"She is not a broodmare, Father ," Robert had been at pains to point out.
"Do you wish me to care more, or less about your choice of bride?" Staffordshire had quirked his grey brows, "Because if I were to care about more than you marrying a girl who will finally supply me with a grandson, then I might find that I do take umbrage with you marrying a Cavendish."
"Point taken."
"I shall supply you both with land to build on," Staffordshire had said, before Robert took his leave, "I have the perfect site in mind that will offer a poetic end to this silly feud."
With a gleam in his eye, Staffordshire had outlined just what field he thought would best suit Rob's new family, and when he finished, Robert had to admit he was right in it being a poetic end.
"Now go," the duke waved a cross hand, "And don't return until you have secured the line."
"As you wish," Rob had grinned, and he had raced to his chambers to bathe and dress before the masquerade.
An invitation to the event had not been sent to Lord Montague, but thankfully Lord Michaels had been chosen as worthy to attend.
"I don't know what you're about, Montague," his friend had said, as he and Benjamin—both dressed as court jesters—had collected him.
"I'm going to propose marriage to the woman I love," Montague had answered, much to Michaels ' disgust.
"Well, if I had known that, I really wouldn't have obliged you," he had groused, "Though Lord Cavendish does put on a good spread. At his last ball, he served puff-pastry rolls stuffed with pigeon and fennel leaf; I wonder shall he offer it again?"
"Yes, the food's the important bit," Benjamin had said, grinning over at Montague, "Not the fact that your friend has fallen in love."
"Another step on your slow descent into respectability," Lord Michaels gave a roll of his eyes, "Still, at least we have one more night of fun, before you get yourself leg-shackled."
"Nothing debauched," Robert had counselled sternly, "This is a mission of love, not an excuse for misbehaviour."
"You have my word as a gentleman," Lord Michaels had raised his hand.
"Sadly, I don't find that overly assuring."
Still, despite Robert's worry that his two habitually hedonistic friends might somehow make trouble for him, the night got off to a good start.
He gained entry easily, disguised as he was as a sailor. He had mingled with the other guests—all five hundred of them, including the Persian ambassador who had forgotten a costume and was trying to convince all who would listen that he was dressed as an Iranian.
Montague sauntered from room to room, clutching a glass of ratafia. He cared not for the other guests, and only for Julia, and as the night wore on without sighting her, he found himself growing nervous.
Perhaps she had changed her mind, he feared. Or her parents had discovered her plot and had locked her in her bedroom.
But, no, there was Lady Cavendish, waxing lyrical to all and sunder about her daughter's costume, so she must be somewhere.
Robert prowled through the drawing room and into the ballroom where at last he caught sight of the woman who was to be his bride, dressed as...
"I am a shepherdess," Julia said glumly, as Montague reached her, waving her staff and stuffed sheep for his benefit, "Mama thought it whimsical."
"Your mother and I have a completely different interpretation of what whimsy might mean," Robert said wolfishly. He had never been that taken with serving girls—given the disparity in power between them—but he had to admit there was a certain, pastoral charm to her outfit, which led Rob to wish they were already wed.
"Perhaps you might pack this into your trousseau," he whispered, though Julia was not listening.
"Oh, no," she whispered, "There is Lord Pariseau talking with Thomas."
Robert glanced in the direction she had pointed in and saw a highly irritated Lord Pariseau engaged in a heated discussion with Thomas Cavendish. Robert knew Julia's cousin only to see, but he had heard much about the heir's foul temper. If there was a scrape in Pickering Place, or a bout of fisticuffs in any of the gaming-hells, Cavendish was certain to be at the centre of it.
"He looks annoyed," Rob observed cheerfully.
"I just refused his proposal of marriage," Julia whispered back.
"I should feel a certain amount of empathy for the chap, seeing as how you refused me once, but sadly I find I have none," Rob replied, unable to hide his good cheer, "And why does he think complaining to your cousin might help?"
