This time, he noticed the second figure behind Emmy as the two young women emerged from the trees, moving further into the glade.
Mr Smith raised his hands. “Miss Emmeline. Lady Hodge—neither of you should be here. I must ask that you leave immediately,” he insisted, imploring them to go. Ambrose would soon be along, and there was no stopping what was to happen once he arrived.
As a matter of principle, Mr Smith abhorred violence, but this was unavoidable.
If he wanted to keep his secret, he had to go through with the duel; there was no other way that Ambrose would be satisfied.
Emmy stepped closer to where Mr Smith stood, taking him slightly aback. “Mr Smith, I feel I am wholly to blame for this quarrel between yourself and Mr Wyndham. I do not pretend to understand your reasons for remaining silent on the subject that caused Mr Wyndham’s upset, but your silence is your right. Had I not reacted so childishly to being scolded when I sought to pry for information that was not mine to know, none of this would be happening,” she explained, her face so earnest it almost made Mr Smith’s heart ache.
There was an undeniable charm to her that he was by no means immune to, and, though he tried, he found he could not break the overly bold gaze that settled between them.
“I assure you, Miss Emmeline, you are not at fault here,” he said simply. “I should not have spoken so coarsely to you. In truth, I have brought this upon myself. No blame lies at your door,” he added, allowing his gaze to flit toward the waiting Nora, who was looking at him with polite wariness.
Emmy appeared to be about to say more when the sound of someone approaching distracted the attention of the group.
A moment later, Ambrose strode through the trees, carrying a maroon leather case at his side. He wore a weary expression upon his face, though it seemed to fade as he neared.
Taking the last few steps into the secluded glade, Mr Smith saw the newcomer catch sight of the two young women standing uncertainly a short distance from where Mr Smith himself stood.
Ambrose’s eyes went wide with a mixture of horror and surprise, though his mouth was set in a grim line.
“Lady Hodge, I was certain I asked that you stay away from these proceedings,” he said, his tone strange. There was an unexpected softness in his words, his eyes remaining upon the beautiful face of Nora.
For a moment, Mr Smith thought he saw something like sorrow in the eyes of his would-be combatant, though he could not be sure of its origins. It was not merely the duel that had Ambrose’s attention captured—that much was clear to the worldly mind of Mr Smith.
Nora nodded elegantly. “Indeed, Mr Wyndham, you did ask that I stay away, but you know I could not. As you have foolishly refused to have seconds, it would appear that we ladies must stand in.”
Ambrose flashed a steely look at Mr Smith, who was waiting patiently for the duel to begin.
The sooner they started, the sooner they could pick up the pieces of what was left, as far as he was concerned.
“Mr Wyndham, forgive my discourtesy, but it would appear that neither of these fine ladies seem willing to depart, thus giving us two options,” Mr Smith began quietly, his voice steady.
“We can put an end to our quarrel now, and say no more about it, leaving one another to go about their business as before. Or, we can proceed as planned, with these ladies present.”
It was a tough predicament for a gentleman to find himself in, and Mr Smith could see the look of consternation as it passed across Ambrose’s face.
To duel in front of such well-respected ladies was unseemly, but those ladies did not seem keen to leave.
Indeed, Mr Smith thought, they were certainly two of the most strong-willed young women he had ever met; Emmy in particular. He had seen it in her eyes, that free-spirited ferocity, when she had come to the hermitage to thank him. It was the kind of boldness that got many women into trouble, but not Emmy.
No, there was no malice or ulterior motive in her fire, only a well-meaning, wayward curiosity.
Even now, he regretted speaking to her in the way he had done.
“Mr Smith, I cannot permit your misdeed to be disregarded,” said Ambrose after a long, thoughtful pause. “I do not wish these ladies to be present, but as they have chosen to remain I cannot prevent them from witnessing what is to come. I am honour-bound to continue.”
“Then, Mr Wyndham, let us be done with it,” Mr Smith replied.
There had been far too much discussion already. If he was to make it through his part in proceedings they needed to get on with it before he lost his nerve entirely.
Now, it wasn’t that Mr Smith was a coward, it was simply that he did not relish the thought of being forced to live with another ghost he could not rid himself of.
With a nod, Ambrose set the maroon case on the dampened grass and clicked it open. Within there were two duelling pistols, elegantly arranged and forged from gleaming walnut. Exquisite silver inlay twisted and coiled in a pattern of vines around the handle and barrel, glinting in the last of the late spring sunshine.
Mr Smith was always surprised how something so beautifully crafted could be used for such a cruel, callous purpose.
He stepped forward and picked up one of the pistols, feeling the weight and balance of it in his hand, the shape and form coming back to him like a long-lost foe. He took a deep breath, steeling himself for what was to come.
The light was fading rapidly, with barely enough to see by. Even so, he knew he would not miss if he chose to aim properly at Ambrose.
He had never missed before.
“To the centre of the glade, Mr Smith,” Ambrose instructed as he loaded his own pistol and strode over to the middle of the clearing.
