Barbara Metzger (20 page)

He never got to find out, for a recent arrival at the club was full of news, not of a new offensive against the French, but of a duel outside a gaming hell. Stupid civilians, the old campaigners said, shaking their heads, wasting lives over trivia when the future of the Empire was at stake. Foolish hotheads would do better, they said, to join the army and shoot Frenchmen, instead of each other.

Ty agreed wholeheartedly, especially when he learned that one of the fools, one of the cloth-headed duelists, was his own little brother. The clunch, it seemed, had taken on one Finster Dunsley, a loose screw for sure. Both men were wounded, the captain reported, although St. Ives was expected to recover.

Killing one’s future in-laws was not the way to embark on married life, Ty hazily decided as he raced home, no matter how deserving. Worse, dueling was illegal. If Dunsley died, Nonny would have to flee the country, or hang. Worst of all in Lord Tyverne’s inebriated opinion, Nonny might expire before he could strangle him.

On the brighter side, maybe Nonny would see what kind of family he was aligning himself with, what kind of future he would have with Miss Dunsley. If he had to defend her honor at every turn, he’d never turn five-and-twenty.

By the time he arrived back at St. Ives House, Ty was nearly sober, and the surgeon had come and gone. The bewigged butler’s nose was so out of joint he could have smelled his own ear. Ty did not stop to listen to Gilbert’s complaints but took the steps three at a time to his brother’s room.

The bullet had passed cleanly through the younger man’s leg, Ty was glad to hear from Nonny’s valet, who instantly resigned now that Lord Tyverne had returned. Mopping up blood was not what he was hired to do, the man announced as he left. Nor was he going to follow his master to Botany Bay.

Nonny’s cheek felt warm to Ty’s touch, but he roused from his drugged state to smile at his brother. “Knew you would come. Tyverne the True, we always called you.”

“Go to sleep, cawker. We’ll get you out of this coil.”

Missing his man Winsted more than he thought possible, Ty sent a footman to find Dunsley’s condition if he could, and another to the mews, to have a coach and team made ready. The way he saw it, he had to get Nonny out of London before daybreak when the magistrates would have men knocking on the door. If Dunsley died, Ty could ship Nonny to their brother in the Americas, even if he had to send him halfway around the world to avoid the blockades. If the dirty dish lived, the contretemps would be forgotten in time and no harm done—except for the new gray hairs Viscount Tyverne was bound to develop overnight.

Meanwhile, while they waited to see his opponent’s fate, Nonny needed care. The frightened footmen were going to be no help, nor the disapproving Gilbert. Winsted, though, knew more about gunshots than a hundred surgeons, and old Mags had an entire herbal arsenal against fevers. Ty could take him to Kent. To Delia. Tonight.

As luck would have it, Nonny woke up while Ty was trying to drape his greatcoat around him, before carrying him down to the carriage. The viscount was not about to entrust his brother to the weak-kneed footmen, despite his own bad arm.

Young St. Ives refused to go. “Not without Thea.”

“Impossible,” Ty told him, buttoning the coat. “I cannot bring a woman of that ilk to Miss Croft’s.”

“Thea’s not what you think. You have to listen.”

“I will listen in the carriage.”

“No. You’ll never send for her, then. I know you. You are just like our father. Your mind is made up, and you will do things your own way, saying you know best. Well, not this time, you don’t, if you will not even hear me out.” He shoved Ty’s arm aside. “If you will not fetch Thea, leave me here.”

“Don’t be a fool. You might have to leave the country.”

“I go with her or not at all. Go on, leave me here to die. I would not wish to live without her anyway, but you could never understand that, could you?”

Ty could haul his brother down the stairs, for Nonny was too weak to put up much of a fight, or he could dose him with more laudanum and wait for him to fall asleep again. Or he could listen.

So he heard how Miss Dunsley was raised as a well-bred young female, daughter to a schoolteacher and a music instructor in Norwich. When both of her parents died recently, she was given into the care of her scapegrace uncle, a Captain Sharp. Dunsley had tried to make her into a dealer for his card games, games he would rig to win with her assistance. Thea refused, and refused, also, to accept the advances of Finster Dunsley’s cronies, for his profit.

So he drugged her and sold her to Sukey Johnson, a madam notorious for luring green girls off incoming mail coaches with the promise of work. Sukey’s clientele never minded; a virgin was a virgin, willing or not.

