by Jenna Jaxon
“Let us find the driest spot available and be ready when the cad arrives. Thank God you do not use swords today.” Trevor strode toward the far end of the pond.
“I had just thought that very thing. Much easier to simply plant your boots and fire in these conditions.” Heading to the opposite side of the pond, Jack stamped on the ground that continued to squish beneath his boots.
Matthews trailed in his wake. “Is there no other way for gentlemen to settle their differences?” his cousin asked, and Jack felt for the man. His family kept dragging him into these affairs when the man was up for a magistrate’s position.
“Unfortunately, no. And the gravity of this man’s deeds is such that if I can see my way to do it, I will kill him.” Nothing dry on this side. Jack shook his head and headed back toward Trevor at a fast pace. The sun was almost up. Thank goodness no one seemed to have gotten wind of the proceedings, the advantage of a quick challenge.
“I did not hear you say that, Manning. That’s premeditated murder.”
“All duels are premeditated murder, Matthews.” Trevor grinned at him. “The firmest ground is this way. I think there is at least ten yards dry here.” The viscount led them to a long, narrow swath of new grass situated between two sets of black mulberry trees.
Jack stamped up and down. “Yes, I think this will do.” All sense of amusement vanished, as he looked at his seconds. “I want you to know that there is nothing Fitch can do or say that will satisfy this challenge. I intend to put a bullet through his black heart to restore my wife’s honor.” He shrugged and clasped his hands behind his back. “I understand that as part of the code you must speak to his seconds, but there is no remedy for me short of his death.”
“Understood. I spoke with Lord Bartholomew last night. As Fitch had the choice of weapons, you may choose whose weapons will be used, yours or his.” Trevor glanced behind them at a carriage pulling up. “Ah, Pritchett is here. I’ll go bring him along.” He headed off toward the man climbing out of his conveyance.
“You are certain about your stance, Jack?” Matthews shouldered closer to him, voice low. “Must you really kill the blackguard? Can you not maim him in some less than vital place to satisfy your honor?”
“Do you know the circumstances of the challenge?” Clenching his jaw, Jack wished Dalbury were here instead.
“Only what Trevor told me. He ruined the woman who later became your wife.”
“And tried to blackmail her into being his mistress yesterday.” He shook with rage each time he remembered the sight of Alethea’s fisted hands on Fitch’s back as he tried to take her once more. “No telling how many others he’s ruined. He doesn’t deserve to live. If the law cannot see that, then I will take my chances on this field of honor with a clear conscience.”
“Good morning, my lord. Mr. Matthews.” Dr. Pritchett, bundled up in a thick black cloak, joined the group and bowed to Jack. “I cannot say I was pleased to receive the summons from Lord Trevor yesterday.”
“No one is terribly pleased about these proceedings, Pritchett, but if they are the only way a man can retain the honor of his family, then they will continue to occur.” Jack didn’t mean to snap at the rotund little man. Pritchett had been his uncle’s physician for years and had attended him last spring. Still, he hadn’t expected to meet such opposition to this duel. First Alethea, now Matthews and Pritchett. Did no one understand the code of honor anymore?
“As you say, my lord. Where shall I stand for my part?” The physician seemed to take the rebuke in his stride.
“Lord Trevor will show you.” Turning back to Matthews, Jack glimpsed another carriage careening around the bend toward the pond. “Well, I see we are finally all accounted for.” He nodded to the small Town Coach pulling to a stop. “I must retrieve my pistols from my carriage, Matthews. Will you hold them for me?”
“Certainly, my lord.”
Jack sprinted away, giving a sharp wave to his footman, who ducked into the carriage and emerged with a long flat brown box. The set of dueling pistols had come with him from America, one of the first purchases he’d made after inheriting the earldom. The footman handed him the box and he headed back to Matthews, ignoring Fitch and his seconds clambering out of the coach.
