And what of poor Caroline?
His betrothed had written him such a heart-rending note yesterday morning, and Lord help him, he had not known how to reply.
Dear Rollo
You must forgive my impertinence in writing to you on such a delicate matter, but a rumour has reached me of an alarming nature and I cannot remain silent.
While I do not intend to ask for details, nor any explanation, I must request that you consider your duty to my family as well as your own. My own dear father has endured more than his fair share of scandal, and hoped that by allying the Lewis family with that of the Farraways, he might raise our fortunes. But this unfortunate matter – you will forgive my reticence, I trust – must bring only disgrace to our two families, whatever the outcome. So I pray you to consider your position carefully, even if it touches your honour to withdraw at this late hour.
With all good wishes for your continued health.
Your betrothed, Caroline
Rollo had set Caroline’s note aside on his desk, reflected for an hour or more on its contents, then drawn the inkpot and pen forward.
He had not composed any reply to Caroline’s letter – what reply could he possibly have furnished her that would not have offended a lady of her sensibilities? – but had instead written down his last will and testament, had a servant witness it, then wrote a brief note for his father, to be handed to that distinguished gentleman only in the event of his death. It had hurt to write that note, and more than once he had been forced to pause while he gathered himself.
Yet all the time he had been aware that he was merely putting off the realisation of impending death., that these notes and final testaments and the conscientious perusal of his debts and the state of his affairs for most of last night were merely ways to stave off that appalling knowledge.
Now there were no more notes to write, nor arrangements to make, no people he ought to see. All that remained was the duel.
‘A fine specimen,’ was all he could find to say though, and leaned on his cane, observing the oak with feigned casualness.
Tom agreed cheerfully enough, though with a look of mild surprise, as though he had never so much as glanced at a tree with any interest in all his life, and was not entirely sure why he was being asked to do so now.
The sound of another carriage approaching heavily through the mist quashed any hope that his opponent might arrive too late, or perhaps not at all. The wheels grated on the rough track as it slowed, and a horse neighed. Then he heard heavy footsteps, and the sound of male voices, uncomfortably loud and jovial.
The Italian tongue came quick and light on the air, only one word in ten comprehensible to him, then laughter.
His opponent did not sound like a man in fear for his life, Rollo thought, listening intently. No, the Italian sounded like this was to be a pleasure expedition, as though the most he would be expected to do in the next hour was row a boat or pluck a flower.
And all because his sister had thrown herself into Rollo’s arms, and forced this damn quarrel on them both in that one horrific instant. It was almost as though she had done so deliberately. But what possible reason could she have for behaving so wantonly towards a complete stranger in the dark? No, it must have been a simple mistake on her part, perhaps thinking him some man she had been going to meet, a secret lover …
Forget all that now, he berated himself, and turned in the same moment, bowing stiffly to the three men approaching.
‘Gentlemen.’
Alonso he recognised, then another man to whom he was briefly introduced, also Italian, a knowing smile on his face as he looked Rollo up and down – dismissing him as any threat, no doubt – and the third, an elderly man with side-whiskers and a tall, slightly lopsided hat. The surgeon.
‘Good morning to you, sir,’ the surgeon said, and touched a courteous hand to his hat. His gaze moved to Rollo’s cane, lingering there with professional interest. Then he shook Tom’s hand. ‘Morning.’
Rollo said nothing. Or perhaps he spoke, but was unaware of it. A cold numbness took hold of him as he listened to Tom and the other gentleman conversing apart in low voices. Alonso had stripped off his elegant long coat and was standing a few feet away in shirt sleeves and breeches, rolling his shoulders and neck, stretching and lunging athletically as though he had changed his mind and opted for swords.
The mist still lay wreathed over the shrubs and trees around the great oak, though he could see well enough across the thirty-odd foot clearing they had chosen. No, the early mist would be no barrier to their meeting. Indeed, the weather was excellent for a duel. The air was still, the morning cool and crisp, but not so icy that his hands might shake with cold or find it hard to pull the trigger.
