Somehow, the voice of reason rose above the clamoring, riotous thoughts whirling about in her mind and made itself heard. Lord Rochfort deceived you, Charlie. When he threatened to go to the papers with your notebook, perhaps he already had. Days if not weeks ago. And he was simply waiting for the right moment to wield the hammer. To plunge the knife.
You humiliated him. Thwarted him. And just when you thought you’d bested him, he decided to teach you a lesson.
And oh, what a lesson.
She was ruined. Utterly. Entirely.
Irrevocably.
Lady Charlotte Hastings wasn’t just a “disreputable debutante” anymore. Now she would be forever branded a brazen slut.
And the ton would never, ever let her forget it.
Gentleman Jackson’s Saloon, 13 Bond Street, London
When Max strode into Gentleman Jackson’s boxing saloon, he wasn’t just looking for a fight.
He was looking to maim someone.
A specific someone by the name of Rollo Kingsley, Baron Rochfort—although filthy swine, gutter bastard, depraved snake, or even “scum of the earth” were monikers that would serve equally as well. “Not long for this world” also sprang to mind.
Even though Max believed his intelligence was accurate—it hadn’t taken more than a few coins and a few short sharp words for one of Rochfort’s footmen to cough up his master’s whereabouts—it wasn’t the baron who he first ran into on the floor of Gentleman Jackson’s.
It was Nate. Curse him.
“What’s wrong?” asked Nate as he waved away his sparring partner and wiped the perspiration from his brow with his bare forearm. “You look…livid.”
Max swore beneath his breath and drew closer. “You haven’t heard? Or seen the Beau Monde Mirror this morning?”
Nate frowned and flexed his cloth-bound knuckles. “No. I don’t subscribe. Although I have been getting some rather strange looks since I arrived here.” His face suddenly paled. “Why? What’s happened?”
Bloody hell. It was clear Nate didn’t know about any of this blackmail business. Or what Rochfort had just done to Charlie. Or the horrific scandal headed his family’s way.
Max swallowed and gripped his friend’s sweat-slickened shoulder. “I think it’s best if we go somewhere quiet. One of the rooms out the back, perhaps.” Already, other men were watching their exchange with interest. A viscount who Max vaguely recognized from White’s—Loxley, perhaps—smirked.
Rochfort was nowhere in sight, but perhaps that was for the best at the moment.
Once they reached the relative quiet of one of the private changing rooms, Max drew a deep breath. “A few days ago, Charlie came to me for help,” he began and then proceeded to tell his friend a highly edited version of all that had ensued. It wasn’t the absolute truth, but Max didn’t see the sense in making things worse by sharing every unvarnished detail. He especially didn’t wish Nate to suspect that he had been lusting after Charlie ever since that highly charged night at the Rouge et Noir Club. Or that she’d been with him when he’d broken into Rochfort’s townhouse.
When Max disclosed what he suspected Rochfort had done in retaliation after his blackmailing scheme had been foiled—that he’d instructed the Beau Monde Mirror to go ahead and publish Charlie’s scandalous list of desires to humiliate and punish her—Nate’s dark eyes turned black with fury.
“I’ll kill him,” he muttered, heading for the door, but Max caught him by the shoulder.
“No. You won’t.” His voice was low, urgent. He had to make his friend see sense. “You have a wife and son now. Your duty is to them. So, let me enact vengeance on your family’s behalf. It will be my way of repaying the debt I owe you.”
Nate shook him off, but he released the door handle. “You owe me nothing. What I did, I did because we are friends. There is no debt to be repaid.”
“Yes, there is. You went above and beyond the night my brother died, so let me do this. For you and for Charlie. I may be a self-serving, ruthless bastard at the best of times, but you know how much I loathe injustice. Of any kind. Rochfort must be punished for his despicable acts.”
Nate’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. “What do you plan on doing?”
“The only thing I can do in a situation like this. Call Rochfort out.”
“No.” Now it was Nate gripping Max’s shoulder. “You can’t. You will only make things worse. For yourself and for Charlie.”
