Chase the Dawn (32 page)

Benedict stood as if carved in granite, and uncertainty flickered on the faces of those around him. A man would need to be very sure of himself to make such a monstrous accusation, to believe he had in his hand such corroboration.

Bryony never knew exactly what divine hand came to her aid, and she never questioned it. Such gifts one accepted without thought. Her voice rang clear, quiet and utterly assured in the shocked instant of silence—an instant that was about to give way to the baying of the hounds. “I cannot believe, Papa, that you will stand aside whilst a guest in your house is offered such atrocious insult. It is hardly worthy of Paget hospitality.”

The cold statement abruptly brought hard-edged reality to the hypnotic trance that seemed to hold them all in its grip. Martin’s accusations were those of a madman, and even if, by some aberration, they could be proved otherwise, they were the grossest transgression of all the rules that made life pleasant and possible. Sir Edward, as host, was responsible for restoring order on the instant. If his guest was offered insult under his roof, then it was the equivalent of an affront from himself, and Bryony had reminded him forcibly of his duty.

“You will accept my apologies, Clare.” He bowed briefly. “I can only assume that Mr. Martin has a touch of the sun.”

“And the brandy,” came an added mutter as people began to relax. It was a story that would keep many a dinner table exclaiming for months to come.

“God dammit, man, did you hear what I said? I want this man in irons—”

“Sir Edward.” Benedict broke into the enraged bluster, his tone almost neutral. But it was the first time he had spoken, and even Martin fell silent. “I much regret the necessity of causing you further unpleasantness, but I fear that I must insist on satisfaction. Such an affront cannot be borne by a man of honor.” No one could guess the deep, warm glow of satisfaction that infused him. His vengeance was there now for the plucking, and quick-thinking Bryony had placed the tool in his hand even as she had saved him.

Martin gobbled like a turkey cock, a corded vein standing out on his temple as he appeared on the verge of apoplexy. Sir Edward, taking advantage of this disablement, said quietly, “The accusation was lunacy, Clare.”

“Maybe so, but the terms in which it was couched were not,” Ben responded, equally quietly.

“Why, you … you … you dare to believe I would fight such trash!” Martin seemed to lose the power of speech again, and the gobbling resumed.

Sir Edward did not deign to look in his direction. Instead, with a punctilious bow, he offered, “I would be honored to act for you, Clare.”

Benedict returned the bow. “The honor is mine, Sir Edward.” He cast a disdainful, dismissive glance at his
opponent. “Pistols at twenty-five yards … but not until he’s sober.” Swinging on his heel, he strode down to the beach.

Bryony took a step after him, then re-collected herself. Somehow she must contain herself, contain the turmoil and confusion of this revelation that told her so much yet explained so little. He had told her that he was truly Benedict Clare; she had seen the initials on his shirt … but a runaway bondsman? There was no sense in it, yet she knew it to be the truth.

Pandemonium boiled around her as explanations were demanded by those who had not been a party to the drama, and Roger Martin continued to rage. But the power of his vilifications and imprecations was somehow weakened by an occasional note of whining bewilderment. Sir Edward cut through the tumult with incisive authority.

“Name your friends, Martin.”

The chilling impatience of the demand served to remind everyone of the realities. There was a duel to be fought, and at twenty-five yards—a range that only the most experienced, assured duelist would choose—it would be fought to the death. Clare, as the injured party, had taken with a vengeance his rights to the choice of weapons and to the stipulation of conditions. Some of the choleric flush faded on Martin’s cheeks, and he drew himself up. “I’ll not fight my bondsman.”

A gasp ran around the group. Then, as one body, they turned their backs on one capable of such dishonor, except for Paget, who said with soft insistence, “Do not be a fool, man. You have made such accusations of a gentleman as cannot be tolerated. You must defend them in the
only honorable way, as he will defend himself. Name your friends.”

There was no help for it, as Martin well knew, even as he raged inwardly at the gross injustice, the quirk of fate that had brought him to this position. To refuse the challenge was to stand dishonored, to be forever spurned by his fellows, an outcast to be regarded with loathing by all honorable men. He wiped his brow with a soiled kerchief and looked around. The group of his peers had turned to face him once more, but no one stepped forward to offer their services, and he was obliged to ask. “Cullum?”