Nonny and some of his friends happened to stop by Sukey’s that night, and he saw Thea, painted and primped and half asleep.

“I chose her because she was so pretty, and so sad. I thought ... I thought I could make things easier for her, if I was her first. But then she started weeping.”

Ty sighed. “You should have left right then. Hell, you should not have been there in the first place.”

“I couldn’t leave. Thea did not want to become a prostitute. She is a good girl, I swear. So I gave Ma Johnson what she’d paid Finster Dunsley for Thea, and more besides, and took Thea away. I couldn’t bring her here. You have seen Gilbert the Gargoyle. And I could not take her to Father in Warwickshire.”

“Hell, no.”

So St. Ives borrowed a friend’s rooms in Kensington and installed her there. They talked, they shared a meal, they fell in love. But there was talk, a lot of talk, more than Nonny could tolerate, about the woman he loved. He could not afford a special license, and he had promised Ty not to elope to Gretna, so he did the next best thing: He announced their engagement.

“Then Dunsley decided I ought to pay him for his niece. Else he’d go to the earl. What else could I do but challenge him to a duel?”

“You could have shot the bastard in cold blood. The world would have been a better place.”

Chapter 23

Ty sent a message back to the St. Ives stables to bring out the big traveling coach instead of the lighter, faster vehicle he’d been planning on taking. Now he needed a driver and a groom. He already had a tiger, it seemed, for Dover refused to be left behind. The boy was not going to stay on in London with grudge-faced Gilbert, even if he had to ride on top of the carriage. School could wait, a grinning Dover told his idol, the longer the better. Miss Dilly needed the extra help. The dog could ride in the boot.

Ty made sure there was room for both inside the carriage, of course. Until he had to make space for his sister, her dresser, and half her belongings, it seemed, for Her Grace refused to be left behind, either.

“What about your reputation?” Ty protested when the duchess arrived at his doorstep in response to the note he’d sent. “I would not have my sister’s name dragged through the muck along with Miss Dunsley’s.”

“Gammon. It is my reputation that is going to see all of us through this. If Nonny truly intends to wed the girl, then they need my approval. Who is going to refuse to recognize the Duchess of Illington’s sister-in-law? No one who wants an invitation to my parties, for certain.”

“Yes, but we have only Nonny’s word that the chit is respectable, that she is not what she seems.”

Ann straightened her fur cape. “Since when is one of my brothers’ words not good enough for me?”

So they went in the duke’s huge, lumbering state carriage, with the St. Ives coach following, and another for baggage. The heavier carriage was better for Nonny, anyway, so he would not be as jostled on the journey, although it might add hours to the trip. Ty regretted he could not simply whisk his brother off and be with Delia posthaste. The duchess regretted she had not had time to find a respectable wet nurse. Nonny regretted he was too battered to go knock on Miss Dunsley’s door and explain matters.

The job fell to Ty. He regretted that most of all.

Miss Dunsley was a dark-haired girl, dressed in a plain, modest gown that was obviously home-sewn. She had a sweet, heart-shaped face, a nicely rounded shape, a polite manner, and an educated accent. Despite her shabby surroundings, she appeared ladylike, Ty was glad to see. She also, unfortunately, had a lady’s sensibilities. She saw her beloved’s brother and feared the worst. Her dear Agamemnon was dead, killed in her defense. She fainted.

Ty caught her before she hit her head on the floor, wrenching his wounded arm. Now what? Deuce take it, Delia would never faint when a fellow needed to be on the road. A regular trooper was Miss Croft. A regular pain in the
...
shoulder was Miss Dunsley, as Ty slung her across his neck and half flung her into the carriage with his sister and brother.

“Damn you to hell, Tyverne, what have you done to her?” Nonny demanded, while Ann reached for her vinaigrette, saying, “You always did have a way with women, brother.”

After sending Ann’s abigail back to gather Miss Dunsley’s few belongings, Ty decided to ride up with the driver.

Now his cavalcade was complete. Besides Dover and the dog, the viscount had Miss Dunsley, the duchess, and his dunderhead brother in tow. An entire marching column would have been less noticeable departing town, he swore. Next he’d have a detachment from the sheriff’s office on his trail. But he was headed in the right direction, back to Delia.

