The carriage that moved swiftly through the hush of the early morning was occupied by five men with weary, sober faces, each occupied with his own thoughts so that silence prevailed until Guy Sanguinet murmured, “Tiens, but I wish our Jeremy he have not drive off by himself!”
“Caught it from Dev,” said Lyon, and after a minute, “You never think Fontaine would dare to—to—”
“Kill him?” Leith smiled ironically. “Even Elliot Fontaine would not dare deplete the population by putting a period to all six of us, I think.”
Mitchell said, frowning, “No. But the fella’s got such an ugly temper. Only look at how he served poor young Saticoy.”
“My fear exactly,” said his brother. “Since old Jerry is first, Elliot may do something really dreadful, just to try and put the fear of God into the rest of us.”
Leith, who harboured the same fear, said brightly, “He’ll catch cold at that!”
“The one for whom I feel,” murmured Guy after another lull, “is poor Craig. When Devenish, he wake up…”
“The rocket will ‘pop orf,’” said Lyon, faithfully imitating Cornish, and drawing a laugh from his friends.
The carriage jolted to a halt. Leith said, “We’re here. Don’t see anyone yet.”
They alighted, the snow crunching beneath their boots. “There he is!” Sir Harry pointed to a coach drawn up near some skeletal birches some distance away. “Borrowed Dev’s carriage.”
They started off, each heart as heavy as their steps were light.
Mitchell kicked at a clump of snow. “We’ll have to clear some of this stuff.”
“It’s a helluva surface for a sword fight,” Harry agreed. “They’ll likely be sliding all over the shop.”
“Good,” said Leith. “Might lessen Fontaine’s advantage, and Lucian said Jeremy’s done quite well this week.” He unbuttoned his redingote and took out his watch. “Quarter to eight. You’d think the varmint would be here—he certainly must be aware there’s work to be done.”
Mitchell gave a derogatory snort. “That arrogant bastard? You jest! Poor old Jerry—he don’t seem glad to see us.” And, in sudden vexation, “How in the devil I came to be the last I cannot comprehend! I’m the best swordsman of the lot of us!”
He was of course promptly put in his place with much good-humoured mockery, and it was a laughing group who came up to the quiet carriage.
“Hi, Jerry, old sportsman,” called Harry, and swung open the door.
Bolster sat huddled in the far corner, collar up, and hat brim pulled low over his face. He lifted a gloved hand, but said nothing.
His friends eyed one another askance. There could be no question of Jeremy losing his nerve, but …
Leith jerked his head and closed the door, and they withdrew a few steps. “Let him be,” said the Colonel understandingly. “He’s likely thinking of little Mandy.”
Gloom fell upon them like a pall, and they stood in silence until a postchaise dashed up.
Harry opened the carriage door again. “He’s here, old fellow,” he said quietly. “Lyon’s with us, so perhaps you’d—Yi!” He sprang back.
Alain Devenish clambered down the steps and clung for a moment to the door, glaring at them one by one. “You miserable, conniving—”
“No—now, Dev,” stammered Sir Harry, lifting a restraining hand.
“When I think,” snarled Devenish, outraged, “of what you dared—you dared run me through because I went to Belmont in secret! And you—”
“You’ll be run through with a vengeance do you mean to face Fontaine in a sword fight,” Leith interrupted dryly. “You can almost walk.”
“I can stand. And I can shoot!” Devenish reached into the carriage and lifted the long box that contained his deadly Boutet duelling pistols. “Fontaine has been fairly slathering to get at me ever since I popped him on the beak. He’ll have to settle for pistols, is all.”
“Which will be no great disadvantage,” said Mitchell, frowning worriedly. “He’s a crack shot, Dev. And you—”
“May surprise you, my encouraging friend,” interrupted Devenish. “No! Stay back, Tris! Damned if I’m not so curst disgusted with the lot of you, I’d as lief put a ball in your foot as not!”
Knowing his man, Leith halted, but said coolly, “Use your head for once, you crazy fire-eater. You were barely recovered from trying to box yourself in pine when our dear Fontaine started making ugly noises. You were in no case to—”
“So you generously sacrificed Jeremy in my stead? And just how, gentlemen, just how did you think I’d have felt, watching one after another of my former friends cut down by that slimy wart? Do you suppose I could have faced Mandy again? Ever? Why you blasted set of pinheads, Fontaine would have worked through the lot of you and still got to me, don’t you realize?”
