The Convenient Marriage

by Georgette Heyer

  Lord Lethbridge was still sitting over his wine, still meditating over the events of the day, when he heard the door open. He looked up, and stiffened. For a moment they faced one another, Lethbridge rigid in his chair, the Earl standing silent in the doorway, looking across at him. Lethbridge read that look in an instant. He got up. ‘So Crosby did visit you?’ he said. He put his hand in his pocket and drew out the brooch. ‘Is that what you came for, my lord?’

  The Earl shut the door, and turned the key in the lock. ‘That is what I came for,’ he said. ‘That, and one other thing, Lethbridge.’

  ‘My blood, for instance?’ Lethbridge gave a little laugh. ‘You will have to fight for both.’

  The Earl moved forward. ‘That should afford us both gratification. You have a charming taste in revenge, but you have failed, Lethbridge.’

  ‘Failed?’ said Lethbridge, and looked significantly at the brooch in his hand.

  ‘If your object was to drag my name in the mud, why, certainly!’ said Rule. ‘My wife remains my wife. Presently you shall tell me by what means you forced her to enter your house.’

  Lethbridge raised his brows. ‘And what makes you so sure that I had any need to employ force, my lord?’

  ‘Merely my knowledge of her,’ replied the Earl. ‘You have a vast deal of explaining to do, you see.’

  ‘I don’t boast of my conquests, Rule,’ Lethbridge said softly, and saw the Earl’s hand clench involuntarily. ‘I shall explain nothing.’

  ‘That we shall see,’ said Rule. He pushed the table down to one end of the room, against the wall, and blew out the candles on it, leaving only the pendent chandelier in the centre of the room to light them.

  Lethbridge thrust the chairs back, picking up his sword from one of them, and drawing it from the scabbard. ‘My God, how I have waited for this,’ he said suddenly. ‘I am glad Crosby went to you.’ He put the sword down again, and began to take off his coat.

  The Earl made no reply, but set about his own preparations, pulling off his top-boots, unbuckling his sword-belt, rolling up his deeply ruffled shirt-sleeves.

  They faced one another under the soft candlelight, two big men in whom rage, long concealed, burned with a steady strength too great to admit of vain flusterings. Neither seemed to be aware of the strangeness of the scene, here in the upper parlour of an inn, with below them, penetrating faintly to the quiet room, the hum of voices in the coffee-room. With deliberation they set the stage, with deliberation snuffed a candle that was guttering, and divested themselves of coats and boots. Yet in this quiet preparation was something deadly, too deadly to find relief in a noisy brawl.

  The swords flashed in a brief salute, and engaged with a scrape of steel on steel. Each man was an experienced swordsman, but this was no affair of the fencing-master’s art, with its punctilious niceties, but a grim fight, dangerous in its hard swiftness. For each antagonist the world slid back. Nothing had reality but the other man’s blade, feinting, thrusting, parrying. Their eyes were on each other’s; the sound of their stockinged feet shifting on the boards was a soft thud; their breathing came quick and hard.

  Lethbridge lunged forward on his right foot, delivering a lightning thrust in tierce, his arm high, the muscles standing out on it ribbed and hard. Rule caught forte on forte; the foible glanced along his arm, leaving a long red slash, and the blades disengaged.

  Neither checked; this was no quarrel to be decided by a single hit. The blood dripped slowly from Rule’s forearm to the floor. Lethbridge leaped back on both feet and dropped his point. ‘Tie it!’ he said curtly. ‘I’ve no mind to slip in your blood.’

  Rule pulled a handkerchief from his breeches pocket, and twisted it round the cut, and dragged the knot tight with his teeth.

  ‘On guard!’

  The fight went on, relentless and untiring. Lethbridge attempted a flanconnade, opposing his left hand. His point barely grazed Rule’s side; the Earl countered in a flash. There was a scuffle of blades, and Lethbridge recovered his guard, panting a little.

  It was he who was delivering the attack all the time, employing every wile known to his art to lure Rule into giving an opening. Time after time he tried to break through the guard; time after time his blade was caught in a swift parry, and turned aside. He was beginning to flag; the sweat was rolling in great drops off his forehead; he dared not use his left hand to dash it from his eyes lest in that second’s blindness Rule should thrust home. He thrust rather wildly in carte; the Earl parried it half-circle, and before Lethbridge could recover, sprang in, and seized the blade below the hilt. His own point touched the floor. ‘Wipe the sweat from your eyes!’

