The occupant of the carriage thumped with his cane on the roof, indicating to the driver to drive on. As the carriage rumbled down the road, the occupant slipped a thin gold ring onto the fourth finger of Fenella’s left hand, covered her with the cloak again and sat back with a satisfied smirk on his face.
* * * *
It was quite by chance that Devlin glanced out of his bedroom window just as he was preparing to retire, and saw the dark form running for the woods. From the flowing drapery of the costume, he instantly surmised it was a woman.
“The hussy!” he hissed through clenched teeth. “It can only be her. Too afraid to meet him in the house, I suppose.”
This was too much. A potential scandal was brewing and he was going to stop it. He quickly made his way out the house and after the fleeing figure, pausing only to shrug on a coat and discard his evening shoes for sturdier footwear. He kept the figure in sight most of the way, but a chance misstep caused him to stumble and he lost precious seconds. When he managed to get down the path to the folly, it was deserted. He looked around. Where could they have gone? It was impossible to escape so soon. Then a faint rumbling of carriage wheels gave him the answer: they were driving off somewhere. Cursing, he made his way back to the house, changed his evening clothes for riding attire and strode to the stables. He saddled a surprised and sleepy Lucifer and disappeared into the night with a thunderous drumming of hooves.
Finch, asleep in his quarters above the stables, woke with a start. Lucifer’s neigh was unmistakable. Had someone stolen the beast? Then he remembered with a wry smile that only one man could be riding Lucifer tonight. He wondered where the Duke would be going at thirty minutes past one in the morning. He yawned, scratched his head and began to dress. When the summons came, he preferred to be fully clothed.
* * * *
Fenella opened her eyes. She was lying on a sofa in an unfamiliar room. She blinked, rubbed her eyes and tried to sit up. Immediately a thudding began in her head; she remembered the blow to her skull and nothing more.
“Ah, awake at last?” The voice was familiar. The figure standing by the fire turned round.
“Sir Marcus?” she croaked. “What are you …or I should say, what am I doing here?”
He swiftly crossed the room and sat down next to her. Fenella cast him a suspicious glance and shrank back.
“What on earth is going on? I demand to know what I am doing in this strange place.”
“Hush, my dear,” he soothed her, placing a finger across her mouth. She slapped his hand away and tried to rise. As she swung her legs to the floor, a wave of dizziness overtook her and she fell back against the cushions.
He tutted in sympathy. “I knew he shouldn’t have hit you so hard.”
“This is all your doing?” Fenella was aghast. “Why have you brought me here? What do you want?”
Sir Marcus regarded her with a steady gaze. “I should have thought it was clear by now, my dear Miss Preston, or should I say Hawke?”
Realization dawned in Fenella’s face. “It was you!” she sputtered. She jerked up in anger. “You wrote the note to lure me out the house and into the clutches of that creature.”
Sir Marcus looked shame-faced. “Yes, I confess, not the actions of a gentleman but I had no option.”
“What do you want from me?” Fenella demanded. “I have no money and no knowledge of any family wealth, apart from my mother’s few pieces, which are not of any great value. So, if some kind of pecuniary gain is your motive, you have been sadly misinformed.”
His glass-green cat’s eyes gazed back at her.
“I want to marry you, my dear,” he replied. “Is it not clear to you?”
“But why kidnap me?” she burst out. “What kind of courtship is this? What —”
There was a sound at the door and he hastily pushed her back against the cushions, placing a hand over her mouth.
“Be silent, Miss Preston. For your sake, you have a ring on your finger. Do not let there be a breath of suspicion. I have told these good people that owing to your illness we have had to break our journey unexpectedly.”
Fenella lay back on the cushions and closed her eyes. Her head thumped. What a tangle. How could she escape this terrible predicament?
A stout female tiptoed into the room bearing a tray. Delicious smells wafted from the covered dishes.
“Oh dear, Sir,” the woman giggled apologetically. “I’m so sorry we ’ave only last night’s chicken pie, and a bit o’ tasty ’am, and some fruit and wine for supper.”
Fenella squeezed her eyes shut. She would not let anyone see her anguish.
