A Captain of Consequence (Westham Chronicles, #2)

by Osborne, Rachel

  She drew in a breath, held it for a count of three, and released it slowly, very slowly, through her clenched teeth. It did not help much. Before she could try again, though, the thundering of feet in the corridor broke through the silence of her sanctuary and the door to the quiet parlour flew open.

  “Grace!” Emily exclaimed, her cheeks pink from exertion and excitement. “You’ll never guess what’s happened. What is going to happen That is, you won’t believe it! I scarcely believe it!”

  She sank down on a sofa, an expression of rapture lifting her delicate features.

  Grace’s heart turned to lead, sinking down in her stomach. She kept her attention fixed on the page before her, focusing all her energies on drawing the very straightest line she could fashion. She knew what her sister was about to say. She did not know how she knew it, only that there could be no other thing to render her sister quite so ecstatic. Captain Sudbury has proposed, Grace. He has asked me to marry him and I have said yes! Papa agrees! Oh, is it not the most wonderful news?

  “Well?” Emily prompted, bolting upright on the sofa and raising her eyebrows at her sister. “Are you not in the slightest bit curious as to what has happened?”

  “No,” Grace said, honestly.

  “No?” Emily screeched. “Honestly, Grace, sometimes I wonder if you and I are related at all! How can you not care that I have the most exciting, thrilling, fascinating news -”

  “Emily,” Grace said, her words clipped through her clenched teeth. “I don’t care for news, and when have I ever shown the slightest bit of interest in the gossip that so delights and devastates you on a daily basis? This is not a new phenomenon, nor something that requires you to shriek at me.”

  “Captain Sudbury has challenged Mr Crampton to a duel!” Emily pouted. “And I didn’t shriek.”

  “A duel?” Grace felt the colour drain from her face. She turned to eye her sister, her words little more than a whisper. “Captain Sudbury has challenged Mr Crampton to a duel?”

  “Indeed!” Emily nodded, smiling wide enough to split her face in two. “Or Mr Crampton challenged him...I do not recall the specifics. Anyway, the most important detail is this. There is a duel to be fought, Gracie, and what do you think is the cause for so romantic a challenge?” Her smile grew if such a thing were possible. “Me! Your very own sister!” She let out a sigh and murmured as if to herself. “I wish Phoebe Taylor were here to see this.”

  “Wait, Emily, you are not making any sense.” Grace took a step closer to her sister, her features sinking into a curious, disbelieving frown. “You cannot mean that Mr Crampton and Captain Sudbury intend to fight for you - to the death?” Grace was ill-versed in the nature of duels but she had come across them enough to know that there could only ever be one winner.

  “Oh, pish! You make it sound so serious! I doubt either of them can even shoot straight.” She paused, biting her lip. “Except for Captain Sudbury, I suppose, being as he is a naval man. Oh, but anyway, it will all be well, I am sure. And that is hardly the point. The point, my dear Grace, is that y our sister is so sought after that two suitors are set to duel in order to win my heart. Is that not the most romantic thing you’ve ever heard of?”

  “No,” Grace said, bluntly. “Emily, I think you should put a stop to it. Tell Papa -”

  “Tell Papa?” Emily laughed, but when she noticed the serious set of her sister’s chin, the laughter died on her lips. “Oh, Grace, you can’t think of such a thing! Why, Papa is sure to report them and that will serve only to get both gentlemen in trouble with the magistrate and - and anyway, are you not in the least bit curious who will win? I know I have been unsure over which of them I would prefer to win my heart and I shall confess to you, Grace, that my heart was leaning ever so slightly towards Mr Crampton, despite his wealth not being quite as great as Captain Sudbury’s. He is so well-travelled, you know, and he has friends up and down the country - real gentlemen, I mean, not old sea-dogs as I am sure make up the majority of Captain Sudbury’s acquaintances. People I should much prefer to associate with. Anyway, his feelings could not possibly be doubted, but I thought it no bad thing to allow him a little competition. After all, a young lady scarcely becomes dearer in the eyes of one gentleman than when she is seen as valuable in the eyes of another.” She smirked. “Evidently my plan has worked, for all it took was one recollection that Captain Sudbury proposed to me once before - do you remember, Grace? Although perhaps you do not. You were a baby back then. I dare say I am pleased Papa put a stop to it for I might have been easily charmed into marrying him and just think, if he had not succeeded and become a captain why, I might be quite destitute by now! Anyway. I made some passing mention of this past friendship and Mr Crampton riled right up, storming out of the tea room - we had stopped at Mrs Cooper’s, you know, in Westham proper, and took tea with Captain Sudbury and his sister who had been to see some little property. Too small for one to truly consider it a home, but...I am sure it will be no difficult task to persuade Captain Sudbury of its unsuitability once things are settled -”