"I expect he thinks Thomas might strong arm me into rethinking my refusal," Julia replied, though she did not sound worried—far from it.
The two gazed at each other in a love-filled stupor, and possibly would have remained that way all night, had a shout not gone up, which caused every head in the room to turn.
"Montague," Thomas called across the room, "I thought that was you I sighted."
"You are the first one to see through my disguise," Rob called back evenly, worried that the hellion might make a dreadful scene, but determined to keep his cool.
"I didn't know you were invited," Thomas continued, as he crossed the room slowly to face him, "It must have been an oversight on the part of a servant, I will see that whoever made such a mistake is dismissed immediately."
"I mean no quarrel," Rob answered, holding up his hands in a sign of peace, "I am here to—"
He was not gifted a chance to explain his presence, for Cavendish reared back and delivered a punch to his jaw that sent Rob staggering.
"My compliments to Gentleman Jackson," Rob offered gallantly, as he righted himself, "He has taught you well."
"If you like my left hook that much, then I must introduce you to my right one," Cavendish whispered menacingly, as he advanced on Robert.
"Thomas, no!"
Julia's shout echoed across the room, perfectly in time with Cavendish's fist, which struck Rob again in the jaw.
"Can you not defend yourself?" Cavendish roared, as he staggered, but Rob refused to be baited.
He would not harm Julia's kin, especially not under her roof.
"He might have no wish to defend himself, but I shall defend him to the end," another voice interjected, and Rob closed his eyes as he realised who had spoken.
Lord Michaels, with Benjamin behind him, were advancing on Cavendish, with ill-intent in their eyes.
"Outside, everyone outside," Lord Cavendish called, breaking through the gathered crowd, "If you are going to brawl, do it outside like the dogs that you are."
His words were directed at Lord Michaels and Benjamin, but as they made for the door, Cavendish and two of his cronies were fast on their heels.
"I will try to stop it," Rob whispered to Julia, whose face was as white as her stuffed sheep's wool, "I will return."
As he smiled at her, he saw stars—from love or concussion he could not say, though the romantic in him was inclined to think the former.
Determined to cut Cavendish and Michaels off, before they did any real damage, Rob made for the door.
Outside in St James' Square, all was in darkness, though Robert could hear shouts coming from King Street.
He raced toward the noise and found Michaels and Benjamin engaged in a kerfuffle with Cavendish and his two friends. It was clear, now they were all in the open, that all of the men were in their cups. As the only sober one present, and the only one with peace in mind, Rob decided he should take charge.
"Stop," he roared, his voice so loud that he momentarily brought the hooligans to a standstill, "This is madness. You are not tars, you are gentlemen; you should not be brawling in the streets."
"He's right," Cavendish staggered backward, wiping his bloodied nose, "We should fight as gentlemen fight. Lord Michaels, I challenge you to a duel. Pistols, one hour, Pickering Place. Bring your second."
"That wasn't what I meant," Rob called weakly after Cavendish and his departing friends.
"Montague," Michaels called, "You will stand as my second."
"
I cannot," Rob shook his head, "You must not go through with this, Michaels. Do not go to Pickering Place."
"I defend your honour, and you will not defend mine?" Lord Michaels frowned, and Robert felt a rush of anguish.
Lord Michaels might die tonight, and if Rob did not stand with him, he would go to his grave thinking that Robert had betrayed him. Male pride and brotherly affection niggled at Rob's consciousness, but he resisted their call.
He could not draw the blood of Julia's kin, no matter how irritating said kin was.
"Montague did not ask us to defend him," Benjamin interjected, with a sympathetic glance to Robert, "He cannot stand as your second, not when he wishes to wed Lady Julia. I will stand in his stead; I will defend our family's honour."
Was it Rob's imagination, or was there a hint of derision in Benjamin's tone? He held up his hands and stared beseechingly at his two friends.
"I will go," Rob said, "I will accept the challenge and allow Cavendish shoot at me. He simply wishes to vent his anger, let him vent it at me."