“How could it possibly be any worse for Charlie? You know this will destroy her socially. Your father, who has always striven to maintain an impeccable public record and prides himself on his standing in Parliament, will be devastated too.”
“Are you sure you’re only motivated by friendship?”
“Whatever do you mean? Your sister has been wronged most grievously.”
“Yes, but that’s the point,” asserted Nate, his expression grim. “She’s my sister. You do realize what will happen if you go down this path, don’t you? When word gets out that Rochfort was behind this story in the paper and that you sought vengeance? There will be speculation. People will wonder why you decided to step in and become Lady Charlotte Hastings’s champion.”
“I know.” An uncharacteristic feeling—guilt, perhaps—cramped Max’s gut. A few days ago, he’d promised Charlie he wouldn’t make this worse, but that’s exactly what he was about to do. He would be feeding the scandal. Turning it into a raging bonfire.
Unless… A mad idea suddenly occurred to him. Max’s jaw tightened as he braced himself for Nate’s reaction to what he would say next. “However, I have a plan.”
Nate listened and by the end, he indicated his agreement with a short sharp nod rather than the bare-knuckled facer Max had been half-expecting. “I’ll hold you to your word,” his friend said, his voiced edged with steel. “And so help me, if you go back on it, I will be obliged to call you out.”
“I understand, and knowing you as I do,” Max said with suitable gravity, “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”
“Good.” Nate blew out a heavy sigh. “You know I’ll be your second.”
But Max shook his head. “I can’t accept. Must I remind you yet again that you have other, more important familial responsibilities? I’ll ask Edgerton. He’s a good shot and can be counted upon.”
“I concur.” Nate snagged a towel off a nearby bench and blotted his face and neck. “So, when do you plan on confronting Rochfort?”
Max paused a moment, gauging his friend’s mood before he answered. “Now. Word is that Rochfort is here. But I take it you haven’t seen him?”
Nate’s nostrils flared, and he cracked his knuckles. “No. Although if I do, I wouldn’t mind darkening his daylights.”
Max understood perfectly.
As they both quit the changing room and stepped into the hallway leading to the main saloon, the devil himself appeared in the doorway at the head of the corridor.
And Max saw red. Blood red.
In the next instant, he was storming down the hall with swift strides, throwing off his coat as he went.
Rochfort smirked, put his head down, and charged.
They crashed into the wall, grappling, pushing, grunting, then stumbled into the main saloon and fell to the ground. Max managed to gain the upper hand; pinning Rochfort to the wooden floor with the weight of his body, he drew back his fist, then drove it into the dog’s jaw with an almighty crack.
Rochfort’s head snapped back, then Max pushed his forearm against his windpipe. “You filthy, despicable cur.” His words were little more than a hiss as he forced them through clenched teeth. “I demand satisfaction for what you’ve done to Lady Charlotte. And I’m setting the rules.” Rochfort’s eyes bulged and he clawed at Max’s arm, but Max only pressed harder. “Pistols at Hampstead Heath. You know the place. I’ll see you there with your second in three hours’ time. At dusk. No excuses. We fight until one of us can no longer stand. Because as much as I’d like to end you”—Max pushed on Rochfort’s w
indpipe again, enjoying the fact that the baron’s face was beginning to turn an alarming shade of purple—“I’d rather not be tried for killing you. A pound of flesh will suffice.”
Rochfort bucked. They rolled once, twice, and then one of his fists landed a glancing blow across Max’s cheek. Then several pairs of hands were on Max’s back, gripping his shoulders, and he and Rochfort were prized apart and dragged away from each other.
Barely restrained by two other men, Rochfort swiped a hand across his split lip and spat on the floor. “I’ll be there, Exmoor,” he snarled through bared bloody teeth. “And the only one who will be stripped of any flesh is you.”
“I wouldn’t be so cocksure.” Max shook off the hands holding him. “You forget that I was at Waterloo and lived to tell the tale. I’m certain the most action you’ve seen has been here at Gentleman Jackson’s. I hope you’re ready for the sound arse-whipping you so roundly deserve.”