From the tension in his shoulders, it was clear that Ambrose was not as confident as he would have had everyone believe.
Mr Smith obeyed, moving toward where his opponent stood. He paused before he reached the correct spot, turning over his shoulder toward the waiting ladies. “Miss Emmeline, Lady Hodge. Perhaps you should stand to the side, out of harm’s way,” he suggested, beckoning to the sides of the clearing, where stray bullets could not reach them.
The two ladies hurried in the direction Mr Smith had suggested, a fearful look on their faces.
All of this was highly untoward, given the choice of hour and the lack of seconds, but Mr Smith knew that the more private the occasion the better it would be for him.
After all, friends and aides talked, and it would only take one slip of the tongue for word to reach Lord Nightingale, resulting in his immediate dismissal.
“Mr Smith, we shall duel by the usual rules. You are familiar with them?” Ambrose asked, raising a dubious eyebrow.
Mr Smith nodded. “Certainly, Mr Wyndham. One shot each, and a call for satisfaction at the end. Should you remain unsatisfied, a further shot shall be taken by each of us, and so on, and so forth, until you are content… or dead,” he replied light-heartedly, though he immediately knew he should not have spoken the last two words.
It was clear on Ambrose’s face that he was not amused.
“As long as you understand, Mr Smith,” Ambrose said, his voice curt. “We shall take ten paces and then shoot. Are you ready?”
Mr Smith nodded. “I am ready.”
With that, Mr Smith turned around and pressed his shoulder-blades against those of Ambrose.
The glade suddenly became deathly silent, with no sound piercing the secluded realm within.
“Begin the paces, Mr Smith,” said Ambrose, who began to count upwards.
Mr Smith joined him as they slowly began to walk away from one another, their pistols raised almost to their chins.
Whilst he walked, Mr Smith found that his mind had settled into a peculiar state of calm, like everything had slowed right down to a snail’s pace. It was a sensation he vaguely recognised, though it was not something he liked to repeat. He could hear his heart beating steadily in his chest, his grip remaining firm and even on the handle of the gun
, his breath barely affected as it ebbed and flowed within him.
A curious part of him wanted to glance over to see the expression on Emmy’s face, but he knew he must not allow himself to be distracted, not unless he wanted to end up grievously injured.
“Seven!” Ambrose called out, his voice less confident now.
Mr Smith continued his paces, his eyes briefly closing so he could concentrate on the position of Ambrose.
With the light blocked out, all of his other senses came to life.
“Eight!” Ambrose shouted.
Holding tight to the pistol’s elegantly carved handle, Mr Smith allowed himself to feel every ridge and curve, smoothed from previous use. He let his index finger rest a moment on the trigger, squeezing ever-so slightly to gauge the responsiveness of the weapon.
It was a well-made pistol and no mistake.
“Nine!” Ambrose bellowed.
Still Mr Smith remained calm, moving slowly, listening out for the sound of Ambrose’s boots rustling in the damp grass. In his mind’s eye, he pictured where Ambrose would be standing, his ears pricked for any deviation in direction.
Time came to a standstill as Mr Smith awaited the final number.
He was ready for it, but the anticipation opened up the floodgates of adrenaline, prompting it to course through his veins, lighting up every nerve and reflex with just the boost he needed, should he want to inflict harm on his aggressor.
“Ten!” Ambrose roared.
Moving as fluidly as a dancer, Mr Smith whirled around and shot in the direction of Ambrose. Two loud bangs tore through the silent glade, the echo ricocheting violently between the trees.
Mr Smith watched as Ambrose flinched, his right shoulder just grazed by the bullet Mr Smith had deliberately fired to cause the faintest of flesh wounds. It had never been Mr Smith’s intention to cause grievous bodily harm, though he knew he could have done so. It would not have been the first occasion.
Ambrose, however, did not seem to have fired with such care and attention.
The pain hit Mr Smith first as he felt something tear through the top of his chest, just above his heart.
As it burrowed deep into his flesh, he felt the heat of the metal searing him from the inside out. Looking down, he saw a bloom of scarlet taking over the white cotton of his shirt, spreading out from the central hole where the bullet had buried itself.
He did not cry out, nor did he give any indication that he was in pain. Instead, he simply looked at the wound, watching the blood soak into the fabric, remaining perfectly still.
Shock took over.
He crumpled to his knees, his gaze remaining on the pooling crimson stain, which was growing more intense by the second as blood pumped out of the wound. His vision began to blur, his mind hazy, as consciousness began to evade him.
The last thing he remembered was the soft sound of Emmy’s voice calling out for him in the dark.
With a smile, he figured that if this was heaven, he didn’t mind so much.
There could be no angel sweeter.
Chapter Eleven
pain
Chapter 11
Emmy raced toward the slumped figure of Mr Smith, ignoring the tug of her sister’s arm on her dress sleeve. Taking to her knees, she placed an arm around his shoulders, keeping him upright.
