“Do you want to offer to pardon the blighter if he tenders an apology?” the lieutenant whispered in the vicar’s ear.
“No,” Robert replied. “It’s too late for that. It ends right here right now, however it must. Not only over my grievance, but for Simon as well.”
“Not exactly in character, are you now?” the lieutenant remarked.
“It isn’t the first time I’ve strayed afield of character where Simon was concerned,” said Robert. He ripped off his clerical collar and thrust it out. “Please God, it’s the last.”
“Look sharp,” the lieutenant warned, tucking the collar inside his waistcoat. “Rumor has it that Marner’s a backstabbing coward in a duel. Just because he’s engaged in a gentlemanly tradition doesn’t mean he’s going to behave like one. Watch your back!”
“That’s no rumor, ’tis fact,” Robert admitted. “Don’t worry, I’ll be careful.”
“Lige!” the lieutenant barked, nodding toward the referee. Set in motion, the man took two whittled stakes from the table. Stepping forward, he handed one to Lieutenant Ridgeway, and the other to Chester Hyde.
“Advance five paces, gentlemen, and drive in your stakes,” the referee charged the seconds.
Both men paced off the distance, drove the stakes into the ground, and returned to the table where Rupert and the vicar waited.
“Choose your weapon,” the referee said to Rupert, nodding to the pistol case.
Rupert examined each gun carefully again, hefting them in his hand, and finally made a choice. Robert took up the other. Then they both consigned their weapons to their seconds for loading.
The vicar watched Ridgeway ram the pistol ball into his gun with accomplished skill. Hyde, on the other hand, trembling hopelessly, dropped the ball twice, and had to search for it, groping the mist on his knees, whining all the while over the grass stains his pantaloons suffered on the wet Promenade lawn.
Rupert’s impatience was painfully obvious; Robert monitored his nervous dance over Hyde’s search for the pistol ball with not a little amusement. When their eyes met, Rupert’s dark glower spoke volumes. But Robert met that scathing look coolly, and when at last Ridgeway put the loaded pistol in his hand, he held it steady with unprecedented calm.
“Backs to the stakes,” the referee barked. “Pistols raised! The duel will begin at thirty paces. You will each take ten paces and turn. Then, when I give the signal, you will advance and fire at will any time before you reach the barrier stakes—”
“Yes, yes, let us get on with it! We know what we’re about,” Rupert cut in tersely.
“If you know what you’re about, gov’nor, then you know it is my duty to present the rules, sir, so that there be no question afterward,” the referee responded.
“Get on with it, then, you nodcock!”
“If there is a miss,” the referee continued, “the opponent will not move, and the first shooter will allow the same distance for return fire. Pistols must be discharged in the direction of the opponent. If neither shooter hits, you will begin again. Is that clear, gentlemen?”
“Yes—yes—yes!” Rupert intoned.
“Then, gentlemen, take your places at the barrier stakes, and at my sign you will each advance ten paces, turn, and await my signal to cock your pistols and begin.”
Rupert and the vicar responded, standing with their backs to the stakes, pistols upright, and waited.
Robert caught Ridgeway’s narrow-eyed stare evaluating the entire circumstance, and when the lieutenant moved his coat aside, exposing a compact little pocket pistol concealed there, he swallowed dry. So, there was a backup. Ridgeway didn’t trust Marner any more than he did. The pocket pistol was a comforting sight; as was the nod the lieutenant gave him. Robert wasn’t in the least concerned over his shooting skills. Treachery was the only aspect of the duel that troubled him. After hearing Simon’s account of Rupert, the last thing he wanted to do was turn his back on the man—even if it was only for the space of ten steps.
“Advance ten paces, turn, and wait for my signal to begin,” the referee shouted, jarring him back to the present.
