Pistols For Two and Other Stories

by Джорджетт Хейер

  It occurred to him, while she offered this explanation of her presence in his house, that although she was agitated she was not at all shy, and seemed not to be much afraid of him. He said: ‘You intrigue me greatly. Where, in fact, do you wish to go?’

  ‘I wish—I have a particular desire—to go to Lord Rotherfield’s house,’ she replied.

  The amusement left his face. He looked frowningly at her, a hint of contempt in his rather hard eyes. He said in a dry tone: ‘No doubt to call upon his lordship?’

  She put up her chin. ‘If you will be so obliging as to direct me to Lord Rotherfield’s house, which I believe to be in this street, sir, I need no longer trespass upon your hospitality!’

  ‘It is the last house in London to which I would direct you. I will rather escort you back to your own house, wherever that may be.’

  ‘No, no, I must see Lord Rotherfield!’ she cried.

  ‘He is not a proper person for you to visit, my good girl. Moreover, it is unlikely that you would find him at home at this hour.’

  ‘Then I must wait for him,’ she declared. ‘I am persuaded he will not be so very late tonight, for he is going to fight a duel in the morning!’

  He stared at her, his eyes narrowed. ‘Indeed?’

  ‘Yes!—with my brother!’ she said, a catch in her voice. ‘I must—I must prevent him!’

  ‘Is it possible,’ he demanded, ‘that you imagine you can persuade Rotherfield to draw back from an engagement? You do not know him! Who sent you on this fantastic errand? Who can have exposed you to such a risk?’

  ‘Oh, no one, no one! I discovered what Charlie meant to do by the luckiest accident, and surely Lord Rotherfield cannot be so very bad? I know he is said to be heartless and excessively dangerous, but he cannot be such a monster as to shoot poor Charlie when I have explained to him how young Charlie is, and how it would utterly prostrate Mama, who is an invalid, and suffers from the most shocking palpitations!’

  He moved away from the window, and pulled a chair out from the table. ‘Come and sit down!’ he said curtly.

  ‘But, sir—’

  ‘Do as I bid you!’

  She came reluctantly to the chair and sat down on the edge of it, looking up at him in a little trepidation.

  He drew his snuff-box from his pocket and nicked it open. ‘You, I apprehend, are Miss Saltwood,’ he stated.

  ‘Well, I am Dorothea Saltwood,’ she amended. ‘My sister Augusta is Miss Saltwood, because no one has offered for her yet. And that is why I am not yet out, though I am turned nineteen! But how did you know my name is Saltwood?’

  He raised a pinch of snuff to one nostril. ‘I was present, ma’am, when your brother insulted Rotherfield.’

  She seemed grieved. ‘At that horrid gaming-hell?’

  ‘On the contrary! At an exclusive club, to which few of us, I fancy, know how Lord Saltwood gained admission.’

  She flushed. ‘He prevailed upon that stupid creature, Torryburn, to take him there. I dare say he should not have done so, but Lord Rotherfield need not have given him such a set-down! You will own it was the unkindest thing!’

  ‘Certainly,’ he said. ‘Pray do not think that I have the smallest desire to defend Rotherfield! But in justice to his lordship I must tell you that your brother offered him an insupportable insult. His lordship has many faults—indeed, I sometimes think I dislike him more than anyone of my acquaintance!—but I assure you that in all matters of play he is scrupulous. Forgive me if I venture to suggest, ma’am, that your brother will be the better for a sharp lesson, to teach him, in future, not to accuse a gentleman of using loaded dice!’

  ‘Indeed I know it was very bad, but if he meets Lord Rotherfield he won’t have a future!’

  ‘This is high Cheltenham tragedy with a vengeance!’ he replied, amused. ‘Rotherfield will scarcely proceed to such extremes as you dread, my dear child!’

  ‘They say he never misses!’ she uttered, her cheeks blanched.

  ‘Then he will hit Saltwood precisely where he means to.’

  ‘They must not, and they shall not meet!’ she said earnestly. ‘I am persuaded that if I can only tell Lord Rotherfield how it is with Charlie, he cannot be so cruel as to persist in this affair!’

  ‘You would be better advised to prevail upon your brother to apologize for his conduct.’

  ‘Yes,’ she agreed mournfully. ‘That is what Bernard said, but the thing is that Lord Rotherfield is so deadly a shot that Charlie would never, never do that, because everyone would think he was afraid to meet him!’

