by M C Beaton
‘He might not take it,’ pointed out Lord Sylvester.
‘Tell him it’s a loan. Send that steward of yours to oversee his farms and land. You know, Dawson. Dawson could grow anything anywhere. The man’s a wizard.’
‘Perhaps she wants to marry Chumley.’
‘Stuff! Nobody wants to marry Chumley, except perhaps his mother. And what’s this about his parents visiting Barnet? His ma don’t move from that barn of a place they’ve got in Sussex and pa does what ma says, so what are they doing in Barnet? In any case, to return to the vicar. We could see the prize fight on Saturday, call on the vicar, and enjoy ourselves at the same time.’
‘You go, Peter,’ said Lord Sylvester, stopping suddenly. ‘We’ll arrange the money business between our lawyers, and I’ll send for Dawson if the vicar’s willing. I think this Barnet matter ought to be looked into.’
‘Of course.’
‘Why are you smiling like that?’
‘Oh, nothing,’ said the Marquess hurriedly. ‘I must have been thinking of the prize fight.’
Minerva, who had risen after their departure to watch them from the window, let the curtain drop with a sigh. But she had little things to comfort her, she thought drearily. The three Dandies had only called once, and then only to preen and strut in front of her, restored to their former glory. Their conversation had been barbed and malicious. Minerva knew they would not forgive her for tricking them.
Then, it appeared from his manner, that she need not worry about any further attentions from Lord Sylvester Comfrey. She had probably disgusted him by surrendering so easily to his embrace. It was as well she was guided by duty. She could now forget him and be easy in her conscience.
Lady Godolphin was socially acceptable but viewed as definitely not respectable by the mothers of hopeful debutantes. And so that was the reason Minerva did not have any female friends to confide in. Just any one ordinary debutante would have pointed out that Lady Godolphin should most certainly be told of her proposed expedition with Lord Chumley. A more respectable chaperone than Lady Godolphin would have made sure she at least took her maid along with her. But as it was, Minerva knew only enough about the conventions to find it quite suitable to travel alone with Lord Chumley, provided it was not in a closed carriage.
Nervertheless she could not help hoping it would rain, so that the visit could be postponed.
She was further depressed to receive a letter from Annabelle who mentioned that Guy Wentwater had returned, and although he had gone to visit relatives, she, Annabelle, intended to tell her parents of her determination to see the young man on his return.
What could have changed her mind? thought Minerva. Annabelle had seemed glad to escape from Guy Wentwater. Why should she encourage his advances now?
It was more than ever imperative that she, Minerva, should marry and be able to give Annabelle a Season.
The weather was quite dreadful for the rest of the week, unseasonably chilly and damp and very rainy.
Minerva visited the opera, the Royal Academy, two breakfasts and a rout, but Lord Sylvester was absent and Lord Chumley was always dutifully at her side to fetch her refreshment and hold her fan.
Minerva often wondered what on earth they would find to talk about once they were married. Lord Chumley had very little conversation, and such that he did have centred around prize fights and cock fights and the latest wonder to be seen at Astley’s Amphitheatre – the latter being a display of acrobatics by genuine English Bedouin, unlike the ‘ugly’ foreigners who could be seen ‘waving their big ugly feet in the air like frying pans’ at a rival establishment.
Infuriatingly, Saturday dawned clear and fair. They were to leave as early as ten o’clock, Lord Chumley had said, guessing correctly that Lady Godolphin would not be awake at that time.
She hesitated a little before allowing Lord Chumley to help her up onto the box of his carriage. She had thought there would be a groom, or at least a tiger, in attendance.
Perhaps Minerva might have refused to go. But just at that moment, she saw Lord Sylvester turning the corner of the square. She folded her lips into a thin line. He would see that she meant to carry things through to the bitter end.
Lord Chumley said little and drove fast. Minerva barely noticed where they were going. Misery seemed to clutch her heart. The very act of meeting his parents was to seal her doom. On through North London they sped and out into the countryside, easily passing other carriages and coaches on the road.
