At the use of his given name, his breath hissed between his teeth. Sophia blinked. Could something as simple as his name affect him so?
“Rufus, you must tell me.”
“What?” The question emerged in a hoarse whisper.
“I need to know where the duel will take place.”
He reached out and curled his fingers about her jaw. “You and your sister cannot stop this.”
“We must try.” Taking courage from his reaction, she closed the distance between them and placed her hands on his chest.
Beneath her palms, muscles quivered. “Sophia.”
“We must try.” She let her voice drop until she barely recognized its register. “If not to stop the duel, then at least to stop Clivesden.” She held his gaze. “You cannot deny me that.”
THE frosty ground of Hyde Park crunched beneath Arthur’s hooves. Beyond a fitful breeze that set naked branches creaking and stirred the threads of mist into ghostly swirls, nothing else moved in the predawn air.
Benedict squinted into the twilight ahead. No one else had arrived yet, not even Clivesden’s second. With a click of his tongue, he urged his mount onward.
He might have taken a more fashionable conveyance to the meeting place and arrived by carriage, but it would not have felt right. Arthur had always accompanied him to battle. Together they’d survived Boney’s worst. Now that the stakes were merely personal, Benedict saw no reason to change tradition.
Sensing his master’s tension, Arthur snorted and danced sideways off the path. A squeeze of Benedict’s thighs brought his mount under control. He shifted his weight back and reined Arthur to a halt, straining his eyes toward the trees ahead.
A figure materialized out of the fog. At the newcomer’s approach, Arthur ducked his head and pawed the ground.
“Still determined to go through with this?” Upperton’s voice reached his ears, riding the back of a sharp gust.
Benedict gave a curt nod in reply and dismounted. “I have no choice. I gave my word.”
“I know that, man. I mean the rest of it.”
“One way or another, I’ll see it through.”
Upperton threw him a glare of disapproval. “If it were me—”
“It isn’t you. Have you taken care of St. Claire?”
“I tipped some laudanum into his drink last night and brought him home. Told the butler he’d had all that was good for him. By the time he wakes up, the gossip might even have died down.” Thank God St. Claire was such a creature of habit. Sending Upperton to find the man at his club had been a simple enough matter.
“Although …” Upperton shifted his weight from one booted foot to the other and eyed him. “Are you sure you want to start your marriage on an off note? St. Claire won’t be happy his own son-in-law cheated him out of his chance to redeem himself. People will say he was a coward.”
Perhaps, but Benedict would find a way to return himself to St. Claire’s good graces later. “Have you brought the pistols?”
“Right here.”
Upperton produced a dark wooden case from beneath his arm. He flicked the brass clasp to display a brace of guns. Their polished wood and metal barrels gleamed dully in the low light. Benedict took one in his hand to test its unfamiliar weight, imagining his fingers curled about the hilt of his cavalry saber. He missed its balance and the lethal whoosh as he swung it.
Much more subtle a weapon, his saber. With careful handling, it killed silently.
“Sure you know how to fire one of those?” Upperton asked.
“I know well enough.”
“But can you hit anything?”
Benedict returned the pistol to its mate. “It will not matter. Clivesden shall have his satisfaction, and we shall all move on with our lives.”
“Indeed. And what of Miss Julia?”
“Much will depend on today’s outcome, won’t it?” He’d rather not think of Julia right now. He didn’t need the distraction.
The rumble of carriage wheels saved Upperton the need to reply. Benedict turned in time to see a fashionable barouche shudder to a halt. A liveried footman leapt from the back to lower the steps.
Clivesden, impeccable in a hunting jacket and starched linen, strolled from the conveyance, followed by a familiar figure. Keaton, according to the signature on the messages Benedict had exchanged with Clivesden’s second—a second Clivesden had apparently been cuckolding. Keaton, surprisingly adept with a pack of cards. Suspiciously so. Keaton who had been a party to that infamous card game the night St. Claire lost five thousand. Benedict might turn the situation around yet, but only once honor had been satisfied.
