by Jane Feather
Buckingham merely bowed and pulled the bell rope beside the hearth. “You will excuse me, gentlemen. It appears I have much to accomplish in a few hours.”
Outside, the three men went their separate ways after a brief word about arrangements for the morning. Nicholas walked back to Drury Lane through the frosty night, preparing himself for a most unenviable task. How the devil did a man break to his wife of a few hours that she had an even chance of being widowed on the morrow?
He found her curled up, asleep on the floor by the parlor fire. It took but the most cursory observation to realize that she slept the sleep of complete exhaustion, so far gone in unconsciousness that she barely breathed. Her face was deathly pale, the golden lashes forming dark crescents against her pallor, and Nick knew he must not wake her, even if he could.
She did not stir when he lifted her and put her into bed. Nick undressed and climbed in beside her; thus he passed his wedding night in wakeful reflection, holding the fragile figure against him as the memories crowded in.
Chapter 22
Polly first heard the voices as part of her dream, then, as she crossed over into wakefulness, became aware of them as reality. She lay still, her head turned toward the crack of yellow light edging the doorway to the parlor. Richard’s voice came through the partly open door, low but clear.
“’Tis seven miles to Barn Elms, Nick; less than an hour’s ride.”
“The surgeon?”
“Will meet us there. As will Peter. What of Polly?”
“I have written a letter. I can think of no other way, Richard. She was dead to the world last night, and I could not bring myself to waken her with such news.”
“Be of good cheer.” Richard’s voice was bracing. “Ye’ll be back here, the business done, before she awakes, I’ll lay odds.”
“And you not a gambling man,” declared Nick dryly.
“Let us away.”
“Aye. Go you on; I’ll be but a minute.”
The edge of light broadened. Polly closed her eyes, breathing with deep regularity. She felt him come to the bed, standing over her. Then his lips brushed lightly across hers, and he whispered, “Fare you well, sweetheart.”
Polly held herself still while confused turmoil roiled in her head, then the light was extinguished as the door closed gently. She sat up, blinking in the dark, listening intently. There was no sound from the other room, only the silence of emptiness. Springing from the bed, she ran to the parlor door, opening it carefully. The chamber was in darkness except for the fire that had been newly kindled. She padded to the window, peering down into the dark street. The shadowy figures of two horsemen were disappearing rapidly in the gray-dark.
A letter. Nick had said he had left a letter. She lit the lamp with shaking fingers and saw the paper, folded on the table. It was explanation, and a farewell of searing sweetness; in postscript, sealed with his ring, the deeding of his entire estate to his wife.
Polly swallowed the threatening tears. This was no time for female maudling. Nicholas, having married her in order to avenge her, was now going to fight Buckingham, and there was not a damn thing she could do to stop it. Dueling had been outlawed by proclamation repeatedly, but in reality no one would deny a gentleman the right to answer insult with the sword, to execute the laws of honor for himself.
Could she not prevent it? Had she not also the right to execute the laws of honor? The thought grew, dazzling in its daring and simplicity. It fathered instant action, and in the action was found surcease from dread anxiety.
She dressed in Florimell’s breeches and shirt, her own riding boots and riding cloak, slipped down the stairs, out into the street, and ’round to the stables. Tiny greeted her with a friendly whicker, holding still for the bridle, nostrils flaring at the prospect of exercise.
“I have only a sidesaddle, so we must go bareback,” Polly whispered, nuzzling the mare’s neck before swinging nimbly astride. It felt rather strange at first, but then wonderfully easy, and somehow much more natural. Men were the most fortunate of creatures, Polly decided, turning Tiny in the direction of Piccadilly.
Barn Elms was across the river, way the other side of Knightsbridge and Chelsea, close to Putney. She knew the way because she and Nick had passed it when they had ridden to Richmond just after their return from Wilton.
Her head was as clear as the morning air. She knew only this crystalline dread that the man who had once done all he could to harm her would now succeed in destroying that which she loved more dearly than life itself. Nick’s love for her was without question, but if their precipitate marriage had been for the wrong reasons, he must not die for those reasons. She urged Tiny to increase her speed. She could be no more than fifteen minutes behind them, and there would surely be formalities that would take time; but to arrive too late would be the final irony.
