The Wicked Waif

by Lancaster, Mary

  Her use of his Christian name was not lost on him. It was as if they had gone back to their childhood friendship, in the days before it was complicated by romantic love. He was glad to think that was the case.

  She smiled deprecatingly, “Do you know, when Ellen invited me to join her in Blackhaven, I was nervous of seeing you again? I wondered if you would hate me for…for what I did.”

  “For marrying another?” Dove said lightly. “Of course not. Though I’ll not deny I was disappointed at the time. I never hated you, Felicity, how could I?”

  She cast him a quick, upward glance. “Then there is a chance we can be friends?”

  “It has nothing to do with chance. We are friends.”

  This time, her smile was dazzling, and he wondered what on earth he’d said to inspire it. But then Tillie was presenting Felicity with a cup of tea.

  “Thank you, my dear,” Felicity said kindly, and Dove found his hackles rising in irritation, because her whole manner was so patronizing. But Tilly merely smiled and returned to Kate to receive the next cup and take it to Caroline Benedict.

  It seemed no time at all from then until it was time to say goodnight. Deliberately, Dove took Tillie’s hand and kissed it. He thought a tremulous smile hovered on her lips, and then John was dragging him out the door and away.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Dawn broke bitterly cold as Dove and Grantham strode along the dark beach to Braithwaite Cove. The cove was more isolated than the town beach, and more sheltered beneath the cliff and the castle that rose up from it. In the poor light, a couple of lanterns guided them to the spot where Blackshaw stood with Luke Dawlish and Dr. Bellamy.

  The doctor in a heavy grey greatcoat was stamping his feet and clapping his gloved hands together for warmth.

  “Bitter morning, gentlemen,” he greeted them. “Bitter! Not a good spot for wheeled vehicles either, so it will be difficult to transport a wounded man off the beach to the carriages waiting above. Bear it in mind, gentlemen!”

  Dove grunted. In the grey light, Blackshaw looked almost as white as Dawlish, though he was smirking and making jokes with Grantham as they compared the loaded weapons. Dawlish avoided his gaze as was only proper. It was, after all, hard to shoot a man when you looked him in the face. Or perhaps, he was simply miffed because there was nowhere for his father or some hireling to hide and shoot Dove for him.

  “Your first affair of honor, gentlemen?” Dr. Bellamy asked cheerfully.

  “Hardly,” Dawlish muttered.

  “Can we just get on with it?” Dove said.

  But before they could, the seconds made one last attempt to get either party to apologize.

  “Never!” said Dawlish.

  “For what?” Dove asked.

  Blackshaw and Grantham exchanged resigned shrugs.

  “Then,” Grantham said. “Will the principals please stand back to back in front of me here. When I give the word, you must walk fifteen paces to my count, then turn and fire on my command. Do you understand?”

  “Of course,” Dawlish said haughtily. He had his dark coat buttoned up to his chin in best duelers’ tradition.

  Dove merely nodded and accepted the pistol from Grantham. Although it was several years since he’d felt compelled to defend his honor in a duel, he was not afraid. He’d faced worse fire in battle more often than he could count, and his contempt for Luke Dawlish was matched only by his determination that Tillie’s name would never be disparaged. And if he died now, well, he’d already had almost two years longer than he should. It might even be better for Tillie. Grant and Lampton would take care of her. And Winslow, Fredericks, and Alban between them would take care of the Dawlishes…

  Focusing on his body, he began to pace with Grantham’s count. “Twelve, thirteen, fourteen—”

  “Too early!” Blackshaw called sharply. “Hold your fire, Dawlish!”

  But his final words were lost in the explosion of a pistol.

  Forcing himself, Dove had taken the last pace, his skin crawling as he knew Dawlish would shoot. His left arm jerked with the pistol’s report, but he ignored it, turning to face his opponent.

  Dawlish stared at him, the empty pistol falling from his hands. “It went off on its own!” he cried. “I never touched it!”

  “You turned early, and you fired!” Grantham retorted. “Now, you stand. Take your shot, Dove.”

  “He can’t! He’s wounded!” Dawlish exclaimed. “Doctor, stop this!”