“My thanks for the vote of confidence,” said Mitchell, stung.
Devenish threw him a blistering glance, but accepted his arm and leaned on it as they all made their way in silence towards the Viscount and his seconds, Sir Martin O’Brien and a heavyset middle-aged gentleman named Benjamin Blanchard. Sir Harry, Guy, and Lyon paused some distance from the other group and each man shook Devenish by the hand, their teasing words and bright smiles failing to conceal the anxiety and the deep affection that their eyes could not hide. Mitchell Redmond and Leith were to second Devenish and they walked on with him.
Fontaine, elegant in a leather riding coat and buckskins, but with light pumps on his feet, put up his brows when he saw Devenish approaching. “Well, well,” he purred. “So the daring one has crept from his hole.”
Devenish felt Mitchell tense and answered affably, “I was quite unable to keep away, Fontaine. The last time you wound up inelegantly on your arse, you were propelled by my fist, as I recall.”
Sir Martin and Blanchard glanced at each other uneasily.
Leith muttered, “Dev. If you think—”
“The lady was fairly in stitches looking down on you,” grinned Devenish.
Fontaine, who had become very white, flushed darkly and said in a quivering voice, “I shall get to you, canaille, in good time, but—”
“I beg to differ,” said Devenish. “My friends are vexed, and I don’t blame ’em, but the right to cleanse the world of your pollution, is mine and—”
He reeled back as Fontaine leapt and his open hand struck like a pistol shot.
“Elliot!” exclaimed Sir Martin, shocked. “The fella’s just out of a sickbed! He can scarce challenge—”
“No … need, Marty,” interposed Devenish rather unevenly. “Fontaine challenged me some time back.”
“Devil I did,” snarled Fontaine. “You—”
“Have I mistook it?” said Devenish with a puzzled look. “I was sure that after I knocked you down that day, you’d felt obliged to call me out. Didn’t you think so, Leith?”
“I did. One might suppose any—gentleman—would have defended his honour after being struck. But if the Viscount drew back from—”
Aware that many pairs of eyes scrutinized him curiously, Fontaine bit his lip, cursed audibly, and grated, “Very well! Have it your way. The end will not be changed, save that I’ll put some of your friends out of their misery before—”
“No, no,” smiled Devenish. “Mine is the prior claim. You must face me first, my dear Viscount. If you can command your nerves.”
Sir Martin grasped his principal’s arm and held him back. “Really, Dev, this is most irregular. Fontaine is to fight Bolster, and—”
“The hell with Bolster,” snarled the Viscount, livid. “This bastard is the one I want first! I fancy you’ve not the guts to fight with swords, Devenish?”
“I wonder you would ask, my lord,” Leith put in grittily. “You must be aware that Devenish just underwent surgery—”
“Ah yes,” sneered the Viscount. “The clever amputation … whereof it was thought he would politely die. A vainly awaited result that I shall expedite today. I presume, Leith, you are t
o act for the poor fool…?”
Watching in helpless misery, Guy put a hand over his eyes. “Poor little Josie!” he said brokenly. “How shall we tell her of quelle grande catastrophe? Mon Dieu, but she will die of grief!”
Harry muttered, “It ain’t a tragedy yet, for Lord’s sake.” “Much chance Dev has of out-shooting Fontaine.” Lyon shook his head unhappily and picked up his bag. “I’d best get over there. Looks as if they’re ready. Damn that miserable Fontaine! Only see how he struts!”
The Viscount having selected his pistol meanwhile, Devenish took up the remaining weapon. With a confident smirk, Fontaine said, “Nice pistol. Very nice. Distance, Leith?”
Heavy-hearted, Tristram asked, “Fifteen paces, Dev?”
Fontaine shrugged. “Give the clod whatever he wishes.” He grinned. “I can kill him as easily at twelve paces, or twenty…”
“Thank you,” said Devenish politely. “Four.”
There was a concerted gasp. Every face jerked to him.
