Georgina Devon

by The Rakes Redemption

  ‘Good luck,’ Adam said quietly. ‘Not that you need it.’

  There was a sincerity in the other man’s voice that made Charles really look at him. It surprised him to see sincerity and concern in Adam’s eyes. Adam cared what happened to him.

  A pang of remorse hit Charles. He had never been nice to Juliet’s new husband. He suddenly realised their altercation this morning had been more about what he felt about marriage and fidelity than what was happening between his sister and Glenfinning.

  He had judged Glenfinning by his own measure and found him wanting. What did that say about him? He didn’t want to think about it right now.

  Charles stuck his right hand out to shake Adam’s. ‘Thank you for the support and for putting up with me.’ For the first time since he’d known the man there was no sarcasm or dislike in Charles’s tone.

  Adam gave him a surprised look before taking his hand and shaking it. ‘I’m glad we’re finally over that hurdle.’

  George moved to them. ‘I see you’ve finally mended your fences. Good.’ He spoke to Charles. ‘Adam is going to count. Stockton thinks, and he’s likely right, you would have an advantage if I do it.’

  Charles laughed. ‘Like the time you counted the number of trout you’d caught and were one off and I knew by the tone of your voice that you had exaggerated your catch.’

  ‘Something like that,’ George said ruefully.

  ‘You never did that,’ Adam said.

  George smiled. ‘I don’t remember, but Charles can’t be wrong.’

  ‘But right now,’ Charles said calmly, ‘we must get on with this show. Stockton is champing at the bit.’

  His opponent was pacing and slapping his hands against his thighs as though he was cold. Stockton’s second held the pistol box.

  Adam moved to a position in the center of the field. Charles followed and put his back to Stockton, who had also taken his position.

  ‘On my count of twenty, turn and fire.’ Adam’s voice was low and solemn.

  Charles didn’t bother to nod.

  ‘One…’

  Charles started pacing. He would aim for the ground at Stockton’s feet. That would ensure the bullet didn’t go astray and possibly hit someone else.

  ‘Twenty!’

  Charles turned, raised his arm and pulled the trigger. Two bangs drowned out the usual sounds of morning. A puff of dirt showed where the ball from Charles’s pistol lodged in the ground.

  Nearly simultaneously, a searing pain shot through Charles’s right shoulder. He staggered back, dropping his right arm and just barely managing to hold onto the pistol. His eyes widened in disbelief.

  ‘I’ve been hit.’

  George was at his side. ‘Let go of the pistol.’

  Charles looked at his brother and started laughing. ‘He hit me. The man considered to be the worst shot in London hit me. I wouldn’t believe it if I didn’t have this damnable pain in my shoulder.’

  The surgeon arrived. ‘Let’s get your shirt off.’

  Stockton stomped up, shoulders back, a smirk on his face. ‘That will teach you to dally with a young girl.’

  ‘You were lucky or I was unlucky,’ Charles said. ‘Nothing else.’

  ‘I was right.’ Stockton pivoted on the heel of his Hessian and strode to his carriage.

  Charles marvelled that the man could be such a pompous ass. It was even more amazing that he could be the brother of Emma and Amy Stockton. Amy might be a flighty chit, but she wasn’t pompous.

  And Emma…he wasn’t sure what Emma was really like. She was an enigma he suddenly realised he wanted to unravel.

  ‘Ouch!’ he said when the surgeon probed his shoulder.

  ‘Help us here, Charles.’ George tugged at his shirt. ‘You might think this is nothing, but you are bleeding a lot.’

  Charles gritted his teeth as his brother pulled the sleeve down his arm, making the material tear away from the wound. The hole was high enough up that it was difficult for him to see but he knew it wasn’t fatal.

  ‘It could have been worse,’ Charles said, shock finally entering his voice. ‘The shot was entirely luck, not something Stockton planned. He could have hit me in the head.’

  ‘That’s a novel way to look at it.’ Adam joined them. ‘Remind me to have you as my second the next time I fight a duel, Charles.’

  It was on the tip of Charles’s tongue to ask the man why he thought he would be his second then remembered his earlier realisation that he judged Adam harshly because he judged himself that way. Instead he said, ‘I’ll be glad to help out any time.’