With that he accepted his discarded jacket from Nate, stalked from the saloon, and strode down Bond Street in the direction of Grosvenor Square. He had better things to do than trade barbs with Rochfort. He needed to make sure his affairs were all in order in case the worst should happen despite his bravado. He had to speak with Edgerton, check his brace of Manton dueling pistols, and he had to procure a surgeon.
As much as he wanted to see Charlie, to see how she was faring and reassure her that everything would be all right, their meeting would have to wait until after the duel.
His resolve was as strong and sure as his aim. One way or another, Rochfort would pay.
Chapter 7
Hampstead Heath…a rural idyll on the outskirts of London. A playground for poets, writers, and artists. Why not escape to the “country” this Season for a picnic, to take Hampstead’s medicinal waters, or to simply admire the arresting views? After the hustle and bustle of Town, no doubt many of our readers will find such leisurely activities to be a restorative tonic for the soul. (Just beware of the duelists…)
The Beau Monde Mirror: General Health & Medical Miscellany
Hampstead Heath
Dusk…
The light was only just beginning to fade into a muted purple twilight when Rochfort’s carriage drew to a halt in the lane adjacent to Max’s dueling ground of choice, a secluded glade within the environs of nearby Kenwood House. Situated at the northern edge of Hampstead Heath—a vast and ancient wooded parkland just outside of London—the shadowy clearing was exactly forty paces across and the perfect place for men to settle matters of honor away from prying eyes. By all accounts, it had been the scene of many a duel for centuries.
Max knew the place well. Not because he made a habit of dueling. No, it was simply because he owned a nearby property—Heathcote Hall was only half a mile away.
“Thank you for being here, Edgerton,” said Max as he watched Rochfort alight from his conveyance with his second, Viscount Loxley. “I really do appreciate it.”
“Think nothing of it, Exmoor,” replied the baron, his eyes dancing with good humor. “London is frightfully boring this time of year, and there’s nothing like a good bit of blood sport to liven things up. Aside from that, everyone knows Rochfort needs a good ballocking. Given all the rumors about his unsavory tastes and unscrupulous dealings, I’d say he’s had it coming for a long time.”
Max’s interest was piqued. “You know something of his business dealings? His financial affairs?”
Lord Edgerton shrugged, then brushed something off the cuff of his well-cut redingote. “One hears things. He’s not short of blunt by any means. But he did inherit a less than profitable estate six years ago, so of course, speculation is rife about how he managed to turn things around so quickly. Even though I haven’t any proof, I suspect he owns shares in some sort of shady but profitable business. In any event, even if you kill the arrogant arse, I’m sure you’d get off scot-free.”
“Hmph.” Max removed his beaver hat and tossed it onto the ground at the foot of a nearby oak tree. “Hopefully it won’t come to that. As much as I’d like to end him, I’d rather not get hauled before the courts. A bit of bloodletting—Rochfort’s blood, not mine, of course—should satisfy me.”
“And me as well.”
Max turned and scowled into the gloom of the trees. “Nate. What the hell are you doing here?”
“I didn’t want to miss out on all the fun,” he said, drawing closer. “Although I know you’re an excellent shot and I hear Edgerton is too”—he nodded at the baron—“it doesn’t hurt to have someone else you can trust at your back.”
Max inclined his head. “Thank you. I appreciate your support.”
Nate’s mouth quirked with a wry smile. “Besides, to be perfectly honest, I’m worried that Charlie will kill me if I don’t look out for you. You know how protective she can be of her friends.”
Charlie. Max’s heart constricted with a peculiar sensation he suspected was a combination of sympathy and regret. Sympathy that she was suffering and regret that he hadn’t been able to stop Rochfort from publishing her highly personal list of desires. Desires a gently bred lady should never admit to in public. It didn’t matter that she was only referred to as Lady C. Given her past history, anyone who was anyone would believe Lady Charlotte Hastings was the author.
Somehow, some way, he had to make everything better. And punishing Rochfort was but the first thing he intended to do.