  “You started it, my friend,” Bellamy said with distaste. “Don’t worry, I’ll patch you both up if necessary.”

  Without warning, Dawlish fell to his knees.

  Dove’s left arm began to sting. He knew from experience it was the prelude to a lot of pain. But still, he dropped his aim with Luke’s body and scowled. “How the devil am I supposed to shoot an unarmed man kneeling?” he demanded.

  “He just shot you in the back,” Blackshaw said, staring at him. “Kill the bastard.”

  “Try not to kill him,” Grantham amended. “Makes it difficult with the law.”

  “God damn it,” Dove exploded as the pain intensified. He strode across the sand, leaving a trail of blood. Dawlish knelt there, his eyes squeezed tightly shut. “What a pathetic specimen of humanity you are. You’re not married to Tillie at all, are you?”

  “No,” Luke whispered. He shook like a leaf in the wind.

  “In fact, you locked her in a dark cupboard for three days and she still wouldn’t marry you, would she?” Dove pursued.

  “No!” Luke wailed.

  Dove let out a scornful laugh. Then he turned his back on Luke and walked away. Grantham and Blackshaw caught up with him just as he fainted away into darkness.

  *

  “Miss!”

  Dragging herself out of uncomfortable dreams, Tillie found herself staring at a candle flame, and behind it, the anxious face of Janie, the vicarage chambermaid who slipped in and lit the fire every morning at dawn.

  “What?” Tillie mumbled, baffled and still half-asleep. “What’s happening?”

  “I was told to give you this, miss.” The girl pushed something into her hand—a folded paper—and Tillie pushed herself up against the pillows, still bewildered. And yet, sudden excitement began to grow, because who but Dove would send her secret messages at dawn?

  “Light the other candle, would you?” Tillie said, unfolding the paper in her hand. She had never seen Dove’s handwriting, so she couldn’t tell who it was from until she began to read. It was terse.

  Maj. Doverton in duel, dawn, Braithwaite Cove.

  She blinked, reading it again until it made sense. Then she exploded out of bed so quickly that Janie nearly dropped her candle.

  How could she have been so foolish? How could she not have imagined this scenario? She had heard Luke’s challenge, the night of the theatre. She had even told Dove not to fight because Luke would cheat. It had seemed so sensible to her—it was sensible—that it had never entered her head an intelligent man would ignore her advice. And because Dove had never mentioned it again, she had not even thought of it.

  But then gentlemen probably didn’t discuss such things in front of ladies. And now, Dove would either die for nothing or he’d kill her cousin and, at the very least, rot in prison.

  “How light is it, Janie?” she demanded, reaching for her clothes. Am I too late? Is it done?

  “Not very,” Janie said, pulling back the curtains. “Dawn is just breaking.”

  “Quick, help me dress,” Tillie pleaded. She had already flung on her chemise and seized the warmer of the day dresses, which she didn’t even wait for Janie to fasten properly before she simply grabbed a shawl and her old hooded cloak. She thrust her bare feet into her boots and bolted out of the bedchamber.

  She could hear little Nichola crying, and then Kate’s soft voice soothing the baby as she ran past their chamber. By the time she was running downstairs, the crying had stopped, presumably because Kate was now feeding her.

  Th
inking furiously, Tillie decided what to do. Although all her instincts urged her to get to Braithwaite Cove as quickly as possible, she had to face the possibility that the duel was already over. It would almost certainly be so before she could reach them. Dove could already be dead… But she would not let him be.

  “Don’t worry Mr. or Mrs. Grant with this just now,” she flung at the bewildered Janie as she hurried across the hall.

  Rushing from the house, she ran not in the direction of the beach, but into the next street and around the corner to Dr. Lampton’s house.

  His servant, clearly, was wearily used to being wakened at ridiculous hours, for Tillie had not been knocking for long—however furiously—before the door opened to reveal a yawning man, half-dressed.

  “I need the doctor, urgently,” Tillie told him.

  The man continued to yawn prodigiously but opened the door further to admit her. He pointed to the table with one hand, scratching his uncombed head with the other. “Write down your name and direction, and he’ll be there soon as he can.”