  Lethbridge’s lips writhed in a queer, bitter smile. – ‘So – you are – quits?’

  The Earl did not answer; he released the sword, and waited. Lethbridge passed his handkerchief across his brow and threw it aside.

  ‘On guard!’

  A change came; the Earl was beginning at last to press the attack. Hard driven, Lethbridge parried his blade again and again, steadily losing strength. Knowing himself to be nearly done, he attempted a botte coupée, feinting in high carte and thrusting in low tierce. His blade met nothing but the opposition of Rule’s and the fight went on.

  He heard the Earl speak, breathlessly, but very clearly. ‘Why did my wife enter your house?’

  He had no struggle left to waste in attack; he could only parry mechanically, his arm aching from shoulder to wrist.

  ‘Why did my wife enter your house?’

  He parried too late; the Earl’s point flashed under his guard, checked, and withdrew. He realized that he had been spared, would be spared again, and yet again, until Rule had his answer. He grinned savagely. His words came on his heaving breaths: ‘Kidnapped – her.’

  The swords rang together, disengaged. ‘And then?’

  He set his teeth; his guard wavered; he recovered miraculously; the hilt felt slippery in his wet grasp.

  ‘And then?’

  ‘I do not – boast – of my – conquests!’ he panted, and put forth the last remnant of his strength to beat back the attack he knew would end the bout.

  His sword scraped on Rule’s; his heart felt as though it would burst; his throat was parched; the ache in his arm had become a dull agony; a mist was gathering before his eyes. The years rolled back suddenly; he gasped out: ‘Marcus – for God’s sake – end it!’

  He saw the thrust coming, a straight lunge in high carte aimed for the heart; he made one last parry too late to stop the thrust, but in time to deflect it slightly. Rule’s point sliding over his blade, entered deep into his shoulder. His own dropped; he stood swaying for an instant, and fell, the blood staining his shirt bright scarlet.

  Rule wiped the sweat from his face; his hand was shaking a little. He looked down at Lethbridge, lying in a crumpled heap at his feet, sobbing for breath, the blood on his shirt soaking through, and forming a pool on the oak boards. Suddenly he flung his sword aside and strode to the table, and swept the bottle and the glass off it. He caught up the cloth and tore it with his strong teeth, and ripped it from end to end. The next moment he was on his knees beside Lethbridge, feeling for the wound. The hazel eyes opened, considering him. ‘I believe – I shan’t die – this time – either!’ Lethbridge whispered mockingly.

  The Earl had laid bare the wound, and was staunching the blood. ‘No, I don’t think you will,’ he said. ‘But it’s deep.’ He tore another strip from the cloth and made it into a pad, and bound it tightly round the shoulder. He got up and fetched Lethbridge’s coat from a chair, and rolling it up placed it under his head. ‘I’ll get a doctor,’ he said briefly, and went out, and from the head of the stairs shouted for the landlord.

  Stout Cattermole appeared so promptly that it seemed as though he must have been waiting for that call. He stood with his hands on the banister, looking anxiously up at the Earl, his brow puckered,
his lips close-folded.

  ‘Send one of your lads for a doctor,’ said Rule, ‘and bring up a bottle of cognac.’

  The landlord nodded and turned away. ‘And Cattermole!’ said his lordship. ‘Bring it yourself.’

  At that the landlord smiled rather sourly. ‘Be sure, my lord.’

  Rule went back into the oak parlour. Lethbridge was lying where he had left him, with his eyes closed. He looked very white; one of his hands lay limply on the floor beside him, the fingers curling upwards. Rule stood looking down at him, frowning. Lethbridge did not move.

  Cattermole came in with a bottle and glasses. He put these down on the table, casting a worried appraising glance at the still figure on the floor. He muttered: ‘Not dead, my lord?’

  ‘No.’ The Earl picked up the bottle, and poured some brandy into one of the glasses.

  ‘Thank God for it! You do me no good by this, my lord.’

  ‘I don’t think you’ll suffer,’ replied the Earl, calmly, and returned to Lethbridge and knelt again.

  ‘Lethbridge, drink this!’ he said, slightly raising him.

