Gayle Buck (23 page)

“Are you mad, Anthony?” the gentleman demanded.

“On the contrary, Ferdy. I am quite sane. I mean to even an ancient score,” Lord Randol said coolly, removing his friend’s hand from his sleeve and smoothing the fabric.

“What could be of such importance that you would force a duel on that man?” asked the Honorable Ferdinand Huxtable-Taylor.

Lord Randol looked at him. “My life.” He walked away, leaving the onlookers talking in excited speculation.

The duel took place five days later and was attended by upwards of ten witnesses. Among those were the four seconds and two grave men of medicine. The others were merely along to be able to report the odd event. None knew what was at the root of the long-standing insult rumored to have made Lord Randol press the fight on Sir Lionel, but there was little doubt that the principals regarded one another with great enmity. Upon reaching the designated dueling ground, Lord Randol and Sir Lionel had exchanged but one glance, a glance so palpably full of hatred that one spectator declared his opinion that there would be a killing.

It was noted that both antagonists had forgone colored coats, having chosen instead dark, somber attire, even down to black cravats. It was attire that befitted a funeral, said one wag, but his witticism did not engender merriment. A chill pall seemed to hang over the gathering quite apart from that of the characteristic damp of the early-morning hour. White fog laced the air, alternately hiding and revealing those who measured off the proper dueling distance.

The principals were brought together to choose their weapons, Sir Lionel given precedence since the choice of weapon had gone to Lord Randol. The gentlemen took their places back-to-back, the barrels of their respective weapons held alongside their heads and pointing toward the dreary sky. The paces were counted out. The principals stepped away from one another, one pace at a time. On the count of ten, the command came to turn and fire.

Sir Lionel spun about. His pistol came down to level on the front of his opponent’s coat. He squeezed the trigger. There was a flash and an explosion. A puff of smoke eddied into the cool morning air.

Lord Randol felt the whistling passage of the ball past his ear. The shot had missed him completely, he noted in detachment. He stared across the fog-shrouded green at Sir Lionel, who stood with his head up in a defiant attitude. His discharged pistol hung from his hand at his side.

Deliberately Lord Randol took aim. Another crashing report and billow of acrid smoke. Sir Lionel staggered a step, a peculiar expression crossing his face, before he crumpled to the ground. There were shouted exclamations. Several gentlemen ran to the fallen man.

Lord Randol calmly gave his pistol into the care of one of his seconds. With Ferdy’s silent help, he began to shrug into his greatcoat in preparation for driving himself back to town.

Two gentlemen separated themselves from those standing around Sir Lionel’s inert body and the busy medical men. They approached the viscount, examining him curiously. “Good news, my lord. You merely creased his skull,” one said.

“Damnation. I meant to kill him.” Lord Randol pulled on his driving gloves. “I’m for breakfast, gentlemen. Pray join me.” He strode off with his seconds, leaving the messengers with their mouths agape.

“Cold-blooded bastard, ain’t he?” remarked one of the onlookers.

Another nodded. “Coolest thing I have ever witnessed.  His lordship simply stood there, his pistol raised, and allowed Sir Lionel to shoot at him. That takes a remarkable nerve. One must respect his lordship for it.”

“Aye.” The first gentleman reflected a moment as he turned to watch Sir Lionel’s unconscious body being carried toward a carriage. “I’d give my teeth to be privy to what lies between those two gentlemen.”

“We aren’t likely to discover it now. The field of honor has seen justice done. The matter is finished with, I’d say,” said the other, almost regretfully. His companion nodded agreement and they walked to their carriage.

By late afternoon all of London knew that a duel had been fought between Lord Randol and Sir Lionel Corbett. Speculation ran rife over its cause, but those at the Davenport town house had no trouble in distinguishing the matter.

The news was brought by Captain Hughes, who, since the understanding between Lord Randol and Michele had been announced, had been more warmly welcomed to the town house than in the past. As Michele listened to him tell what he knew of the duel, she sank down on the settee.

