrick counterattacked.

  Driffield parry-riposted. Patrick feinted to disengage.

  Their eyes remained locked. They circled, struck, circled again.

  Did Agnes March née Plumb, Lady Kissinger, appreciate this man who was at this very moment risking his life for her honor? This was not a duel to death. This was not a duel to first blood. This was only a duel to disarm. But duels always came with risk since not all gentlemen were honorable or apt to follow etiquette.

  A step and stab. Another step and stab.

  Harold blinked.

  Driffield stepped and stabbed. Blood pooled on Patrick’s white sleeve.

  Harold blinked.

  What the devil just happened? The movement had been so swift, he had not seen when or how the rapier point made contact, but there on Patrick’s dueling shoulder, vibrant crimson bled through the linen. Harold cursed. He should have known Driffield could not be trusted.

  The drizzle of rain turned from moist fog to a more determined patter, soon soaking Patrick’s shirtsleeves, his shoulder a mottled pallet of rust to burnt umber.

  Patrick disengaged to strike.

  Driffield dropped his point, sidestepped the thrust, grabbed Patrick’s guard, and punched the bridge of Patrick’s nose with the quillon of his own rapier.

  The valet beside Harold hissed.

  Patrick recovered, moving into a counterdisengage, his rapier held steady though his nose ran with blood. Harold could see his friend blinking rapidly against the rain.

  Patrick gave his head a shake.

  His feet stumbled, sluggish and heavy.

  He feinted and thrusted.

  Retreated.

  Shook his head.

  Wavered, unsteady.

  Blinked rapidly.

  Harold’s concern mounted. If he was not mistaken, Patrick was either about to swoon or be skewered by Driffield, perhaps both. He dared not think of the consequences of either.

  A violent shake of his head, Patrick shuffled his feet, deceiving Driffield with a feint, then thrusted.

  Driffield parried and riposted, his blade stabbing the air inches from Patrick’s head.

  The viscount bent low, feinted to his right then thrust high above Driffield’s dueling shoulder.

  Blood sprayed into the rain.

  Driffield dropped his rapier, clasping a hand over his ear.

  Harold closed his eyes—disarmament meant the end of the duel. He tilted his head back to feel the rain against his face, the drops now large and heavy and cold as icicles. Had Patrick swooned, Harold would have had to finish the battle on his behalf. Had Patrick moved right rather than left, he could have died. The cold splashing against Harold’s face was a reminder of life.

  A groan shook his relief.

  He looked up in time to see Patrick swaying on his feet, rapier still gripped in hand, the shirtsleeve a troubling shade of red from shoulder to wrist, not to mention the blood now draining down his face and dripping onto his waistcoat. In quick strides, both Harold and Patrick’s valet reached the viscount in time to catch him as he slumped towards the ground.

  The rain pummeled the windows outside the solicitor’s parlor. What started as a light drizzle on a dreary morning had turned into a deluge of water and ice. A week from November, yet the weather already threatened frost and snow. Harold and the solicitor sat in silence for a long stretch of time, neither seeing the point in filling the void with noise and empty words. On the couch in front of the fireplace lay motionless Patrick.

  The physician’s words of comfort brought little solace when Patrick remained unresponsive even after smelling salts. For an hour Patrick had lain unconscious. The physician had left once the wounds were bandaged and the blood was cleaned.

  Only when the viscount gave the faintest of moans did Harold sit up in his chair. He watched his friend’s eyelids flutter open. Patrick tried to raise a hand to his face then cried out when his shoulder protested.

  “Welcome back,” Harold said.

  “Go to the devil.” Patrick groaned but tried to sit up. “Tell me he looks worse than I feel.”

  “Indeed. I can’t say for certain, but I think you took off the man’s ear.”

  “Damn. I had been aiming for his eye.” Patrick chuckled.

  “Good news,” Harold said, “You’ll keep your pretty face once the nose heals. Before you’re overcome with joy, I bear even better tidings. You won’t have Driffield’s death on your conscience, for one. You’ve helped bring justice to however many other young ladies Driffield has wronged. And last but not least, he won’t be so attractive to future young ladies from this point forward.”

  “My life’s work is complete. Now, I could kill for one of Nana’s elderberry biscuits.”

  Harold soaked in a hot bath while Abhijeet whinged behind the screen in the dressing room about the soaked mess of the day’s clothing. He responded with grunts and mmm hmms, not hearing much of what his valet said. His thoughts were on life.

