Someone To Love

by Mary Balogh

  “Alex did not say,” Elizabeth told her. “He said only that he feared a slaughter.”

  “I must go to Archer House,” Anna said, turning toward the door. “It was I who angered Lord Uxbury. Avery must not die for something I said. I shall go and put a stop to it.”

  “Oh, you cannot, Anna,” Elizabeth said, catching at her arm. “You cannot interfere in gentlemen’s business, especially an affair of honor. It would be horribly humiliating for Avery if you tried. He would be fearfully angry, and you would not change his mind. He is not the challenger. Oh, you must see how impossible it would be.”

  Yes. Anna could. “Where?” she asked. “When?”

  “Hyde Park,” Elizabeth said. “I do not know just where, but I have heard that duels are usually fought among the trees on the east side of the park, where they are least likely to be observed and stopped. Duels are illegal, you know. They are usually fought at dawn, probably for the same reason. Alex will come here as soon as he may to relieve my mind. He promised that he will relieve it. We will hear by breakfast time.”

  “The eastern side—this side—of Hyde Park, at dawn,” Anna muttered, frowning.

  Elizabeth gazed at her. “You are not thinking of going, are you?” she asked. “It is absolutely not the thing, Anna. Women are not allowed . . . They are not allowed even to know of such meetings. There would be huge trouble for you if you tried to interfere. You would become a social pariah, and you would make Avery the laughingstock.”

  Viscount Uxbury was a large man, Anna was thinking. He was tall and rather broad, and it seemed to her that the breadth of his chest and shoulders owed at least as much to muscle as it did to fat. He was twice the size of Avery, and she did not really believe, did she, that the duke had once put him down with a few fingertips to the chest. Anyway, that would not matter tomorrow. If swords were to be the weapons, the viscount’s reach must be very much longer than Avery’s, and he would have the advantage of height. If they were to be pistols, well . . .

  Elizabeth sighed. “What time will we be leaving?” she asked.

  “We?” Anna’s eyes focused upon her.

  “We,” Elizabeth said. “But just to watch, mind, Anna, if we are not caught before it even begins, as I daresay we will be. Not to interfere.”

  “Not to interfere,” Anna agreed. “As soon as darkness begins to turn to light? I shall tap on your door.”

  Elizabeth nodded, and for some reason they both laughed. It was quite horrifying.

  “I think,” Anna said, “I had better ring for a fresh tray of tea.”

  He was going to die, she thought, and all she could think to do about it was to drink tea?

  Seventeen

  Avery and Alexander arrived at the appointed spot in Hyde Park when the sky was graying with early dawn. They were early, but they were not the first to arrive, by Jove.

  “Walling agreed with me,” Riverdale said, clearly exasperated, “that the quieter we kept this meeting, the better it would be for all concerned. It looks as though Uxbury disagreed and told every man he knows and they told everyone they know. This is intolerable.”

  Avery was reminded of that first bout of boxing he had fought at school—if fought was the correct word. A crowd of men, buzzing with anticipation, was gathered about an empty clearing among the trees, their horses and curricles variously disposed in a rough circle behind them. If the Watch did not detect them and arrest the lot of them there was no real justice in the land. Avery suspected that the Watch, or whoever enforced law and order in Hyde Park, would develop a severe case of deafness and blindness—if it was out at all at this hour. The hum of excitement increased when the challenged hove into sight. Uxbury and Walling had already arrived. So had a man dressed entirely in somber black, a largish black leather bag on the grass beside him. The sawbones, no doubt. How predictably ostentatious of Uxbury to engage the services of a physician for a fight that involved no weapon more lethal than the body. Or perhaps there was some wisdom in it.

  Every face that turned his way to watch him approach bore the same expression. The lamb to the slaughter, they were all thinking. He curled his fingers about the handle of his quizzing glass and raised it to his eye, and almost everyone suddenly discovered something of more urgent interest to take their attention. Uxbury, striking a pose, was gazing at him across the circle of grass with haughty dignity. Avery examined the expression through his glass. He would wager it had been practiced before a mirror.