A perfect day, in fact, for one of them to die.
‘I believe we are ready, sir,’ the surgeon murmured, and shook his hand, then moved carefully to one side.
Rollo wrestled out of his too-tight coat. God, the air was chill.
Tom spoke to him for a moment, his voice low and earnest, but Rollo was hardly listening now. They shook hands. Then he shook hands with the Italian and his man. Nothing much was said. Even Alonso looked sombre now, his face set and determined. Not his first duel, he would guess.
‘Shall I take your cane, Rollo?’
Of course. He must walk without the cane. Otherwise how could he hold the pistol and raise it to fire without clean and proper balance?
They had discussed this before. He nodded. ‘Here,’ he told Tom, and handed over his cane, then added, ‘Thank you.’
He felt naked without the cane, which was ridiculous. He often walked at home without it. And rode without it, clearly. And it would only be for a moment or two …
Rollo quelled an embarrassing swell of nausea, attributing it to not having breakfasted. He smiled at no one in particular and took up a straight-backed position, almost back to back with Alonso, as instructed in a thick accent by the other fellow. The sneering one. Another Italian. What was the man’s name again?
He could not recall.
It was colder than he had thought, the barrel of the pistol icy to the touch. He had not elected to wear gloves though. ‘Best not,’ Tom had told him beforehand when he asked about gloves. ‘In case, you know, it hampers your finger on the trigger.’
‘Twenty good paces, gentlemen,’ Tom said clearly, ‘then turn and fire.’
Tom was a good fellow, Rollo thought with a sudden burst of enthusiasm for his old school friend. A stout fellow.
Twenty paces. It was both the longest and the shortest twenty paces he had ever walked, striding out with a jarring pain at each step, knowing he must make a full step every time or risk coming short. The cold-barrelled pistol, cocked and ready to fire, weighed heavily in his hand.
He reached twenty and began to turn, looking for his opponent.
‘Best to delope,’ Tom had advised him quietly before they arrived. ‘The other fellow will almost certainly do the same. There’s no need for this to become a killing matter. But probably best to make it look like a good try. Or he may take offence.’
Rollo had agreed, only too happy to fire into the air rather than attempt to kill another human being. Especially one with whom he had no particular argument.
But before Rollo had even raised his pistol, a deafening shot rang out from somewhere close behind him. A bullet whizzed past his cheek, followed almost instantly by a second shot and a shower of sparks at the other end of the clearing. The surrounding trees seemed to ring in the silence that followed.
Rollo stood and stared, unable to comprehend what had just happened. Except that he was still alive.
And the Italian was lying on the ground, a spreading stain of scarlet on that immaculate cravat.
‘Good God!’ Tom exclaimed, then stared from Rollo to the motionless Italian. ‘You … You killed him. I thought you meant to delope.’
Rollo shook his head. ‘I did not fire at all, Tom.’ He was vaguely pleased that his voice did
not shake. ‘I don’t know what happened.’
He limped forward, letting his pistol hand drop, until he reached the fallen Italian.
The surgeon was kneeling beside Alonso on the wet grass, his head bent. After examining the man’s blood-stained shirt with a frowning air, he put two fingers to his throat, feeling for a pulse.
‘Is he dead?’
The surgeon looked up at Rollo with a severe expression. ‘It would seem life is extinct, yes.’
‘Deuce take it.’
‘By the look of this wound, the bullet entered his heart. In my opinion, death would have been instantaneous.’ He stood, drawing out a handkerchief and wiping the blood from his hands. ‘This is most unfortunate, sir. Most unfortunate, indeed.’
‘Hold on a mite, doctor.’
Tom had taken hold of Rollo’s pistol, uncocked it, and was carefully examining the weapon. He sniffed the barrel, then shook his head, handing the pistol to the surgeon for his own examination.