  Lethbridge opened his eyes; they were blank with exhaustion, but grew keener as he swallowed the cognac. He raised them to Rule’s face a moment, made an odd little grimace, and looked beyond Rule at Cattermole, bending over him. ‘What the devil do you want?’ he said unpleasantly.

  The landlord drew down the corners of his mouth. ‘No, he’s not dead,’ he remarked under his breath. ‘I’ll be within call, my lord.’

  He went out and shut the door behind him.

  The blood had soaked through the pad; the Earl tightened the bandage and stood up again. Picking up the sword he wiped it carefully, and put it back into the scabbard.

  Lethbridge lay watching him with a look of cynical amusement on his face. ‘Why mar what you have made?’ he inquired. ‘I was under the impression that you wished to kill me.’

  The Earl glanced down at him. ‘If I let you die, the consequences to myself might prove a trifle difficult to avoid,’ he replied.

  Lethbridge grinned. ‘That is more in my manner than in yours,’ he said. He raised himself on his elbow and tried to sit up.

  ‘You had better lie still,’ said the Earl, slightly frowning.

  ‘Oh, no!’ gasped Lethbridge. ‘The position is – altogether – too lowly. Add to your humanity by assisting me to that chair.’

  The Earl bent over him, and hoisted him up; he sank into the chair panting a little, and pressing his hand to his shoulder. A grey shade had crept into his face; he whispered: ‘Give me the brandy – quite a deal to say to you.’

  The Earl had already poured it out, and now held the glass to Lethbridge’s lips. Lethbridge took it unsteadily in his own hands, saying with a snap: ‘Damn you, I’m not helpless!’ He drank it at a gulp, and lay back recovering his strength. The Earl began to unroll his sleeve. Presently Lethbridge spoke again.

  ‘Sent for a doctor, did you? How magnanimous! Well, he’ll be here any moment. I suppose. Let’s be done with this. Your wife took no harm of me.’ He saw the grey eyes lift quickly, and gave a faint laugh. ‘Oh, make no mistake! I am all the villain you think me. She saved herself.’

  ‘You interest me,’ said Rule, moving towards a chair, and sitting down on the arm of it. ‘I have always thought her a lady of infinite resource.’

  ‘Resource,’ murmured Lethbridge. ‘Yes, decidedly. She used a poker.’

  The Earl’s lips twitched. ‘I see. Your recollection of the subsequent events is no doubt a little – shall we say – imperfect?’

  A laugh shook Lethbridge; he winced and pressed his hand to his shoulder again. ‘I believe she thought she had killed me. Tell her the only grudge I bear her is for having left my front door open.’

  ‘Ah, yes!’ said Rule. ‘The arrival of Crosby.’

  Lethbridge had shut his eyes, but he opened them again at that. ‘Is that all you know? I suppose Crosby did not tell you that he found Winwood and Pommeroy with me?’

  ‘He did not,’ said Rule. ‘Perhaps he thought it irrelevant, or perhaps – who knows? – he considered it might spoil the effect of his story. I am sorry if it fatigues you, but I fear I must request you to tell me a little more. What, for instance, brought Winwood to your house?’

  ‘Oh, the intelligence that I had been slain – with a poker.’

  Rule drew a breath. ‘You dismay me,’ he said. ‘I hardly dare to ask – what then?’

  ‘Be at ease. He took my recovery in good part. You may pour me some more brandy. Yes, in quite good part. He even offered me a game of piquet.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Rule. ‘Now I begin to understand. Is it too much to hope that Pommeroy was in the same condition?’

  ‘I did not descry much difference. They were both induced to take their leave on the discovery that I was not – as they had apparently thought – giving a card-party.’ He took his replenished glass and drained it. ‘My relief was only equalled by Crosby’s. Crosby then pocketed the brooch. This morning I sustained a second visit from Pommeroy. He came to get it back. The humour of that should appeal to you. I had not known till then of the brooch’s existence. The rest I imagine you know. If Crosby had not been fool enough to carry his tale to you – there would be a hand still to play.’ He put his empty glass down and drew the brooch from the pocket of his breeches. ‘Take it. It is not worth while. Don’t cheat yourself with the notion that you behold me repentant. Revenge – your wife called it fustian. I don’t know. But had we met – thus’ – he nodded to where his sword lay – ‘years ago – who shall say?’ He moved, trying to ease his shoulder; he was frowning. ‘Experience – leads me to admit – you may have been right to stop Louisa marrying me. I have none of the husbandly virtues. Is she happy with her country squire? I am sure she is; at best women are – dull creatures.’ His face contracted with pain. He said irritably: ‘Wipe my sword and sheath it. I shall use it again, believe me.’ He watched Rule in silence for a moment, and as the sword slid back into the scabbard, he sighed. ‘Do you remember fencing with me at Angelo’s?’