  Adam smiled. ‘Thank you, old man. Now we must get you home and in bed.’

  ‘I think not. I am not about to be coddled because of this scratch.’ Stubbornness thinned his lips.

  The doctor snorted as he probed the wound deeper and Charles winced. ‘The ball is pretty deep. Do you want me to dig it out here or wait till we get you home?’

  Charles swallowed a groan. ‘This is damned inconvenient. At home.’

  ‘Duels often are.’ The doctor put a pad of linen on the wound. ‘Lift your arm so I can secure this.’

  Charles did as ordered and winced. ‘That hurts.’

  ‘Never said it wouldn’t.’

  ‘Are all surgeons like you? Taciturn?’

  The older man smiled for the first time. ‘Don’t know. I suspect the ones who attend duels are. It’s a stupid way to lose your life.’

  The man was right. He had been in one other duel and had winged his opponent. Now he knew how it felt.

  ‘I think it’s time we left,’ George said in the silence.

  Charles followed his brother and Adam to the carriage. He shook off George’s helping hand and climbed in, swallowing a groan of pain. The ride home was not going to be comfortable.

  Emma paced the parlour, her robe flaring as she made each pivot, waiting for Bertram to get home. She had lain awake all last night and had heard him leave several hours ago. It was still unfashionably early.

  She prayed her brother wasn’t hurt. All she had thought about was Bertram being injured. Belatedly, she thought about the possibility that Bertram might hurt Charles. Then she laughed, a tight, high sound that did nothing to lessen her tension. Bertram was a deplorable shot. There was no possibility of him hitting Charles Hawthorne.

  She heard the rumble of carriage wheels and rushed to the front door in time to see her brother jump down from a high-perch phaeton driven by one of his gambling cronies. Bertram laughed at something the other man said before coming toward the house.

  Relief flooded her. Bertram wasn’t hurt. She had fully expected him to be hurt in spite of what Charles Hawthorne had promised.

  Even as relief eased the tightness in her chest, she felt bad for doubting Charles. Just because his brother had treated her poorly and just because Charles himself was a rakehell, didn’t mean he didn’t honour his word. He had just proven it by not shooting Bertram. Shame at misjudging him brought the blood to her cheeks.

  ‘I shall see you this evening,’ Bertram said over his shoulder to the man driving.

  His voice yanked Emma from her uncomfortable thoughts and she stepped back into the shadows of the foyer, not wanting to be seen. The last thing she needed was for Bertram’s friend to notice her and say something to someone else. It was not done for a lady to know about what had just happened.

  Bertram whistled as he entered, stopping when he saw her. Belligerence flowed from him. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Waiting for you.’ She was glad he wasn’t wounded, and since he wasn’t, she allowed his attitude toward her to make her waspish. ‘I was worried. It seems my fears were groundless.’

  ‘Because you thought Charles Hawthorne was a better shot than me.’ His tone attacked her.

  Emma’s hackles rose. ‘Isn’t he?’

  ‘Not this morning.’ Smug satisfaction filled his voice. He smirked.

  Emma turned away, not wanting to fight. Exhaustion from no sleep and the
constant worry that had accompanied her knowing about the duel had eaten her energy. She had not waited for Bertram with the intent to argue with him.

  ‘I am glad you are unhurt,’ she said softly, wanting to leave it at that.

  ‘And that I am the better man.’

  She looked back at him. At one time she would have agreed with him, but she wasn’t sure now. Too many things had happened since Bertram had come to London and none of them had been expected.

  Her brother had an expectant look on his face, like someone with a secret he could barely keep. A secret that threatened to burst from him. She began to wonder what had happened.

  ‘What do you mean you are the better man?’ Apprehension tightened her throat.

  ‘I hit Charles Hawthorne in the shoulder.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Didn’t expect that, did you?’

  Fear for Charles followed closely on her surprise. ‘Is it a bad wound?’ she finally asked when she felt she had her voice under control and it would show none of her apprehension for the other man.

  He shrugged. ‘Don’t know. The surgeon was there and Charles Hawthorne was standing when I left.’