‘Not been fired. No powder burn, you see?’
The surgeon was still frowning. He put away his stained handkerchief, took the pistol and sniffed it himself, turned it over in his hands, then gave it back to Tom. ‘But that’s impossible. I don’t understand.’
‘What does the other Italian fellow say? Perhaps he saw something,’ Tom said, his brows knitted together.
But Alonso’s friend had vanished.
The surgeon shook his head. ‘I shall have to make a report of this morning’s work to the local magistrate. If you did not fire the shot that killed this gentleman, then who did?’
‘Not a clue,’ Rollo admitted. ‘Though I have a fair idea how it was achieved.’
He gave them a brief account of what he had heard.
Tom listened blankly. ‘Two shots, you say?’
‘That’s what I heard.’
‘One shot from the Italian’s own pistol,’ the surgeon agreed, patting the barrel of Alonso’s pistol, for they were all satisfied that the other weapon at least had been fired, ‘and the other bullet from the unknown killer. But from what vantage point?’
Rollo turned on his heel, surveying the ground where he had stood. Behind his position, and slightly to the left, was a thicket, with a small cluster of trees beyond it. Excellent cover for a man who wished to remain unseen by the duellists and their seconds. Someone could have remained hidden in that thicket until the moment of the duel, then stepped out for a better aim, or perhaps fired from within the thicket itself, picking off Alonso before he had a chance to fire.
‘Over there, I’d say.’
They all looked at the unprepossessing thicket where a murderer might have been lurking only moments before. Though with the mist rising it looked quite romantic, Rollo thought drily.
He was at a loss to explain what had just happened. But he was alive. And for now, that must be all that mattered.
Tom handed him his cane. ‘Well, if the surgeon will agree to wait here until the body has been conveyed away, we can leave. If there are to be any repercussions, the magistrates will know where to find us. I don’t know about you, Rollo, but I could murder a good slab of beef and some eggs. Time for breakfast, I think.’
‘Yes,’ Rollo said lightly, ‘why not?’
CHAPTER NINE
MICHAEL
Michael Hunt was standing in the back garden of his friend’s house at Clapham, a still-warm and fragrant cup of coffee raised to his lips, when a pistol shot rang out. Closely followed by a second shot. So close, in fact, that they seemed almost to overlap.
A duel, he surmised. And not far from the house.
It was still very early and the sky was dim and cloudy, though growing lighter with every minute that passed. The small garden was wreathed with mist, as was the green beyond it. There was nobody in sight.
He had been told by his friends that duelling frequently took place out on the common, far from the interference of the watchmen and magistrates of London. Occasionally men died in such duels, their bodies rushed away, their deaths hushed up, for the duellists were often wealthy noblemen, easily able to bribe magistrates to turn a blind eye to their peccadilloes. But most duellists deloped, firing in the air, the contest merely an opportunity to satisfy honour.
The sound of a shot had still taken Michael by surprise. He had just been enjoying the peace of the countryside, watching a cheeky robin advance by hops across the frosty lawn in search of crumbs from his breakfast, which he had taken outside so as not to disturb his later-rising host.
The shot had scared the robin away.
A few hundred feet beyond the low stone wall stood a straggling line of trees, hedged by scrub thicket, branches sparse in the dead season. Beyond that was the broad stretch of green known as Clapham Common, where a few sheep and cattle always grazed. He had stayed here on several occasions before, and knew that some mornings a bleary-eyed milkmaid could be spotted on the green, even at this early hour, swaying as she carried home a pair of lidded buckets heavy with milk.
Today there was no milkmaid.
Instead, a figure clad in black stole out of the clustered trees and ran, stumbling over the rough ground, towards a saddled horse tethered to a bush.
It was indeed a woman. But no milkmaid.