  While he had not come close to death, being only a second on a wet dueling field and observing his friend nearly slaughtered, the whole of the event put life into perspective. By walking onto the field, he had agreed to place his own life on the line should his friend be incapacitated during the duel. That alone was humbling. Watching Driffield grab Patrick’s guard for the punch was even more so, for with a simple turn of his wrist, the earl could have pierced Patrick’s liver rather than break his nose. Not that Harold would ever thank Driffield for anything, he was thankful the man had chosen the latter. The day could have ended much worse. Even the shoulder wound could have kill
ed Patrick. He had lost enough blood that the physician had expressed concern.

  Satisfaction had been met. Driffield received his comeuppance. But the cost had been too high.

  Come dishonor or ruin, Harold would rather have life. He knew many did not feel the same, and some levels of dishonor and ruin could be akin to losing life, or the quality thereof, but he far valued life.

  His first task after the bath would be to request a meeting with his father. He needed to speak to Hazel about the family’s situation, but before he could do that, he wanted to better understand the status of the ship. The letter had sounded promising, assuring investors the ship had sailed in good standing. Since his father had not read the letter aloud at the supper party, Harold wanted to read it himself and discuss the plans for the profits. That was not to say he did not still have reservations about the investment, but the hope that the letter brought was too great not to be discussed.

  How wonderful to be able to explain the situation to Hazel with the qualification that all would soon be set to rights. Especially regarding her father. The whole of that deal brought Harold shame. He was ashamed of his father’s greed, ashamed of his father’s treatment of a man who was supposed to be his friend, and ashamed this was the situation into which she had married. Most of all, he was ashamed he was powerless to do anything about it.

  The trouble was he did not want to upset her or make her uncomfortable around her father-in-law, much less have her upset at her own father for going to these lengths—not to save her reputation but to ensure he was able to invest. Both fathers had been greedy. How to explain it all to her without destroying her rose-tinted view escaped him, but if he had a way to right the situation with untold profits, the explanation seemed easier, or at least more hopeful.

  With luck, his father would be available in the morning.

  Leaning his head against the back of the copper tub, Harold sank lower into the water until it lapped at his chin. Ah. To be financially stable. To bedeck Hazel in jewels—emeralds, he thought, to match her eyes. To travel the continent with her. To see the estate restored. To—

  “Out! Out now!” shrieked a voice from behind the screen.

  Harold sat up so quickly, water sloshed over the edges.

  Sounds of a struggle could be heard, scrambling, stuttered protests from his valet, a thwack thwack, followed by the closing of a door. The screen blocking his view was shoved aside. Standing where the screen had been, hands on panniers and wearing an expression seething with anger, was his wife.

  “Foul man!”

  Harold stared up at her, alarmed and exposed.

  “How dare you participate in a duel! You could have died! You thoughtless, selfish man.” Her voice cracked, anger oscillating to teary upset then back to anger.

  “Ah. Word travels fast,” Harold said.

  “What did you think would happen when Lord Kissinger returned home with a broken nose and arm in a sling? Did you think Agnes wouldn’t notice? Did you think she wouldn’t send word to me?”

  “Not faster than I could tell you myself. I’ve not been home longer than an hour.” He did not mention that he had no intention of telling her about the duel. Now he was tempted to break Patrick’s nose anew for telling Lady Kissinger.

  “Even in the rain, messages travel quickly. Did you think to hide your brush with death?”

  “Poor messenger,” Harold muttered. “There was no brush with death. I was only his second, not directly involved.

  “That makes no difference. You could have been required to fight as a second. You could have died! Lord Kissinger could have died! How did he end up stabbed and with a broken nose, hmm? Those are not idle injuries.”

  “Could have been worse.” Harold winced as soon as he said the words.

  “You’re an odious man. A horrible, thoughtless, odious man. What did the two of you hope to prove? Nothing is worth your life. Oh!” Hazel hid her face in her hands and sniffled. “Had you no thought of the wife you’d leave behind? If I had known you were this odious, I never would have fallen in lo—” She clamped a hand over her mouth, her red-rimmed eyes widening.

  Too late.

  Harold’s lips curved into a slow, broad smile. “What was that?”

  She shook her head, both hands now clapped over her mouth.

  Harold cupped a wet hand behind his ear. “You’ve what? You’ve fallen in…love? With me?”

  “Don’t be silly. I could never love someone careless enough to engage in a duel.” Crossing her arms over her chest, she raised her chin and sniffed.

  Harold’s smile only broadened. “Well, well, well. My wife loves me, does she?”