  “Emily!” Grace could stay silent no longer. “You are acting as if this was a matter of fun, of triviality! Futures hang in the balance - people could get hurt!”

  “Oh, Grace!” Emily sniffed, exasperated at her younger sister’s rationality and worry. “You fret far too easily over things that are not worth countenancing. Now, the duel is to take place at dusk. I shall go and witness it, of course, although I am a little frightened to think of watching such a thing. Or...do you think I ought to wait at home to be told the outcome?” She chewed on her lower lip. “Oh, if only I had a friend from London in whom I might confide...they would know just what to do. I don’t suppose there is anyone in all of Westham who has ever had a duel fought over her!”

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Of course you don’t mean to fight him!” Amelia declared as she paced uncertainly in the parlour of Roland Park.

  “Of course he does!” Devereaux responded, from his comfortable wing-back chair. He glanced from his bride-to-be to Arthur and continued, his voice entirely unruffled. “I’ll be your second. We’ll soon see off this idiot Crampton. I expect he’s already regretting the fit of pique that had him call you out in the first place.”

  “But...” Amelia frowned, evidently struggling to counter her fiancé’s sanguine acceptance of this plan with any suggestion she could that might make her brother think better of it. “But you can’t fight a duel! Not for Emily Hardcastle. You don’t even love her!

  “What does that have to do with it?” both men asked in unison.

  Arthur angled his chair so that he could better see his sister, who still refused to sit be at peace but flitted from one end of the elegant parlour to the other, chewing on the inside of her cheek in consternation.

  “You love Grace!”

  “Nonsense!” Arthur declared.

  “She loves you, anyway. Can’t you love her just a little bit? You are so much happier with her than you ever could be with Emily Hardcastle.”

  Arthur was rendered speechless, but whether by surprise at his sister’s reasoning, or surprise that it so closely mirrored what his own thoughts regarding the two sisters had been slowly, gradually becoming, he was not sure. He refused to engage with either, returning to his sister’s main source of irritation.

  “I am not fighting Crampton to win Miss Emily Hardcastle’s hand or whatever romantic nonsense you’ve got into your head, Milly. I shall duel him because to refuse would be to show cowardice.” His eyes flashed. “And I am no coward.”

  “No, you are a fool who is liable to get himself shot!” Amelia shrieked, clenching her hands into fists as if she, too, would like to fight her brother at that moment, and subdue him with her own fists if not her reason.

  “Amelia,” Devereaux said, patiently.

  “You!” She launched at him instead. “You do not say another word. I can’t believe you are encouraging this - this madness!”

  “Foolishness, I�
��ll grant you.” Devereaux’s lips quirked and he looked past his bride at Arthur. “On Crampton’s part, I mean. What a fool he must be to challenge a fellow like your brother - a naval hero, for heaven’s sake! - to a duel over some minor misunderstanding.” He turned to peep out of the window. “I am surprised he has not yet sent a runner to my door to see if we might talk you down between us. Tell me, Sudbury, should such a man arrive, do you wish to be talked out of it?”

  “Yes!” Amelia exclaimed, nodding her head vigorously.

  “Do as you wish,” Arthur replied, letting out a low sigh.

  He was not in any great desire to fight a duel, this evening or any other. And certainly not against such a fellow as Crampton. He did not doubt his own prowess, nor Devereaux’s support on this or any other occasion, but he did not like to see his sister so worried and out of sorts. He reached a hand out to her and she dodged out of his grasp, commencing her pacing once more.