“Thank you, Mrs. Priddy,” replied Sir Marcus. “That will do very well indeed. We’ll be on our way as early as possible in the morning.”
“I’ve made up the room, Sir, and you can retire when you’re ready.”
Sir Marcus murmured his thanks and escorted her out.
As soon as the door closed behind the plump form, Fenella’s eyes flew open and she opened her mouth for another angry question. Sir Marcus quickly placed his hand over her mouth again and jerked his head at the door. There was silence and then slow creaks up the staircase indicating that the lady of the house was retiring for the night.
“Will you please explain yourself, Sir Marcus?” Fenella demanded. “Where am I and what are your intentions?”
Sir Marcus favoured her with an indulgent smile and poured out two glasses of wine. When she angrily waved it away, he set the glass down on the table and said, “It would be better for you to be more accepting of the situation since you don’t have much else in the way of options.”
“But where am I, and what is going on?” she cried.
“We’re at the Pig and Whistle, just outside the village of Wyndlesham, and I have introduced you to the landlord and his good lady as my wife.”
Fenella’s eyes flew wide open and she sat bolt upright.
“Wife?” She choked on the word.
“Indeed. I’m perfectly serious about marrying you.”
“Well, I regret to tell you that I am not inclined to marry you!” Fenella spat the words at him in rage.
He nodded. “Yes I know but surely you must see, my dear, your case is hopeless. Deverell will marry Lady Vane, despite how you feel about him, and I fear he will not come to rescue you because he thinks you and I are lovers.”
She stared at him, white-faced and aghast. As Sir Marcus outlined the details of Lady Vane’s plot, she sank back against the cushions and closed her eyes. Tears seeped from beneath her lashes. It was all clear to her now how Devlin had mistaken her words and how she, in her pride and anger, had mistaken his.
“Don’t cry.” Sir Marcus’ words broke into her daze. “I’m eager to marry you.”
She opened her eyes. “Even if I don’t love you?”
“I know you don’t love me; you love Deverell, who is blind and stupid a man as ever I have met. But you will grow to love me.”
“You cannot marry me.” An idea came to her. “My father is a suicide. The disgrace would be too terrible,” she declared.
Sir Marcus gave a shout of laughter. “My dear young lady, after what I am supposed to have done, your father would appear as a plaster saint.”
“Why did you lure me to the folly with the letter about my family?”
Sir Marcus bowed his head. “I confess again …not a gentlemanly thing to do.”
“Do you know anything about my family?” Her voice was eager, brimming with hope.
“No, alas,” he replied. “I probably know nothing more than you do and my information was gleamed merely from military records.”
“So?” Her gaze was steady and accusing.
“I wrote the letter because I knew that information about your family was possibly the only thing to draw you out.” He sighed. “It was cruel and selfish and I am sorry.”
“But if I refuse to marry you, are you going to ravish me and destroy my reputation?” she demanded, folding her arms and g
laring at him.
“No, I’m not in the habit of ravishing unwilling ladies, as I told you once before. Besides, I have too much respect for you. I put a ring on your finger tonight to save you the shame of arriving here unattended by an abigail. I told the Priddys that our luggage and your attendant have been delayed by a broken wheel on the carriage.”
“So what is the reason for this charade then?”
“One night with me and you will be obliged to marry me,” he replied.
“How is this so?” she demanded. “You have just said you have no intention of forcing yourself upon me.”
“I don’t have to,” he said simply. “It’s not what I do that matters; it’s what people will think we have done that matters.”
He patted her shoulder. “You will be happy with me, my dear, and we need not live in England. I have money enough for us to live abroad in comfort and you will forget him, I promise.”
He stood up and took the candlestick from where Mrs. Priddy had thoughtfully placed it. “I think a night’s rest will help you see things in a clearer light in the morning.”
He motioned for her to precede him out the room. They went up the stairs to a small, but comfortable bedroom. At the door she turned.
“Do you intend to sleep here tonight as well?”
He tapped her chin playfully as he handed her the candle.
“Certainly not! It would not be fitting. You may sleep safe from my advances. However, I must turn the key on you tonight. I cannot have you running away.”
