Regency: Rakes & Reputations (Mills & Boon M&B)

by Gail Ranstrom

  Giles, meanwhile, was busily engaged in examining the weapons, which on this occasion had been supplied by Dawlish, whose skill as a crack marksman was common knowledge—not that the Major had any doubts as to his brother’s own expertise in the sport, having seen him shoot out a pip at a distance of twenty yards or more.

  Having checked the silver-handled duelling pistols to his satisfaction, the Major stood back and watched as one of Sir Randolph’s seconds, Captain Dempsey by name, tossed a coin to decide which of the participants should be given first choice of weapon. Dawlish’s harsh ‘heads’ allotted the choice to Marcus, when the coin landed tailside uppermost.

  Extracting a battered chronometer from his pocket as the muffled chimes of a distant church clock struck the hour, Dempsey flipped open its case to declare that the time had arrived for Helstone and Dawlish to take their places.

  Pistols in hand, the two stood back to back, awaiting the count.

  ‘Time for last prayers, you despicable swine,’ grated Dawlish through clenched teeth, his mocking words inaudible to all but the Viscount.

  ‘One…two…three …’

  His lip curled in derision, Marcus stepped forward. So the cur actually means to kill me, does he? he mused, almost unconcernedly. Having spent the better part of the past twenty-four hours putting his affairs in order, including willing all his worldly possessions to his younger brother, he had very little interest in the outcome of this morning’s meeting. In fact, once he had registered the look of sheer contempt on Sophie’s face after his attempts to signal his plea of innocence to her, the Viscount had discovered that he really had very little interest in anything at all.

  ‘Four…five…six …’

  His initial anger at Dawlish’s accusation had dissipated some hours ago, especially since he had been obliged to face up to the irrefutable fact that, having gone out of his way to acquire the unsavoury reputation with which the name Helstone had become synonymous over the past six years, such a charge had become almost inevitable, given the decidedly incriminating circumstances in which he had been discovered. In fact, it had become depressingly clear to Marcus that it was going to take a darned sight more than a couple of weeks of fixing tenants’ roofs and calculating milk yields to cancel out his now deeply regretted history of loose living and self-indulgent profligacy. Unfortunately, as he had also come to realise, without Sophie by his side to help him overcome the stumbling blocks that inevitably lay ahead of him, he was not at all sure that he would be able to summon up either the inclination or the enthusiasm to deal with so momentous a task. In losing Sophie, Marcus was starting to realise that he had lost everything that was truly worth living for.

  ‘Seven…eight…nine …’

  His brain automatically cutting to the matter in hand, the Viscount tensed, his finger poised to squeeze the trigger on the turn. Just as he was about to take the final step forward, however, he was astounded to find himself staggering to remain upright as the force of Dawlish’s bullet ripped through his left coat-sleeve, biting into the tender flesh of his underarm. His shock and anger was so great in that moment that any pain he might have been feeling was thrust immediately from his mind. The treacherous bastard had pre-empted Dempsey’s count! Whirling round to confront his assailant, he slowly raised his pistol.

  Scarcely able to comprehend that his carefully aimed shot could have missed its intended target, the by now thoroughly shaken Dawlish stood utterly transfixed, his brain refusing to function. Not only had he committed the indefensible offence of discharging his pistol in advance of the call, but he had also failed in his attempt to put a period to his hated enemy’s life! But then, as the awful realisation that Helstone was aiming his as yet still loaded weapon in his direction finally captured the horrified baronet’s attention, his heart seemed to stop in its tracks and he let out a whimper of despair.

  His eyes fixed unwaveringly on Dawlish’s panic-stricken face, the Viscount took aim.

  ‘Hold hard, Marcus!’ howled Giles, as he leapt across the space that separated him from his brother. ‘Lower your weapon, man!’

  Temporarily sidetracked by the Major’s frantic shout, Marcus was momentarily diverted from his intention. Seizing his opportunity, Dawlish swung round and, taking to his heels, tore frantically across the grass in an effort to reach the safety of his carriage.