  “Milly, be calm! What do you think can happen?”

  “You might be killed!” She paused, her eyes widening. “Or you might kill someone else!”

  “I have killed people before, sister,” Arthur reminded her, his voice neutral. “It is something of an occupational hazard.”

  “Not like this,” Amelia insisted. “And not over Emily Hardcastle!”

  The room lapsed into uneven silence and Devereaux was the one to break it at last.

  “Do you feel more upset by the news that your brother is duelling or that it is over Miss Hardcastle?” he asked, affecting to examine his fingernails as if that might allow the words to slide innocently across Amelia’s attention. “If it is the latter, I may write to Crampton myself, as Arthur’s second, and inform him that the charming Miss Hardcastle is his for the asking, but his slight against Arthur’s character remains. He may apologise and then the matter might be put to rest.”

  “There!” Amelia spun around, looking imploringly at Arthur. “That is an idea, surely!”

  Arthur shrugged his shoulders, uncomfortable with his own heart being discussed so candidly by those he considered friends and family as if he had no say over it himself.

  “If you wish.”

  “I wish,” Devereaux said, hauling himself to his feet and scrabbling for a clean sheet of paper. “Come, Amelia, and dictate, for you have a far better way with words than me...”

  Arthur turned his face away, not caring to see his sister and Devereaux act with affection as they penned a letter concerning his own non-existent feelings for another.

  Grace loves you, anyway, Amelia had said. She was fabricating, surely? Concocting any reason she could imagine that might keep him from going through with something she thought foolish in the extreme. Why, then, did it bear so evident a ring of truth to it? Did Grace care for him? Was it love, and not irritation, that compelled her to keep her distance from him? But why? She did not ever strike me as a young lady to play games, he thought, but then...he had been away a long time, and with Emily for her companion, who could tell what feminine habits merry Grace had developed. Yet, the notion of Grace as manipulative still did not ring true. He remembered her embarrassment upon their first meeting when she tumbled into his arms like an angel from heaven. He snorted. An angel from heaven. He was becoming sentimental in his old age.

  “Something the matter?” Devereaux asked, glancing over from the corner where he and Amelia stood, hastily composing. Amelia slid one piece of paper away and passed a fresh sheet to Devereaux.

  “Ignore him,” she instructed, with a flippant smile at her brother. “If he is so wedded to catastrophe he can have no sense to offer us. Look.” She tapped the table-top. “We must begin and send this letter quickly if we expect it to reach Mr Crampton at home....”

  Arthur sighed, sinking his head into his hand. It had begun to ache, a low rumbling pounding he could not quite shake. He had been so delighted that morning, exploring the very pretty estate he’d begun to think of as his, although he was yet to sign for it with the manager. He had been still more delighted that of all the people in Westham they should stumble on Grace en route to view it. That she should accompany them, and like it - for he did think, despite her silence, that she liked it - had made the place still more attractive to him. His eyes fluttered closed, and he saw the vision of the pretty Miss Grace sketching in the gardens, one of the many follies her subject. The evening light would cause her pale skin to glow, and her eyes, fixed on her work, would have a little hint of green in them...

  He sighed again, a long, weary sight of regret that his sister seemed to have recognised the truth long before he had, and wondering if, even now, it was too late to remedy matters.

  You are quite right, sister, dear, he told the hunched back of Amelia, as she directed Devereaux to pen a far-too-detailed, far-too-long letter to Arthur’s antagonist. I do not love Miss Emily Hardcastle. I love Grace...and now it may be too late to ever tell her!

  THE TICK OF THE CLOCK on the mantel seemed almost unbearably loud to Grace, who flinched with every sound it made. Her family were undisturbed, with Mrs Hardcastle poring over a letter from an old friend in London and Emily humming happily to herself as she sewed. She could not believe her sister did not seem at all concerned as, with every minute that passed, the dreaded duel edged closer. Even now, Captain Sudbury would be arranging his pistols. Even now, he might be making his plans with Sir Benjamin Devereaux. In an hour, he might be...