“Let’s get on with this.” Handing the box to Matthews, Jack opened it and removed one of the pair of walnut handled flintlock pistols. “As soon as I load mine, please take the box over to Bartholomew or Sir Richard. I assume they brought their own powder and shot, but they are perfectly welcome to use mine.” He gripped the sleek handle and sighted down the barrel. Splendid weapon. With a steady hand he carefully loaded the pistol, the tune from earlier still running around inside his head. He began to whistle it. Perhaps that would release it.
“What’s that you’re whistling?” Trevor had returned from situating the doctor and speaking to Fitch’s seconds.
“A tavern song I learned long ago in Virginia. I woke up with it in my head.” Jack handed the pistol to his second. “If you’d just check the priming for me.”
Trevor nodded and inspected the weapon. “Looks good. Shall I hold it until you are ready?”
“Please. You may take the box to Fitch, Matthews.” The light was getting brighter. They really must get on with this business.
The Runner nodded and started off, then turned back. “It’s ‘Chevy Chase.’”
“What? Oh, yes, the song. I’d forgotten the name of it.” Jack continued to whistle jauntily.
“It’s about two knights of old who set out to battle one another over killing deer.” Matthews continued on his way across the expanse of grass.
“I suppose that explains why it’s been on my mind.” He stopped whistling and paced to the dueling ground, Trevor at his heels.
“They seem to be almost ready,” Trevor said, nodding at the cluster of men. “I know the waiting is the worst part of it.”
“Indeed.” Never had Jack wanted to say these words, but now the time was upon him, he found he must. “If this goes awry, Trevor, you will make sure Dalbury looks after my wife? She must be spared as much pain and scandal as possible.”
“Of course. It goes without saying.” The taller man’s face showed no trace of emotion, save a slight tic in the left eye. “It won’t come to that, I’m sure.”
“Life is uncertain, but death is sure. My father used to say that.”
“It will not come to that, trust me. Ah, Matthews is back. We are ready then?” he asked, as the Runner approached them.
“Yes. He says he will meet you in the middle.” Matthews looked at them expectantly.
“Gentlemen, let us begin.” Raising his head, Jack straightened his shoulders and strode the two steps to the middle of the designated field.
Fitch arrived, dressed in a light green suit, his quizzer around his neck, his seconds right behind him. Presumably his wig was being laundered, for his hair was powdered until it lay stiff and unnatural on his head.
“Gentlemen, well met.” Jack bowed, teeth clenched. All the uncertainty or doubt, and any trickle of fear that had crept into his mind melted like ice in a spring thaw. This odious dastard would pay for his treatment of Alethea. He stared at Fitch, unblinking, mentally heaping every fiery curse he’d ever heard on the villain’s head.
Elected the signal man, Sir Richard Johns produced a large white linen handkerchief. “As agreed upon, the signal to fire shall be the dropping of my hand holding the handkerchief.” He demonstrated and the white cloth fluttered admirably as his hand lowered.
“We shoot as soon as it starts to be lowered, or when it reaches the bottom of the arc?” Fitch asked, holding his quizzing glass out to peer at Jack.
“As soon as it starts to lower, we fire together,” Jack shot back. “No need to drag this out.” With no further ado, he turned his back on Fitch and headed for the pre-arranged mark that delineated them ten yards apart. There Trevor
awaited him.
“The wind is against you,” Trevor said, handing over the pistol, “but light. It may help him, but won’t hinder you I think. Godspeed.” A brief nod, and the viscount stepped beside Matthews, now a witness to the proceedings.
Jack nodded his thanks and made his mind blank, focusing solely on the gun in his hand, his opponent before him, and from the corner of his eye, the white handkerchief. Aim for the chest, a broad enough target to hit. Squeeze the trigger lightly and the weapon would do the work. He raised his gaze to Fitch and smiled.
Sir Richard raised the handkerchief.
Fitch fired.
Chapter 27
The moment Jack left, Alethea raced back to her chamber to dress, determined to follow him to the park. If anything…if the worst happened, she wanted to be right there with him, supporting him with her presence and her love no matter what. She burst into the chamber and went directly to her dressing room. She was frantically pulling out gowns, searching desperately for something she could put on by herself, when Clemons walked in.