"No," Michaels shook his head, "It is I who he challenged, and I who accepted. I cannot lose face over this, simply because you wish to get under some wench's skirts."
Rob quelled the urge to deliver a blow to Michaels himself, and Benjamin, sensing that another storm was brewing, stepped between the two men.
"Come," he said to Michaels, "Let us select your weapon, and make for Pickering Place."
The two men departed, without a backward glance to Robert, who was now filled with anguish and despair.
He had to stop the duel, he thought desperately, if he just waited in Pickering Place for them to arrive, he might somehow manage to intervene.
Despite the fact that he was still ludicrously dressed as a sailor, Rob set off on foot for the famed courtyard, to await the arrival of Michaels and Cavendish.
The place was in an uproar when he arrived, gentlemen hung out of the windows of the gaming-hells, calling bets out to each other, while a crowd had already gathered beneath the great lanterns which lighted the cobblestone square.
"Did you hear about the duel?" Lord Horace roared into Rob's ear when he sighted him.
"Yes, I'm here to try stop it," Rob roared back, wincing at Horace's terrible breath. Had a rat crawled into the back of his throat and died? It was unnatural for someone so wealthy to have breath so foul.
"That's no fun," Horace objected.
"I'm no fun," Rob replied grimly, and he shrugged Horace's shoulders away and began to pace.
An hour felt like an eternity, but eventually Cavendish arrived to a great cheer from the crowd, followed by Michaels who was similarly lauded. The drunks of Pickering Place had loyalty to neither man, excepting, perhaps, the one they had wagered on.
"I put a shilling on both," one man whispered to Rob, "One never knows."
"I'm afraid you'll find your shilling wasted," Rob muttered in return, before pushing his way to the centre of the courtyard to address the two men.
"Lord Michaels, Lord Cavendish," he called, as both men took their places, "I beg you to rethink. If either of you feel slighted, you might find your satisfaction in me. I will gladly accept whatever blows you parry, but I beg you, please do not draw your weapons."
"Get 'im off," a voice roared, and Rob was dragged bodily away by irritable drunks, who were braying for blood.
As Rob fretted, the two seconds inspected the weapons which were to be used, before handing them back to the duellists .
"Shall we say first blood?" Benjamin suggested brightly, as though they were at tea rather than in a seedy courtyard.
"To the death," Cavendish replied, though thankfully his suggestion was shouted down by the crowd and, more importantly, the owner of Crockford's.
"I have no wish to explain to the law why you two idiots decided to blow each other's brains out in front of my establishment," William Crockford snarled, and, as he was one of London's more notorious criminals, with a slew of murders under his belt, few found reason to argue.
"First blood it is," Benjamin said with relief, before taking up his position on the side-line.
Michaels and Cavendish turned their backs to each other, waiting for Crockford's count.
"Three, two, one," the gaming-hell proprietor counted in a bored tone, and on one, both Cavendish and Michaels turned.
Cavendish shot first, missing Michaels by a country mile. His bullet smashed through a pane glass window, sending glass flying onto the crowd below.
Lord Michaels then took his turn and Rob prayed that he would miss.
For a moment after the pistol shot rang through the courtyard, it appeared he had, but then Cavendish slumped to the floor.
"'E's dead," a voice called out, and the crowd swiftly dissipated.
Robert rushed forward, his heart hammering in his ears. Cavendish could not be dead; if he was, then Robert's hope s for a happy union with Julia were also doomed to an early grave.
He crouched down beside Cavendish and saw he was bleeding profusely from a wound in his arm.
"Someone fetch a doctor," Robert snarled, as he tore off his jacket and tried to staunch the bleeding.
"Will he be alright?"
It was Michaels, his face pale, his bravado vanished.
"I think it is just a flesh wound," Robert assured him, "But for heaven's sake, do not linger to find out. I shall attend to this dolt; you must go before someone calls for the law."
Michaels nodded and did as told, and Robert was left alone with Cavendish and his second, who had turned into a blubbering mess at the sight of all the blood.