After a sharp glance at her white-faced niece, Lady Basinberry recommended that Michele be given a glass of water, a service that Lydia immediately took upon herself. “I do not know why you should look so puling, girl. According to Captain Hughes, his lordship came off without a scratch,” her ladyship said bracingly.

Michele shuddered.
“It is all so very barbaric.”

Surprisingly enough, Lydia agreed. After giving the glass of water to Michele, she sat down beside her cousin and placed a comforting arm around her. “It is horrid. What if Lord Randol had been killed?” she asked.

“Lord Randol was more fortunate than you know,” Captain Hughes said, and proceeded to point out a possibility that the ladies had overlooked. “If his lordship had managed to accomplish his announced intent of exterminating Sir Lionel, his own life would now be forfeit and he would be forced to flee the country into exile.”

Michele shook her head. “It is unimaginable. I cannot believe that Anthony could have done something so idiotic,” she said in a low shaking voice.

Lady Basinberry snorted derision. “Notwithstanding the good captain’s presence, I shall tell you to your head, Michele, that the male sex are notorious for their stupidity.”

“Here, now!” objected Captain Hughes unwisely.

Lady Basinberry arched her brows and haughtily stared down her thin nose. Her blue eyes were chilly in expression. “Well, Captain?”

Captain Hughes found himself in the position of giving offense by any reply he might make, and diplomatically he chose to appear tongue-tied before her ladyship’s challenging stare.

Lydia laughed at her beloved. “Bernard, you are such a coward! Why, I would have come right back at anyone who made such a sweeping statement about my own fair sex.”

“Undoubtedly. However, I hope that I have too much respect for her ladyship to ring a peal over her head,” retorted Captain Hughes. He slid a glance at Lady Basinberry and made her a respectful bow. “That is, I shall endeavor to curb my opinions, at least until Lady Basinberry becomes my relative.”

Lady Basinberry laughed, pleased by his show of spirit. “I begin to like you very well, Captain.”

Lord Randol put in an appearance not many minutes later. Michele instantly requested a private word with him in the back parlor. His lordship made his bows to the company and then followed Michele into the privacy of the next room. He looked at her with a faint lift of his brows. “Yes, my love?” Michele uttered an unflattering word in French. “My dear lady, how very ungenteel,” he laughingly protested. He attempted to pull her into his arms, but she shook him off.

“Do not treat me as though I were a green girl, Anthony!’“ She spoke in swift, furious French. “How dare you expose yourself in such a way? You could have been killed. I would have lost you again, and for what? Your damnable pride!” she said bitterly.

“It was not pride, mademoiselle. The duel was a necessary catharsis for me. Sir Lionel betrayed us in a fashion wholly devoid of compassion. I could not allow him to walk away without satisfying some part of my fury. I would not have been able to live with myself otherwise. The hatred would have eaten away at me until it threatened our very happiness,” Lord Randol said quietly.

“Sometimes I wish that I did not love you quite so much,” Michele said, a break in her voice. Lord Randol put his arms around her, and this time she did not rebuff him. She turned her face into his shoulder. “Promise me that you will not risk yourself again in such a fashion,” she whispered.

“You have my oath on it. It would be extremely unsporting to go after the same man again,” Lord Randol said, ending on a deliberate teasing note. He was satisfied when he saw the lifting of the shadows in her extraordinary dark blue eyes. He kissed her lingeringly before he said, “We have the future for our own, Michele. The past is finally dead.”

In the idyllic weeks following the duel, Mademoiselle du Bois and Lord Randol were seen much together. Society in general marveled at the change in Lord Randol, who seemed to have utterly forsaken his mantle of cold hauteur and to have become each day visibly more carefree and prone to laughter, while Mademoiselle du Bois was said to positively radiate happiness when she was in his lordship’s company. The gossips spoke confidently of an impending announcement.