The sight of the blood blossoming across his shirt made her feel queasy, though she forced herself to focus on his face to keep herself from fainting.
His beautiful blue eyes had turned slightly glassy, his brow creased in confusion and pain. He looked up at her, but she could tell he wasn’t entirely seeing her. For a moment, a sweet smile turned up the corners of his mouth.
“You must be an angel come to guide me away from this world,” he whispered.
Stroking back the soft curls of his brown hair, she hushed him. “Do not speak,” she urged. “You must conserve your breath.”
Panic began to ripple through her at the sorry state of Mr Smith. She was no physician and hadn’t the first idea what she could do to help. Turning, she saw that Ambrose was striding toward the fallen party, a thin stream of blood rising up from the graze Mr Smith had inflicted. He looked concerned, his forehead corrugated with anxiety.
Kneeling in front of Mr Smith, Ambrose tore a strip from the bottom of his shirt and lifted Mr Smith’s chin, snapping his fingers to get Mr Smith to focus.
With an incoherent murmur, a flicker of clarity returned to the handsome man’s eyes. Casting an apologetic glance at Emmy, Ambrose lifted the shirt from Mr Smith’s body, leaving him bare-chested in the glade, before starting to bind the haemorrhaging wound. Using Mr Smith’s shirt too, he formed a rudimentary bandage across the injury, tightening it until the pressure of the fabric caused the bleeding to ease.
“My apologies for this unseemly sight, Miss Emmeline,” said Ambrose as he tied off the material.
Emmy smiled nervously. “I shall pretend I have not seen a thing, Mr Wyndham,” she replied, though she could feel the smooth contours of Mr Smith’s skin beneath her hands, the shifting muscles bringing a flush to her cheeks. It did not seem like the appropriate time to find herself in a fluster, but she could not help it; she had never been so close to a half-naked man before.
Just then, Nora ran up and knelt in the grass, taking over from Emmy. “You should not be privy to this, dear sister,” she insisted, placing her own arm around the shivering body of Mr Smith. “Indeed, you should return to the house and call for a physician.”
Emmy felt a pang of envy, though she knew her sister was right. “But what shall Papa say? He will surely cast Mr Smith out, though you must be satisfied in your quarrel now, Mr Wyndham?” she asked, turning her face up to Ambrose, who was binding the wound across the chest with another strip of Mr Smith’s shirt.
Ambrose sighed. “I am satisfied, Miss Emmeline. Indeed, I feel that I should never have gone through with the infernal thing in the first place.”
“Then, what are we to do about Papa?” Emmy pressed, desperate now.
“Inform him of the injury, but tell him it was an accidental incident. Tell Lord Nightingale that I happened upon Mr Smith in the shadows of the wood and mistook him for a vagrant, only for Lady Hodge to pass by and inform me otherwise,” Ambrose suggested swiftly, as Mr Smith’s eyes began to close.
Emmy’s gaze settled upon the sickly sight, her heart thundering with worry. Mr Smith had grown very pale, his skin taking on an almost blue, waxy sheen. If he did not receive medical attention soon, there was no telling what might happen.
Nodding, Emmy rose to her feet and headed off in the direction of Davenham Park, her mind filled with thoughts of Mr Smith. She could not remove the image of his handsome, pained face from her mind.
The duel itself had been truly shocking, from where they were standing. She felt as if she had barely breathed; the anticipation whilst they took their ten paces had almost been too much. When they had turned and pulled the triggers of their pistols, Emmy was certain she saw Mr Smith move his slightly off to the side, so as not to cause true injury to his opponent. Why he had done that, Emmy did not know, but she was grateful for it, despite the position it had placed him in. Lady Wyndham did not need another dead son to mourn.
Bursting into the house, she found her father swiftly. He and Francis were still in the drawing room, though it seemed Lady Nightingale and Jasper had retired elsewhere.
They turned in surprise as Emmy hurried into the room.
“Papa, you must call for the physician. The hermit in the woods has been accidentally injured by Mr Ambrose Wyndham, who thought him a vagrant. Nora was out walking and happened upon them. She has just come to me to ask that I bring the physician with absolute urgency!” she cried, causing the two men to rise quickly to their feet.
“Goodness, Emmy, how has such a thing happened?” Francis asked, running an anxious hand through his elegant curls.
“An accident, brother—a terrible, terrible accident,” she replied.
; Her father looked calmer as he smoothed down the front of his waistcoat. “I shall send for Doctor Edwards immediately,” he said, moving swiftly from the room.
Emmy could hear him in the hallway, calling for the butler. There was an instant flurry of movement in the halls outside as the butler called out for one of the valets to ride into town, followed shortly by the sound of hooves beating on the driveway, pounding away into the distance.
A moment later, Lord Nightingale popped his head back into the room. “Emmy, where is the poor fellow?” he asked, a kindness on his aging face.
Lady of a Recluse Earl Page 9