  ‘You left without knowing?’

  ‘It didn’t matter to me.’

  She looked at him, wondering when he had become so callous. ‘I see.’

  He stiffened as though he heard the disapproval in her voice. She was sorely disappointed in him.

  ‘Would you rather he had hit me?’ He pouted, his bottom lip as far out as a small boy might do, yet he was a man.

  She wondered when he had become so belligerent. ‘No. I am glad you are unharmed.’

  Better to leave it at that. But what about Charles? How badly hurt was he?

  ‘You don’t act like it.’ His mouth curled petulantly, much like Amy’s when she was feeling put upon.

  In a moment of spontaneous affection, she went to him and kissed him on the cheek. ‘I am very, very glad you are unhurt, Bertram. I was so worried for you that I didn’t sleep last night and got up right after you left. I paced the parlour until you got home.’

  Mollified, he smiled. ‘That is more like what a sister should feel.’

  ‘I do love you, Bertram.’ Silently she added I just don’t always like you and what you do. The same could be said of her feelings for Amy and Papa and Charles Hawthor— She caught herself. ‘I need to get some sleep.’

  He muttered something, but she moved quickly to the stairs. She needed a lot of rest. Exhaustion was the only reason she could think of for what she had just thought about Charles Hawthorne.

  But first she had to know. ‘Gordon,’ she called the butler as she made her way to the kitchen. He appeared in seconds. ‘Please send David to me.’

  The old servant eyed her with misgiving, but said nothing. He nodded and left.

  Emma entered the kitchen, knowing Bertram would never come here. She smiled at the cook. ‘A pot of hot chocolate, please.’

  The rotund woman who ran the kitchen like her personal fief smiled. ‘Yes, miss.’

  Emma sank onto a chair pulled up to the plank table. Hot chocolate and a message.

  David arrived minutes later.

  ‘David.’ She looked at him, noting his eye was still bruised from Stoner’s punch and the cut on his chin still red. ‘I want you to go to Charles Hawthorne’s home.’ Heat moved up her neck and settled in her cheeks. Like so many other things recently, this was completely unlike her. ‘Find out if he is… Find out how badly he is hurt.’ The words were out past the constriction in her throat.

  She needed to sleep. Exhaustion was the only explanation she could come up with for her concern.

  ‘Yes, miss.’

  ‘Now, please.’

  His eyebrows rose though he managed to keep the rest of his countenance impassive. He would make a good butler some day, she thought absently.

  ‘Yes, miss.’

  She drank down her hot chocolate and waited for his return. Then she would go to bed.

  Simultaneously, in another part of London, George Hawthorne said to his brother, ‘Drink this.’ He handed Charles a bottle of Scotch.

  Charles moved uncomfortably on the coverlet of his bed. Stoner stood at the foot watching impassively, but Charles saw the twitch in his servant’s jaw. Adam Glenfinning was gone, so that hopefully Juliet would be none the wiser.

  The surgeon stood patiently by, waiting for George to get the spirits down Charles. ‘When you’re ready, I’ll dig out that ball.’

  Charles scowled from one to the other. ‘George, why don’t you go home. I’m sure Rose is missing you.’ He hated for people to see him this weak.

  The surgeon dug in his bag and pulled out a pair of forceps. ‘Bring that brace of candles closer,’ he said to Stoner, who did as ordered.

  The alcohol started to take effect on Charles. ‘That makes me feel better.’ Sarcasm dripped from each word.

  ‘Angle the light to the right.’ The surgeon positioned himself so he was on the side of the bed closest to Charles’s wound.

  ‘Right, Guv’.’ Stoner shifted, keeping the candles so the wax wouldn’t drip on Charles’s bare skin.

  Banging started downstairs. Charles thought the noise came from the back door, but that was the least of his concerns. Adam started barking from his spot at the foot of the bed. The dog looked at the door to the chamber and back up at Charles, torn between whether to defend the home or stay and protect and support his master. His barks became whines of unease.

  ‘Pardon,’ Alphonse, the French chef, said as he eased quietly into the room.

