Dangerous to Know

by Christina Boyd (ed)

  Robard did not comprehend me, but he was as near an idiot as anyone whose society I would willingly bear. He had leg-shackled himself at an early age, but the girl had gone and died in childbed, taking his heart with her. Ever the fool, he had recently succumbed to a betrothal with another enchantress in muslin but at least he did not proclaim he loved her. I shook my head at him even as he stood agape considering my words.

  We had arrived by then, so I turned my attention away from Robard to behold my challenger, Mr. Peter Carver. I had been at school with him from an early age, lads of only eight or nine, and we became fast friends after taking a whipping together for some bit of mischief I cannot now recall. Back then, I much admired him for his ability to take his stripes with nary a shout, nary a tear, no matter how hard our headmaster whipped his young rump. I was far more tender in those days and scarcely outlasted the first lick.

  Alas, Carver was not as unaffected now as he was then. He had awaited me by stamping about, muttering and cursing and shaking. From his rumpled coat and unshaven cheeks, I surmised that he had not seen his bed the night prior. Gad! Did he wish to be killed then? A night of spirits and venting the spleen did nothing for success on the field of honour. I offered him a bow, but he only sneered contempt at me in return. Robard and Carver’s second, a man called Langley, were far more civilised, bowing and nodding.

  The surgeon was nervous, perspiring despite the morning chill. He stammered about, weakly insisting that an apology be offered. Naturally, I refused, which made my challenger scowl at me and mutter rude insults, defaming my character in an egregious and incorrect manner.

  “Do you deny,” said Carver, “that you were the instrument of the ruination of an innocent soul?”

  “I suppose that would depend on your idea of what ruination is,” I replied calmly.

  His face became an alarming shade of purple, and he leant forward, attempting to give me a sharp poke in the chest. One step back was all that was needed to avoid his advance. He stumbled forward. “She was in your bed!”

  “I cannot deny it.”

  “She had not known a man before!”

  “No.” I agreed. “That she had not.”

  “You have stolen what was rightly mine,” he bellowed suddenly, his fetid morning breath, soured by drink, washing over my face. “You are the lowest of thieves, seducers, and rakes! I demand your sworn apology, else you must face the consequences.”

  “Consequences it is then for I shall never apologise for my assistance to you.”

  “Assistance?” he scoffed meanly. “Seems to me you assisted only one in this matter, and it was not me. The pistols then!”

  The pistols were presented to us in their open case. Robard and my friend’s second both examined them carefully, and Robard observed they had been made by Manton. I admired the fine English walnut on the stocks, as well as the excellent balance, when I held one in my hand. Very fine indeed.

  “Shall it be first blood, until one cannot stand, or death then?” I inquired in what I felt to be a very reasonable tone. I had no wish to kill the wretched fool—he was my friend after all—but it was to him to decide.

  “Death!” he shot back immediately.

  I stood regarding him with some impatience. He was my inferior with a pistol on the best of days. Certainly, on this day, lacking the advantages of rest, sobriety, and even temper, I would fell him immediately. I had no wish to do that but knew it as true.

  “I should think first blood will answer.”

  “Never,” he growled.

  “Peter, you know you cannot win and I despise the notion of killing you.”

  “It is on that point that we differ,” he said. “For I wish most ardently to kill you, and in as painful a way as possible.”

  His arm jerked mightily, raising up; he seemed as surprised as I was to find himself pointing his gun at my chest. Robard and Langley gasped and lunged toward him. I held up my hand to forestall their intervention.

  “That, sir, does not answer to the strictures of a gentlemanly duel,” I said softly. “To shoot me in that way is only murder. Put the gun down until the proper signal is given.”

  Carver glared at me but did not do as I bid. “I knew you admired her.”

  “She is a vastly handsome girl.”

  “I should have strung you up by the bollocks when I saw you looking at her!”

  “No man can be offended by another man’s admiration of the woman he loves,” I said in sedate tones. “It is only the woman who can make it a torment. See here old friend; it is not I who has offended you but she, the one who claimed to love you.”

  “You too claimed to be my friend—since we were in leading strings!”

  “And I am your friend still.”

  “No friend of mine would do such a thing.”

  “I think once you know why I did it, you will thank me.”

  His laugh, a sad, deranged cackle, filled the air. “Thank you? Never.”

  “Not even if I saved you from your own grievous error?”

  He stared at me, dumbfounded.

  “No matter how I admired her, a simple refusal would have put me off. She did not refuse, Peter.”

  “She said you forced her.”

  “I have never forced a woman, nor would I. Not once did she say no. Not once did she indicate reluctance.”

  Slowly, inch by inch, the gun moved down by his side.

  “You should not have attempted to seduce her,” he said. “Women are weak creatures! They lack the fortitude to—”

  My laughter shocked us both. “A lady is not brawny, that is true. They cannot run so fast nor walk so far as a man, nor can they lift or throw or heave; but, they have fortitude enough to break us, my man. That they surely do.”

  He did not argue; indeed, he could not. I saw by his looks that he attempted to summon his rage but could not. Confusion and sorrow would overcome whatever shards of ire remained in him.