  ‘And who, may I ask, is Bernard?’

  ‘Mr Wadworth. We have known him for ever, and he is one of Charlie’s seconds. It was he who told me about it. I made him do so. I promised I would not disclose to Charlie that he had breathed a word to me, so what can I do but throw myself upon Lord Rotherfield’s mercy?’

  ‘Lord Rotherfield, as you are aware, has no mercy. You would, moreover, be doing Mr Wadworth a vast disservice if you were to betray to anyone the impropriety of his conduct in speaking one word to you on this subject.’

  ‘Oh, dear, I would not injure him for the world, poor Bernard! But I have told you already, sir!’

  ‘Your confidence is quite safe in my keeping.’

  She smiled engagingly up at him. ‘Indeed, I know it must be! You are so very kind! But I am determined to see Lord Rotherfield.’

  ‘And I am determined that you shall return to your home. Rotherfield’s is no house for you to visit in this style. Good God, if it should become known that you had done so—!’

  She got up, clasping her hands. ‘Yes, but it is desperate! If anything were to happen to Charlie, it would kill Mama! I assure you, it is of no consequence what becomes of me! Augusta says I am bound to ruin myself, because I have no notion how I should go on, so I might as well ruin myself now as later, don’t you think?’

  ‘I do not!’ he replied, laughing. ‘Oh, don’t look so much distressed, you absurd child! Will you trust me to see that no harm comes to your tiresome brother?’

  She stared at him, sudden hope in her eyes. ‘You, sir? Oh, will you see Lord Rotherfield, and explain to him that it was only that poor Charlie has been so sadly indulged, because my father died when he was a little boy, and Mama would not let him go to school, or permit anyone to cross him, and he has only just come to town, and he does not know how to guard his temper, or—’

  He interrupted this tumbled speech, possessing himself of one agitated little hand, and kissing it lightly. ‘Rest assured I will not allow Lord Rotherfield to hurt poor Charlie at all!’

  ‘Will he listen to you?’ she asked doubtfully. ‘Augusta’s particular friend, Miss Stanstead, says he is a very proud, disagreeable man, and cares nothing for anyone’s opinion.’

  ‘Very true, but I have it in my power to compel him to do what I wish. You may safely trust in me.’

  She heaved a relieved sigh, and again the enchanting smile trembled on her lips. ‘Oh yes! I do, sir! It is the oddest thing, for, to own the truth, I was a little afraid when you pulled back the curtain. You looked at me in such a way! But that was quite my own fault, and I saw in a trice that there was not the smallest need for me to be afraid. You are so very kind! I don’t know how I may thank you.’

  ‘Forget that I looked at you in such a way, and I shall be satisfied. I am going to take you home now. I think you said that no one knew you had left the house. Have you the means to enter it again without being seen by the servants?’ She nodded, a gleam of mischief in her big eyes. The amusement in his deepened. ‘Abominable girl! Lady Saltwood has my sincere sympathy!’

  ‘I know I have behaved shockingly,’ she said contritely. ‘But what was I to do? And you must own that it has come about for the best, sir! For I have saved Charlie, and I know you will never tell anyone what a scrape I have been in. I hope—I hope you don’t truthfully think me abominable?’

  ‘If I were to tell you what I truthfully think, I should be abominable. Co
me! I must convey you home, my little one.’

  2

  Never did a young gentleman embarking on his first affair of honour receive less encouragement from his seconds than Lord Saltwood received from Sir Francis Upchurch and Mr Wadworth. Sir Francis, being inarticulate, did little more than shake his head, but Mr Wadworth, presuming upon an acquaintance with his principal which dated from the cradle, did not hesitate to speak his mind. ‘Made a dashed cake of yourself!’ he said.

  ‘Worse!’ said Sir Francis, contributing his mite.

  ‘Much worse!’ corroborated Mr Wadworth. ‘Devilish bad ton, Charlie! You were foxed, of course.’

  ‘I wasn’t. At least, not very much.’

  ‘Drunk as a wheelbarrow. I don’t say you showed it, but you must have been!’

  ‘Stands to reason!’ said Sir Francis.

  ‘No right to bully Torryburn into taking you to the Corinthian dub in the first place. Above your touch, my boy! Told you so, when you asked me to take you. No right to have stayed there after Rotherfield gave you that setdown.’