  His lips curling in contempt as he watched the baronet haul himself into his waiting carriage, Marcus, lowering his pistol, turned to face his irate brother. ‘I wasn’t about to kill him, if that’s what you were afraid of,’ he grunted, somewhat aggrieved at Giles’s apparent lack of faith. ‘I merely intended to part the swine’s hair!’

  ‘You’re a damned fool,’ retorted the Major, looking suitably shamefaced. ‘I can only thank God that the lily-livered cur wasn’t as good a shot as he thought he was!’

  ‘Not half bad, though,’ muttered Marcus as, suddenly aware of the burning pain in his underarm, he stared down in fascination at the rivulet of blood now dripping from the cuff of his jacket. ‘Another inch or so to the right and—’

  A wave of blackness swept over him and then…nothing.

  ‘What exactly do you mean by “slightly injured”,’ asked Sophie, eyeing Bingham suspiciously.

  ‘He took a bit of a nick in his arm, that’s all,’ replied the Viscount with a nervous laugh. ‘The doctor didn’t seem too worried about it—just a flesh wound, he said.’

  Having seen more than enough ‘flesh wounds’ in her time, Sophie was still not nearly satisfied with Bingham’s very sketchy description of Helstone’s injury. Having set upon him the moment he had arrived back at the abbey, both she and Elizabeth had proceeded to badger the Viscount until, with the utmost reluctance, he had eventually been browbeaten into divulging the very barest details of that morning’s happenings.

  ‘Was his lordship losing a great deal of blood?’ she demanded to know.

  ‘Oh, I think we might be spared that sort of detail,’ interposed Elizabeth hurriedly, her face paling. ‘If Dr Felsham was of the opinion that Helstone’s wound wasn’t serious, then surely we ought to accept his verdict.’

  ‘Simple flesh wounds have been known to turn very nasty,’ Sophie countered in reply but then, having taken note of her friend’s rather sickly-looking expression, she swiftly changed the subject to demand of Bingham, ‘So, where exactly is his lordship now?’

  ‘Major Wolfe had Felsham accompany them both back to Grosvenor Square,’ the Viscount was at pains to assure her. ‘Where you can be sure that he will receive the very best of treatment. Anyway, if you ask me, Dawlish is the one we should all be feeling sorry for at this moment!’

  ‘That cur!’ retorted Sophie with an angry glare, while Elizabeth merely gave a derisive snort. ‘Why on earth you think that anyone would feel a moment’s pity for that odious creature is beyond my understanding. After the way he’s treated that poor defenceless wife of his, the evil swine deserves everything he gets—not that his punishment for behaving in so outrageous a manner is likely to amount to much more than being blackballed from one or two of his clubs for a couple of weeks,’ she added scathingly. ‘The brunt of which will be borne by Lady Dawlish, if I’m any judge!’

  ‘And I fear that you would be quite wrong in that assumption,’ said Bingham, giving a decisive shake of his head. ‘Seems the poor devil suffered some sort of apoplectic seizure not long after climbing into his carriage. Captain Dempsey—one of his seconds—sent a note round to the major indicating that it’s highly unlikely that Dawlish will last the night!’

  There followed a somewhat awkward silence as Sophie and Elizabeth tried their level best to avoid catching one another’s eyes, the guilty remorse on both girls’ faces bearing testament to their vociferous and far-reaching condemnation of the baronet earlier.

  ‘I suppose one of us ought to go and break the news to Christabel,’ ventured Sophie at last. Not that she was looking forward to imparting such gruesome tidings to Dawlish’s young wife, p
articularly after having spent the best part of the night castigating the man. Added to which, since she was fairly sure that Christabel would immediately assume the mantle of guilt for the whole wretched affair, she had the distinct feeling that the girl’s previous display of grief would be as nothing when compared to the one which would erupt upon being informed of her husband’s imminent demise.

