Despite the quietness of the words, his eyes were bleak, his face set and cold. Rebecca swallowed an instinctive denunciation. If she was to win, she must use all her feminine wiles; rage would serve her not at all. And so she stepped even closer, until her skirts brushed his legs. Clasping her hands prayerfully before her, she pleaded, “Treve … I beg you. I beg you. You said you did not mean to kill him, and I believe that. But Snow is a fine swordsman. What if he pushes you so hard you have no choice? My papa used to say that in any duel, however little death may be considered, there is a high element of risk, and tragedy can strike too swiftly to be averted.”
He shook his head, and said with a calm smile, “Extreme unlikely, I promise you. Try to accept that I’ve been out before, ma’am. I know what I’m about.”
“I do know that, but … were I bereft for a second time … I think I would die.…”
He watched her with a speculative expression. “I would do all in my power for you, my little lovely thing. But—”
Swaying towards him, she interposed tremulously, “You—you once said … you desire me.…”
The grey eyes narrowed. He pulled her to him. “You—are serious? You really offer yourself to save that young idiot?”
“I love him,” she said simply.
His arms whipped around her. She was crushed so tight she could scarce breathe. His eyes glowing, he bent to her. With surprisingly little effort, she forced her arms to go around his neck, and wondered with an odd remoteness if it would hurt his bruised mouth when he kissed her.
But a new and very different emotion was in his eyes.
Rebecca stiffened, bristling.
De Villars uttered a muffled snort, tottered to the desk, leaned there, and burst into laughter.
Outraged, crouching, yearning to feel the handle of a sturdy axe between her hands, she panted, “Rake! Deplorable—wicked—evil—lecher!”
“My—my apologies … dearest girl,” he gulped, between whoops. “But—but it was … so deliciously melodramatic! What a … villain you judge me! Oh, how good old Will Shakespeare would have … loved it!”
All but incoherent with frustrated fury, she managed, “Oh! If I but—had a—a pistol! You are … vile! Vile!”
“Beyond all doubting. And—there is a pistol in the drawer, yonder.”
Running around the desk, Rebecca tore at the top drawer so violently that it flew out, sending the contents over the floor and de Villars into new howls of mirth. Her second attempt was more successful. She snatched up the large horse pistol she found, and aimed it with both hands.
Wiping tears from his eyes, de Villars groaned, “Shoot straight, sweeting, and my troubles are over. But—your brother will not love you for’t.”
The thought of what Snowden would say made her blood run cold. “Beast! If you but knew how I hate you, de Villars!”
“Hatred,” he wheezed, sagging weakly against the desk, “is akin to love, so they say. Only think, Little Parrish, how you will grieve if tomorrow morning I am doomed to lie stretched on the greensward.” He placed one hand on his chest and intoned theatrically, “‘Come away, death, and in sad cypress let me be laid;/Fly away, fly away, breath: I am slain by a fair, cruel maid.’”
“Grieve? Grieve, is it? You are fair and far out there! I should rejoice!”
He mopped at his eyes. “And yet, I live. ‘The lady doth protest too much, methinks.’”
“Loathsome!” she shrieked and, flinging the pistol at him, ran to the door and along the hall. Not staying for her cloak, she sped through the front door that an astonished lackey flung open, and was down the steps and in the street in a trice. Vaguely, she was aware that de Villars was shouting, and in a moment the lackey sprinted ahead and called up a passing chair. Panting her thanks as he assisted her inside, she snatched the cloak and reticule he offered, and was borne off to John Street.
She wept all the way, but regrettably not one tear was shed for her brother’s predicament. Rebecca’s tears rather were of rage and humiliation.
CHAPTER
9
In view of the activities planned for the following dawn, Rebecca was sure that Snowden would not be late home. He had said he was occupying her house, and Mrs. Falk confirmed this. The good housekeeper was horrified by Rebecca’s woebegone appearance and when, as the due of an old family retainer, she was told the reason behind her mistress’s headlong journey back to Town, she shed a few tears of her own. Rebecca was fussed over, coddled, and every effort bent towards making her comfortable and lightening her spirits. Having changed gratefully into a nightdress and a pink wrapper that was a cloud of gauze and lace, she went down to the snug parlour, ate a light supper from a tray, and determined to await her brother’s return. When she heard voices in the hall an hour later, she was sure Snowden had arrived, and was surprised when Letitia Boudreaux burst into the room and tripped down the steps, hands outstretched and an expression of stark tragedy on her lovely face.