  Lord Saltwood ground his teeth. ‘He need not have said that!’

  ‘No, I dare say he need not. Got a nasty tongue. But that don’t signify. You’d no right to accuse him of using Fulhams!’

  Sir Francis shuddered, and closed his eyes for an anguished moment.

  ‘Ought to have begged his pardon then and there,’ pursued Mr Wadworth relentlessly. ‘Instead of that, dashed well forced a quarrel on him!’

  ‘If he hadn’t told a waiter—a waiter!—to show me out—!’

  ‘Ought to have called for the porter,’ agreed Sir Francis. He then perceived that this amiable response had failed to please his fiery young friend, and begged pardon. A powerful thought assailed him. He turned his eyes towards Mr Wadworth, and said suddenly: ‘You know what, Bernie? He shouldn’t have accepted Charlie’s challenge. Must know he ain’t been on the town above six months!’

  ‘The point is he did accept it,’ said Mr Wadworth. ‘But it ain’t too late. Charlie dashed well ought to apologize.’

  ‘I will not!’ said Lord Saltwood tensely.

  ‘You were in the wrong,’ insisted Mr Wadworth.

  ‘I know it, and I mean to fire in the air. That will show that I acknowledge my fault, but was not afraid to meet Rotherfield!’

  This noble utterance caused Sir Francis to drop with a clatter the cane whose amber knob he had been meditatively sucking, and Mr Wadworth to stare at his principal as though he feared for his reason. ‘Delope?’ he gasped. ‘Against Rotherfield? You must be queer in your attic! Why, man, you’d be cold meat! Now, you listen to me, Charlie! If you won’t beg the fellow’s pardon, you’ll come up the instant you see the handkerchief drop, and shoot to kill, or I’m dashed if I’ll have anything more to do with it!’

  ‘Awkward business, if he killed him,’ objected Sir Francis. ‘Might have to leave the country.’

  ‘He won’t kill him,’ said Mr Wadworth shortly.

  He said no more, but it was plain to Saltwood that his seconds thought poorly of his chances of being able to hit his opponent at a range of twenty-five yards. He was by no means a contemptible shot, but he suspected that it might be easier to hit a small wafer at Manton’s Galleries than a large man at Paddington Green.

  Mr Wadworth called for him in a tilbury very early in the morning. He did not find it necessary to throw stones up at his lordship’s window, for his lordship had not slept well, and was already dressed. He stole downstairs, and let himself out of the house, bidding Mr Wadworth good morning with very creditable composure. Mr Wadworth nodded, and cast a knowledgeable eye over him. ‘No bright buttons on your coat?’ he asked.

  The question did nothing to allay the slightly sick feeling at the pit of Saltwood’s stomach. Mr Wadworth followed it up with a reminder to him to turn up his collar, and to be careful to present the narrowest possible target to his adversary. Lord Saltwood, climbing into the tilbury, answered with spurious cheerfulness: ‘I must suppose it can make little difference to such a shot as they say Rotherfield is.’

  ‘Oh, well—! No sense in taking needless risks,’ said Mr Wadworth awkwardly.

  After that, conversation became desultory. They were the first to arrive on the ground, but they were soon joined by Sir Francis, and a man in a sober-hued coat, who chatted about the weather. Saltwood realized that this insensate person must be the doctor, gritted his teeth, and hoped that Rotherfield would not be late. It seemed to him that he had strayed into nightmare. He felt cold, sick, and ashamed; and it said much for the underlying steel in his spoilt and wayward nature that it did not enter his head that he might even now escape from a terrifying encounter by apologizing to Rotherfield for conduct which he knew to have been disgraceful.

  Rotherfield arrived even as the church clocks were striking the hour. He was driving himself in his sporting curricle, one of his friends seated beside him, the other following him in a high-perch phaeton. He appeared to be quite nonchalant, and it was obvious that he had dressed with all his usual care. The points of his shirt stood up stiffly above an intricate neckcloth; his dark locks were arranged with casual nicety; there was not a speck upon the gleaming black leather of his Hessian boots. He sprang down from the curricle and cast his drab driving-coat into it. The seconds met, and conferred, and presently led their principals to their positions, and gave into their hands the long-barrelled duelling-pistols, primed and cocked. Across what seemed to be an immeasurable stretch of turf, Saltwood stared at Rotherfield. That cold, handsome face might have been carved in stone; it looked merciless, faintly mocking.