  Having already spent a good many hours at the highly distressed girl’s bedside, Sophie was now thoroughly exhausted and would have liked nothing better than to bury her own head in a pillow and devote her thoughts to trying to figure out what might be going on in Grosvenor Square at that moment. As her many years of experience had taught her, even the simplest of flesh wounds had a nasty habit of festering and turning putrid. Tiny threads of fabric could get caught under the skin, setting up an infection. Instruments were often contaminated, and bandages weren’t always as clean as they might be—not to mention the very real danger of lead poisoning—all of which might easily lead to amputation and—a violent shudder ran through her as she did her best to suppress the thought that followed—even death!

  Biting her lip to stop the tears that threatened, Sophie knew that there was no way that she could be satisfied that Helstone’s injury was really as trivial as Jack had attempted to imply. She was just going to have to go up to London and discover for herself the actual extent of the damage to his lordship’s arm! But first, as she was reluctantly forced to remind herself, there still remained the rather depressing task of dealing with the soon to be widowed Christabel Dawlish. Murmuring a short prayer of absolution, Sophie could not forbear from keeping her fingers tightly crossed as she entered the sleeping girl’s room.

  ‘Absolutely not!’ Marcus gave a mutinous shake of his head. ‘I’ve already told you! I have no intention of putting in an appearance at Bradfield until this damned arm of mine is on the mend!’

  ‘But if Ma should get to hear of your injury, she’ll be pretty offended at you not wanting her at your bedside,’ protested his brother. ‘You can’t have forgotten what she was like when we both went down with scarlet fever that time!’

  ‘There’s no reason why she should get to hear of it,’ riposted Marcus with a weary sigh, while privately thinking that the only person he really wanted—needed—by his bedside at this particular moment was the chestnut-haired, blue-eyed goddess who had so clearly rejected him two nights ago. ‘Neither of Dawlish’s cohorts is going to want word of their chum’s gutless behaviour to get out—especially as the poor sod seems about to cash in his chips, if Dempsey’s note is anything to go by. Young Bingham has been doing his damnedest to keep the affair from his father’s ears and I certainly don’t see Felsham blabbing about it.’

  ‘Well, I’m not entirely happy about leaving you here on your own,’ remonstrated Giles. ‘You lost a fair amount of blood—you were out for almost half an hour, I’ll have you know!’

  ‘So you keep telling me,’ retorted his brother dryly. ‘However, in case you have failed to notice the fact, I can hardly claim to be on my own, being surrounded by an entire household of highly trained staff whose only desire in life is to pander to my every need. The noble Ferris is on hand to deal with my more personal requirements, and our reluctant medic has promised to drop in at regular intervals to change my dressings.

  Satisfied?’

  ‘I suppose so.’ The Major stood undecided for a moment, before adding, ‘But you really do need to rest, if you want that wound to heal properly, so positively no visitors allowed—I shall inform Danson on my way out.’

  Having spent the better part of the morning suffering the ministrations of the none too happy Dr Felsham, Marcus was feeling decidedly wrung out and only too pleased to comply with his brother’s instruction. Particularly in view of the fact that it had been entirely due to the Major’s quick response that he had been prevented from falling to the ground when he had collapsed—an achievement that had doubtless saved him from even further injury. Not that the Viscount could recall a great deal of what had followed, other than finding himself back in his own bed being poked and prodded with what he had felt at the time was undue savagery but what he now supposed was quite normal procedure, given the unusual circumstances. Incredibly, and although it had taken off a slice of his skin in the process, the ball from Dawlish’s firearm had ripped straight through Marcus’s coat sleeve, finally ending its journey at some point on the grass in front of him. And, despite the fact that the surface wound had bled rather profusely at the time, Marcus had been gratified to learn that there had been no damage to the underlying muscle. Felsham had assured the Viscount that a few days’ rest and recuperation were all that were needed to return him to full health.

  Gradually allowing his eyelids to droop to a close, Marcus was still unable to banish the truly gut-wrenching image of Sophie’s horrified face from the forefront of his mind. Would she even care that he had been hurt, should she ever come to hear of it, he wondered, as sleep began to wash over him. Very probably not, was his last distinct thought.