“Oh, Lud!” moaned Rebecca, standing to greet her. “What now?”
“Treve told me what happened,” Letitia answered, allowing Mrs. Falk to take her cloak and bonnet. And when the door closed behind the housekeeper, she went on, “I wonder you did not strangle the unfeeling brute.”
Rebecca showed her guest to a chair by the fire and sat down again. “I nigh shot him! You will never know how close I came to pulling the trigger! I panted—I positively yearned to pull it!”
“I am only astounded you did not,” said Letitia, betraying no least concern at these murderous inclinations towards a cousin of whom she was deeply fond. “To laugh in your face—I heard him!—when you must have been nigh distracted with anxiety!”
“He said,” Rebecca uttered broodingly, “that it was deliciously melodramatic! And that Will Shakespeare would have loved it!”
“The beast! Whatever did you say?”
“I told him he was vile, and—and heaven knows what else.”
“Very right! Did he cower?”
“Cower! He roared! He laughed so much he could scarce stand.”
“Monster!”
Rebecca nodded, but a dimple peeped beside her red mouth, and she said with what Snowden called her pixie look, “It was rather delicious, now that I come to think on it. Especially when I offered myself to him if he would only spare my brother.”
Her eyes as big as saucers, Letitia gasped, “You—oh! You never did!”
“Yes. That is when he seized me and crushed me to his breast. And—” She frowned suddenly. “And I thought he was going to smother me with burning kisses.”
“D-didn’t he?” breathed Letitia, awed.
“No. That’s when he sort of—snorted, and began to laugh, the wretch!”
“There is but one answer—he must be demented. But, what shall you do now?”
“I mean to try and reason with my brother, and if—”
The door burst open, and Snowden came into the room, still clad in his ball dress, and with a look of anxious anticipation on his handsome features. He checked when he saw Miss Boudreaux and his sister, and his expression changed to one of rather comical dismay. “Hello, hello,” he said hollowly. “What’s all this? Thought you was entrenched in your pastoral paradise, love?” He crossed to drop a kiss on his sister’s cheek and say a polite, “Good evening, Miss Boudreaux.”
“I—I trust, sir,” Letitia stammered, blushing furiously as she shook hands with him, “that you do not find my presence here repugnant.”
He stared at her. “Repugnant?” The candlelight was playing softly on her face. It was a very pretty face, he thought, mildly surprised that he had not noticed that fact before now, and the dusty blue gown she wore became her admirably. Pity she was so tall.… “Why on earth would I think so shatter-brained a thing?”
She gave a helpless gesture. “My—my cousin.”
“Who? Oh—de Villars! Well, even were he an ogre, I’d scarce allow that to turn me against a very charming lady.”
&nbs
p; Miss Boudreaux was spared betraying her total confusion by the return of Mrs. Falk with a tea tray. The housekeeper’s emotions were so overset when she saw Boothe that the plate of biscuits went into Miss Boudreaux’s lap, and by the time they had recovered from that small contretemps, they were on easier terms.
Boothe declined the offer of refreshments and, when he had comforted the housekeeper and watched her sniff her way from the parlour, he went to the sideboard to pour himself a glass of wine. “Poor Falk,” he murmured in amusement. “Her wits are wandering tonight.”
“No, how can you say that, Snow?” said Rebecca reproachfully. “’Tis only that she dotes on you, and worries—as do we all.”
Boothe’s hand checked briefly in the act of setting down the decanter. “Worries?” he said, a shade too innocently, as he wandered to the fireplace. “Now what have I been about to disturb you gentle creatures?”
“There is no need to dissemble,” said Rebecca with severity. “When first you came in, I could tell you was disturbed. And I’ve no doubt Miss Boudreaux could, as well.”
He directed an apprehensive glance at the quiet visitor. “I fancy you are at your make-believe again, miss! If I was worrying about anything, which I ain’t, I’d certainly not wish to bore a guest with it.”
“Oh, Letitia knows all about it,” said Rebecca.
Boothe paled. “She—does? Good God! Is that why you come romping home, then? Of all the caper-witted things to do, you must be—” He broke off, a wary light coming into his eyes. “Knows about—what?”
