She had to stop the duel.
The past two nights had been wasted at the dower house licking her wounds when she could have spent the time with Drake. If she had been with him, she could have insisted he apologize to Stroud instead of accepting the challenge, for who cares what Stroud or anyone else thought, as long as Charlotte and Drake were happy together.
All this time, she had wanted him to defend her, wanted him to stand up to everyone on her behalf, but now that he’d done it, she realized she didn’t need him to be her suit of armor. She could defend herself. Rather than be her hero, she wanted him to be her love. He was already on his way to the duel, likely distracted from his task because she refused to open the door when he came to her, heart in hand, and now he may die in a cold field defending her honor without knowing she loved him. How selfish she had been!
They had one hour before dawn to make haste. When they returned to the manor, Mary took her task seriously in rousing the coachman. Charlotte rushed to the servants’ quarters hoping to discover the whereabouts of the duel and find a way to get to the duel without making matters worse. She must stop the fight, but she couldn’t be seen by anyone present or risk another scandal.
Before she made it halfway through the gallery, her mother-in-law stepped out of the Gray Parlor.
The startled expression on Catherine’s brow told Charlotte she was surprised to find her daughter-in-law awake so early. Catherine had always been an early riser, but Charlotte had rarely risen before ten to witness just how early. Regardless of the pre-dawn hour, Catherine was the last person she wanted to speak to now, not when time was of the essence. She couldn’t very well ignore the woman.
“Mama Catherine.” Charlotte nodded, collecting herself for the untimely confrontation.
Catherine opened her mouth to speak, but Charlotte held a quieting hand and spoke instead. Perhaps providence brought them together at this early hour. She may not have the courage to say what she had to say after the duel and its uncertain outcome.
“Allow me to say this now while we have a moment alone. I shan’t keep you,” Charlotte said, wanting to get this out of the way.
“Mama Catherine, there is room for only one duchess, and I want to be that person. As I’m certain you are well aware, I removed to the dower house because I believed I couldn’t fill your shoes and because I was ashamed for hurting you and the family. I apologize for the hurt I caused, especially after the time you’ve spent preparing me for this role. I couldn’t have learned it all without you.” Charlotte swallowed against the tremble in her voice.
Her mother-in-law raised her eyebrows so high they nearly touched her hairline, but she remained silent, her black eyes looking deep into Charlotte’s soul.
“I never knew my mother. My sister took her place, raising me alongside our father. When I arrived here, I hoped to find a warm and loving mother. Instead, I was met with harsh coldness.” Charlotte watched as the dowager’s brows lowered, furrowing, her lips pursing together into a grim line.
With a shaky breath, Charlotte continued, “I have come to realize in my days of reflection away from Lyonn Manor that your behavior is in fact love. I know that you love me as a daughter and have done all in your power to prepare me for success and protect me from failure, just as you have done all these years for Drake. You love him and have wished to protect him. I realize now that all you do, you do out of love, though it’s an unusual way of showing love.”
She paused in case Catherine wished to contradict her. The dowager remained silent, leaning heavily against her cane.
Charlotte said, “We are more alike than I ever realized, and I admire you and thank you for all you’ve done. It’s time, however, that your children walk on their own, even if we stumble. You must allow us to fail so that we may learn. You can’t protect us forever. It is time, Mama Catherine. It’s time you move to the dower house, but I do not wish to lose your guidance as I grow into a duchess you’ll be proud of. I would be honored to continue our daily luncheon so we may continue to work together to make the Annick dukedom prosperous.”
To Charlotte’s surprise, the dowager’s lips twitched into a grimace that could have resembled the start of a smile on another face.
Catherine replied, “I move at the week’s end. You will be pleased to know my son shares your sentiments, as he requested only yesterday my departure.”
“He did?” Charlotte asked, shocked Drake had defended her to his mother after all.