  Several hours later, having eventually persuaded Jack to allow her use of a carriage, Sophie, accompanied by one of the abbey’s footman, arrived at the front door of Marcus’s Grosvenor Square mansion only to find that both bell-pull and knocker had been removed from their housings—the latter a generally accepted signal that the dwelling’s occupants were not in residence. Since there were clear sounds of activity issuing from the basement below, with sinking heart Sophie could only assume that Helstone’s injuries had been far worse than Jack had been prepared to admit, and that the Viscount must be, at this very moment, lying at death’s door!

  Ignoring the footman’s muttered disapproval, she raised her hand and rapped briskly on one of the door’s panels. To her surprise the door, swinging open almost immediately, revealed the odd sight of a rather stately looking individual—the butler, Sophie assumed—who was regarding her with a severe frown on his face while one of his fingers was pressed firmly against his lips.

  ‘If you please, miss,’ the man whispered, casting a nervous look towards the highly impressive-looking stairway that stretched away to his right, ‘we have illness in the house. I’m afraid I must ask you to state your business and be on your way.’

  ‘But his lordship—’ began Sophie, her voice tremulous with apprehension. ‘Is he—? That is—I really need to know that he is all right!’

  ‘I’m afraid his lordship is not receiving visitors at the moment, miss,’ came the butler’s haughty reply. ‘If you would care to leave your card?’

  Since Sophie had not yet availed herself of the Egremonts’ offer to order her a set of visiting cards, she was at something of a loss. A sudden sob rising in her throat, she gave a reluctant shake of her head. ‘Just tell your master that Miss Pendleton-Flint called,’ she choked and, turning swiftly on her heel, she hurried down the steps, desperate to gain the sanctuary of her borrowed carriage before finally dissolving into the tears that she had succeeded in holding back for the past two days. If only I had had the courage to accept Helstone’s offer, she found herself thinking, none of this would ever have happened. Please, God, don’t let him die—even if I can’t have him, please keep him safe!

  In spite of Danson’s determined efforts to achieve absolute silence throughout the building, it was actually the sound of Whitcombe’s somewhat aggrieved footman slamming the carriage door rather too vigorously that roused Marcus from his sleep. Feeling much refreshed, he hauled himself up into a sitting position and reached out his hand for the pitcher of water that sat on his bedside table.

  ‘Allow me, your lordship.’

  Ferris was there before him, already pouring water into the waiting glass.

  ‘What the devil was that infernal noise outside?’ demanded Marcus, as he quaffed back the much needed liquid. ‘Sounded like an explosion of some sort.’

  ‘Just a carriage door, sir,’ soothed his valet who, having had little else to occupy his time while his master slept, had be
en standing at the bedroom window aimlessly contemplating the passing traffic. ‘The Earl of Whitcombe’s, by the look of the door crest.’

  ‘Viscount Bingham, I suppose,’ murmured Marcus lazily, allowing his eyes to close once more as he leaned back against his pillows. ‘Dare say he’ll call again tomorrow.’ Having been unable to express his thanks to the young Viscount for his part in that morning’s events, Helstone was determined to make sure that Jack was fully aware of how grateful he was for his support.

  ‘No, sir,’ returned Ferris, stretching across Marcus to straighten his covers. ‘The visitor was a young lady.’

  His eyes flying open, Marcus shot up. ‘A young lady?’ he croaked in disbelief as he flung back the bedclothes and staggered across to the window. Sophie! It just had to be Sophie! Who else but Sophie would be calling on him in one of Whitcombe’s carriages?

  ‘Sir, I beg you!’ cried Ferris, his face a picture of distress. ‘I must insist that you return to your bed immediately.’

  Having discovered that Whitcombe’s carriage had disappeared from view, Marcus turned on his valet in disgust. ‘Rubbish!’ he retorted, already engaged in the rather intricate task of trying to remove his nightshirt with only one good hand. ‘Stop wittering, man, and get me out of this damned thing.’