  “I did not seduce her for my benefit,” I told him. “I shall never deny I had my pleasure in her—she is, indeed, a charming, little piece and I regret you do not know it for yourself—but there are women in abundance in Bath and London and nearly everywhere else I go. I am a handsome fellow with a good figure and an ample fortune—I do not require your woman or anyone else’s, I assure you.”

  I turned then, motioning to Robard who looked puzzled. He held the gun case, and I motioned him towards me. I opened the case and replaced my pistol within; then, I turned back to my friend, spreading my arms wide and presenting him with an easy shot at my chest.

  “Shoot me if you like,” I declared. “But if you would rather know the favour I have done you, come let us go have some breakfast, and I shall tell you a little tale.”

  * * *

  We went to the house where a most obliging young lady friend of mine stayed. I urged her to remain abed—it was, after all, many hours until the time when she customarily emerged from her chambers—and bid her housekeeper to serve us our repast.

  Carver moved slowly, the pain of confusion, exhaustion, and misery turning his steps into shuffles. Langley and Robard much preferred this plan over the other, so they helped poke and prod him along. The coffee was hot and strong, and the eggs and sausages which soon arrived at the table were plentiful. Once all were served, I dismissed the footman.

  The gentlemen settled in with expectant looks on their faces, and I knew it was time to reveal that which I had never wished to tell: the time I was played for a fool.

  “I was full young and excessively green,” I said. “And it is these faults only that I will attribute to myself for otherwise my conduct in the matter was unimpeachable.

  “I was fresh from the university and wholly expecting that the ton had never seen a gentleman so splendid as me. I arrived at Almack’s that night sure I should have the hand of any lady I wished and for two hours, at least, so it was. I was careful in who I asked to dance; for me, a lady had to be no less than a diamond of the first water, with a fo
rtune that complemented my own.

  “I enjoyed myself very well that night. The ladies were plentiful and gracious, and I enjoyed them all, none more than any other of course—until I saw her.”

  “Her?” asked Langley

  “A lady I knew only because her family is connected to Baron Scrope of Masham—”

  A rumble went around the table. The Scrope family was a splendid, old family which had grown rather infamous for their ability to take a fortune and turn it into debt.

  “And though she had a small fortune, it was not enough to make her significant. Indeed, I know not, in retrospect, how she might have obtained her voucher.”

  “Who told you so?” Robard was curious.

  “Oh, I cannot recall who I was with.” I gave a careless wave of my hand. “You know how it is at Almack’s. Everyone knows everything about anyone who is there and what they do not know, they soon discover. In any case, I was not thinking of anything more than a dance, so it hardly signified.

  “She was eighteen, newly out and as fresh and beautiful as ever there was. She had one dimple, just one, on her right cheek—that dimple cost me many a night’s sleep back then, just thinking of touching it with my lips. However, more so than her beauty, it was her wit, her charm which beguiled me.

  “She was not like the other girls I danced with that night. We began as these things often do—was I often at Almack’s, who were her family, who were my friends, how did we find London—but somehow, very easily, it became a conversation of actual consequence. I found myself, in a manner most extraordinary, telling her of my hopes, my plans, and my wishes.

  “It ended all too soon, and I escorted her to her chaperons feeling as though I had entered some fantastical fog or had indulged in spirits.”

  The men assembled around the table plainly found this shocking. More than one stared in disbelief while Langley was frankly dubious.

  “Perhaps you had,” he suggested. “You would not be the first man to confuse drunkenness with love.”

  “I had not had so much as a glass of wine,” I retorted. “My mind was untouched, I assure you. The confusion of which I speak was the product of my heart’s desires flooding my senses, nothing more.

  “Who I danced with the rest of the evening, I could not say. No one of note, not to me in any case. I went to bed that night thinking of her, and my dreams were filled with her. I persuaded myself not to call the next day, and I adhered to my own directive for almost an hour. It would not do, I had to see her.

  “I dressed with almost absurd care and nearly drove my man to distraction in my demands over my hair. I was anxious and indifferent in turns—by this time, I had convinced myself that what happened the night before was some strange malady. I was certain I would realise my memory had deceived me, that she would not be so beautiful, nor so charming, nor so witty. Thus, I would be released from the spell I had fallen under.”

  I paused then, taking a deep swallow of my rapidly cooling coffee. “I was most incorrect in that notion, my friends.”

  Carver had mostly remained silent through the recitation, but now he spoke. “She was everything you remembered?”

  I shook my head. “More. More lovely, more witty, more kind. I stayed far, far too long that day, the half-hour melting into an hour, two hours, maybe more, I cannot say. We spoke of everything and anything, and when at last I took my leave, I knew I had met my wife.”

  “You proposed?” The gentlemen seemed to all exclaim at once.

  “Of course not. I was not so affected that I would declare myself after one dance and one call. But I resolved to know more of her, to spend time paying court to her. The days that followed…”

  For several blissful moments, I permitted myself to slip into the recollection of those wondrous times. Perfect days in Hyde Park, sublime evenings at the various parties and balls… Ah, it was young love, and it was indeed all that it should have been. I loved her with all that I was, and I felt it given back to me in full. Was there anything better?