Rebecca sprang up, and stamped her little foot at him. “Oh, Snowden! How can you be so provoking? Your duel, of course! I came just as soon as I heard of it.”
Boothe’s taut features relaxed. “Oh, the duel! Why would you come home for that? I’ve been out before.”
“Am I not to be concerned when my dear brother’s life is thrown into such fearful jeopardy?” she cried, indignantly. “A fine stone-heart you fancy me! And poor Miss Boudreaux is as distraught as am I!”
Boothe’s quick glance to Letitia was met by eyes that shyly lowered, while a flush again crept becomingly up her white throat and into her pale cheeks. He crossed to her chair and said kindly, “You must not worry so, ma’am.” He bestowed his charming smile on her. “De Villars is far more likely to pink me than I am to run him through, I do assure you.”
Miss Boudreaux did not appear consoled by this reassurance. Her eyes flew up again, so filled with anguish that an odd little flutter disturbed Boothe’s hitherto untouched heart, and he was seized by a foolish wish that some of this pretty girl’s anxiety might have been for himself.
Letitia said in a low, husky voice, “I should be … most grieved if—if either of you was to be hurt, Mr. Boothe.”
He smiled down at her, making a mental note that he must call on her tomorrow.
Rebecca, meanwhile, had been seized by a notion of her own. “Snow,” she said with marked suspicion, “if you was not worrying about the duel when you came in—what caused you to look so put about?”
For a moment, absorbed by the lovely face turned so anxiously up to him, he made no answer, then, recollecting himself, he said hurriedly, “What? Oh—well, I was, of course. But I—er, didn’t think you knew of it, and— How the deuce did you learn of it?”
“Miss Boudreaux overheard her cousin speaking of the duel, and came at once to me.”
“Oh, well, that’s all right, then.” He resumed his contemplation of Miss Boudreaux. “I regret if my calling out your cousin has caused you pain, ma’am. But—ladies must be protected from dishonour, y’know.”
Entranced, Letitia breathed, “Indeed, I quite understand your gallantry, sir. Though I cannot suppose my cousin to have intended…” Her words trailed off and for a long moment they regarded one another, while Rebecca looked hopefully at the silent interchange.
“I must tell you,” Miss Boudreaux went on dreamily, “that Trevelyan was most disturbed to learn that word of his wicked wager had leaked out. He did not dream the other gentleman would be so—unwise.”
Boothe slanted a glance at his sister. “Did de Villars tell you with whom he made the wager?”
Mistakenly thinking the question intended for herself, Rebecca shook her head. “He said I do not know the man, but—”
“He—what?” thundered Boothe, his brows jerking into a black bar above his nose. “You—went to de Villars?”
“Oh…” stammered Rebecca. “I—er, I—that is—”
“You went to beg for my life!” Boothe raged, his tones vibrating the prisms on the candelabra. “By God, girl! Are you gone daft to interfere in an affair of honour? I can well imagine the Cheltenham tragedy you enacted him!” He began to pace up and down the room, quite forgetting Letitia’s presence, and driving one fist angrily into his palm, groaned, “I shall never be able to hold up my head again! Never! Lord! How de Villars must have laughed!”
All too aware of how The Villain had laughed, Rebecca bit her lip and sought desperately for something to say that would mitigate her heinous offense.
Watching the man of her heart, Letitia’s calm good sense returned. She dropped gracefully to her knees, clasped her hands, and gazed up at Boothe. “Then you shall be able to laugh together, sir. For it is in just such a cause I am come here tonight.”
“Dear … heaven!” yelped Boothe, cringing away. “No—no, ma’am! This will not do! Please allow me to help you up.”
Instead, she reached out, saying piteously, “Sir, I beg of you. Abandon this madness! I love my cousin deeply. If you feel he has offended—as indeed I fear he has—then settle it with your fists. In a boxing ring, dear sir! Not with cold steel! I implore you!”
The unhappy Boothe tore out his handkerchief and began to mop at his brow. “Oh, Gad! This is awful! Oh, burn it all … Rebecca, for mercy’s sake, make her get up!” Meeting his sister’s adamantine look, he wailed, “Ma’am—Miss Boudreaux … I cannot bear it! Please—please get up!”