Footfalls crunching along the dew-drenched Promenade were the only sounds. The referee hadn’t given the command to cock pistols, but Robert’s thumb inched along the hammer in anticipation nonetheless. He had paced off, and was about to turn, when two shots rang out almost simultaneously, fracturing the stillness. In the same instant as he fell, from the corner of his eye he caught the blur of the lieutenant’s arm drawing back his fired pistol. Just before his starred vision shut out light and consciousness, he watched at an angle through the wet grass spears against his face, the blurred image of Viscount Chester Hyde running away on spindly legs. With his coattails streaming behind him, the garish little fop disappeared into the crowd of spectators that the lieutenant’s comrades could no longer keep at bay. Oddly, until that moment, Robert’s focus had been such that he hadn’t even noticed the gathering. But those people were the last he saw before the cold, wet, pain-ridden darkness swallowed him.
Robert opened his eyes to a wreath of pipe tobacco smoke, and Lieutenant Ridgeway stooping over his bed. Where was he? The room seemed familiar. It ought to be; it was his customary room at Kevernwood Hall, the one he’d often occupied on stay-over visits in the past. But . . . how could it be? Something tight girded his torso, like a second skin beneath his linen night-shirt. It pressed on grieved tissue with every movement, extracting from him a grimace and a deep throaty groan.
“Lucky for you,” the lieutenant said, answering the sound as part of the conversation, “the pistol ball went clear through your side and made a clean exit. You’re going to be just fine—he missed your vitals. How do you feel?”
“As well as can be expected for a man who’s just been back-shot,” the vicar replied.
“Well, he won’t be shooting anybody else in the back, that’s for sure.”
“Marner’s dead?”
“I’m only sorry I wasn’t faster,” the lieutenant said, nodding. “He spun around on the ninth pace, and fired. He was quick enough, by God, but speed and my interference cost him accuracy. While I couldn’t prevent what happened, I evidently distracted him enough to help spoil his aim. He saw death coming. I drilled him clean through the heart, and he dropped like a stone. You won by default, of course.”
“B-but . . . how have I come here?”
“Hah!” the lieutenant erupted. He ground out a guttural chuckle. “You wouldn’t pipe down till I brought you. You were off your head, but you kept insisting I bring you. Your duty was here, so you said, and you wouldn’t have it any other way. You’ve no recollection of that?”
“I . . . I don’t remember much except falling, and watching that weaselly second of Marner’s run off through the crowd. I didn’t feel anything at first, just the impact. Then, when the pain came . . . everything went black.”
“There was a surgeon in that crowd, and we got you back to the inn so he could patch you up. You lost a good deal of blood, but he dosed you with laudanum and trussed you up good and proper so I could get you out here where one of your local surgeons could tend you.” He cleared his voice and offered a wry smile. “I take it the lovely young lady that greeted us when we arrived is the reason for all this?”
A hot rush of blood sped to Robert’s face, and he moistened fever-parched lips with a dry tongue. He owed the lieutenant an explanation.
“Lady Evelyn St. John and her twin brother Crispin are . . . orphans, and close friends of the Rutherford family,” he explained haltingly. “Simon’s just secured a naval commission for Crispin. It was here, at Evelyn’s come-out ball, that she suffered insult because of Marner. He sullied Evelyn’s name with an ugly rumor that had no basis in fact as an act of vengeance against Simon. I knew if I didn’t call the bounder out over it, Simon would, and I thought to save him the bother. He has enough to worry about, what with the coil I explained. Lady Evelyn has no . . . feelings for me.”
“Mmm,” the
lieutenant responded, clearly skeptical.
“C-can you stay until Simon returns?” Robert asked, attempting to divert the subject. “I know he will want to reward you.”
“Oh, aye, I can stay, but I don’t want any reward. It will do me good to see Simon again. It’s been awhile, and I just might be of help—hopefully more help than I was to you.”
“You have nothing to reproach yourself for,” Robert assured him. “It all happened so quickly.”
“The dueling ground is no place for a vicar—no matter how liberal. I knew the blighter would show his colors. I was ready for it.”
“And if he hadn’t?” Robert asked.
“Thank God we’ll never know.”
It took a moment for Robert to process that. He was still groggy from the opiate, and none of this seemed real. If it weren’t for the pain in his side, he would have sworn he’d dreamed the entire episode, and when Evelyn burst through the door and ran to his bedside, her blue eyes swimming in tears, he was positive he’d lapsed into a very pleasant hallucination, indeed.