They seemed to have been travelling for a very long time when Lord Chumley suddenly swung off the main road, and the carriage bumped along a rutted lane, shadowed by overhanging trees. The horses slowed to a canter and all the quiet noises of the countryside crowded in; birds twittered from the hedgerows, a dog barked in the distance, and somewhere nearby, a cow lowed mournfully.
‘Nearly there,’ said Lord Chumley with a tight little smile.
‘At your parents?’ demanded Minerva in surprise.
‘Not yet,’ he replied. ‘Just going to get a fresh team put to.’
‘But there cannot possibly be a posting house on this lane,’ exclaimed Minerva.
‘Best place there is,’ he said, urging the weary horses forward.
They swung around a bend and pulled up before a long, low hostelry. A weatherbeaten sign proclaimed it to be The Duke of Clarence – a grand name for what appeared to be little more than a hedge tavern.
Three horses were tethered outside, so Minerva decided it must be grander inside than out, since it seemed to attract custom.
‘We’ll have some refreshment,’ said Lord Chumley.
‘Isn’t there even an ostler?’ Minerva looked down at Lord Chumley in surprise. His lordship had sprung down and seemed to be about to see to his horses himself.
‘My love,’ he said sternly, ‘you must not ask so many questions. Let me assist you down. There! Now you will be able to partake of some refreshment.’
He had tethered the horses and was leading her towards the inn.
How very quiet it was!
There was no sound from inside, not even the banging of a pewter pot or the clink of a glass.
She hesitated slightly. Lord Chumley held her arm in a surprisingly strong clasp. ‘Come along, my dear,’ he said. ‘One would think you were afraid.’
Minerva reluctantly allowed him to lead her into the inn. Three men arose at her entrance and she stared in amazement.
There was Mr Jeremy Bryce, looking more to one side than ever, Mr Harry Blenkinsop, fat and florid, and Mr Silas Dubois, his small, slight, almost crooked figure dominated by his large nose.
Minerva whirled around as the door slammed behind her.
Lord Chumley stood looking at her, swinging the large key in his hand. He no longer looked weak and foolish, but nasty and dangerous, and he seemed to have grown bigger in the dim light of the tap room.
‘What is the meaning of this?’ demanded Minerva in a shaky voice.
Mr Blenkinsop acted as spokesman. ‘We think it’s time you were schooled to behave like a real woman. So you’ve got to pick whichever one of us is going to deflower you. We’re acting like gentlemen by giving you a choice.’
‘You’re mad!’ said Minerva. She turned on Lord Chumley. ‘And I must have been mad to even consider marriage with you. You all disgust me … you excuses for manhood.’
‘Very fine,’ sneered Harry Blenkinsop. ‘Let me put it this way. You take one of us … or all.’
Minerva began to scream.
They simply watched her, making no effort to silence her.
‘You can’t be heard,’ said Mr Bryce, picking his teeth. ‘Ain’t anybody about for miles.’
Minerva fought back an overwhelming desire to burst into tears.
‘God help me,’ she said simply.
‘There she goes again,’ sneered Silas Dubois. ‘Always praying. Well, this is one time your prayers ain’t going to be answered. We’ll draw straws, boys, for who has her first.’
Minerva looked at him with infinite contempt.
‘I would as soon be wed to a broken-down sheep,’ she said coldly, ‘for that is exactly what you look like.’
The other three roared with malicious laughter and Lord Chumley turned as red as fire with rage.
‘Let me at her,’ he said thickly.
‘Easy. Steady,’ said Silas Dubois. ‘We draw first.’
It’s so stupid, thought Minerva wildly. She looked about for escape, for a weapon, anything.
‘There’s no way out,’ said Silas Dubois.
‘Except by the window,’ came a mocking voice.
Minerva gave a cry of relief. The window had swung open and Lord Sylvester Comfrey stepped easily over the sill and onto the dirty floor of the tap room.
‘Now who has the key?’ he said pleasantly.
‘Get him!’ yelled Dubois. ‘There’s four of us.’