  “No, no, you don’t understand,” Tillie exclaimed. “I need him now! Right now!”

  The man sighed. “I’ll go and speak to him. What’s the problem?”

  “A man is shot and dying! Tell him Tillie says so.”

  “Tillie who?” the servant asked, climbing the stairs.

  “Dawlish,” Tillie replied, for the time for any pretense was long passed.

  She waited anxiously, tapping her foot on the wooden floor and trying not to think of Dove lying bleeding and dying from such an avoidable situation. How stupid would that be after surviving such an awful war wound? Surely, even if a new wound was not so serious, it could weaken him enough to kill him?

  “Tillie?” Dr. Lampton ran downstairs, still thrusting his arms into his coat. Beneath it, she glimpsed a rumpled shirt and no tie, but now was hardly the time to worry about correct dress. “What the devil are you about?”

  “It’s Dove,” she blurted. “He’s fighting a duel with my cousin Luke.”

  Dr. Lampton’s scowl was black. “Where?”

  “Braithwaite Cove.”

  The doctor swore under his breath. “Barnes, my horse.”

  As the servant hurried off, Lampton seized his bag. “Go back to the vicarage,” he said abruptly. “I’ll send you word.”

  “Oh, no,” Tillie said grimly. “I should have known this was happening. I’m coming, too.”

  “On one horse?”

  “Wouldn’t we better with a carriage for bringing him back if he’s wounded?”

  “There will be a carriage there and a doctor.”

  Tillie’s eyes widened. “They already have a doctor? Sir, I beg your pardon.”

  “No need,” Lampton said, opening the front door once more. “I have to be there anyhow to shout at them.”

  “I’ve never heard you shout,” Tillie said uncertainly.

  “Then your life is sadly lacking.” He strode up to meet the horse Barnes was leading at a trot from around the lane.

  Tillie followed him, hastily gripping the horse’s bridle. “I want to be there when you shout at him,” she said firmly. She swallowed. “Please, Dr. Lampton.”

  The doctor swore under his breath once more. He leaned down, offering his hand. “Come, then.”

  With relief, she gripped his hand and was hauled up into the saddle in front of Lampton, who shifted behind and urged the horse forward.

  They left the town at a gallop, heading not to the beach but uphill to the castle where, Dr. Lampton prophesied, there would be a carriage. Urgency and dread kept Tillie silent for most of the short ride.

  Despite none of the family being in residence at the moment, the smaller gate into the castle grounds was left open to allow a longstanding right of way. Lampton barely slowed the horse as they galloped through and then veered off the main drive onto a track that led to the cliff and a path down to the cove.

  Not one carriage but two waited at the top of the path, the cold horses pawing the ground. One coachman began to lead his up and down the edge of the track.

  Lampton reined in and dismounted before lifting Tillie down without fuss. He abandoned the panting horse with a careless pat on its nose and strode toward the head of the path. Tillie hurried after him, her heart in her mouth. She managed a nod to the coachman leading the horses—he was the hired cab driver who had once taken her to the hospital. Dove had called him by name. Colton?

  The second carriage seemed about to leave, for the driver was gathering up his reins and whip. Lampton cast a cursory glance through its window and kept moving, Tillie close on his heels. But abruptly, the carriage door opened, blocking her way, separating her from the doctor.

  She blinked with shock. Her uncle’s face loomed above her, and a large hand closed on the collar of her cloak.

  She jerked back instinctively, or at least tried to, but her uncle’s grip was strong. More furious than frightened—he was stopping her from getting to Dove—she brought up her fists to strike. And then another hand clamped down on the first, breaking its hold.

  “I don’t think so,” Lampton said shortly. “Do you, Dawlish?” And he pulled Tillie with him around the carriage to the path.

  Two officers in overcoats labored over the edge, all but dragging someone with them. Someone with his coat half off and his arm bandaged. She knew who it was.

  With a cry, she ran to him. “Dove!”

  “On the devil!” Captain Grantham exclaimed. “Lampton, very glad to see you, but why the devil did you bring the lady?”