“Wh-what…?” gasped Mitchell, whitening.
“My God!” exclaimed Blanchard. “You jest, man!”
“Four … paces,” repeated Devenish, calmly deliberate.
“You’re out of your senses,” said Fontaine, staring wide-eyed. “You’d as well shoot yourself now!”
“Devenish, be reasonable,” urged Sir Martin. “It’s suicide!”
Leith, aghast, said, “Dev—my dear fellow, you’d—you’d both be killed.”
“Which is, after all, only fair.” Devenish turned a faintly rueful smile on this faithful friend. “Fontaine runs no risk. He is by far the better shot. This merely evens the odds.”
“Like hell!” exclaimed the Viscount. “I came here to fight a duel, not to commit suicide at the whim of a lunatic!”
Devenish glanced at him. “Whatever else, I’d not expected you’d show yellow, Fontaine.”
“No such thing.” The Viscount looked at his seconds. “Well, tell him you fellows. I don’t have to agree to such stuff.”
Sir Martin and Mr. Blanchard exchanged troubled glances. “Er…” said the latter diffidently, “you—did say you had challenged, Elliot. And you told Devenish to name the distance. I do not see—”
“Then you’re a damned fool,” rasped Fontaine. “You’ve more sense, eh, O’Brien?”
“Well—I … The thing is, Taine—”
“That you have no choice,” said Leith coldly. “Either you’re a man of your word, Fontaine—”
“Or you’re a cowardly, sneaking, worthless mongrel dog,” Devenish put in with a curl of the lip.
Purpling, blinded by hatred, Fontaine shouted, “Very well, you damned insolent commoner! I call your bluff! Get on with it!”
Mitchell felt terribly cold. “Twelve … feet…!” he muttered numbly.
The seconds proceeded to a level spot in the snowy meadow, measured out the distance, then looked at each other across that horribly short space.
Redmond whispered, “My God! Tris, it’s—it’s murder!”
His palms wet, Leith said “We tried, Mitch. Nothing more we can do.”
Amid a hushed silence each protagonist shook hands with his friends and was led to his place. Their pistols were raised to point in the air; they turned slightly, each from the other so as to present as slim a target as possible. And those who watched, trembled, appalled by the inevitability of the impending tragedy.
Devenish was white, but had himself well in hand.
Fontaine’s sneer was marked, but the side of his mouth quivered betrayingly. “Retract, idiot,” he said. “Before it is too late.”
“Would you wish to make your peace with your Maker, before we go?” asked Devenish coolly. “I realize ’twould take some time, but…”
Fontaine’s snarled response was crude and not quite steady.
Sir Martin, his voice hoarse, said the familiar, “Gentlemen, I will count to three. I will then drop my handkerchief. When I do so, you will fire. Is that understood?”
The seconds stepped back.
Sir Martin hesitated, bit his lip and, struggling to command his voice, croaked, “One…”
There was a pause. Beads of sweat began to stand out on Fontaine’s brow.
Sir Martin said, “My God! I cannot! It’s murder! Leith … you must—must call.”
“Then—damn you—do so!” raged Fontaine, a little rivulet creeping down his brow.
Leith frowned, then reluctantly moved forward to take Sir Martin’s place.
Fontaine, watching Devenish narrowly, hissed, “Madman! You would have a slight chance at fifteen paces! You have none like this!”
“I know you, Fontaine,” Devenish answered as softly. “I know you were the man in the Morrissey affair.” He saw the Viscount’s hand jerk, and added, “You enjoy hurting people. It would please you to maim my friends, one after another. I shall deny you that pleasure.”
Fontaine read death in the coldly inexorable eyes of the younger man, and moistened his suddenly dry lips.
Suspecting what Devenish was about, Leith judged it a forlorn hope, but gave no sign of it. “I shall start again, gentlemen,” he said coolly. “One!”
His gaze steady on his antagonist, Devenish thought that the Viscount looked sick. He was a bad man—a merciless rogue who must be stopped. Josie’s loved face was before his mind’s eye, and he prayed she would understand. This fight was of his making and he must deal with it as any honourable man would. Certainly, he could not stand back and let his friends do his fighting for him!
“Two!”