This female was wearing men’s breeches and high boots, her hair hidden beneath a cap. At first glance she might have been mistaken for a man. But Michael had enough experience of the fairer sex to know how a woman’s body moved. He noted the alluring tilt of hips and breasts, the slight roll to each step caused by rounded feminine buttocks. This was indisputably a woman.
Frowning, he watched silently. What the devil was she running from, and why was she dressed in such an outrageous fashion?
The fleeing woman had almost reached the horse when she dropped what she was carrying and was forced to retrieve it.
Even at this distance he could see what it was. A flintlock pistol.
He lowered the cup of coffee, staring.
A highwaywoman, was his first amazed thought. Then he watched as she botched her first attempt to mount the horse without a block, and had to lead the animal towards a small grassy hillock and try again.
No, he conceded, unlikely that she was a highwaywoman. Unless she was very bad indeed at her trade.
Finally mounting, she came riding fast towards the back of his friend’s house, lying low over the horse’s neck and looking back over her shoulder. Afraid of pursuit?
She straightened as she came level with the back wall of the house. Confident that she was not being pursued, she turned her horse slightly, doubtless heading for the road to London that ran between the houses at the edge of the common.
Michael could see part of her face now, though with her cap pulled down, there was not much to be seen.
He had an impression of dark, slanted eyes and gorgeous dewy skin, a young woman in her prime, a satisfied smile on her mouth.
There was nothing amiss with her seat, he realised, frowning. She was pushing the unwieldy pistol into some holster on her saddle, and directing the horse with her knees alone. An excellent horsewoman, but not accustomed to having to mount unaided. A lady, then. Which made her masculine attire and behaviour even more astonishing.
‘Hello there!’ he called out as she passed the house wall.
Her head turned, and the dark eyes widened. She grabbed up the reins, sank her heels into the horse’s flanks, and a few lengthened strides took her horse safely past the low garden wall and away through trees to the left. He heard the thunder of hooves fade into the distance, and stood for a long while staring at the place where she had been, remembering the curve of her mouth before she realised she had been seen.
Whatever she had set out to do this morning had been achieved. That smile had told him as much.
But what?
Michael finished his coffee, which was rapidly cooling, then threw the last of his breakfast crumbs onto the lawn in case the robin redbreast reappeared. The sun was rising above the tr
ees now, shining wanly across the wet, misty grass. The nearby church bell tolled the hour, though the growing light would have told him what the time was without it.
Eight o’clock.
It would be Christmas soon, he thought, listening to the church bell.
He had promised to accompany his sister to midnight mass himself this year, now that their mother and father were both dead and they had no other family resident in London. He was not religious, though he was no atheist either. Their father had been a sometime Quaker, and indeed he himself was inclined to assume there must be a God, for otherwise what was the point of it all? Though he was by no means convinced that the Bible was to be taken as absolute truth.
Pondering his arrangements for the Christmas holiday, he heard some commotion behind him in the house, and turned, frowning.
The butler appeared in the open French windows, looking agitated. Though in truth he was both butler and footman in this informal household, and even, Michael suspected, occasionally valet too.
‘Forgive me, sir,’ the butler said, not venturing outside into the garden. ‘Might I suggest you would be more comfortable inside? There is a good fire in the morning room if you wish to continue your breakfast there, and I can have fresh coffee brought to you.’
‘No, I have finished my breakfast,’ Michael told him, but strolled back into the house. It was clear the butler did not want him in the garden, and he liked to be a good guest whenever possible.
‘Did you … Did you hear a shot earlier, sir?’
Michael stopped. ‘I did, yes. Some ten or fifteen minutes ago now. What was it?’
The butler was shaking his head. ‘Dreadful, sir. That’s what it is. One of these duels of honour, from what the coalman told me.’ He led him through to the morning room, a commodious and brightly-lit room where there was indeed a brisk fire burning in the grate and a comfortable sofa beside it. ‘A man has been shot dead, sir. Not two minutes’ walk from this house. The master will be very upset.’
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