The curt question was directed at Sir Francis, who barely nodded in acknowledgment before saying to Paget, “This is not the place to discuss such matters. I will confer with my principal and meet with you this evening.”

The party broke up almost immediately, there being no enthusiasm for further revelry. Subdued, talking in whispers, they all made their way back to the boats, leaving behind on the bank the forlorn remains of the picnic. Of Benedict Clare there was no sign, but an oarsman told them that the gentleman had taken one of the canoes, saying that he would paddle himself back to the great house.

“What do you make of it, Bri?” Francis asked softly, perching beside her on the narrow thwart.

Bryony shrugged. “Martin is crazed—and drunk,” she added. “And he’s a boorish oaf.”

“And Clare will kill him for that?”

She looked up at him, replying casually, “Would you not, Francis, if you had been subjected to such public insult?”

“It is not always easy to put oneself in another man’s shoes,” he responded soberly. “But there is something devilishly queer about it, say what you will.”

Bryony was not about to venture any further opinions. Curiously, she felt no deep repugnance at the idea of Benedict’s killing Roger Martin. If, as Martin had admitted, he had put those scars on Ben’s back, then he deserved to die. At least he would die in a fair fight. But if he did not die … A shudder ran through her. If he did not die, he would have killed Ben, or worse—wounded him so that he could exhibit the marks of the bondsman and drag him back to an existence that she could not bear to contemplate. There was only one possible, bearable conclusion to this. She knew that Ben was a fine shot, and he would hardly have chosen such a range if he had not been sure of himself.

What was to become of
them
now that she knew some of the truth that lay behind those terrifying moods of Ben’s, now that she had had some glimpse into the nightmare world that he had inhabited? Surely, it could only bring them closer. Surely, Ben would cease his objections to her plan now that she knew the dreadful secret that he had been keeping with such tenacity. The thoughts tumbled, jumbled, made no orderly pattern. When Ben came to her that night, as he had promised, came to her for the night of loving that was intended to be their last, then she would be able to make sense of this whirling chaos; then, surely, she would learn the whole truth, and Ben would understand that no truth, however dreadful, could make any difference to the way she felt, to her certainty that they were bound to each other by ties that transcended the slings and arrows of fortune.

Throughout an interminable evening, Bryony tried to catch Ben’s eye, wanting simply a look, a smile, but he ignored her, although he showed no indication of strain. He smiled, talked, joked, flirted lightly—in fact, behaved as impeccably as one would expect of a man facing a duel at dawn. Of Roger Martin there was no sign, and Bryony gathered from Francis that he had been persuaded to spend the evening in sober seclusion with his second.

“Such a dreadful thing to have happened. Seldom have I seen your father so upset,” bemoaned Eliza. “That abominable man Martin! He’ll never be welcome under my roof again.”

Bryony regarded her mother with raised eyebrows. “It is to be assumed, Mama, that after tomorrow he will not be in a position to avail himself of an invitation, even should you feel inclined to extend it.”

Eliza went white beneath her rouge. “Oh, Bryony! How
can
you be so callous and unwomanly?” She sounded genuinely angry. “I do not know what is to become of you, now that Francis is …” Her voice faded and she dabbed at her eyes with a lace-edged handkerchief.

Bryony, filled with remorse, apologized for her sharpness, comforting her mother as best she could. But it was difficult to offer comfort when she needed it herself. Her father had answered her questions curtly, telling her that Clare and Martin would face each other at five o’clock the following morning on the bowling green, with pistols and at the range decreed by the injured party.

The evening ended early and with universal relief. Benedict bade his hostess good night, carefully avoiding the slightest implication that it might also be farewell.
The affair would be settled long before the ladies appeared downstairs, and on the surface everyone behaved as if the fair sex knew nothing of this unpleasantness; it was not, after all, a fit subject for delicate sensibilities.