“Yes, he made it quite clear you are the Duchess of Annick. I will call upon you next Monday for our luncheon. I expect you to arrange our meal in the conservatory,” Catherine instructed. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
With a twitch of her head, Catherine turned to carry on with whatever task she was about before Charlotte stumbled into the gallery. Did Catherine know about the duel? Charlotte wondered if she ought to say something, but no, ladies weren’t to know of such things, and she didn’t think Mama Catherine would wish to know her son was caught up in such a mess, especially since he was putting his life on the line for Charlotte’s honor, of all the silly things.
However much this moment should be filled with pure elation that she finally stood up to her mother-in-law and that Drake had defended her to his mother at last, the whole of the event was anticlimactic and bittersweet. How different her marriage might have been had she known her mother-in-law wasn’t the enemy. Had never been the enemy.
Continuing to the servants’ quarters, she breathed an unlady-like oath that she’d wasted too much time already. What would her dawdling cost Drake? If they were delayed any longer, all they would be able to do was watch, hidden from view, helpless to assist. Whoever made the rule that women were not allowed to know about duels much less attend them should be skewered, Charlotte thought ruefully.
Sometime later, James brought the carriage to a stop outside a clump of leafless trees. He set down the steps himself and opened the door to help out the duchess and Lady Mary.
“Just through there, Your Grace. You should have a clear view of the hollow and will be hidden from view.” James pointed to the tree line.
“But I told you to bring us directly to him,” Charlotte protested, clasping Mary’s hand for support.
“As much as I wish I could, I can’t do that. You can’t be seen, Your Grace,” said the coachman, his eyes sorrowful.
Charlotte nodded grimly and hurried with Mary to a group of trees lining the edge of a crag. The sky was bright but sunless with a predawn glow. They knelt at the ridge, shielded by the steep slope below them.
When they looked to the hollow, they could see the duel already underway. Charlotte gasped in horror. She’d arrived too late to stop the duel.
A handful of witnesses gathered around the sabreurs. A portly man stood near Winston, both men watching the progress of the sword play. Lord Stroud was no match for Drake’s physique, but the man had undeniable skill. She covered her mouth when he parried Drake’s attacks.
“Oh, Mary. This is all my fault. I’ll be the death of him,” said Charlotte.
“No, no, this is all my fault! Lord Stroud is retaliating because of me. I was selfish to think my actions would have no bearing on my family. I stomped on his foot, you know,” Mary confessed.
As humorous as the image, Charlotte’s concentration was on the field.
Lord Stroud possessed more skill with a sabre than Drake expected, but even so, the man struggled with its weight. Clearly, Stroud fenced, but likely with a foil rather than a sabre.
Stroud’s moves were fluid, his plan of attack concentrated, but Drake felt assured the man’s reach was sluggish. Strength and agility were on Drake’s side this day.
With these observations, Drake worried not about the outcome of the duel. From his perspective, the duel was merely a formality in restoring Lord Stroud’s honor. Stroud couldn’t seriously mean to harm him.
/> It was Drake’s overconfidence and mocking parries that would result in a grave mistake.
When he and Winston arrived, they found Stroud, his lordship’s valet, the portly Mr. Kingston, a surgeon of questionable repute, and a handful of Stroud’s old pals waiting. Though Stroud’s face looked like it’d been mauled by a lion from the damage of the wine glass shards, he didn’t deserve sympathy.
Through the new gap in his front teeth, Stroud lisped, “Here to make arrangements for your wife’s thawing? I’ll warm her up for you.”
Drake sneered but ignored the baiting.
Bartholomew, Drake’s valet, helped the duke out of his riding cloak and readied him for battle. The anticipation of a match normally would have excited him. Today, it annoyed him. He didn’t appreciate waking before dawn, nor did he care for the delay of his planned scaling of the dower house wall. He dreamt all night of breaking into a second-floor window and making love to his wife, even if the seduction meant reciting sentimental poetry.
Mr. Kingston approached.
“Lord Stroud offers you this opportunity to apologize if you should wish to forego the fight. He’s willing to accept the apology now.”