The sun came up just as she crossed the river at Parson’s Green. She had but a mile to go, and now encouraged Tiny to give of her best. The common and coppice of Barn Elms glistened under the feeble light of the newly risen sun. Seven horses stood beneath the trees; the clash of steel upon steel carried on the frosty air. Tiny’s hooves pounded the mud-ridged frozen sod. The thin ice of puddles crackled, their exquisite patterns destroyed beneath the heedless hooves. Polly’s heart beat with a nauseating speed; the sweat started on her brow, ran down her back, dampening her shirt, despite the whistling cold air that numbed the tip of her nose and made her eyes water.
As they reached the group of horses, Polly drew back on the rein, careful as always, despite the spur of fear, to avoid the tug that would damage the sensitive mouth. She flung herself from the mare’s back, knotting the reins on Tiny’s neck so that she would not catch her foot if she dropped her head to graze.
Sulayman turned his head in recognition when she laid an alerting hand on his rump as she came up behind him. He, like his six fellows, was tethered to a tree branch. Nick’s cloak was slung across the saddle, and in the deep pocket, as she had known it would be, was the bulge pf his pistol.
Polly drew it forth. It was ready primed, since Nick maintained that there was little point in carrying a firearm that could not be used without preparation when one might need urgent protection against footpads, highwaymen, and any other of the rogues plaguing the highways and byways.
Holding the pistol gingerly, Polly moved forward, for the moment hidden by the horses, until she had a clear view of the field. Six men, in riding breeches and shirt sleeves, were moving over the ground like dancers, paired in an elaborate deadly ballet with no score. The seventh man stood to one side, his breath steaming in the air, cloak drawn tightly about him, the leather bag at his feet proclaiming his profession.
Buckingham and Kincaid were closest to Polly. They wore their hair tied back, revealing emotionless faces, eyes fixed on the dancing blades, mouths set in grim concentration. The swords joined, parted, each ring of steel setting Polly’s heart to beating even faster until she could barely hear over the drumming in her ears. Slowly she raised the pistol, squinting along the barrel, which would not keep still in her shaking hands. She had never handled a pistol before, but surely it could not be so very difficult. One had but to pull the trigger, and the target was hardly small.
She did not think she should kill Buckingham. The fate of the murderer of the king’s favorite and one of the foremost peers of the realm was bound to be unpleasant. It would also effectively curtail her loving with Nick, which would be a rather pointless conclusion in the circumstances. But where should one aim in order to disable? Always supposing that one could aim.
There was a moment when Buckingham was half-turned toward her, his sword arm parrying his opponent’s lunge. Polly fixed her eye on the angle of his shoulder opened toward her, then, before she could think further, squeezed the trigger.
The explosion, the flash of fire, shattered the eerie, concentrated silence. Buckingham’s sword dropped; he sank slowly on one knee, his hand clapped to his shoulder, where the bright blood
welled shockingly between his fingers, startling against the white of his shirt.
For a long moment the scene was a still life, then the picture dissolved; the surgeon was running over to the fallen man, the others following, voices rising in the clear air. Polly stepped out from behind the horses, walking as if in a trance toward the circle of men, the still-smoking pistol dangling from her hand.
“I hope I did not kill him,” she said in a flat voice. “I did not think it would be a good idea, although I should have liked to have done so.” She looked down at the wounded man with a curious dispassion.
“Odd’s bones!” Amazingly, it was Buckingham who broke the stunned silence, the words faltering through blue-tinged lips. “What a blood lust ye have, bud.” A painful chuckle escaped him. “’Tis a powerful enmity you bear me.”
“Did you expect amity?” Polly asked coldly, with the same dispassion.
“Nay! But to be felled by a slip of a wench! My plans do not in general miscarry to such a degree.” His eyes closed as the surgeon laid bare the wound.