“Good night, Miss Paget.” He took her hand, brushed her fingertips with his lips, but still he did not look at her, did not even apply pressure to the hand he held. It was as if she were of no more account than any other young lady in the room.

Bryony curtsied, murmured her own good night, swallowing the sick dread of something that she had not thought possible until this minute. Ben was going to go through this without a word to her. There would be no talking tonight, certainly no loving. It was as if he had lopped her off from his tree trunk, as if she had no part, no right to draw strength from the sap that she had thought they shared. Her soul cried out at the injustice. With her quick thinking inspired by the all-consuming fear for the one she loved, had she not given him the way out? Was there to be no acknowledgment, no understanding, even, of her fear, her need?

It seemed not. The long hours of the night wore on, and she sat at her open window during the slow death of hope. She did not know
why;
but that, after all, was an utterly familiar condition in her dealings with Ben. How many times had she not known why?

The first gray streaks of false dawn touched the eastern sky, and the gilded ormolu clock on the mantel read four-thirty. Bryony dressed again, her eyes dry as sand, her skin strangely tight. She avoided her mirror, wrapping herself in a light cloak, drawing the hood around her face, as much for concealment as for protection against the early-morning dew. Ben’s absence in the
night had been intended to deliver a proscription on her participation, her understanding of this affair. But Bryony was not prepared to accept that judgment, whether it had been made for some askew reason with her best interests in view, or whether he just wished her out of the way. She was touched as nearly by this as was Benedict Clare. And once those two shots had been fired, she would throw in her lot with the renegade Irishman—with or without his consent.

She fancied that the house held an expectant hush as she slipped from her chamber, pausing on the landing. No sound came from her parents’ bedroom, and she surmised that her father was already at the meeting point. The household would not stir for another hour, although the bakehouse and kitchen would be alive and busy in preparation for breakfast. If there was to be an audience to the drama on the bowling green, it would consist only of those men considered necessary to see fair play, and the physician who had been summoned last evening. But Bryony was certain that behind every door in the house lay the wakeful, waiting for the news of the end of one of two lives.

The door to the rear terrace stood open, mute witness to those who had already passed through, and she ran lightly across the grass, the dew dampening her thin slippers. The sound of voices carried on the still, predawn air as she approached the sunken bowling green. A walk bordered by large flowering shrubs surrounded the green, offering both shade and privacy for the players. A gap in the hedge opened directly onto the green, and she stood slightly to one side, partly concealed by the hedge, taking in the scene on the smooth, lush expanse of carefully manicured lawn.

Sir Francis and her father were conferring over a pair of dueling pistols, examining them carefully before loading them, holding them with extreme care at half cock. Lord Dawson and Major Ferguson stood to one side of the green, both immaculately turned out, as if they were paying a morning call. Beside them stood a man in a sober gray coat and neat wig, the black bag he carried as much as his modest dress identifying him as the physician.

Benedict, in shirtsleeves, stood in the center of the green. His hands were thrust into the pockets of his britches, his booted feet set square. The burnished copper hair was drawn into a neat queue at the nape of his neck, well away from his face, and he seemed to have turned in on himself, to be quite unaware of his surroundings. But there was nothing about his stance to indicate tension—quite the opposite—and Bryony felt a quiet confidence fill her, a confidence that she knew was transmitted from Ben. Something for which he had been waiting for a long, hard time was now in his grasp, and he would not drop it. She shivered a little, knowing his ruthlessness, his implacable determination when set upon a goal, and she wondered whether Roger Martin could feel it, also. One could almost imagine that it would be enough to paralyze a man’s will.

Martin, unlike his opponent, was not still. He shifted restlessly from foot to foot, a black coat buttoned up to his neck so that not a glimmer of white would give the other man an improved target—a consideration and convention that Benedict Clare was flouting with an insulting confidence.

The two seconds came toward the principals, pistols in their hands. Bryony held her breath, and then suddenly
Ben turned toward the gap in the hedge, as if he had known she was there. His dark eyes gave nothing away, but his voice rang clear. “I do not consider this a fit spectacle for your daughter, Paget.”