“I will gladly do so,” sighed Letitia, “if you will only give me your word not to persist with this murderous folly.”
He ran a hand through his already wildly disordered locks. “I cannot! Surely you must understand that—”
Lord Graham Fortescue, also in full ball dress, rushed in. “He is here then,” he cried eagerly, then recoiled with a gasp as he took in the dramatic scene.
“Forty!” exclaimed Boothe with unmitigated relief.
“Wrong house!” squeaked his lordship, deserting.
“Wait!” cried Boothe, anguished.
“Sorry!” The word was flung over the shoulder of the vanishing craven.
In hot pursuit, Boothe tore after him.
“Snow!” called Rebecca, but her angry attempt to stay him was doomed. Pale and perspiring, Boothe dodged around her, took the steps in one wild leap, and was gone. “I shall wait up!” she shrilled after him.
“Oh, dear,” sighed Letitia, climbing to her feet. “I suspect he is in full flight, Rebecca. He’ll likely not come home at all, for fear we might follow him to the duelling ground.”
Stamping her foot, Rebecca said, “How wretched they are! He is just as bad as de Villars! I wash my hands of them! Let them have their silly duel!”
“Well—we tried, at least.”
“And failed miserably. Here, let me pour you some fresh tea.”
Letitia accepted the cup and sat down again. Stirring her tea, she said, “Oh, I don’t know. I have heard that Mr. Boothe is a splendid swordsman, but—forgive me—I hold my cousin to be the greater menace.”
“In every sense,” Rebecca agreed gloomily. “But I do thank you, for you were superb in your little drama.”
“Was I?” asked Letitia eagerly. “I own I had hoped I might be doing quite passably.”
“Passably!” Rebecca giggled suddenly. “Did you not see Snowden’s face? And—and poor Graham Fortescue! Were ever two men so totally petrified?”
They burst into laughter, but in
a moment the merry peals faded and they eyed one another askance.
Rebecca said contritely, “How dreadful of us to laugh so when—when in the morning … We must be very wicked, I think.”
“Perhaps, but the gentlemen do not seem in the slightest concerned.”
“No. But gentlemen have so little sense when it comes to duelling and wars and such.”
“No less than I! Do you know, dear Mrs. Parrish, that I have been here all this time, and never told you the real reason I came? I dare to think Trevelyan’s guns are rather soundly spiked, ma’am. I made him promise me faithfully that he would neither kill nor gravely wound your brother.”
Rebecca leaned out to clasp her hand. “How good you are. Do you think he will keep his word?”
Letitia’s brows arched. “I have never known him to break it.”
“My apologies. I meant no offence.” Rebecca sighed. “It is something, for which we must be grateful.”
Letitia was silent, staring rather blankly at the tea cosy. “I only hope,” she murmured uneasily, “that in attempting to spare your brother, Treve may not himself fall.”
Three hours later, Rebecca leapt up in bed, her heart thundering, and with those ominous words echoing in her ears. Panting for breath, she lay back down again, staring wide-eyed at the canopy high above her. It was ridiculous, of course. A bad dream merely. Snowden would not do anything really dreadful, even if given the chance. Yet she could hear again de Villars’ odious voice, so full of laughter, “‘Come away, death … I am slain by a fair, cruel maid.’”
The picture of him, stretched bloody and dying at her brother’s feet, would not be banished. She did not sleep again.
* * *
The skies began to lighten shortly after four o’clock, and by five the heavens glowed faintly pink; a luminous pink, as delicate as clear jade, with not a cloud to mar it. The air was cool, full of the fragrance of hedge roses, and wet grass, and trees from which the dew dripped softly. The birds were beginning to twitter, their pure voices the only sounds to disturb the sylvan silence save for the hushed conversation between two young men who stood at the edge of the clearing, cloaks close drawn against the chill. One of these, very tall, wore a tricorne over his powdered hair. He sneezed, and raised his handkerchief, and his cloak fell open to reveal the simple stock and dark garb of a clergyman. The other man, not above middle height, wore a moderate wig whose loose curls framed a lean face, marked by laugh lines at the corners of the green eyes. Well-shaped lips that could curve swiftly to an impudent grin were set now, his intent regard fixed on a third man some distance off.
The Wagered Widow Page 17