  ‘I remember,’ Rule answered, half smiling. ‘We were always very even-matched.’

  ‘You have improved. Where’s that damned leech? I’ve not the slightest desire to oblige you by dying.’

  ‘Do you know, Robert, it would really not oblige me?’

  Lethbridge looked up at him, the mockery back in his eyes. ‘Memory is a damnably intrusive thing, eh? I shan’t die.’ His head sank a little on his chest; he lifted it with an effort, and leaned it against the upholstered chair-back. ‘You’ll admit it was clever of me to win Horry’s friendship. I told her, by the way, that Caroline was in your Ranelagh plot.’

  Rule said gently: ‘You had always a poisonous tongue, Robert.’

  ‘Oh, always,’ Lethbridge agreed.

  He heard the opening of the door and turned his head. ‘At last! Pray take that look off your face, my good man; I suppose you have seen a sword-wound before.’

  The doctor set down his bag on the table. ‘I have seen many, sir,’ he answered primly. His eye alighted on the brandy bottle. ‘Cognac? That is not a remedy. I wish you may not end this night in a high fever.’ He looked at the bloodstained bandage and sniffed. ‘H’m! Some bleeding. Landlord, send up two of your lads to carry his lordship to his room. Pray sit still, sir. I shall not inspect your hurt till I have you in bed.’

  Lethbridge gave a wry smile. ‘I could not wish you a deadlier fate than to be in my shoes now, Marcus.’ He held out his left hand. ‘I’ve done with you. You arouse the worst in me, you know. Your cut will heal quicker than mine, for which I am sorry. It was a good fight – I don’t remember a better. Hatred lends a spice, doesn’t it? If you want to add to your damned goodness, send word to my fool of a valet to join me here.’

  Rule took his hand and gripped it. ‘The only thing that e
ver made you tolerable, my dear Robert, was your impudence. I shall be in town to-morrow. I’ll send him down to you. Good night.’

  Half an hour later he strolled into the library at Meering, where Mr Gisborne sat reading a newspaper, and stretched himself on the couch with a long sigh of content.

  Mr Gisborne looked at him sideways, wondering. The Earl had clasped his hands behind his head, and where the lace ruffle fell back from his right wrist the corner of a bloodstained handkerchief showed. The lazy eyelids lifted. ‘Dear Arnold, I am afraid you will be disappointed in me again. I hardly dare tell you but we are going back to London to-morrow.’

  Mr Gisborne met those twinkling eyes and bowed slightly. ‘Very well, sir,’ he said.

  ‘You are – yes, positively you are – a prince of secretaries, Arnold,’ said his lordship. ‘And you are quite right, of course. How do you contrive to be so acute?’

  Mr Gisborne smiled. ‘There’s a handkerchief round your forearm, sir,’ he pointed out.

  The Earl drew the arm from behind his head and regarded it pensively. ‘That,’ he said, ‘was a piece of sheer carelessness. I must be growing old.’ With which he closed his eyes and relapsed into a state of agreeable coma.

  Eighteen

  Sir Roland Pommeroy, returning empty-handed from his mission, found Horatia and her brother playing piquet together in the saloon. For once Horatia’s mind was not wholly concentrated on her cards, for no sooner was Sir Roland ushered in than she threw down her hand and turned eagerly towards him. ‘Have you g-got it?’

  ‘Here, are you going to play this game, or not?’ said the Viscount, more single-minded than his sister.

  ‘No, of c-course not. Sir Roland, did he give it to you?’

  Sir Roland waited carefully until the door was shut behind the footman and coughed. ‘Must warn you, ma’am – greatest caution needed before the servants. Affair to be hushed up – won’t do if it gets about.’