Upon catching sight of Benedict, Clivesden’s expression hardened to granite. He might have narrowed his eyes, except they were already swollen from the beating he’d taken the other morning.
A chill passed through Benedict. He’d seen such grim determination on the faces of Napoleon’s troops—the expression of men who were ready to kill lest they be killed, men who had nothing left to lose.
Upperton nudged him. “You sure about this?”
“Nothing we can do to stop it now.”
At their approach, Clivesden studied Upperton as if he were some ragged pauper come to call on the Prince Regent. “What is he doing here? And where is St. Claire?”
“St. Claire isn’t feeling quite up to the proceedings this morning. I’m taking his place. Upperton, here, will act as my second. Now let’s get this over with.”
But time conspired against him, almost as if the morning mist had thickened to a tangible force that slowed movement. Benedict stood apart from the proceedings as Upperton sluggishly trudged off to meet Clivesden’s second. He barely listened while the two went over the terms and approved the weapons, barely noticed four pistols loaded, the extra pair left with the seconds.
Clivesden would be satisfied with no less than blood.
After an eternity, he stood with his back to Clivesden, the loaded pistol an anchor in his hand, a burden that would increase with every step of the twenty paces.
“One.”
At Upperton’s proclamation, he took his first step, then another and another. At ten, he tensed in spite of himself, half expecting to feel the bite of lead in his back with each successive stride toward his fate.
“Nineteen, twenty.”
He turned to face Clivesden. Even at this distance, he could make out the glitter of his adversary’s eyes, the set to his jaw, the determination. He’d always imagined the face of death to resemble a skull or a specter or something equally horrific. At the very least, he’d expected to see it on the face of a French soldier. Never, once the war had ended and he sold his commission, had he thought to confront death again, and certainly not at twenty paces from an old school rival.
Damn it all, so much for noble intentions. If he stood any chance of coming out of this alive, he’d have to shoot to kill.
Drawing a breath, he raised his pistol.
CHAPTER TWENTY
JULIA HELD her breath as Highgate’s barouche clattered to a halt in a remote section of Hyde Park. Sophia’s fingers tightened around her hand. Thank goodness for her sister. Without Sophia, her hand would tremble, and if her hand trembled, her legs were sure to follow. And then she’d never get out of the carriage.
“Do you see anything?” she asked. She couldn’t bear to look.
“No, it’s too misty.”
“Perfect weather for passing undetected.” This from Highgate, who sat in grim-faced disapproval on the opposite seat. He’d insisted on accompanying them, of course.
“We shall have to get out,” Sophia said.
“You shall do no such thing. Ladies have no business witnessing such proceedings. Why I let you come this far—”
A stern glance from Sophia cut him off, adding another layer of worry to Julia’s already frayed nerves. What Sophia might have promised him to secure his cooperation, Julia preferred not to speculate. With his face set in rigid lines, he might as well have
been the devil.
The devil turned his eye on Julia. “He will not want you here. He will not wish for you to see.”
“I, nevertheless, feel it’s my place to bear witness.” The strength of her voice surprised her. How could she sound so steady when, inside, everything churned? “If it weren’t for me, none of this would have happened.”
“Oh, Julia, do not say such things,” Sophia implored. “Lay the blame on Clivesden if you must, but never yourself.”
Highgate unfolded himself, stooping as he accommodated his form to the carriage’s interior. “I shall have a look. The pair of you stay right where you are.”
The idea that Papa was out there facing injury or death set Julia’s heart pounding. She couldn’t sit idly by. That they had come to this at all, that they faced each other with loaded pistols was her fault. With luck, she still might stop it. Exchanging a look with Sophia, she stood.
The moment she stepped from the carriage, she saw them. Perhaps a hundred yards distant, Clivesden faced another man across forty yards of open ground. Where on earth was Papa? For the man opposing Clivesden was much younger, tall, broad-shouldered. The wind whipped his black hair about his face.
Not Benedict. Never Benedict.