Nicholas seemed to come out of the hypnotic trance that had gripped him from the moment of the shot. “Do you have any idea what you have done?” he demanded of Polly, snatching the pistol from her. “To interfere in an affair of honor—”
“But I could not allow him to kill you!” Polly exclaimed.
“Your faith is touching!” Nick rasped. “I suppose it did not occur to you that the reverse could have been the outcome?”
“Well, yes, it did. But I could not be certain of it, could I?” She looked down at Buckingham again. “Is he sore wounded, Master Surgeon?”
The doctor glanced up at her. “This is the most irregular affair. But I do not hold with dueling. ’Tis a barbarous practice, and it would appear, young lady, that you have spilled less blood than might otherwise have been let. The ball has passed through the shoulder. The exit is clean! I see no reason why he should not recover completely, once I have staunched the flow.”
Nicholas looked around at the four seconds. “What’s to be done, gentlemen? I will abide by whatever decision you make.”
It was Buckingham who answered him. “Let it be said that I earned my wound at your hands, Kincaid, and honor is avenged.” He coughed painfully. “I’d as lief not have it known that a wench was responsible for such a mortifying mishap.”
“And I’d as lief not have it known that my wife felt it necessary to protect me in such fashion,” Nick declared. “If there’s any who feels dishonor, I will make what reparations are required.”
“If you continue in this fashion,” Polly broke in, “you will find yourself offering to fight them all again.”
“Hold your tongue!” Nick rounded on her. “Have you not disgraced me sufficiently? Never, ever have I suffered such humiliation! That my wife should—”
“I do not have to be your wife,” Polly interrupted recklessly. “I understand that you only married me in order to challenge the duke—” She stopped abruptly, her breath suspended, as he strode toward her.
“Oh, Polly! Polly!” murmured De Winter, shaking his head in disbelief.
Nicholas caught the thick braid hanging over her shoulder, twisting it around his wrist until he held her on a short leash. “Let us go apart into the trees,” he said pleasantly. “Pray excuse us, gentlemen.”
“God’s grace, but ’tis a stout arm Kincaid’ll need if he’s to keep such a wife in a decent order,” observed one of Buckingham’s seconds in an awed tone. “I take it we’re all resolved to keep this matter scotched? ’Twill be the scandal of the year, else.”
In the privacy of the coppice, Nick leaned his back against the trunk of an elm, regarding his captive with a gimlet eye. “Pray explain yourself,” he invited.
It was not an invitation that Polly thought it safe to accept. “It will only make you angry,” she demurred.
“Doubtless. But since I cannot be more so than I am already, you have nothing to lose, and just possibly something to gain. I can assure you we are not leaving here until you have satisfied me.”
Polly shrugged. “I only meant to say that I realize you would not have married me if you had not wanted to challenge the duke, so …” As his expression did not alter, but maintained its air of polite interest, she continued. “So I thought that now it is all over, we could be annulled.”
“We could be what?” Nick had not expected that she could have any more surprises in wait for him, but this one transcended all others.
Polly frowned. “Is that not the right word? I thought it was what happened when a marriage was not a marriage.” She turned her hands, palm up, in a gesture of emptiness. “I was asleep last night when you came back, and … and, well unless something happened when I was asleep, we are not yet properly married, so we can be annulled.”
Nicholas wondered absently how long it would take before she drove him to Bedlam. Perhaps he would wring her neck first, in which case he would meet his own end on Tyburn Hill. “Would you wish to be … uh … annulled?” he asked in a tone of mild inquiry.
Polly searched his face for clues, but it was quite unreadable. She opted for candor. “Not really. But I do not need to be married to love you. We have managed quite nicely for more than a year, and I would be content for matters to continue in that manner. I understand that you could not avenge yourself upon Buckingham without marrying me—”
“That is certainly true,” Nick interrupted calmly. “But I have had every intention of marrying you for months. It did not occur to me that you did not know that.” He chuckled at her startled expression. “Sweetheart, would it be wise of me to ask what other outcome to our liaison you had imagined?”
“No, I don’t think it would be,” Polly said frankly. “But you might have given some indication. Did you truly wish to wed me, then?” She sought the final clarification. “For all time?”