  The doctor turned his back; Saltwood drew in his breath, and grasped his pistol firmly. One of Rotherfield’s seconds was holding the handkerchief high in the air. It fell, and Saltwood jerked up his arm and fired.

  He had been so sure that Rotherfield would hit him that it seemed to him that he must have been hit. He recalled having been told that the bullet had a numbing effect, and cast an instinctive glance down his person. But there did not seem to be any blood, and he was certainly still standing on his feet. Then he heard someone ejaculate: ‘Good God! Rotherfield!’ and, looking in bewilderment across the grass, he saw that Mr Mayfield was beside Rotherfield, an arm flung round him, and that the doctor was hurrying towards them. Then Mr Wadworth removed his own pistol from his hand, and said in a stupefied voice: ‘He missed!’

  Young Lord Saltwood, realizing that he had hit the finest pistol-shot in town and was himself untouched, was for a moment in danger of collapsing in a swoon. Recovering, he pushed Mr Wadworth away, and strode impetuously up to the group gathered round Rotherfield. He reached it in time to hear that detested voice say: ‘The cub shoots better than I bargained for! Oh, go to the devil, Ned! It’s nothing—a graze!’

  ‘My lord!’ uttered Saltwood. ‘I wish to offer you my apology for—’

  ‘Not now, not now!’ interrupted the doctor testily.

  Saltwood found himself waved aside. He tried once more to present Rotherfield with an apology, and was then led firmly away by his seconds.

  3

  ‘Most extraordinary thing I ever saw!’ Mr Wadworth told Dorothea, when dragged by her into the small saloon, and bidden disclose the whole to her. ‘Mind, now! Not a word to Charlie! Rotherfield missed!’

  Her eyes widened. ‘Fired in the air?’

  ‘No, no! Couldn’t expect him to do that! Dash it, Dolly, when a man does that he’s owning he was at fault! Don’t mind telling you I felt as sick as a horse. He was looking devilish grim. Queer smile on his face, too. I didn’t like it above half. I’ll swear he took careful aim. Fired a good second before Charlie did. Couldn’t have missed him by more than a hair’s breadth! Charlie got him in the shoulder: don’t think it’s serious. Thing is, shouldn’t be surprised if it’s done Charlie good. Tried to beg Rotherfield’s pardon on the ground, and he’s called once in Mount Street since then. Not admitted: butler said his lordship was not receiving visitors. Given
Charlie a fright: he’ll be more the thing now. But don’t you breathe a word, Dolly!’

  She assured him she would not mention the matter. An attempt to discover from him who, besides Lord Rotherfield, resided in Mount Street could not have been said to have advanced the object she had in mind. Mr Wadworth was able to recite the names of several persons living in that street; but when asked to identify a gentleman who apparently resembled a demi-god rather than an ordinary mortal, he said without hesitation that he had never beheld anyone remotely corresponding to Miss Saltwood’s description. He began then to show signs of suspicion, so Dorothea was obliged to abandon her enquiries and to cast round in her mind for some other means of discovering the name of her brother’s unknown preserver. None presented itself; nor, when she walked down Mount Street with her maid, was she able to recognize the house in which she had taken refuge. A wistful fancy that the unknown gentleman might perhaps write to tell her that he had kept his word was never very strong, and by the end of the week had vanished entirely. She could only hope that she would one day meet him, and be able to thank him for his kind offices. In the meantime, she found herself to be sadly out of spirits, and behaved with such listless propriety that even Augusta, who had frequently expressed the wish that something should occur to tame her sister’s wildness, asked her if she were feeling well. Lady Saltwood feared that she was going into a decline, and herself succumbed immediately to a severe nervous spasm.

  Before any such extreme measures for the restoration to health of the younger Miss Saltwood as bringing her out that very season had been more than fleetingly contemplated by her mama and angrily vetoed by her sister, her disorder was happily arrested. Eight days after Saltwood’s duel, on an afternoon in June, the butler sought out Dorothea, who was reading aloud to her afflicted parent, and contrived to get her out of the drawing-room without arousing any suspicion in Lady Saltwood’s mind that she was wanted by anyone more dangerous than the dressmaker. But once outside the drawing-room Porlock placed a sealed billet in Dorothea’s hand, saying with the air of a conspirator that the gentleman was in the Red Saloon.