"Duelling is illegal," was the first thing the physician said, when he finally arrived a good half-hour later.
"It was not I who shot him," Robert snapped back.
"That's what they all say. Luckily, I am a man of medicine and not the law. Stand aside, sir, I will attend to this fellow."
Robert obeyed, letting go of the coat he had held against Cavendish's wound so that the doctor might examine it.
The physician clucked like a hen for a few minutes, as he poked and prodded, before finally giving a satisfied sigh.
"A mere flesh wound," he declared, "The bullet simply grazed him. I assume he has consumed a large quantity of alcohol; it thins the blood and makes everything appear worse than it is. I have a buggy outside. Come, you can both lift him for me."
Robert and the second—whose name he did not know, nor care to know—lifted Cavendish at either end and brought him to the doctor's gig. There, with some difficulty, they hauled him up inside, and both men boarded the vehicle to assist on the short journey home.
"St James' Square," Robert instructed.
"Quelle suprise," the doctor mumbled under his breath, before urging his two bay geldings into a trot.
Robert remained to assist with removing Cavendish from the buggy, but hearing the commotion, the servants of Cavendish House rushed outside to help, and Rob found himself pushed aside.
"Pleas e, tell Lady Julia that I am here," Rob said to the second, who was following the morbid procession up the steps of the house.
The young man grunted in reply, and, uncertain of what to do, Rob decided to wait right there where he stood. A good hour passed, and Robert had seated himself upon the footpath, when the door to Cavendish House creaked open.
"Julia," Rob stood, suddenly aware of how terrible he looked. His costume was now wrinkled and dirty, his clothes stained with blood.
He did not look like an innocent player, he thought with a stab of fear.
Julia gazed coolly down at him, before descending the steps to meet him.
"The man who brought Thomas home told us that he had been involved in a duel," Julia said, her lips pale and her eyes watery, "A duel which you partook in."
"I did not, I swear it," Robert answered, anguish making his voice cracked and hard, "I would never jeopardise what we have for a mere brawl. I love you, and as such, I am obliged to love your kin. I played no part in what happened be
tween Lord Michaels and your cousin—I tried to stop it. I care not for the silly feud our fathers' fathers started; I care only for you."
"Sweet words," Julia replied, offering him a hollow laugh, "I fear that's all you have to offer a lady, my lord. You talk a good talk, and more fool me, I believed it."
"No," Robert shook his head, as though the action might make her words vanish, "I swear to you, Julia, I was not involved."
But she did not believe him. It was clear as day from her furrowed brow and pinched mouth that Lady Julia had closed her heart to him once more. He had thought he might soon learn all of Lady Julia's secrets, but now he was simply to become one of them.
Rob almost wished that he had never succeeded in breaking through its barriers, for had he not, he would not know what it was that he was now losing.
"I fear," he said, as he emitted a heavy sigh, "That of us both, it is you who holds the enmity betwixt our houses closest to your heart."
She was about to object, but Robert held up a hand to silence her.
"I pray your forgiveness if you find me rude," he said, as he struggled to keep his voice from shaking, "But, you see, you have broken my heart, and I request your permission to withdraw with dignity."
She stilled, her eyes filled with pain, but she remained silent.
"My lord," she finally said, graciously inclining her head.
"My lady," Robert replied, before turning on his heel, and walking slowly away from her.
He had tried—Lud, he had tried—he told himself valiantly, but their stars were crossed, and there would never be a happy ending for the children of two warring houses.
The next morning, Rob awoke, hoping that the previous night had all been but a dream. Alas, as Balthazar read him the morning papers, which hinted heavily at what had transpired, Rob's hopes were dashed.
This would not blow over, as he wished. Julia was lost to him forever.
"Are we dressing to go out, my lord?" Balthazar queried, as he assisted Rob from the bath.
"I am going as far as the library," Robert answered in reply, "Where I intend to drink a bottle of brandy—dress me as you see fit."
The Rake and Lady Julia (Wilful Wallflowers Book 3) Page 13