“You’re awake—you are!” she sobbed, fussing over him.
“Stand back, girl, and let the poor man breathe,” Lady Jersey chided, taking the situation in hand. “Is that tobacco smoke I smell? Put that filthy thing out at once, sir. This is no public house!”
The vicar’s eyes were so filled with Evelyn, he hadn’t seen the other woman enter, and had had no idea there was anyone else on earth until she spoke.
“Dr. Arborghast has come from Newquay,” Evelyn announced. “He’ll be up directly. He’s instructing Mrs. Rees about a tisane for you.” Then, in an aside to the others she said, “Mrs. Rees’s tisanes are quite legendary. All the surgeons consult her. So, you see, you’re going to be all right,” she mewed, returning her gaze to him. “I just know you are.”
“I-is there any word from Simon?” he wondered.
Evelyn shook her head no and lowered her eyes.
“Simon is well able to handle the situation, whatever it is,” the lieutenant put in. “You needn’t worry over that.”
Evelyn fidgeted with Robert’s pillow. “Whatever possessed you?” she sobbed in dismay. “You could have been killed!”
The doctor’s entrance spared him making a reply, and he was grateful for it. If truth were told, trusting himself to make an intelligent statement in such close proximity to the inimitable Lady Evelyn St. John was a more painful thing than the hole in his side, and it was a great relief to him when Lady Jersey shooed the entire company into the hall and relinquished her command to the doctor.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
“What do you mean, you don’t have the gun?” Simon bellowed. He was pacing over the bare wood floor in the Runner’s office in his ragged gait, made more pronounced for his lack of sleep. “It’s nearly time for the trial to begin.”
“It isn’t here at Bow Street. I’ve made a thorough inquiry. I certainly d-didn’t bring it, and it wasn’t sent on with the bailiff’s report.”
“Where is that brigand’s body now?”
“Why, I . . . I—”
“Come, come, man, you took the credit for his capture quickly enough—and claimed the reward, I have no doubt. Where’s the bloody corpse?”
“B-back at St. Enoder, I imagine, that’s where I left it—where you yourself saw it in the bailiff’s keeping. It’s probably been turned under the sod by now. It certainly isn’t here.”
“And the pistol as well, I suppose?”
“It would follow, my lord, that the pistol is still there somewhere. As I said, it hasn’t been forwarded.”
“Well, since the good Lord didn’t see fit to endow me with wings, how do you expect me to fetch it here in time for the trial?”
Biggins rubbed his chin and looked off into space, his bushy brows knit in a frown.
“Well?” Simon demanded.
“It was a fine piece, my lord. I doubt you’ll find it now.”
“Are you saying that someone at St. Enoder might have made off with it?”
“It’s very possible, my lord. It was an exceptional piece. Or . . . or Marner himself might have taken it. Yes, that could well be . . . in all the confusion.”
“By God, I will see this slipshod corruption you call ‘law enforcement’ reformed by the time all this is done. Before I go off on a wild goose chase, you are certain no such thievery has occurred here?”
“Absolutely, sir!” the Runner cried, indignant. “If it were brought here, it would be here.”
“Yes, well, you should have done, shouldn’t you? It has to be somewhere.” He pushed his hair back from a moist brow, cleared his throat and pronounced, “I want you to think, Biggins. When did you last see that pistol?”
“Th-the blighter . . . the Marsh Hawk—his name was William Hatch, by the way—eh, he . . . he didn’t have it when I brought him down—”
“And? Come, come, there isn’t time for this. The pistol, man—the pistol!”
“I’m trying to remember, my lord!” the Runner cried, waving trembling hands. “I don’t think . . . no! You’re confusing me. I didn’t confiscate the pistol. Th-the countess took the pistol from the thatchgallows and made off with it—and the spoils—before he tried to escape.”
“You recovered the spoils, though, didn’t you?”
“Well, yes, my lord, but—”
“Bet your blunt, you did! Those things belonged to you, didn’t they—you and Marner? Never mind. Can you get the trial postponed?”