The buffoon likely didn’t know how to fence and had been hoping for pistols at dawn.
Drake’s laugh was loud enough for all to hear.
Neither of them was behaving particularly civil, as dueling etiquette dictated, but considering the company and the cause were equally as uncivil, no one complained.
Within moments, they were in position, then in battle.
Lord Stroud lunged.
Drake parried and riposted.
Swords clashed. Feet danced.
Stroud advanced. Drake retreated. Drake advanced. Stroud retreated.
Stroud’s skill startled Drake. He hadn’t anticipated the man to be an advanced fencer.
After a lengthy conversation of blades, Drake launched himself into a flunge, his signature move. Stroud stumbled backwards, parrying.
Drake made a split-second decision not to disarm Stroud. Instead, he hesitated, then taunted the oaf, a mongoose against a venomous snake. If Stroud wanted honor restored, he’d have to earn it.
“Fight like a man,” Stroud said, feinting a strike that Drake anticipated. “Can’t you best me with your own weapon of choice?”
With a balestra, Drake lunged but didn’t strike. Instead of threatening his target, he remained in prep. He advanced again, taunting.
Stroud riposted, foaming in anger at Drake’s teasing.
“Fight me!” Stroud demanded.
Stroud’s nostrils flared as he lunged at Drake, his reach underestimated.
Drake stepped aside, inquartata. Their swords locked.
Deflecting his opponent’s sword, Drake spun away from reach.
Each stepping back, they faced each other, sneering.
“When I finish with you,” Stroud said with a snarl, “I’ll have my way with your wife. Then I’ll see to your sister. She’s ripe and nubile. I’ll take her over your dead body, make a woman of her, blood spilt from two Mowbrahs in the same day.”
The words were so cruel and unexpected, they bit into Drake, sinking fangs into his tough skin, angering him into a hot rage. Without a planned tactic, he advanced. And stepped right into Stroud’s trap. With a passata sotto, Stroud had his moment of victory as blade met flesh.
Stroud’s sabre sliced across the duke’s chest from sternum to shoulder.
Chapter 29
Drake staggered, surprised to see a red stain seeping through his shirt.
Feeling the warm wetness spread across his chest, he growled. “Are you satisfied, Stroud? Is my blood enough for you?”
“I’ll not be satisfied until you beg my pardon or disarm me.” Stroud flung blood from his sabre onto the grass.
Dizziness swept over Drake as he watched Stroud nod to Mr. Kingston.
The fat fool of a second stepped forward and said, “At this time, I must ask if you will issue his lordship an apology.”
Blinking against the red in his vision, Drake coughed a laugh. “I only apologize to gentlemen.”
The duel resumed.
Drake wouldn’t make the same mistake twice. Humbled by the consequences of his own arrogance, he made short work of the duel.
Drake feinted to invite an attack.
Predictably, Stroud parried and riposted, leaving him open for Drake’s second intention.
The duke parried. Launching a counterattack, he caught Stroud’s sabre at the guard.
At the twist of his wrist, Stroud cried out. The sabre dropped.
Stroud was disarmed.
Drake stumbled away, ignoring the man and his limp wrist.
Winston caught Drake before he collapsed. He wrapped Drake’s arm over his shoulders. They reached the tree stump at the edge of the hollow, the duke protesting he could seat himself.
“Damned arrogant fool. You could have disarmed him in seconds. What were you trying to accomplish?”
“Playing with my food like a damned arrogant fool?” Drake mocked, intaking a sharp breath as he moved.
Winston frowned. “Stay still. Losing blood here, mate.”
“Nothing a brandy can’t cure,” Drake muttered. “Need a clean shirt.”
His valet made short but painful work of undressing the duke’s torso. The surgeon rushed over to join them.
He knew if he looked down, he’d see sliced flesh and blood. It hurt like hell.
Woozy, Drake closed his eyes.