Lord Sylvester thrust Minerva into a corner and braced himself for the onslaught. Minerva buried her face in her hands.
There were cries and thuds and cracks and groans and scuffles and gasps and at long last a dead silence.
She uncovered her face.
Lord Sylvester was standing alone in the middle of the room.
Lord Chumley and Jeremy Bryce were knocked out cold. Harry Blenkinsop had his head stuffed up the chimney and Silas Dubois was crouched behind a settle, holding a handkerchief to his bloody nose.
‘The key,’ said Lord Sylvester.
‘Chumley has it,’ whispered Minerva, as if all her tormenters would spring to life if she spoke in too loud a voice.
Lord Sylvester stooped over the fallen body of Lord Chumley and extracted the key. One of his hands was bleeding at the knuckles, but, apart from that, he looked almost as if he were paying a morning call.
‘Come along, Minerva,’ he said.
He put an arm around her and led her to the door.
‘I wouldn’t waste your time,’ came the sneering voice of Silas Dubois. ‘She’s not any good once you get the skirts over her head. They’re all the same.’
Lord Sylvester walked forward quickly, raised his gloves and struck Silas Dubois full across the face.
‘Name your second, Dubois,’ he said.
Mr Dubois gave a slow, twisted smile. ‘Bryce shall act for me,’ he said.
‘And Brabington shall act for me. Minerva, your arm. Let us leave these creatures.’
Minerva leaned against him outside the inn, drinking in great gulps of fresh air.
‘Don’t speak,’ he said. He threw her up into his racing curricle, climbed up and took the reins. ‘We shall find a respectable inn at Barnet. Don’t cry, Minerva. I have worries enough without a watering pot crying over my sleeve and shrinking the material.’
But Minerva’s nerves were quite overset and she cried and gulped and sobbed all the way to Barnet.
‘You do look a mess,’ said his lordship, rolling into the yard of a well-kept inn. ‘Your nose is all red and your eyes are mere slits.’
‘You have no sensitivity whatsoever,’ said Minerva. But she took a steel mirror out of her reticule and looked in dismay at the wreck of her appearance. ‘How on earth did you find me?’ she asked, pushing strands of hair under her bonnet.
‘I followed you. It was all very simple.’
Lord Sylvester arranged a room for her at the inn and sent her off with the landlord’s wife to bathe her eyes.
After an half hour, she joined him in a private parlour, a speech of thanks and gratitude on her lips.
‘No,’ he said,’ holding up a slender hand to forestall her. ‘I can see you are about to burst into a noble speech and I could not bear it. Sit down and drink your wine. It’s of no use explaining. I never knew a female who embroils me in such a mess.’
‘You will not meet Dubois,’ said Minerva. ‘Duelling is illegal.’
‘So it is,’ he agreed, helping himself to wine. ‘But I most certainly shall meet him. It is a point of honour. Of course, I should not have fallen into the trap. Dubois is famous for promoting duels.’
‘He is supposed to be the best marksman in England,’ exclaimed Minerva. ‘And he will kill you! And all because of my stupidity.’
‘Now, don’t cry again or I shall slap you. Silas will undoubtedly try to kill me. But if I am allowed peace and quiet to think, I may be able to outwit him.’
‘What shall I tell Lady Godolphin?’
‘Tell her you went driving with me instead. If you tell her the truth, she will rage all over London and you may find your reputation in rags. Do not tell anyone about the duel. That, too, could ruin you. You have your family to think of. In fact, Minerva, it’s high time you went home. London and its evil ways are not for you.’
‘But my family …’
‘I have heard a rumour that your father has come into money. You will no doubt have a letter from him in the next few days, begging for your return. Think on’t, Minerva. Peace and quiet, the parish rounds, the bucolic silence of Hopeworth.’
‘I shall miss you …’
‘You will remember me sometimes when you are happily married, and you will wonder what ever came over you. You must not fancy yourself in love with me. It would not serve.’
‘Why?’ asked Minerva in a low voice.
