by Amy Corwin
The next morning dawned cool and fair, although John missed the glistening dew and salmon-colored sky. He slept later than usual and dressed rapidly when he heard the unmistakable sounds of Mrs. Dibble sweeping the sitting room and cursing over Wickson’s abandoned shoes and cane. Shrugging into his jacket, John entered the sitting room, expecting to see Wickson submitting to his regular weekly lecture from Mrs. Dibble.
Instead, Wickson was gone, and John barely managed to escape Mrs. Dibble’s cantankerous clutches. He strode purposefully through the sitting room to the door, all the while chattering about the welcomed sunshine and other pleasantries, to prevent her from catching hold of him and giving him Wickson’s lecture about the doings of gentlemen. It wasn’t until he closed the door behind him that he was able to stop long enough to take a deep breath.
After a nourishing stop at a busy coffee house for a steaming cup of the fragrant beverage, a few slices of fresh, yeasty bread that was still warm from the oven, and a wedge of sharp cheddar, he drifted in the general direction of the Longmoor townhouse. Lady Longmoor had given him no reason to expect a warm welcome, but after last night’s debacle, he decided to try again. One small defeat didn’t mean the loss of the entire war.
A block away, John spotted a familiar plump form tottering along the walkway. He paused. Wickson had Miss Urick on his arm, and if John wasn’t mistaken, Taggert sauntered a step ahead of the pair. As John watched, Taggert opened the gate to the walkway leading up to the Longmoor townhouse and ushered his sister and Wickson to the front door.
They didn’t even knock before the door opened and the trio disappeared inside.
Tightening his hands into fists, John’s shoulders stiffened. What the devil was Wickson up to? A few days ago, all he could talk about was Miss Jacobs, and now here he was, wandering about London with Miss Urick on his arm. And why had he dragged her, and her nuisance of a brother, to Lady Vee’s home?
He’d never known Wickson to behave in such an underhanded manner before, but obviously he was capable of anything.
John strode to the front door and rapped sharply with the end of his walking stick.
“Yes, sir?” the cherubic butler inquired. His round face and large blue eyes seemed incongruous in the butler’s proudly expressionless visage.
“I am calling on Lady Longmoor and Lady Victoria.” John fished out a calling card from the narrow, silver case he kept in his pocket. “Here is my card.”
The butler accepted the card and permitted him to wait on the stoop.
John’s mouth twisted in a sardonic smile. The stoop? Might as well have ordered him to go around to the tradesman’s entrance in the rear. The curious stares of the passersby burned the back of his neck.
He didn’t have long to endure, however, before the door opened again.
“I apologize, sir. Lady Longmoor and her daughter are not at home.”
“My card—”
“I will see that they receive your calling card, sir. Good day.” The butler shut the door again before John could say another word.
Staring at the deep forest green paint of the front door, John rested his hip thoughtfully against the black railing. They’d allowed Taggert and his sister inside. Even Wickson had been granted entrance.
But not the duke’s illegitimate son. Another skirmish ending in a rout. Battles were often lost—not by resounding defeats—but by such small, bloody fights that slowly drained a man’s will and resources, bit by minuscule bit.
No—not him. He straightened and walked to the corner of the busy street. He would not surrender so easily. Social calls generally only lasted fifteen minutes. It was not a great length of time to wait, and the expression on Taggert’s face would reveal if the visit had been a success or not.
And it would give John a chance to discover what Wickson was up to without Mrs. Dibble’s black eyes, rapacious for gossip, fixed upon them. For Wickson’s sake, John was reluctant to provide their charwoman with any more fuel for her lectures than she already managed to collect from Wickson’s hastily strewn belongings.
The anticipated short visit turned into an hour under the increasingly warm April sun. John was about to give up his position leaning against a lamppost for the cool, dim recesses of an alehouse when the green door opened again.
Happy chattering spilled out. Then Taggert stepped outside, adjusting his hat. As he stepped down to the walkway, Wickson appeared, followed by Miss Urick. They all seemed pleased with their visit, so pleased, in fact, that none of them noticed John as they walked past him.