He pushed her gently into the room, locked the door and placed the key in his pocket. Humming softly to himself, he returned to the parlour and made up a comfortable bed with sofa cushions.
* * * *
A few minutes later, there was a loud thumping at the front door.
“It’s you, Yer Grace!” gasped Mr. Josiah Priddy, the proprietor, peering into the darkness and clasping his nightshirt around his plump knees. “Oi was sayin’ to the missus how it’s uncommon strange to hear a bangin’ at the door this time o’night.”
He bowed the irate Duke into the hallway as a gust of chilly wind blew out the feeble candle.
“Oh! Oh! Sir, now where’s the tinderbox.” He peered up the stairs and bellowed, “Missus Priddy? It’s ’is Grace. Ye’d better coom down.”
A faint screech and pattering of feet indicated that his lady wife was roused and on her way at a gallop. A glimmer of light appeared at the top of the stairs.
Devlin pushed past the stout innkeeper. “Never mind, Priddy. I have business with one of your guests.”
As Mr. Priddy caught sight of a long bundle under Devlin’s arm, he burst out, “Say there won’t be trouble now, Sir! Not in this ’ouse, please, Yer Grace. The authorities will be down ’ere in a flash if they get wind o’ duelin’.”
He sank onto his knees, his several chins quivering in agitation, and such a look of distress on his jowly countenance that Devlin suppressed a smile.
“Priddy,” he ordered, “get back to bed. This is none of your business. There’ll be no trouble and if you don’t tell the authorities, I won’t either.”
Devlin’s black humour was lost upon the doleful innkeeper. Muttering sadly under his breath, Priddy trod up the staircase where his plump spouse met him halfway on the downward. A faint muttering and muffled shriek ensued; then two pairs of heavy steps faded away.
Devlin smiled—an unpleasant tightening of his lips—and pushed open the parlour door.
Chapter Eighteen
Sir Marcus was standing with his back to the door, facing the fireplace as Devlin entered the room. He turned to greet the intruder.
“Ah, Deverell,” he nodded in acknowledgement. “I’m surprised to see you here.”
Devlin merely flung the long bundle onto the table. It landed with a metallic clatter. Sir Marcus flinched and put up his quizzing glass to observe the bundle.
“Dear me, no,” he sighed, affecting incredulity. “Don’t tell me you are going to call me out? How positively Gothic.”
Although Sir Marcus could hold his own and had frequently done so when sending an irate husband packing with honour satisfied, he was no match for the Duke. Devlin, like most London gentlemen of the age, regularly honed his skills with the sword at the prestigious Angelo’s Fencing Academy in the Haymarket. His proficiency was legendary.
“Yes, I am.” Devlin’s reply was brusque.
“Why on earth would you want to do that, my dear fellow?” murmured Sir Marcus.
“You have insulted me, my home, my mother and my family honour in your rampant and unbridled pursuit of a lady under my roof!” Devlin roared. “I know Fenella Preston is here.”
“Think, Deverell.” Sir Marcus’ voice was urgent with reason. “You are engaged to the lovely Penelope. Why on earth do you want to bother with an unimportant girl like Miss Preston?”
“Why do you want to bother with her if she is so unimportant?” Devlin’s question was pointed in return.
“Because I can. She is nothing to you, and can never be, whereas I—” He gave a harsh laugh. “I am so low, it would appear, that it matters not whom I take to wife.”
“Wife?” Devlin’s lips tightened. “You want to marry her?”
“Yes, of course I want to marry her!” Sir Marcus snapped. “Just because you think me lower than a snake’s belly doesn’t mean I cannot recognise quality when I see it. I’m not as fussy as you are in seeking the social acme when it comes to a bride, but I need not have one from the gutter. Even though that is your opinion.”
He glared at Devlin. Two pairs of eyes locked; emerald met sapphire in a gaze that spelled clearly there was no going back. The die was cast.
“You have no right to challenge me,” Sir Marcus said quietly, “since you have absolutely no claim to the lady yourself.”
Devlin knew Sir Marcus was correct and he hated his rival for telling him what he already knew.