* * * *

After what seemed like a hundred stops—Miss Dunsley suffered motion sickness, besides a crisis of nerves—Ty hired a horse at one of the inns and rode ahead, now that dawn was lightening the sky. He needed to get to Faircroft House first, to prepare Miss Croft for the onslaught of strangers. He could stay at the inn, but he did not want to have his brother in such a public place, if Miss Dunsley’s uncle cocked up his toes. Nonny thought he’d struck Finster’s head with his pistol shot—damn if Ty wouldn’t have to teach his brother better aim—but head wounds bled a lot, so there was no telling the cur’s condition.

Ty would have to go back to London himself to find out soon, because he could not trust that stick of a butler to play the spy. He had to transfer funds, also, and check the income on that place he owned in Yorkshire. The unentailed property might do for Nonny and his ninnyhammer of a fiancée if her uncle lived, rather than having them emigrate. Then, too, if the scoundrel survived, Ty meant to make him sorry for the fact. No one, not the prime minister nor the man in the moon, got to injure Tyverne’s brother and get away with a minor scratch. Nonny was family, and Ty looked after his own.

He wished he had his own horse right now. Diablo would have had him at Delia’s doorstep in jig time. This tired old nag could barely outdistance the caravan of coaches, much less take the fences and walls that stood on the cross-country route if Ty left the road. Thunderation, Ty had to admit as he urged the beast to exert itself a bit more, it was not Diablo he missed. It was Delia.

Delia was done with her ride for the day. She went out early, when the day was waking up, when the birds were beginning to call, when no one was abroad to notice the breeches she wore under her green riding habit. She loved the feel of a strong horse under her, flying with the wind. For so long she had been plodding through the maze of her dilemmas, her feet too firmly on the ground. Now Delia was lighter, freer. Now she could soar again. Baby Melinda was thriving, and they were all going to London together.

Clarence and Gwen warned her not to get her hopes up. A gentleman’s promises were easily made, more easily forgotten, they said. She could still accept Dallsworth, they told her, for that bird in the hand was a ring on her finger. Tyverne’s offer was for a visit, a possible position with his sister, a glorified maid to the child.

But they did not know about the kiss. A man of honor like the viscount did not make idle promises, and did not go back on his word. More importantly, he did not toss kisses around like coins. Delia knew that in her heart, where she cherished the memory, and hoped for the future. He would be back in a week or less. He’d said so. His kiss confirmed it.

She walked out of the stable, into the daylight, and saw a horse approaching. Her eyes took a moment to adjust to the brighter light, but then she recognized the uniformed rider’s gold hair and broad shoulders. Almost as if Delia had conjured him out of her daydreams, Lord Tyverne brought his horse to a halt and dismounted.

Conscious of Jed, her stable man, coming to lead the horse away, Delia merely smiled and welcomed him back. He looked tired and
...
bruised. Her smile faded.

“The babe?” he asked first, taking the hand she offered.

Delia thought he would shake her hand, or kiss her fingers. He held it as they walked around the stable toward the front of the house.

“Does fine. And you, my lord? Did your business go well?”

“About as well as a three-legged dog does, chasing rabbits.”

Delia wanted to brush the hair back from his forehead, or gently touch the discoloration around his eye, but they were in full view of the house now, and he still held her hand. “Can you tell me about it?”

“I am afraid I have to do more than tell you; I have to beg a favor of you. Deuce take it, every time I seem to have paid my debt to your family, I find myself needing yet another boon.”

“Friends do not keep score, you know, marking favors in debit or credit columns to be repaid.”

He squeezed her hand, coming to a halt. “We are friends, are we not?”

“I like to think so, my lord.”

“And I like my friends to call me Ty.”

Delia nodded. “My friends call me Dilly.”

“Delia is prettier. But I suppose I have put my request off long enough.” He set out again, then slowed his steps to match her shorter ones. “You see, my brother shot a man last night. Lud, was it only last night? It feels like a month.”

Delia could not help the gasp that escaped her.

“No, Nonny is not a cold-blooded murderer. The dastard he shot deserved it, and the thing was a duel, with seconds and witnesses, but his opponent might die for all that. Nonny is wounded, and I need to hide him away until we find out if charges will be pressed against him, or if I have to smuggle him out of the country.”