  Grace gulped, straightening in her seat.

  “What is the matter, dear?” Mrs Hardcastle asked, in an easy voice.

  And why would she not be at ease? Grace fumed inwardly. She is entirely in the dark as to what is happening!

  “Yes, Grace, you look a little pale. Are you quite well?” Emily’s question was posed politely enough, but Grace was not ignorant of the biting edge to her words. Emily looked at her sister just long enough to frown, warningly, before returning to her sewing, a picture of contentment.

  Grace bit her lip, attempting to draw again, although her hands shook too badly and she was forced to abandon her pursuit before she even touched pen to paper.

  A knock at the parlour door disturbed their peace and a servant stepped into the room. Grace’s heart clenched and she looked at Emily, fearing this was the very note she had been dreading. To her utmost surprise, it was to her side that the servant came and not her sister’s.

  “A note for you, Miss Grace.” The servant passed her the small, sealed square and departed and Grace frowned at it for a moment, before Emily urged her into action.

  “Well, Grace? Will you not open it?” She continued under her breath, but loud enough that her whisper still carried to Grace’s ears. “I cannot imagine who would care to write you a letter...”

  Dumbfounded, Grace broke the seal and scanned the note’s contents in one breath, before going back and reading again from the start.

  Grace, the unfamiliar scrawl said. I am writing to you quickly and by the means at my disposal. Forgive my presumption in sending you this note but I do not know what else to do. My brother is engaged in a foolish task for a foolish reason, but I know that you may be the only one able to speak sense to him. Can you possibly slip away? I will be waiting at the edge of your grounds, and together we can put a stop to this nonsense. Milly Sudbury.

  She frowned, tracing her thumb back over the words. She glanced at the clock. It was late, but not so late that it would be too unusual to be out of doors. That is if my absence is even noticed! she realised, darting a look at her mother and sister. Emily, alone, seemed vaguely curious as to what Grace’s letter contained, but that could be easily remedied.

  “It is nothing of great import,” she said, holding the letter up as a prop. “Merely the title of a book I inquired after from Miss Sudbury. But if you do not mind it, Mama, I think I shall pen a reply now, while the matter is fresh in my mind.”

  “What was that, Grace, dear?” Mrs Hardcastle asked, looking up from her own correspondence.

  “I shall go to my ro
om, so as not to disrupt your writing, of course, Mama,” Grace said quickly, getting to her feet and stepping lightly towards the door. She pulled it quietly closed behind her, but instead of going upstairs to her own room, she tiptoed quietly towards the entrance, easing her shawl and pelisse from the hook and slipping into them with all the care of a cat-burglar.

  “Are you off out, Grace?”

  Mr Hardcastle’s question came so suddenly from the corridor she had thought was deserted that Grace flinched before turning to smile cautiously at him.

  “Just taking a short walk in the gardens, Father,” she said, faintly. “I feel a little headachey and you know that fresh air is my favoured medicine.”

  “Very well.” Mr Hardcastle lifted his eyebrows as if he thought his youngest daughter quite possibly lacking in some mental capacity. As this was a perpetual circumstance for him, however, he did not stop her. “Do not go far...” he murmured, vaguely, before turning back towards his study and closing the door firmly behind him.

  Letting out a breath she had not been aware of holding, Grace made her way carefully, quietly, out of the house and as soon as she was clear of the front steps she ran quickly down the drive to the very edge of their property where, true to her note, she saw Amelia waiting for her, in the shadow of a gentleman Grace recognised as Sir Benjamin Devereaux. Her heart jackhammered in her chest and her mouth fell open in surprise.

  “Grace!” Amelia threw her arms around her, smiling mischievously as she released her. “I knew you would come.” She turned towards Sir Benjamin with an imperious smile. “You see? Did I not tell you I would be proved right in my suspicions?”

  “You did indeed,” he replied in an amused drawl. “Miss Grace.” He bowed, and Grace felt her cheeks flood with colour. What was happening?