  Walling strode into the center of the grass, looking somewhat embarrassed, and Riverdale went to confer with him there. Then each returned to his principal.

  “Uxbury is willing to settle for an apology over anguish and embarrassment suffered,” Riverdale said.

  “And will he make that apology before all these people?” Avery asked, dropping his quizzing glass on its ribbon and raising his eyebrows. “Extraordinary! Let us hear it, then, by all means. Not that I recall suffering a great deal of either anguish or embarrassment, though it is possible I might have if I were the sensitive sort.”

  “I understand you are not willing to tender an apology, then?” Riverdale asked.

  Avery merely looked at him, and Riverdale turned.

  “The Duke of Netherby,” he said in a voice that would carry across the empty space and doubtless to every gentleman gathered about it, “is obliged for the offer of clemency. However, he cannot recall a single word he has spoken to Viscount Uxbury that he regrets.”

  There was a swell of approval from the crowd and a few whistles. One unidentified gentleman called out, “That’s the spirit, Netherby. Go down swinging.”

  He had spent thirteen or fourteen years avoiding just such a scene as this, Avery thought with an inward sigh as Riverdale helped him off with his coat and he divested himself of his neckcloth and cravat, his fobs and watch and quizzing glass, his waistcoat, and his shirt. But what was one to do when one had been challenged to a duel and the challenger had noised it abroad so that it would be surprising if there was a gentleman in London who was not here?

  “I believe,” Riverdale said, “it would be wiser to keep your shirt on, Netherby. Uxbury is keeping his.”

  Avery ignored him. He sat down on the uncomfortably rough and uneven stump of a tree and hauled off one of his boots and the stocking beneath it.

  “Good God,” Riverdale said, clearly aghast, “you must keep your boots on.”

  Avery hauled off the other.

  “Good God, Netherby,” Riverdale said again as Avery got to his feet, clad only in his tight breeches—tight but flexible and comfortable. “You must have a death wish.”

  From the swell of sound about them, it seemed that everyone else agreed.

  Avery rolled his shoulders and flexed his hands.

  “Listen,” Riverdale said, speaking low and urgently. “You asked me to act as your second, and it is my duty to offer you as much advice as I am capable of giving. Don’t be a bloody martyr, Netherby. Use your arms and your fists to cover your face and your body. Use your feet to move out of harm’s way—which would have been a great deal easier to do with your boots on. Uxbury has the advantage of reach and height and weight. Stay away from his fists as long as you can. Watch him. Use your eyes. If by some miracle you can get past his reach, use your fists on him. Put up a good show. And when you go down—” He paused a moment and cleared his throat. “And if you go down, stay down. If you can somehow let a minute go by before it happens, all the better. You are not the challenger. He is. Most of the men here do not like what he forced Camille to do or how he talks about her. They are on your side. They will admire your courage in taking on an opponent twice your size, and in refusing to apologize. Defeat will be a kind of triumph.”

  “I believe,” Avery said, “Walling is waiting for you to finish your monologue, Riverdale, so that he can get this meeting started.”

  His second looked at hi
m in some exasperation and fell silent.

  “The fight will begin,” Walling announced. “It will continue until one of the two gentlemen concedes defeat or until one is knocked down and is unable to rise.”

  Uxbury strode onto the stage—one could not see that circle of scrubby grass as anything else when he did so—with purposeful strides and grim demeanor and clenched fists. He proceeded to take up a boxer’s stance that would have done Gentleman Jackson proud. He danced a few steps on his booted feet. Avery strolled toward him and stopped a couple of feet away, his arms at his sides.

  Uxbury leered at him and threw a straight right that, if it had landed, would have gone straight through Avery’s nose and out the back of his head. Avery batted it away with the side of one forearm and then did the same when a left followed close upon the right.

  “Cover yourself, Netherby,” someone from the crowd cried above the general swell of sound—it might have been Riverdale.