“Wickson! Lord Taggert,” John called, striding up behind them. “Miss Urick.” He bowed. “What a surprise to see you here!”
Wickson’s round face crimsoned. He glanced at Taggert before pulling off his glove to shake John’s hand and slap him on the shoulder. “Archer! Good to see you—out a bit early, ain’t you? I suppose our dear Dibble rousted you out of bed, bless the old soul.”
“Not a bit of it, though I believe she wished for a word with you when you have a few moments.”
The flush on Wickson’s face receded, leaving him gray-cheeked. He pulled out a handkerchief and mopped his brow, excusing the hasty gesture to Miss Urick.
The lady watched them curiously, wearing a hesitant smile.
“How is Lady Longmoor?” John asked, studying his friend.
“Lady Longmoor and Lady Victoria are quite well,” Taggert said. “Though of course, you shall see for yourself when you visit them.” He paused for effect before adding, “I am assuming, of course, that you are here for that purpose.” His tone suggested that while he didn’t say it, the sentence ended with though I doubt they will allow you that privilege.
A bland expression settled over John’s face as he pulled his pocket watch out of his pocket. “No. I haven’t the time, though I’m sure I shall see both ladies later.”
The self-satisfied smile on Taggert’s face broadened. “If they are at home to you.”
“Naturally,” John replied blandly. “One must not take the friendship of such gracious ladies for granted.”
“What are you implying, sir?” Taggert asked before John’s last word faded.
John’s brows rose. “Why, only that one must not take the favors of any lady too lightly. Do you not agree, Miss Urick?”
Miss Urick’s blue eyes, so much like her brother’s, gazed anxiously at John and then at her brother. An uncertain laugh escaped her before she pressed gloved fingers against her mouth. “Yes—oh, I beg your pardon.”
“There is no need to apologize for expressing your honest opinion.” John executed a shallow bow.
“We have not been properly introduced, sir,” Taggert stated coldly. He removed one glove and slapped it against the palm of his other hand. “Though that doesn’t seem to weigh with you, and certainly didn’t matter last night when you forced your way into my sister’s ball. Only a churlish bore would accost others on the street in this manner. Good day to you.”
“I beg your pardon, my lord. Perhaps our mutual friend, Mr. Wickson, could present me,” John said blandly.
“Oh, right. Yes. Of course,” Wickson muttered, mopping his brow again. “Devilish hot—begging your pardon, Miss Urick. Miss Urick, may I present Mr. Archer?”
“I do not believe we wish to be introduced,” Taggert said, cutting Wickson short. He slapped his glove on his opposite palm again, his expression glacial.
Wickson sputtered to a halt, looking sick. He glanced from Taggert to John.
John straightened and studied him, replying in a silky voice, “No need to be so humble, Lord Taggert. You are not so far below me in station, after all.”
“Below you? You vile upstart! How dare you?” Taggert stepped forward and slapped his glove across John’s cheek. Apparently, his temper was as quick as his reddish, sandy hair suggested. “Get out of our sight, and do not seek our attentions again, or you will regret it.”
“I regret it already, my lord, since we seem to have at least one more m
eeting to bear. Seven tomorrow morning? Hyde Park?” John glanced at Wickson. “You will act as my second, will you not?”
“What?” Wickson goggled at him.
“A duel?” Taggert looked down his long nose at John. “Really, I don’t believe I can oblige you. Only gentlemen may engage in affairs of honor.”
“Oh, surely you are not so humble as to imagine yourself unfit for the title of gentleman,” John said, his brows rising with mock surprise.
An ugly red suffused Taggert’s cheeks. “You are insulting, sir.”
“Swords or pistols?” John asked.
A sharp inhalation caught his ears. Miss Urick’s gloved hands pressed against the base of her neck as she stared at them in horror. “Martin—no!”
Her soft voice seemed to infuriate her brother. “Pistols.” He spat the word and then turned on his heel, dragging his sister away by her elbow.
Tripping and protesting, she glanced over her shoulder at Wickson and John several times, a desperate look on her face.