“No, my lord. I have no say in court proceedings. Technically, my involvement in this brouhaha is over and done with.”
“That’s what you think,” Simon seethed.
“Here! Where are you going, my lord?” the Runner called to Simon’s back.
“To buy my wife some time,” he replied, crashing through the doorway.
Jenna was grateful that she had no mirror. She could only imagine what she must look like. Her skin was hot and dry to the touch. It was fever; there was no mistaking it now. Her parched lips were cracked, and there was a buzzing noise echoing in her ears. As she awaited what promised to be an automatic conviction, nothing seemed to matter anymore. Simon hadn’t come. He must surely know by now . . . and he hadn’t come. Whatever made her think he might? It was over.
She dared not dwell upon any of that, not standing in the dock. The magistrate looked formidable at best, a hawk-faced prune of a man whose drooping jowls challenged his neck-cloth.
It was early in the day, which was to her advantage. The man wasn’t irritable yet from fatigue. That, however, didn’t soften the look in his sharp, hooded eyes.
“Lady Kevernwood,” he said, causing her to jump. “You are accused of armed robbery on the King’s highway, a crime that carries the sentence of hanging at Tyburn if you are convicted by this court. Have you anything to say in your own defense?” She hadn’t expected so thunderous a voice coming from such a wizened creature. It sent cold chills racing along her spine, and the rush of blood that accompanied them heightened her fever. Despite it all, she heaved a deep breath and spoke in her most eloquent voice.
“I am innocent of the charge leveled against me, Your Worship,” she began steadily. “A year and a half ago, I went to the authorities for help in finding and bringing the Marsh Hawk to justice after he bludgeoned my father with his own pistol during a highway robbery, and subsequently caused his death. The law offered me no help, and so I took it upon myself to avenge my father by bringing the criminal to justice on my own. I dressed as a highwayman in order to get close enough to do so. That is what I was about on the night I was apprehended. I would have done it, too, but for the interference of the Bow Street Runner who interrupted us. The Marsh Hawk had already relinquished the spoils and the pistol—my father’s pistol—to me at gunpoint, when the Runner—”
“But you ran with the spoils,” the magistrate cut in.
“I ran, Your Worship. Period,” she corrected. “I wasn’t thinking of the spoils. I had ac
complished my objective. The Marsh Hawk was dead and my father was avenged. I ran to spare my family . . . this. That the sack with the spoils in it was still attached to my saddle was not my primary concern, Your Worship. I certainly never meant to keep the contents of that sack. What need would I possibly have of spoils? Except for that pistol, my father’s property, which was my proof of the brigand’s guilt—the pistol that he had beaten my father to death with—the rest meant nothing to me.”
“And, where is this legendary pistol, pray?” the magistrate barked.
“W-with the spoils, I imagine. I put it in the sack with the rest.”
“Preposterous!” the magistrate bellowed. “No pistol was recovered, only the spoils planted by Matthew Biggins of Bow Street to trap your fellow robber.”
“He was not my fellow, Your Worship! Haven’t you heard me? I was apprehending him!”
“Lady Kevernwood, your social standing does not place you above the law. Do you suppose us all birdwits here? You ramble on about a mythical pistol that you cannot produce. Where is your proof? Are there any witnesses to speak for you, madam?”
“N-no, Your Worship,” she despaired.
A hand gesture brought a bailiff with a black velvet pall, which the man placed on the magistrate’s wigged head.
“Jenna Rutherford, née Hollingsworth, Countess of Kevernwood, I hereby charge that you—”
“She is telling the truth,” a voice boomed from the gallery stairwell. All heads snapped toward a tall, masked figure of a man emerging from the shadows.
Simon.
The gavel cracked furiously, as a surly rumble of voices crescendoed into an uproar. The spectators left their seats, craning their necks for a look at the masked, cloaked figure stalking to the center of what had become an arena, reminiscent of Jenna’s imaginings of ancient Rome. She stood paralyzed, staring toward her husband who approached the bench like a Christian before the lions.
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