  “Not for a second.” She harrumphed.

  He hooked a dripping elbow over the side of the tub. “You love me. You think I’m devilishly handsome, don’t you? An irresistible piece of man flesh.” He leaned over the edge of the tub as the corners of her mouth twitched into a near laugh. “You pine over me when I’m not in the room, all because of my superior intellect, my cunning, my talent, my—”

  “Oh, would you stop!” Hazel could no longer resist her laughter. She swatted at his arm as he gave her dress a playful tug.

  “You looooove me. Say it. Admit it. Over head and ears in love.”

  When she wiped a tear of laughter from her cheek, Harold grabbed a fistful of her dress and drew her to him. She gave a little gasp as he lunged to grasp her at the waist and pull her down into the tub with him. The gasp turned to a shriek. Water splashed over the edges. She flailed briefly then sank onto his lap with a laugh. With a bit of persuasion, he wrapped her arms around his neck so he could kiss her.

  Falling into her green eyes, he said, “I hope you’re planning to tell our fifteen children we’re a love match.”

  “Fifteen! Oh heavens. Not so many, I hope. Wouldn’t one do? If I ensured it was an heir?”

  Harold rubbed her nose with his. “What if I want a daughter? A little Hazel to spoil.”

  “Hmm. I suppose we should have two, then. A girl first, then a boy. I grew up in a house of boys, you know. I wouldn’t know what to do with a daughter.”

  “Fourteen daughters and one son?” He jested.

  “We’ll not have any if I remain clothed.” She smiled coyly.

  Not one to miss an opportunity or daft enough to remind her why she had sought him out in his dressing room, he obeyed like a good husband and undressed his wife.

  Chapter 21

  Luck was on Harold’s side. The next morning, his father was available to meet in the study.

  Harold had a skip in his step all morning. For the first time in years, he saw real hope for the future, not a bleak stretch of financial ruin that would one day see the family destroyed, not a loveless arranged marriage, not another several years spent in foreign countries doing his father’s bidding. He saw before him financial stability, a restored and profitable estate, a renewed relationship with his father, and a loving and ever-happy marriage with his soul’s mate.

  In anticipation of the meeting with his father, he invited Hazel for an interlude at the boathouse. She promised to meet him in the entrance hall in half an hour. A crew would now be prepping the top floor of the boathouse for romance. Cleaned and decorated with candles, pillows, blankets, a table and two chairs with tea and treats, and an easel and art supplies. As cold as it would be, he hoped to create a haven with a stunning view, something special for the two of them, where he could try his hand at the first oil painting of her since he had heretofore only sketched his wife.

  Somewhere in their romantic escape, he would announce the good news of the investment since he would have the details of the letter by then. Premature to consider it a success when the ship would only be at its first or second port at this point, but Harold embraced the potential after so much doubt. He also would explain to Hazel the poor choices of his father. If she were to le
arn part, she needed to know all.

  Harold’s vision was for them to laugh about the disaster that brought them together. It was not a laughing matter, and had he thought about laughing at it a week ago, he would have considered himself mad, but now that financial freedom was at their fingertips, the whole of the situation that brought them together seemed worth a laugh. The greed of gentlemen had led to an unexpected love match. Well, it still was not entirely a laughing matter, but he was positive she would find humor. He hoped.

  When he stepped into his father’s study, he was smiling.

  His father sat behind the desk, a brandy in his hand, cravat loosened, his periwig propped on the porte perruque behind him, leaving his head bare with wisps of grey in disarray over a balding scalp. Harold thought it an occasion to celebrate, as well. Although not a fan of brandy, he poured himself a sampling to toast with his father. Only after taking his seat on the opposite side of the desk did it dawn that the baron did not return his smile or acknowledge him. The multitude of wet rings on the desk surface hinted to a long morning of sloppy indulgence, not the reception Harold had anticipated. His smile slipped.

  Without looking up, Eugene passed the creased letter across the desk. Wet splotches adorned the paper. Harold exchanged his glass for the letter.

  He scanned the contents once, twice, then said, “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

  The baron tipped his glass between his lips before answering. “Not much to misunderstand.”

  Harold reread the letter again, more slowly this time, trying to make sense of it. The contents contradicted the letter his father had received last week. Which letter was to be believed?

  Setting the missive on the desk, Harold asked, “When did this arrive? It can’t be true if the ship set sail weeks ago. Where’s the first letter?”

  Eugene’s eyes traced a path from the letter to his son. “That is the letter.”