John winked at her, although she was so far away, she probably couldn’t see it. “Well, Wickson. Seven it shall be. I trust you will be able to find the door of your bedchamber in time to accompany me to Hyde Park. We must not keep his lordship waiting.” He slapped Wickson on the shoulder, spun him around, and then gave him a small shove to head him in the direction of the closest alehouse.
“But—but, seven?”
John laughed. “Indeed, my fine lad. Seven it is.”
It was quite like the old days when the duke’s sons used to pick fights with John. Though this time, it wouldn’t be three against one with no hope of winning and sure knowledge of a severe punishment in his near future. Pistols were not John’s favored weapon, but at least it meant a short duel. One shot for each of them, and it would all be over, one way or the other.
“Archer, whatever are you thinking? Is it Lady Victoria?” Wickson lagged behind John and glanced over his shoulder, but Taggert and his sister had already disappeared into the bustling crowd. “You may have a wager to win, but you can’t possibly expect to eliminate all possible suitors in duels.”
“Wager?” John’s step faltered. “Oh, yes. I had quite forgotten.” He waved a hand and paused at the corner for a rapidly approaching curricle to pass. “It is of little import, but I don’t see why this duel shouldn’t do something useful.”
“Well, Taggert isn’t the only obstacle—there are three others, from what I understand.” Wickson puffed beside him as he tried to keep up with John’s rapid stride.
“Three? Where did you hear that ridiculous faradiddle?”
“Miss Urick, if you must know. She and Lady Victoria are becoming fast friends. She says Lady Victoria even has a list, and Taggert’s name is at the very top of it.”
“I doubt that,” John murmured.
“Doubt it all you want. I tell you, the chit has a list, and your name ain’t on it.”
“Have you seen this list?”
“Of course not.” Wickson huffed. He glanced around and pulled John in the direction of St. James’s Street, where their club, Boodle’s, was located. “Why should she show it to me?”
“The question is,” John replied patiently, “why she should show this mythical list to anyone. Most particularly, to the sister of one of the men on the list.”
“Who knows why any woman does anything?”
“Why, indeed.”
“You may choose not to believe it, but I tell you, it’s true. Lady Victoria has a list, and you are not on it.” The triumphant rise in Wickson’s voice was unmistakable.
“It occurs to me that there may be a flaw in this wager you hold so dear.”
“Flaw? My wager? I am not the least bit interested in that bloody wager,” Wickson claimed, pulling at his lapels.
“Really? Since when did you lack an interest in gaining one hundred pounds?”
“Well, yes. That is, one hundred pounds… Well, you understand.”
John sighed. Up ahead, he could see the imposing façade of Boodle’s coming into view. “How many times have I explained—one must never wager more than one is pleased to lose?”
“Pshaw.” Wickson snorted so violently that he had to retrieve his handkerchief from his pocket to blow his nose. “Then how do you explain your investments in trade, eh? Little more than wagering, if you ask me.”
“Then it is a good thing that no one is asking you for advice, Wickson. Investments are based upon a sound understanding of rewards versus possible risks. Wagering, on the other hand, is sheer luck, and such a risk always favors the house. Wagers, despite your misconceptions, are not investments.”
“Except in this case, eh?” Wickson nudged him with his elbow and laughed. “Small risk, if you ask me, and a hundred pounds. Won’t need to cough up rent for a year.”
“Unfortunately, there is that tiny flaw,” John murmured, stepping aside to allow Wickson to enter Boodle’s first.
“Flaw? Flaw? What flaw?”
“It occurs to me that the element of time is curiously lacking.”
“Time?”
“Indeed. Without the element of time, I believe the only limit one can set would be when it becomes no longer possible for such a marriage to take place.”
“Right. When she marries one of the men on her list.”
Adopting a sad expression, John shook his head. “No, my dear Wickson. It shall only become impossible when either Lady Victoria or I die. After all, if she marries one of the gentlemen on this unseen list, it is possible he may perish, leaving her free to marry again. At that time, she may choose someone not on that ridiculous list.”