The ground beneath her feet gave an awful lurch.
“No!”
She lunged, but Highgate grabbed her and pinned her arm in a surprisingly strong grip. “The last thing he needs is a distraction,” he grated. “If you cannot bring yourself to obey, at least heed me in this.”
Her heart slammed into her throat. Both men raised their arms, deadly barrels pointing at each other, aiming for the kill.
“Stop!”
Julia shouted the order too late. At the last moment, Benedict’s arm snapped upward. Smoke and flames exploded from the barrel, and the report echoed through the dawn silence.
Highgate’s fingers tightened about her shoulders.
Neither man blinked in their direction. Across from Benedict, Clivesden still stood, pistol aimed. From this vista, it looked to be pointing straight at Benedict’s heart.
Firearm still loaded and deadly, Clivesden seemed determined to draw out proceedings now that Benedict’s shot had missed.
With a violent tug, she yanked herself from Highgate’s grip and launched herself toward Benedict. Highgate gave a shout, and his feet came pounding behind her, but she ignored him. She must get to Benedict. All her attention focused on him.
If Clivesden noticed, he gave no sign. His face contorted, and he pulled the trigger. The pistol roared to life, and before Julia’s eyes, Benedict crumpled to the ground.
“No!”
Julia’s scream split the cold morning silence and echoed through the trees. The firm thuds of booted feet joined the slap-slap of her slippers against the frostbitten grass, as all converged on the fallen.
Tears blurred her vision. To her left, a form loomed out of nowhere to block her way. Clivesden. The bloody, bloody murderer.
With a force she did not know she possessed, fueled by white-hot rage, she shouldered past him and flung herself to the ground beside Benedict. Next to his slack hand, still warm from his shot, lay his discharged pistol. Deep red blood oozed from a jagged tear in his waistcoat, soaking his garments with an ever-widening stain. So much of it. She carried a handkerchief in her reticule, but staunching the wound with a small scrap of linen was like attempting to hold back a spring freshet with a twig.
Fighting the memories and the crawling fear of dead flesh, she touched his face—cold, clammy. His normally healthy complexion had gone a chalky gray.
“No, no.” She squeezed her eyes closed, but the image of him lying on the ground, deathly pale, remained imprinted upon her brain.
Another face hovered into view, a portly man with graying hair and deep creases about his eyes. “Miss, you must stand aside. I must see to him.”
A hand alit on her shoulder. With a violent jerk, she flung it off. Still crouching, she turned. Clivesden looked down on the pair of them, his expression unreadable. Indeed, the only hint of emotion came from the increased speed at which his breath billowed in white clouds from his nostrils.
Rage erupted inside her. She shot to her feet. “You! Don’t you dare touch me. Not now, not ever. This entire mess is your fault!”
“Miss Julia, I—” He reached out a placating hand.
“You heard her. Don’t touch her.”
Julia looked up in shock. Those words, spoken in such a commanding, confident tone had come from her sister. Her sister, who had somehow managed to wrap her hands around one of the extra pistols and was now pointing it at Clivesden’s head.
Julia blinked, but the scene didn’t change. While the doctor fussed over Benedict, Upperton stared, white-faced, his eyes darting between Clivesden and Sophia. Farther back, Clivesden’s second froze in his tracks. Highgate stood, a little apart, his body coiled with tension, his jaw set.
Sophia’s expression hardened into something Julia had never seen before. Her blue eyes glittered with determination, and her outstretched arm never once wavered. The barrel of the pistol pointed straight and true, directly between Clivesden’s blackened eyes. Her knuckles whitened as the standoff stretched out, and still she never faltered.
Slowly, Clivesden raised his hands in the air. “Now … now, Miss St. Claire.”
“I’ll thank you to keep your mouth closed.” Sophia’s tone held such steel.
“Could … could you at least put the gun down?”
“No.”
“What’s the matter?” Highgate drawled. “Afraid it’s loaded?”
“I know it’s loaded, man.” Out of the corner of her eye, Julia caught the tremor in Clivesden’s hands. “We brought two each, in case one shot was not enough.”