  Uxbury danced a few more steps, leered again, and repeated the exact same attack—with the exact same result. He was a slow learner. It was amazing, Avery thought, what height there was to boots. Uxbury seemed a full two inches taller than usual, though probably it was he who was two inches shorter in his bare feet. The ground was uneven and a bit stony in places, very different from the attic floor, but he had encountered worse when working with his Chinese gentleman.

  “You are just going to stand there like a fairy boy, are you?” Uxbury asked.

  A few people tittered. A number cried, “Shame!” though whether they meant Uxbury or the Duke of Netherby was not clear.

  The next time, Uxbury followed the same two leading punches with his body and a flurry of ferocious blows. But he had signaled his intention with his eyes and his body, foolish man, and there was no method to the punches except the desire to end the fight almost before it had begun. It took just a little more effort of eye and reflex to deflect the flailing fists, though one of them actually glanced off his shoulder and turned him slightly sideways. Uxbury followed it up with another powerful blow intended to knock his victim into kingdom come. Avery stepped sideways, waited for fist and arm to whistle harmlessly by, twisted his body a little more, and caught Uxbury on the side of the head with the flat of his foot.

  He went down like a sack of potatoes.

  The crowd roared.

  Uxbury blinked and looked dazed, then puzzled, then indignant, then wrathful. The man was as easy to read, Avery thought, as a book written in large, heavy print. He could not be much of a cardplayer. He scrambled to his feet, shook his head, staggered once, glared at Avery, then resumed his stance, while all the time in the background there were voices urging Avery to go for the kill while he had the chance.

  “That was a dirty hit,” Uxbury said from between his teeth.

  “Did you get dirt on your shirt?” Avery asked. “But I daresay it will wash out.”

  Uxbury had not learned a thing. He resumed the attack in much the same manner, though a little wilder this time, just as though weight and muscle and brute force made brain and agility and observation obsolete. Avery let him flail about for a time while he deflected every punch or moved out of its way. Uxbury’s attack grew only more desperate. He paused after a couple of minutes, however, breathless, sweat pouring down his face, his shirt clinging wetly about his person. It was most impressive.

  “The little prancing, dancing master,” he said through gritted teeth. “Stand still like a man, Netherby.”

  Avery spun about and caught him on the other side of the head with the flat of his other foot.

  Uxbury bent to the side but stayed on his feet this time while the crowd roared again. His fists slipped a little lower.

  “Man-milliner!” he said with contempt. “Camille Westcott is not just a bastard, you know. She is a slut and a whore. So is Abigail Westcott. So is Lady Anast—”

  When Avery launched himself this time, he planted both feet beneath Uxbury’s chin and kicked out. His opponent went down heavily backward and stayed down.

  There was a curious hush. Avery became only gradually aware of it. He was more aware of the fact that, unlike the other two blows, that last one had been struck in anger. It went against the discipline of his training, but he was not sorry. Sometimes anger was a justifiable human emotion.

  He had not used his hands at all, he realized. It was probably as well he had not used them in anger.

  Walling was hurrying toward Uxbury. So was the physician, clutching his black bag. Avery walked back to Riverdale and the neat pile of his clothes. It was only then that noise erupted to break the eerie silence. But no one spoke to Avery. No one even looked directly at him.

  “Where the devil,” Riverdale asked as Avery sat on the tree stump and pulled on one of his stockings, “did you learn to do that?”

  “You see,” Avery said softly, “I was a small lad, Riverdale, as you may remember. And a pretty one. And a prey to every school bully—and a boys’ school abounds with the breed.”

  “Wherever you learned it,” Riverdale said, hovering as Avery pulled on his boots, “it was not at school. Good God, I have never seen the like. Nor has anyone else here. I do understand now, though, why that aura of power and danger seems to hover constantly about you. I always thought there was no reason for it. But now I understand! Let me take you for breakfast at White’s. It is still very early, but—”

  Avery had finished pulling his shirt on over his head. “I have some errands to run before I call upon Anna,” he said. “But thank you for the offer and for standing with me this morning.” He held out his right hand and wondered if Riverdale would take it. But he did after looking at it for a moment, and they clasped hands briefly.