  I shook my head to return to the present. “It came to the point where I could hardly bear to restrain my declaration a moment more. She was already mine in my heart, and the words which would seal my fate had begun to dance upon my lips every time I saw her. But, as all young lovers must, we had obstacles.”

  “Your father,” said Carver. He had known my family too well for too long.

  “My father thought the very notion preposterous. Marriage, as you know, was a business to him.”

  “Your parents’ match was a celebrated one?” asked Langley.

  “Not at all,” I said. “Many thought my mother had married beneath her. She had wealth, and he had military distinction, but her people did not think it enough. Her marriage to a viscount was arranged and my father stole her away. I believe they were once very much in love, or perhaps it was lust, but by the time I understood about such things, it had cooled to contemptuous co-existence. My mother had many friends who would visit her—so many, it seemed she did no more but to shoo me away, or ask me to find this or that for her.”

  My ramblings had taken me a bit afield here, and I collected myself a bit. “So, my father understood what it was to suffer a woman’s neglect and it changed him. His foolishness became cynicism.

  “There was much more at stake, of course, than only my heart. My father’s rise to general was swift, and he was certain I would do the same, particularly in these difficult war times. I am sure he wished to see me distinguish myself through some act of valour, not sit in my bunk repining the wife and the life I left behind.”

  “Most acts of valour,” said Langley, “are enacted by those who care not if they survive their missions.”

  “Quite so,” Robard agreed. “England is a jealous mistress. She has no time for men with their minds on their hearths and homes.”

  I nodded, swallowed another mouthful of now-cold coffee. The bitterness trailed down my throat, but it was nothing to the bitter gall of my memories. “The general hated the very idea of me being in love, and he was sure that the disinterest and despair that he had known would be sure to follow. He could not allow it.

  “Had he railed at me, had he threatened to disown me or take my fortune, I would likely have married her on the spot. Instead, he approached me with calm logic and the idea for a little experiment.”

  “An experiment?”

  “A test,” said I, “of my lady’s fidelity. We were, of course, quite young—I had only reached my majority the year prior, and she was scarcely out. The engagement would be long, in any case, particularly as I was required to be away for a time with my regiment.”

  The looks around the table changed. It was not such an uncommon story after all although the twist I would add to it made it rather strange. The gentlemen hung on my every word. Likely they had some horrified suspicion of what I would say.

  “He would make an attempt on her,” I said quietly. “To see what she did. If she loved me, then she would turn away from him, likely in disgust. But if it was mere fortune she was after then one Tilney should do as well as the next.”

  The men were astonished. “But…your father?” was Langley’s weak protest.

  “Many think my father looks young enough to be my brother,” I informed them. “In any case, he may be past the bloom, but he is not past the vigour of life. He did not ruin her, he could not sink that low, but his actions resulted in her family packing her away from London for a time. Last I heard she was married to a parson in Norwich.”

  “Forgive me for so saying,” Robard declared, “but this is quite beyond anything. Surely your father is not lost to every paternal obligation! This is extraordinary behaviour.”

  “I shall admit to my outrage,” I said. “But I soon realised he did me a service. We could not have been happy, she and I. I would have ended as he did, an angry and suspicious man shackled to misery until either she died or I did. It is a fate I am glad I escaped.”

  Carver had turned to look out the window. N
o doubt my story was resting heavy in his chest.

  I cleared my throat. “That is not to say I did not receive some misery. I have known humiliation and sorrow, and yes, the sort of anger that burns like a hot stone in your gut. But from this, I learnt to hold my heart proud.

  “So, I vowed thenceforth that no man should suffer this fate,” I told them. “I congratulate myself that I have become adept at finding the weak in character, the ones who are determined flirts who wish to make fools of their husbands and fathers. It is my calling, you might say, to bring about what would surely happen in the years to come, and to induce its occurrence before it is too late.”

  I pointed my fork at my friend Carver. “As I did for you. Are you not relieved in some small way to know now that she is faithless, now when you might extricate yourself, rather than discover her infidelity when you are married?”

  “Just one moment if you please,” Robard interrupted. “You mean to tell me you seduced Carver’s lady with intention?”

  “Aye.”

  They all began then to toss their questions at me.

  “So, you were not merely caught up in the delights of seduction?”

  “Certainly not,” I replied. “Seducing a virgin is a tricky business. Had I only wished for a bit of carnal relief, I might have dropped a few shillings at a brothel and been on my way within the hour.”

  “But you were engaged by her charms?”

  I shrugged. “I can go for a walk and see ten more just like her. She is lovely and enchanting, of course, but not so far out of the common way as to make me lose my senses.”

  “You set out then,” said Robard, “with the express purpose of testing her?”

  I nodded very slowly.

  “And she failed.” This conclusion, given in dispirited accents, was made by Carver. The truth was in him now, and he could not deny it. His lover was faithless and untrue, and he was much better off without her. “She failed your little test.”