Vaguely, he was aware of his valet Bart tipping a flask to his lips and encouraging him to drink. Drake sputtered but swallowed, a fire in his throat that spread into his chest.
He drifted out of consciousness.
An icy cloth swept across his bare flesh, startling him to awareness. Unsure how long he’d been unconscious, he fought for control over the grogginess. His eyelids were heavy, and his head pounded. His chest flamed with an excruciating pain and weight, as though someone stood on him.
When he opened his eyes, he groaned. The surgeon was suturing him, stringing him with catgut just like his violin. Later, he’d need Mr. Taylor to summon his own physician; Lord only knew what this sawbones was doing to him.
The flask returned to his lips from an unseen hand. He greedily drank the liquid fire, feeling better with each passing minute. Dizziness subsided.
He braved a glance around him. Winston and Bart stood next to him, both looking far more concerned than they should. Lord Stroud and his cronies huddled not far, watching the show over their shoulders.
Nothing seemed unusual about the scene except two stable-boys running across the field towards them.
Had the surgeon given him laudanum? Was he hallucinating? He couldn’t remember bringing grooms. Lord Stroud’s men perhaps. Maybe inept assassins sent to finish him off.
He grunted at a menacing tug below his collarbone.
The surgeon cleaned the remaining blood from Drake’s chest, then wrapped a long length of cloth around Drake’s naked torso.
No sooner did the man step away and Drake attempt to sit up, then the two grooms arrived. One of the boys bull-rushed him.
For a moment, Drake thought he’d need to muster strength to defend himself. Then he saw his wife’s face beneath the groom’s cap. As the realization dawned on him, she leapt into his arms in a painfully tight embrace and kiss.
He drew Charlotte to him and returned the kiss with a hungry passion, strength renewed by her presence.
A faint footfall crunching over dead brush sounded not far from him.
Stroud sniggered. “I knew you were a buggerer. Like father, like son. I wonder what your wife would say to find you in a tender embrace with a stable-boy. Care for a wager on my telling her?”
He relinquished her mouth only long enough t
o quip, “Who’s to say she doesn’t encourage a bit of caudle-making? You’re too stuffed, Stroud. Live a little.” With a smirk, he resumed his exploration of Charlotte’s lips.
Only after he felt his wife had been thoroughly kissed did he get a good look at her, a vision of loveliness. With a dimpled smile, he kissed the tip of her nose.
Winston spoke first. “I never thought I would have an affinity for women in breeches, but these two lovelies have taught me otherwise.”
Drake looked up to see his sister standing next to Winston and Bart, her face flushed under a groom’s cap. However annoyed he should be to see his sister at a duel, he was far more relieved he hadn’t been seeing double.
Lord Stroud and his men were halfway across the field already, gone and soon forgotten. The surgeon was nowhere to be seen.
Drake tightened his hold on Charlotte despite the throbbing of his chest. He refused to be an invalid. Testing his strength, he tried to sit up, groaning from the effort, a stabbing in his chest giving him pause. Charlotte, perched on his lap, protested, hugging him until he stopped moving.
Drake said to his audience, “I don’t suppose the three of you would mind terribly if I had a few moments alone with this fetching stable-boy?”
Just then, his carriage rolled towards them, James at the reins.
“Ah, I’ve never been so relieved to see my coachman. I amend my request. I’d like the private moment with my wife inside the carriage. Mary, love, take my horse so Charlotte and I can have the carriage.”
Mary’s face turned rosier in response. “He’s not side-saddled.”
“Well, you’re a groom, aren’t you? Ride like a man.”
Mary stared in horror.
James interrupted from the carriage. “Her ladyship may ride with me. No one’ll be the wiser.”
After Bart helped Drake into his riding cloak to shield from the chill air, and Winston situated him into the carriage despite Drake’s protests, he settled next to Charlotte against the cushioned seats. Cautiously, he snaked his arm around her shoulders to pull her close, grunting from the pain of movement.
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