“Whatever are you doing, my lady?” The maid grabbed a gold bodice from the floor where a heap of clothes attested to Alethea’s hurry.
“Thank God, Clemons, come help me dress. We must be quick. Jack has already left.”
“Left?”
“For the duel. I want go to him.” Alethea kept rummaging through her clothing. There must be something she could wear that didn’t take an hour to put on.
“No, my lady, it will do you absolutely no good to go out there.” She snatched up the vermillion petticoat and hung it back on its peg. She grabbed Alethea’s hands. “My lady. Stop and think. Do you want to go charging out there, have him distracted by you at the exact wrong time, and get killed?”
Alethea froze, her hand going to her mouth. She never wanted to consider such a thing, much less hear it out loud. Dropping the set of stays, she burst into tears and stumbled out of the dressing room. She threw herself onto the bed, well-rumpled sheets attesting to their passionate night. “No, no, he cannot die. He cannot.”
“Let me go fetch you some hot tea. Then you can dress for the day and likely he will return shortly after that. Stay right in that bed.” Giving her a warning look, Clemons hurried out.
Oh, what a wretched, wretched day. She wanted to be there with Jack but would not risk distracting him. So what could she do to make the time pass more quickly until he returned? Sitting in the bed, she wiped her streaming eyes with the sheet. Tea would not soothe her. Nothing could, save Jack’s strong arms around her once more.
What was happening? The park was little more than two blocks away. Could she actually see it from the window? Scrambling off the bed, she raced to the tall window, pulled back the curtains and peered out. No, this was the wrong side of the house. Wheeling around she clutched her robe closer about her neck and hurried from the room. The park lay to the south of the townhouse. She ran through their shared sitting room and into Jack’s bedroom.
Tearing open the heavy blue curtains, she pressed her nose to the glass. There. In the growing light she could see the tops of trees, only now beginning to leaf out, as they danced tantalizingly far away. She could see nothing of the pond or even grass. Certainly no carriages. Not from this vantage point. Sighing, she stood back from the window pane. Still, it was the closest she would get to the site. And to Jack.
She moved an upholstered chair to the window and sat, chin in hand, gazing at the far off trees. What was happening? As the city below her lightened, and the time for the duel to commence neared, she wrung her hands, fear settling itself like a mantle all around her. He couldn’t die, he couldn’t. What would she do without him?
“My lady?” Clemons appeared with the tea tray in hand. “There you are. I’ve been searching for you.” She set the tray down on a nearby table, fixed a cup and handed it to her without another word.
Alethea took it with trembling hands, tried to sip, but set it down on the windowsill untasted. “It should be soon now, I think.”
Light filled Jack’s bedchamber, illuminating the rich dark wood of the furnishings, the deep blue Aubusson carpet, and the paler blue and gold covered walls. She’d never been in this room before this morning. But being here now brought her closer to Jack, somehow. Rubbing her hand over the arm of her chair, she prayed she would have occasion to occupy this room with him very soon.
A gunshot cracked in the silence, bringing Alethea to her feet with a shriek. She stared out the window, willing herself to be able to see what was happening, but her view of the trees had not changed. Every inch of her tensed. “I only heard one shot.”
“Maybe it was two right together.”
“I don’t think so.”
Another report split the air, making Alethea jump. It was over. Only not over. What had happened? Had Jack survived? She would go mad if she didn’t find out something. “Come, Clemons. I must dress. Send James out to the park to see what has happened. If he meets Lord Manning on the way, so much the better. I cannot stand to wait one moment longer.” Turning on her heel, Alethea ran out of the room, Clemons right behind her.
Despite Alethea’s incessant need to pace, the maid finally managed to get her into a serviceable pale blue and white day gown, the simplest she owned.
“Now you must sit, my lady, so I can pin up your hair.”
“Just be quick about it.” With an aggrieved sigh, Alethea flopped down into the chair. Why had she heard nothing? It must be half an hour since she heard the gun shots. The agony of waiting would kill her yet.