  “It ought to have been me,” Riverdale said. “Camille and Abigail are my cousins. So is Anastasia.”

  “Ah,” Avery said, “but she is my betrothed and they are her sisters. Besides, I was the one Uxbury chose to challenge.”

  Riverdale helped him on with his coat. Some of the crowd had dispersed, but a good half still lingered, talking with one another and stealing surreptitious glances at Avery. Uxbury was still stretched out on the grass, the physician down on one knee beside him. It looked as though he was drawing blood. Walling, on the other side, was holding a bowl. Uxbury’s head was moving slowly from side to side. He was going to survive, then.

  Avery turned to walk away, and the Earl of Riverdale fell into step beside him.

  * * *

  Dear Joel,

  How very devious you are becoming and how clever! I did not intend that you go to so much trouble on my behalf. I will not feel guilty, however, because there does seem to be a good chance that you may get work out of your maneuverings.

  Did you cultivate the acquaintance of Mrs. Dance merely because she is a friend of Mrs. Kingsley, my sisters’ grandmother, and then get yourself invited to one of her literature and art evenings? How would you have felt if Mrs. Kingsley had not put in an appearance? I daresay it would have been an enjoyable evening anyway, though, and it did give you a wonderful opportunity to display the paintings you took with you. I am so glad Mrs. Kingsley did appear, however, and looked with interest at the portrait you showed her of a young lady. How very sly of you to work in the comment about how rare a treat it is these days to find young persons in Bath to paint.

  You must let me know if anything comes of all this. It is a disappointment that you have seen only Abigail, and even her only a time or two. I do worry about my sisters. I have thought of writing to them, but Cousin Elizabeth as well as my own good sense have advised against it just yet. They must be given time to adjust to the new facts of their lives, and I am the last person they need to be reminded of.

  I do not even know where to begin with my own news. I have not written since the ball three evenings ago. It was a huge success. I felt like a princess in my ball gown (until I saw all the other l
adies, who were far lovelier than I) and I was in any case treated like one. I believe even my grandmother and my aunts were astounded. Not only did I dance every set, but I had at least a dozen prospective partners to choose among for each one.

  And the next morning no fewer than twenty-seven bouquets of flowers were delivered here for me. I did not count how many gentlemen as well as a few ladies came to call during the afternoon. Several of them invited me to various entertainments. One of the gentlemen, with his brother, took Elizabeth and me for a drive in Hyde Park at what is known as the fashionable hour, and I now know why. Very little driving or riding or walking is accomplished, but a great deal of chatter and gossip is. Yesterday one young gentleman came to ask to whom he needs to apply before he can make an offer for my hand. And I heard during the afternoon that several other men have made similar inquiries of my male relatives.

  Have I grown suddenly beautiful, charming, witty, and otherwise irresistible? Well, irresistible, yes. For I am rich. Very, very rich. Never wish great wealth upon yourself, Joel. And how very ungrateful that sounds. Ignore me.

  Oh, Joel, Joel, Joel—I am betrothed. To the Duke of Netherby! I have no idea quite how it came about. He can surely have no real desire to marry me, or I to marry him for that matter. There is nothing whatsoever about me that might attract him and a great deal that might repel. He has no interest in my wealth—he has enough of his own, as he explained when I was complaining to my family about being a prey to every fortune hunter in the land and they were trying to marry me off to Cousin Alexander (he looked as uncomfortable and dismayed as I was feeling). The duke strolled up to me and told me I could be the Duchess of Netherby instead if I chose. It was surely the most extraordinary proposal in history. And, oh yes, I remember now. It all started when I said I wanted to go to Wensbury near Bristol where my mother’s parents are still living. He found out that information for me and then he said he would take me there, either unwed with Elizabeth or Bertha or both to chaperone me, or wed just with him. And I chose to be wed. And so I am betrothed.