“What?” Julia shrieked.
“I would not have been satisfied without blood.” The words emerged dull and flat, as if he were still wrapping his mind around the concept himself. “Our seconds agreed. It wasn’t even supposed to be him. I never thought he’d miss.”
“Perhaps he reckoned you weren’t worth the lead,” Highgate drawled in a tone more suited to a drawing room than a deserted corner of Hyde Park at dawn.
Clivesden’s trembling increased. “Do you think you might call your betrothed to heel?”
Highgate folded his arms. “Why should I? I’m quite enjoying this. Besides, she has a point. Perhaps honor hasn’t yet been satisfied.”
Clivesden shot his second a telling glance. “As the injured party, I declare myself satisfied.”
“Injured party?” Julia cried. “How dare you? You’re the one who set all this in motion. If my sister would like to claim satisfaction, I say let her.”
“A woman? Dueling?” In another moment Clivesden would be on his knees. “Highgate, you cannot stand for this. Unless you mean to make up for past grievances, as well?”
“I might if I thought it would change anything,” Highgate said. “Honor will never be satisfied for a man who has none. Why society ought to tolerate such behavior simply because a man holds a title is beyond me. Proper bloodlines be damned. You, sir, are a disgrace to the concept of nobility.”
Clivesden flinched, his head snapping backward as if he’d been physically struck. He’d be well within his rights to call out Highgate over such a pronouncement. Part of Julia hoped he would, but another part had seen bloodshed enough for one day.
God, Benedict. She crushed icy fingers to her lips and turned to his inert form. The doctor had peeled back his shirt and waistcoat to reveal blood still seeping from a ragged hole. She gritted her teeth, crouched over his body and placed her hands on his shoulders. The least she could do was hold him and pray.
THE wood of the dueling pistol was surprisingly warm in Sophia’s palm. She’d have expected an instrument of murder to be cold and unforgiving. It was heavy, though—heavy as the responsibility of another’s life. Before long, her hand would begin to shake with the unfamiliar weight. She tightened her grip
and waited for Clivesden to respond to Highgate’s insult.
“Do you feel safe with your betrothed holding me at gunpoint?”
“I feel safe knowing the truth is on my side.” She couldn’t see Highgate from where she was standing, but she imagined his lips curving into a grim smile. “I can easily put the past aside and point to your current actions. What does it say about a man that he pushes another into a position where he feels he must sell his own daughter?”
At Benedict’s side, Julia looked up. “What does it say, further, that he wagers on the situation?”
Then Upperton, who had stood quietly through the entire scene, stepped forward, one arm outstretched toward Clivesden. “And what of this man’s behavior with a certain person’s intended bride?”
Clivesden whipped his head in Upperton’s direction. “What are you insinuating?”
“Only that I’ve heard from numerous sources that you’ve become quite friendly with your second’s betrothed. But perhaps Keaton’s luck will change now that your face isn’t quite so pretty.”
“Gossip.” Clivesden waved a hand. “You cannot prove anything.”
“I saw you,” Sophia said. “The night of Lady Posselthwaite’s ball. You were sneaking off with her.”
“What?” Keaton marched up to Clivesden and bunched the lapels of his erstwhile friend in his fists.
Sophia lowered the pistol. No one was focused on her now. A hand settled on her shoulder, the grip familiar and comforting. Highgate.
“You’re going to take their word over mine?” Clivesden was saying.
“I believe I will.” Keaton gave him a shake. “I’ve had my own suspicions. They’ve only just been confirmed. And you can find yourself a new partner at cards. See if you win as often.”
Upperton shouldered his way between the men. “Should we take that as an admission?”
“There has been no admission.” Clivesden looked from one to the other, his face turning a rather interesting shade of purple. Sophia would never have imagined such a deep shade from such a fair-skinned man. It may have matched his bruises but otherwise didn’t do a thing for him. “Of anything.”
A Most Scandalous Proposal Page 27