Rochfort’s second stepped into the clearing and beckoned Lord Edgerton over. Edgerton nodded and took Max’s brace of pistols with him for the other man to inspect. All the while, Rochfort waited in the shadows of a beech tree, sending a glowering stare in Max’s direction. If the baron hoped to unnerve him, it wouldn’t work. Max’s father had used a similar bullying tactic on him so many times in his youth to intimidate and “toughen him up” that Max had become inured to it.
“I’m pleased to see you have Mr. Havers standing by.” Nate nodded in the direction of the surgeon who stood several yards away, near his own carriage in the laneway.
Max nodded. The surgeon had stitched up their friend Hamish MacQueen after he was grievously wounded at Waterloo, and Max firmly believed the man had saved the Scot’s life. “He’s also offered to give the signal to fire. Shouldn’t be long now.”
“It had better not be,” rejoined Nate. “Or soon it will be too bloody dark.”
Obviously satisfied with the condition and quality of Max’s firearms, Loxley called Rochfort over to choose his weapon. Max followed suit, and after Edgerton reminded both combatants of the agreed upon conditions—that shots would be exchanged until one of them could no longer stand—Rochfort and Max both retreated to opposite ends of the clearing to wait for Mr. Havers to give the signal with the drop of his kerchief.
As Max checked his weapon one last time and took up his position, he centered his anger. It sat like a cold hard stone, deep in his gut. Uncompromising. Unwavering.
Charlie deserved so much more than the hand she’d been dealt, and Max would do this for her because… He swallowed. He didn’t have time to be distracted by useless, mawkish sentiment. He was doing this because it was the right thing to do. That was all.
If he felt fear, he was not aware of it. Tension tightened his muscles and sharpened his senses as he drew a steadying breath and raised his pistol. Took aim at Rochfort, who stood at the ready, his firearm trained steadily upon Max. Attired all in black save for his white cravat and high-point collar, his opponent’s frame almost blended into the shadows of the dense copse at his back.
Time slowed down. Stretched. Max could measure its passing in heartbeats, breaths, but there seemed to be a century between each one. And then Mr. Havers gave the signal. His snow-white kerchief began to flutter to the ground, and Max pulled the trigger.
The sharp crack of weapons discharging rang out, and in the very next instant, Max was reeling backward, staggering to keep upright.
Fuck. Devil take me. He’d been hit. Winged. His left upper arm was ablaze. But as
he clutched at the wound, pistol still in hand, he became aware of activity at the other end of the clearing.
Rochfort was down. On his knees. Gripping his shoulder. His pale face glowed with a strange spectral light above his perfectly tied cravat. And just as Havers and Loxley reached his side, the baron toppled over.
Hastings House, Berkeley Square
“My lady, my lady.” Molly was rapping at the door of Charlie’s bedroom, lightly but insistently. “My lady, you have a visitor. Lady Malverne. My lady?”
Groaning, Charlie rolled onto her stomach and dragged a pillow over her head. She had no idea what time it was, but she’d let Molly draw the curtains, light the candles, and stir the fire to life several hours ago. While part of Charlie wanted to see Sophie, her soul was still too raw, too crushed and humiliated, to even seek comfort from a dear and trusted friend.
Why wouldn’t the ground open up and swallow her whole?
In fact, the only person Charlie had seen today—besides Molly—had been her father. Lord Westhampton had visited her rooms in the early afternoon, and while he hugged her and patted her back ineffectually, she clung to his superfine-clad shoulder like a limpet, offering incoherent apologies between wracking sobs.
When her fit of crying had eventually abated, he’d mentioned that he would speak to his man of affairs about the possibility of suing the Beau Monde Mirror and Lord Rochfort for libel—Charlie had confessed who she thought was behind the ruinous article—but her father doubted it would come to much, given the paper had been careful not to actually print her name in full. And if anything, bringing legal proceedings against the publication would undoubtedly prolong the life of the scandal. A public court case might drag on for months and months, and her father would understand if she couldn’t abide it.
Because he’d been so sweet and understanding and not angry at all, it had made Charlie feel doubly worse. Her anguish and guilt were so smothering, so heavy and overwhelming, she wasn’t sure if she’d ever be able to fight her way through to the surface and breathe freely again.
How to Catch a Devilish Duke: The Disreputable Debutantes Page 9