Sir Marcus folded his arms. “You cannot call me out. There is no reason. I have not wronged you personally.”
“I can and will. I challenge you,” was Devlin’s retort.
“You cannot make me.” Sir Marcus stared coolly at Devlin, contempt curling his lip. “By God, but you’re a selfish brute. What would you say if I told you the lady came willingly?”
Devlin turned his head and shot an upward glance at the faint thudding noises coming from the room overhead. He gave a sardonic grin.
“I’d say you had a reluctant bride!”
Sir Marcus took a step forward, his pride wounded. His patience snapped. “You scoundrel. I’ll have your blood for that.”
“Finally I get the yes I’ve been waiting for.” Devlin showed his teeth as he yanked the cloak away from the weapons lying on the table.
Both men divested themselves of their coats and boots and tucked up their shirtsleeves. Devlin selected a blade from the two and swished it through the air. The hissing sound was unpleasant and Sir Marcus recoiled instinctively. They moved the furniture out of the way to the sides of the room. Once ready and armed, the opponents faced each other with an air of grim determination. After the briefest exchange of salutes, the duel began
“En garde!” Devlin lunged forward.
The two blades met with a venomous scraping sound as the first thrusts were exchanged. The combatants were caught up in the heat of their rage. Reason fled as both men pursued their goals in a mood of recklessness laced with resentment.
Devlin dispensed with caution and drove his opponent hard with stylish brilliance, executing his thrusts with strong and cunning wrist play. Sir Marcus, a more prudent adversary, fell back under the force of Devlin’s assault. He lacked Devlin’s flourish and boldness of attack, but defended himself well. For a while, the only sounds were the rasping of the blades, the pad of stockinged feet and the panting of the men, one driving with fierce passion, the other hard-pressed. Sweat rolled down their faces but neither dared lose precious moments by lifting a sleeve to wipe away the drops
.
The sound of banging from the upstairs room continued. Sir Marcus, briefly distracted, lost his concentration. His guard wavered and in a split second, Devlin’s blade flashed through, driven by the whole force of his arm. The stinging metal shaft ripped into Sir Marcus’ arm at the shoulder.
“Damn, you have me, Sir!” Sir Marcus cursed and fell back against the table. He dropped his sword and collapsed. “I hope you’re satisfied.”
“Don’t speak,” rasped Devlin, catching his opponent before he hit the floor. He laid his injured rival on the sofa and ripped the sleeve away from the wound. He tore the fabric into long strips and bound the wound tightly.
“Neatly pinked, and by God you gave me a good fight,” he panted.
Sir Marcus closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. “I am glad to have given satisfaction, Your Grace.” Beads of sweat glistened on his forehead.
Devlin poured some brandy into a glass and held it to Sir Marcus’ lips. “Drink!”
Sir Marcus swallowed the amber liquid and then opened his eyes. “This has come to a pretty pass. I don’t want any trouble.” He rolled his eyes upward to indicate the upstairs room.
Before Devlin could answer, Mr. Priddy burst into the parlour, glanced at the supine and extremely pale gentleman on the sofa and broke out into loud moans of anguish.
“Lord have mercy, Your Grace, you’ve killed the gentleman. Look at ’im lyin’ there, dead as a doornail!”
“Stop your gabbling, you fool!” snapped the supposedly deceased man. “I am very much alive and if your wife has any knowledge of nursing, I would be glad of her services.”
“But a duel and a man wounded?” gasped Mr. Priddy. He paled at the thought of possible legal consequences. “What if there’s to be questions asked?”
“There’ll be no questions asked at the Pig and Whistle,” announced Mrs. Priddy, sailing into the parlour, armed with a basket containing rolls of bandages and bottles of ointment. “It’s as plain as a pikestaff that these two gentlemen were ’avin a friendly bit o’ sword practice and what with one thing and another, and too much drink …” Her voice tailed off as she cast a stern glance at the brandy bottle Devlin still held. He quickly placed it on the table behind him. “It’s not surprising the one gentleman has pinked the other.” She set down the basket and shooed her protesting spouse out the parlour.
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