The sunlight shone in long shafts onto the sanded floor of the parlour. Golden dust motes floated between them. A burst of laughter came from the yard below and a horse snorted and stamped.
‘I am too old for you, Minerva. You will change as you grow and the man you will want at twenty-five is not the man you want now. People change.’
‘What if you die?’
‘Then you may lay flowers on my grave. But I do not think I shall die.’
‘When and where are you going to meet Dubois?’
‘I shall leave that to Brabington. One’s second arranges things like that.’
‘Let me know.’
‘Why, Minerva? So that you can call the Runners?’
‘So that I can pray for you.’
‘In that case, perhaps … let us talk of other things.’
He talked away lightly while Minerva sat listening to him, watching his face, watching his hands, wondering if she would ever love anyone else. For she knew at last that she was totally and completely in love with him. Somehow, she forced herself to smile and talk easily. The journey back from Barnet seemed so short. There was no chance of a private goodbye, for Lady Godolphin arrived in her carriage at the same time, demanding explanations as to why Minerva was not with Chumley.
At last, Lord Sylvester drove off and Minerva sadly watched him go, and Lady Godolphin had to tug at her arm to bring her to her senses.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
‘Well, when is it to be? Since I don’t suppose Dubois has any intention of giving up a chance of putting a ball in my heart. He’s always hated me, but since the advent of Minerva, it’s grown to a madness.’
The Marquess of Brabington nodded. ‘He’s desperate to meet you. Chalk Farm. Wednesday morning at six.’
‘I’ll be there.’
‘He’ll kill you.’
‘Perhaps. Perhaps not. I have a trick or two up my sleeve. I am pleased the good vicar accepted our generosity. Good works suit you, Peter. There has been a glow in your eyes since you returned.’
The Marquess shrugged. ‘They are a pleasant family. I enjoyed the prize fight and my subsequent visit to Hopeworth. It is a fine thing to play Lord Bountiful, particularly as Mr Armitage had absolutely no qualms about accepting our bounty. As I recall, he compared himself to Elijah the Tishbite and me to a friendly raven who brought him bread and flesh in the morning and bread and fish in the evening. It was quite uplifting. He was also delighted at the thought of having his eldest daughter back in the bosom of the family
. It appears she rules the roost. Charming family.’
‘A little young for you,’ said Lord Sylvester, lifting down a heavy wooden box.
‘I don’t know what on earth you are talking about,’ said the Marquess acidly. ‘Oh, I say, what have you there?’
‘Engines of death,’ said Lord Sylvester, throwing back the lid.
The Marquess whistled in awe. ‘They’re beauties. Where on earth did you get pistols like these?’
‘My secret. I had them especially made last year when it seemed as if some young hothead intended to blow my brains out. But he cooled in time and I’ve never had to use them.’
They were undoubtedly duelling pistols as opposed to military pistols. They were long and dull and deadly.
Here was no fancy scrollwork or embellishment to supply a target. The interior of the barrel was highly polished but the outside was browned to reduce glare to the duellist’s eye when the pistol came into the aim.
The inside of the barrel was not rifled, for this was considered unsporting, since rifling increased the speed of the bullet.
They were flintlocks and the wooden butts were ‘checked’ – scored in a criss-cross fashion to give the perfect grip. What was unusual about these pistols was their ‘saw handle grip’. The wood of the stock was shaped so that there was a protuberance that fitted over the thumb web of the firer’s hand. The Marquess reverently lifted one out. It fitted so sleekly into his hand that all he had to do was point his hand, and the gun automatically pointed exactly at the spot that the firer’s brain and eye would be aiming at.
The idea of the duelling pistol was that it should have this ‘pointing’ ability.
With Lord Sylvester’s innovation to the butt or grip, his weapons became literally an extension of the arm, and missing the target was well-nigh impossible.
Of course, thought the Marquess with a sudden shiver, Sylvester, as the challenger, had the right to offer his own choice of pistol, so this would mean Dubois would be using one of them and would also be unable to miss.
He carefully laid it back in the box.