  Lampton shrugged, summoning the hired cab with a flick of his fingers. “It was quicker. Put him in there. Where is he shot?”

  “Upper arm,” said the other officer, who was, surprisingly, Captain Blackshaw.

  Another figure lumbered off the cliff path, panting, though he drew himself up to his full height.

  “Dr. Lampton,” he said distantly. “I’m always delighted to see you, of course, but you are not needed here. I am attending Major Doverton.”

  “Lampton’s his usual doctor though,” Grantham said with scant regard for the truth. “Don’t worry, Bellamy, you’ll still be paid. Appreciate your time.”

  Tillie’s face tingled icily as if all the blood had left it. Wrenching open the carriage door, she stared at Dove’s still face as the officers wrestled him inside and onto the seat.

  “Oh, God, is he dead?” she whispered.

  Dove’s eyes flew open. “Tillie? Of course I’m not dead.”

  With a sob, she threw herself into the carriage and onto the floor by his head. “Oh Dove, Dove, you idiot! Why did you fight him? I told you he would cheat!”

  “Well, he did,” Blackshaw said grimly. “Turned early and fired. Damned if I’ll ever second anyone else who ain’t a gentleman.”

  Tears trickled down Tillie’s face as she stroked the hair back from Dove’s forehead. “Oh, you fool,” she whispered. “Why did you meet him?”

  “Had to, really,” Dove said. His bandaged arm lay across his chest, but with his other hand, he grasped hers. “Why did you come? How did you know?”

  “I had a note,” she said, even more bewildered now she thought about it.

  “Ah,” Lampton said, climbing into the coach. “Sit over there, Tillie. The note, I suspect, was from your uncle to entice you up here alone. If all had gone according to plan, I daresay you and Luke would be off in his carriage.” Unwrapping the bandage, he glanced at Dove’s face. “Did you kill him?”

  From the other carriage, her uncle’s voice could be heard demanding, “Where is my son? You are his second. Why are you not looking after him?”

  “Because he’s a blackguard and a coward,” Blackshaw’s voice replied with contempt. “He ran away along the beach. Better get him out of town because if any of the 44th get hold of him…”

  “He’s on my side now?” Dove murmured.

  “Hit with a large dose of sense,” Grantham remarked. “He warned his man not to sho
ot.”

  “I know. I heard him.”

  “Which,” Lampton said grimly, “only emphasized your criminal stupidity in this entire venture. Congratulations on another hole in your body. What in God’s name is the matter with you? I took you for a sensible man.”

  “No idea why,” Dove said vaguely. “Is the ball still in there?”

  “No, looks like you’re lucky. It passed straight through the fleshy part of your arm. Destroyed some muscle, no doubt, but no bone.” He delved into his bag. “Hold on to something,” he added, unscrewing the top of a bottle. “This will hurt.” With no more warning, he poured something on the wound.

  Breath hissed from Dove’s lips but he didn’t make any other sound, even when Lampton shifted him and did the same with the exit wound on the other side of his arm. “A clean bandage, if you please, Tillie,” he said briskly.

  Tillie reached into his bag and produced a roll of linen which the doctor used quickly and efficiently to bind the wound once more.

  “To the barracks!” Lampton called out. Then he frowned at Tilly. “Damn, we should drop you off on the way.”

  “No, you shouldn’t,” Tillie said, glaring at him.

  Dove laughed and squeezed her hand.

  *

  There was movement at the barracks, though not yet enough to worry Grantham and Blackshaw, who had squashed into the carriage in order to smooth the way. Dueling was officially forbidden in the army, and they didn’t want to force their colonel into having to deal with it.

  Fortunately, Dove seemed to have recovered his strength, and by the time everyone else had spilled out of the carriage, he was able to climb out unaided. They all entered the building together. A passing officer even held the door most courteously for Tillie, although his expression was one of surprised curiosity.

  “Er… am I allowed to be here?” she asked nervously.

  “We have married quarters here, too,” Grantham said cheerfully. “A few wives, including the colonel’s, live here, so you won’t stand out just for being female.”