  Charles groaned. ‘What is this? The King’s privy? Can’t I have some privacy while I’m being tortured?’

  George put a soothing hand on Charles’s unhurt shoulder. ‘Charles.’

  ‘Yes, I know.’ Charles sighed heavily. ‘What is it, Alphonse? I don’t care what you prepare for dinner tonight.’

  The surgeon tsked. ‘I can see you aren’t going to be one of my better patients. Be still.’ He doused the wound with the leftover Scotch.

  ‘Damnation!’ Charles gritted his teeth and kept from jumping out of the bed through sheer willpower.

  ‘Monsieur,’ Alphonse edged to the bed, careful not to get in anyone’s way. ‘There is a young man here. He says his name is David and he wants to know how you are.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘He is most persistent and will not leave until he learns.’

  ‘What?’ The effort to keep from shouting in pain made Charles’s voice flat. ‘I don’t think I heard right.’

  George glanced from Charles’s white face to the chef and back. Realisation dawned in George’s eyes. ‘It seems your opponent is more concerned about your condition than he let on.’

  Charles grunted as the surgeon dug in his skin for the ball. ‘Likely wants to know if he needs to flee to the Continent.’ He gasped and drew in a long breath which he let out in an equally long exhalation. ‘Tell him Stockton’s trip can be postponed. I am going to live.’

  ‘Yes, Monsieur.’ Alphonse slipped from the room as quietly as he had come.

  Adam settled back to faithfully watch everything being done to his idol. His tongue lolled and he finally lay down, careful to keep Charles in sight.

  The surgeon exclaimed in triumph, ‘Have it.’

  ‘Thank goodness,’ Charles said, exhaustion hitting him like a runaway carriage. He settled into rest when the man poured more Scotch on the wound. Charles jerked and looked at the surgeon. ‘Was that necessary?’

  ‘I don’t want to take chances, Mr Hawthorne. You just told the servant of the man who shot you that you weren’t going to die. You won’t from the actual shot, but you could if gangrene sets in. A precaution.’

  George smiled. ‘It seems that with care, Charles, you will live to duel again.’

  ‘Don’t intend to do that for a while,’ Charles grumbled. ‘Now can I rest?’

  A ripple of relieved laughter moved through the room. Adam jumped onto the bed.

&nb
sp; Charles eyed his canine admirer. ‘You have your own bed.’

  Adam’s brown eyes stared into Charles’s blue ones. The dog’s tongue lolled out into a canine grin. He circled twice and plopped down at the foot of the mattress, his head facing Charles.

  ‘I believe he intends to keep you company,’ George said, humour in his voice.

  Charles grunted and let his eyes close. He needed rest. Exhaustion was the reason he had hoped the Stockton servant had been sent by Emma. For a moment, he had thought she was concerned about him. Stupid. All she cared about was her precious brother.

  He dropped into slumber.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The news reached Emma the next day. That afternoon she sat in her parlour with a smile frozen on her face as her unwelcome guest, Mrs Kennilworth, regaled her with Bertram’s exploits the night after the duel.

  ‘I must tell you, Miss Stockton, that I seriously considered letting Stephen approach your father for Miss Amy’s hand.’ She shook her head and tsked. ‘I can no longer, in my capacity as a mother, allow that.’

  Emma nodded and wondered if Mr Kennilworth, over on a corner sofa with Amy, was any more entertaining than his mother. From the look on her sister’s face, she doubted it.

  She smiled politely. ‘I am sure Mr Kennilworth understands your reservations.’

  ‘He most assuredly does.’ The Dowager Kennilworth made a moue of distaste. ‘He is the one who told me. But I am sure you already know.’

  The look on the Dowager’s face told Emma she didn’t want to know whatever Mrs Kennilworth hinted at. Undoubtedly, it was about Bertram. Or the duel. Both were subjects she dreaded. And Mrs Kennilworth had already been the bearer of more bad news than Emma wanted in a lifetime.

  Thank goodness David had brought word immediately that Charles Hawthorne was doing well, or she would be worried that Mrs Kennilworth’s news would include Charles. Much as the man irritated her, she found herself thinking and worrying about him. But there was nothing she could do. What a conundrum.