“For all time,” he affirmed softly. “I will have no other wife but you, and I fear you must learn to like it.” His wrist took another turn of the braid, so that her face was brought up against his shoulder. “Is the matter now clear?”
“Quite clear,” she whispered. “But it will be clearer still when my husband kisses me for the first time since we were wed.”
“Lord of hell!” muttered Nick. “Is it true that I have not done so?”
She nodded, her eyes gleaming mischief. “You were so busy delivering challenges and fighting duels, my lord—”
He silenced her mischief in the simplest fashion, releasing her mouth only when her breath came in sobs and her body drooped against him, all resistance gone from her, so that she was pliable, malleable as wax, molten with the desire that he knew so well how to kindle.
“If it were not so cold, and I did not have your outrageous interference to sort out, we would put this marriage beyond annulment here and now,” Nick said, his own hunger throbbing in his voice. But he stood her upright, releasing his grip on her hair. “You owe an apology, and I would have you make it.”
“You would not have me beg Buckingham’s pardon?” she exclaimed. “I would hang, rather.”
“Nay, I will excuse you that. But for the others, so rudely interrupted in a matter of honor—”
“Honor! Pah!” Polly interjected, and stalked out of the coppice. The scene in the field was much as she had left it, except that swords were sheathed and Buckingham was sitting up, propped against a saddle, his wound tightly bandaged, a brandy flask in his hand.
Polly walked over to them, turned her back pointedly on her victim, and addressed herself to the four seconds. “I am told that I disrupted an affair of honor, gentlemen. I ask your pardon for any inconvenience I may have caused you. I am sure you would have much preferred to have left the field on a hurdle.”
A sardonic crack of laughter came from behind her. “God’s body, my lady, but ye’d dare the devil himself, I swear it!”
Richard spoke thoughtfully. “Nick, ye’d best remove yourself and Polly from London for a spell. Th
e king will not pardon either you or Buckingham in short order; he’s but this month declared another out against dueling, and will not take kindly to being so soon disobeyed.”
“Aye, you have the right of it,” agreed Buckingham, morosely. “The king will find it easier to pardon us in our absence. I’m for France, once Master Sawbones here says I’ll not bleed like a stuck pig if I move.”
Nick nodded. “Then we’ll to Yorkshire for a few months.”
“But I cannot leave Thomas,” Polly objected.
“To the devil with Killigrew,” Nick declared savagely. “He must do without you for a spell, as must your slavering admirers. I would have you perform for once before a limited audience. We are going into Yorkshire straightway.”
Polly thought that perhaps Thomas would have to manage without her for a bit, then she was struck by a most happy notion. “Why, then Sue may accompany us, and we may stop at Wilton on the way for Oliver. In that manner, they could be wed and settled in a gamekeeper’s cottage without any difficulty.” A sunny smile of satisfaction fell in benediction upon them all.
Nicholas contemplated a three-week journey on horseback in the close company of Susan and the unknown Oliver. He looked across at De Winter in appeal.
“Aye, leave it with me,” Richard said, struggling for a straight face. “I’ll have ’em conveyed somehow.”
“But will not that be a great trouble for you, Richard?” asked Polly, concerned.
“It is not a trouble that Richard will regard in the least,” replied Nick firmly. “Gentlemen, are we in accord on this unfortunate matter?”
“Aye,” Richard said briskly. “’Tis a scandal to be scotched, and there’s none here that’ll breathe a word of it.”
“In that case, I beg leave to leave you.” Nicholas bowed formally to his erstwhile opponents. The salutation was returned with equal gravity.
Buckingham regarded the scene with a twisted smile. It was clearly a case of honors even, and he would do well to accept the situation with a good grace. If the full story got out, he would be a laughingstock. He was unaccustomed to defeat, and his present downfall had been achieved in the most unorthodox fashion. But then, there was little of the orthodox about Lady Kincaid. He had been guilty of a gross underestimation—one that did not take account of the power of love. One must pay the price for such foolishness. It was not a mistake he would make again.