“That is all very fine, my lad, but I suggest you visit your lawyer today to ensure your will adequately covers that one hundred pounds. In the case of your death. Tomorrow. As I have no doubt that even you can’t argue that if you’re dead and haven’t married Lady Victoria, you have lost.”
“Naturally. Now let us see what dining opportunities may be in the offing and send a note around to Taggert. He can send his second here, if he wishes, to confirm the arrangements for tomorrow morning.”
As they wandered into the depths of their club, Wickson’s plump face grew graver and graver. He glanced sideways at John and repeatedly rubbed the back of his neck. “Are you quite sure? I can arrange something—I’m sure of it. Call it off. You know.”
“No, my dear friend.”
“No loss of honor…” An anxious expression lined Wickson’s face, carving deep grooves from his nose to the corners of his mouth. “Sure I can manage it. No reflection on you, of course.”
“My honor is remarkably fragile these days, Wickson. I don’t believe it will withstand such an assault. No. If Taggert wishes to reconsider, we shall accept his decision. However, I shall not be the one to back away.”
The next day, at seven o’clock in the morning, John faced Taggert. The morning was misty and damp, and John could feel the chilly dew seeping through the seams of his boots. Taggert had offered to provide the dueling pistols, and John accepted, although he’d loaded his own pair of Manton’s best flintlocks. The weapons had lovely English walnut stocks that fit well in his hand, and he’d brought them along. Just in case.
Even with the best pistols, misfiring was not uncommon and reloading was always awkward.
“I had not expected to see you here this morning,” Taggert said, his gaze fixed arrogantly just above John’s left shoulder. “After all, you have no family honor to uphold, do you?”
The taunts of his half-brothers echoed Taggert’s words. At least he thought of them as his half-brothers. They, of course, thought of him as no one. Nobody, and therefore of no regard or importance.
“We are both here.” John bowed and accepted one of Taggert’s pistols. “Shall we begin?”
Wickson and Taggert’s second marked off the points by sticking swords in the ground. After moving to their location, John and Taggert faced each other. Holding a handkerchief and standing well out of th
e path of any bullet, Wickson glanced from one to the other.
“Ready?” he asked.
Both John and Taggert nodded.
Wickson dropped the handkerchief.
Chapter Six
“Oh, Lady Victoria! I am so relieved to find you home,” Miss Urick said as she rushed into the drawing room.
Victoria glanced up, her sewing needle poised over the embroidered silk bodice puddled over her lap. She looked at the clock on the mantle. Seven in the morning was a trifle early for visiting, even for a close friend.
Miss Urick stood in front of her, twisting a lace-edged handkerchief between her gloved hands. Her blue eyes were glassy with tears, and the lids were swollen and red, the color emphasized by the pallor of her skin. Despite her agitation, she was neatly dressed in a pale blue walking dress and stout half-boots.
“What is it?” Victoria set aside her embroidery and stood.
When Miss Urick wavered, Victoria threw an arm around her and drew her to the sofa near the fireplace.
While the morning was cool, it wasn’t sufficiently chilly to start a fire, though a maid had laid fresh wood on the irons. However, even without cheerful flames crackling, the area surrounding the hearth always felt cozier and more welcoming than any other location in the large drawing room.
Miss Urick pressed her handkerchief against her eyes, sniffed, and then used her wrist to push a curl of reddish-blond hair off her pale forehead. “My brother is engaged in a duel! I begged him not to do it, but he would not listen to me—he never listens to me!”
Stilling, Victoria stared at her friend. A duel? “Who…?” She couldn’t bring herself to complete the question. She found herself holding her breath as if to halt the relentless momentum of time. For a few seconds in the hushed room, everything seemed to stop.
“That man you danced with at my ball. Mr. Archer. Oh, how I despise him!” Her hands clutched at Victoria’s arm. Anger and fear twisted together in her wide blue eyes as she stared at Victoria, her mouth a thin slit in her pallid face. “How could you have danced with him? He is going to kill Martin—I know it!” She gasped and pressed her damp handkerchief to her mouth. “He may be dead already! What shall I do?”