The downstairs door crashed open.
Hairpins flew as Alethea leaped to her feet and streaked for the door.
“But my lady, your hair—”
Ignoring her maid and her hair, which now straggled one side up, one side down over her shoulder, Alethea hurled herself down the stairs, her shoes clacking on each step.
On the first floor landing she met Lord Trevor with another, grim-faced man she did not know supporting Jack between them.
“Lady Manning, good morning,” Lord Trevor said, pausing on the landing.
“Jack! Jack, oh Jack.” Alethea flew down the steps toward him, seized him by the neck and hugged him.
He grunted, but managed a grin. “Told you I’d be back, m’dear.” Then his head lolled forward, the white bandage around his head seeping blood.
“Jack! Oh, God, what’s wrong?” She backed away, her sleeve wet, a dark red stain spreading on the pale fabric.
“The shot grazed his head,” Trevor said, cheerfully, starting up the stairs. “He’s lost a bit of blood but the doctor is on the way. Had to see to Fitch first.”
It didn’t sound bad, but there was a lot of blood.
“Where’s Manning’s room?”
Startled out of her shock as Lord Trevor brushed past her, Alethea fell in behind them. “Up this set of stairs, to the right.”
Hands under his arms, they carried Jack in. Alethea helped take his jacket off, and tossed it to the side. Gently, she untied and unwound his cravat, opening the top of his shirt while the men saw to removing his boots. At last, she pulled the blue and gold coverlet up over him and stepped back. “What happened?”
“The coward shot early,” came the aggrieved reply from the bed. “Christ, my head hurts.”
“Jack!” She sped back to the head of the bed. “Oh, thank God.”
He grinned feebly at her. “A scratch only, my dear. Not to worry.” The grin turned to grimace. “Where’s Pritchett?”
“On his way. He had to go to his office for more medicine.” Trevor moved toward Jack. “Quite an eventful morning, wouldn’t you say?”
“It was a more eventful night,” Jack chuckled, then winced. “But yes, eventful enough to last me a while. Unless, of course, Matthews here plans on arresting me.”
“Arrest you?” Alethea jerked her
head toward the sober stranger.
“Forgive me, my dear,” Jack tried to sit up, groaned, and lay back down, his face going white. He breathed deeply for several moments, then continued. “You remember Mr. Reginald Matthews, a Runner for Bow Street and a distant cousin of ours.”
“My lady.” The sober face transformed into a handsome one as Mr. Matthews smiled.
“Why would you arrest Jack, uh, Lord Manning?” Darting her gaze back to her husband, she could feel only relief, despite this talk of arrest. He had survived. Pray God he never had to go through this again.
“For murder.” Jack closed his eyes and smiled. “Fitch fired before the signal. Very bad form. To add to the insult, he sniveled about it, begging my pardon, offering excuses. Once I recovered from the shock of the impact, I took careful aim and shot him in his black heart. He’ll take no one else’s innocence, by God.”
“He’s dead?” Relief washed over her. She’d not realized how much she had feared the man.
“Before he hit the ground,” Lord Trevor said, his tone admiring. “Excellent shot, Manning.”
“I don’t know why everyone was so concerned about my abilities with a pistol.” Jack opened his eyes to glare first at Trevor, then Alethea. “Just because I prefer the sword doesn’t mean I can’t shoot. My father taught me to fire a gun when I was six. I taught my sister when she was ten.”
“If Lady Dalbury is as good with the pistol as she is with a sword, then Dalbury does well to stay alive.” Trevor chuckled. “However, there is, as you say, the matter of Fitch’s death.” He turned to Matthews. “What is your opinion, sir?”
“Duels are a particularly difficult practice to prosecute,” he began, his brow furrowed over kind blue eyes. “They have been illegal in England since the time of Queen Elizabeth, though that has hardly deterred them at all. Most participants claim they have no choice but to accept a challenge if they are to keep their honor.” He glared at Jack. “When the challenger, however, declares before that fact that he intends to kill his opponent, it argues strongly for a charge of murder.”