The meadow was so quiet that Leith’s voice was like a thunder clap. Fontaine jumped visibly. Sweat was running down his face now, and his mouth was twitching uncontrollably.
Delaying as long as he dared, Leith took a breath.
“Call it! Damn your soul! CALL it!” screamed Fontaine. And his nerve broke. His pistol whipped down.
“No!” shouted Mitchell, frantically.
The shot was deafening.
Devenish, every nerve strung to breaking point, had been watching Fontaine’s eyes. In that deadly split second as Fontaine’s pistol flamed, he thought, ‘Josie!’ Something jerked at his coat and he staggered.
Anguished, Leith shouted, “You stinking apology for a man! Dev! Are you—”
“Very—fine…” gasped Devenish, his knees like water. “My shot, I believe…”
Grey faced, shaking visibly, Fontaine let the smoking pistol slip from his palsied hand.
Devenish lifted his weapon with slow deliberation and aimed, his hand steady as a rock, at his enemy.
“N-no…” whimpered Fontaine, dodging aside.
“Good God!” breathed Redmond.
“Taine!” cried Sir Martin, horrified.
“Stand, you damned cheating poltroon!” roared Leith.
Devenish lowered his pistol. “I believe I will reserve,” he said. “Until another time.”
They all stared at him.
Fontaine, looking barely able to stay on his feet, said chokingly, “En-enjoying yourself … ain’t you?” His voice rose to an hysterical scream. “Damn you!”
“I shall finish,” said Devenish, “whenever I so choose. However, you must not arrange another duel, Fontaine, without allowing me my shot at you. That is, I believe, my right—gentlemen?”
Sir Martin, flushed and mortified, said, “Indeed it is, Devenish. Dashed decent under … circumstances.”
Mr. Blanchard, also red with embarrassment, muttered, “Most awfully sorry, Dev. Can’t tell you—Terrible business.”
Knowing he was ruined and disgraced, Fontaine said nothing, but flung around, and reeled like a drunken man to the waiting carriage.
Devenish took Leith’s ready arm and they made their way back to their own vehicle.
“You stupid, blasted block,” gritted Lyon. “What a frightful chance to take!”
“If you don’t think—my knees are blancmange,” gasped Devenish.
“I don’t understand
how the hell he came to miss you!” Leith glanced at the silent Redmond.
“He was shaking with fright,” said Devenish. “I’ll own I was.”
“You didn’t show it. And to fire before the word! God! If ever I heard of such a thing!”
Conscious of an icy silence, Devenish glanced at Redmond. “Mitch? Are you—”
“You will excuse my braggadocio if I say I prefer to fight my own duels,” said Mitchell acidly. “Much as I appreciate your intercession in my behalf.”
Devenish grasped his arm. “Mitch, for Lord’s sake—”
Redmond tore free and held out the pistol box. “Yours, I believe, sir.”
Leith said sharply, “Dev! Are you hurt? Your coat’s torn!”
“No, Tris. He—took off my button, though. Blast him!”
Leith touched the rent. “Just over the heart, by Jove. An inch or so to the right, or had you been standing square…!” He and Redmond exchanged sober glances.
Devenish said apologetically, “Mitch—I know you could have dealt with that ruffian. But—you see, you were not the next in line…”
“Jerry.” Redmond scowled. “I suppose—Fontaine would have killed him, all right.”
“No. He writ me a letter. He had no intention of killing Jeremy. He meant to blind him.”
Leith swore under his breath.
Redmond gave a gasp. “Then why in hell didn’t you shoot and be done with the filthy swine?” And then, seeing Leith’s grin, his own mouth curved to a smile and then to a laugh. He clapped a hand on Devenish’s shoulder. “Damme if I ain’t as big a fool as you are! You raving maniac! Of all the cork-brained starts! I about suffered a heart seizure!”
Whooping, Harry and Guy were hastening to meet them. The reaction set in then, and they were all laughing foolishly when they reached the coach.
On the box beside the coachman, Cornish, muffled to the ears and with a gigantic and lurid scarf wrapped several times about his throat, grinned at them. “Wot-cher, Sir Guv,” he beamed. “Thought I’d ’aveter find meself a new gent, s’elp me!”
Give All to Love Page 34