Lord Randol and Michele often drove one another about town. Because he was a notable whip, his unconcern in giving over the reins to her was seen as a testimony to the mademoiselle’s own obvious driving skill. “After all, his lordship would hardly allow her to tool his own high-stepping cattle if he were not confident of her ability,” said the Honorable Ferdinand Huxtable-Taylor, who had conceived an even greater admiration for the lady.

One golden afternoon when Michele returned from a drive with Lord Randol, the butler gave her the long-awaited letter from her parents. She asked Lord Randol to stay while she read it, and when she was done she cast herself into his arms with a happy laugh. “Mama writes that she and Papa are delighted that you are alive and we are to marry at last. They are setting out instantly for London.”

Lord Randol swung her about, also laughing. They were quite oblivious of the gathering servants outside the open door of the drawing room. Lady Basinberry arrived on the scene, and at a baleful look from her, the servants hastily withdrew.

Lady Basinberry raised her brows in exaggerated astonishment. “One need not attend Astley’s Circus to witness astounding spectacles of aerial grace,” she said loftily.

Grinning, Lord Randol put Michele down. “I am all contrition, my lady,” he said, which statement earned him a snort of disbelief from Lady Basinberry.

Michele was becomingly flushed. She held out the letter to Lady Basinberry, her eyes shining. “Aunt, I have a letter from Mama. She and Papa are coming as quickly as they may.”

“I am happy to hear it. The sooner that you and his lordship are wedded, the better. With such a display, you have set the servants’ tongues wagging and I shall have no proper work out of them for the rest of the evening,’’ Lady Basinberry said tartly. She grasped the knob to the drawing-room door. Surprisingly, she smiled. “I shall just go and consult with the housekeeper and the cook on the preparations to be made for the coming visitors.” She closed the door, leaving Michele and Lord Randol alone in the drawing room.

They looked at each other in astonishment. “I believe that Lady Basinberry becomes human at last,” Lord Randol observed.

Michele choked on a throaty laugh. “Really, Anthony!” She walked into his waiting arms.

Chapter Twenty-two

The following week, an announcement was inserted in the
Gazette
to quietly publicize the engagement of Mademoiselle Michele du Bois to Lord Anthony Randol, Viscount Callander. It did not go unnoticed, and there was open talk at how fortunate Mademoiselle du Bois had been to snare for herself a title. The felicitations received by Michele expressed genuine hopes for her happiness, especially those she received from acquaintances who had known her and Lord Randol in Brussels. A particularly warm note came from the Countess of Kenmare, who added the footnote that she had become the proud grandmother of a baby boy and was traveling to Scotland to be with her daughter, but hoped to return in time for the wedding. Dashing off a reply to Lady Kenmare, Michele expressed her happiness for her old friend Abigail. She privately hoped that it would not be long before she, too, could present an heir to her husband. The passing thought brought a pleasing warmth to her face and curved her full mouth in a soft smile.

“Whatever are you so pleased about, Michele?” Lydia asked, noticing her cousin’s expression. “You look like the cat that swallowed the canary.”

Michele blushed and evaded her cousin’s inquisitiveness with less than her usual skill. Lydia eyed her, and would have pursued her inquiry except for Lady Basinberry’s command to leave Michele to the privacy of her own thoughts. “Unless you wish to share your daydreams of your soldier, Lydia?” Lady Basinberry asked, her brows raised. Flushing, Lydia took her aunt’s point and subsided with her magazine.

Sir Lionel made a slow recovery from his wound. He still suffered from the headache, so he kept close to his rooms, and it was therefore late in the week before he read the
Gazette
notice of the engagement. He threw down the paper with a virulent curse. Pacing his bedroom, he hesitated over his course of action. It took him several moments of reflection before he decided what he should do. Throwing off his quilted dressing gown, he called for his manservant. While the valet assisted him into his day clothes, he scowled into space. The valet wondered at his master’s foul temper, but knew better than to offer anything more than a selection of freshly starched cravats when Sir Lionel was in one of his dark moods.

Sir Lionel took an inordinate time in tying his cravat. At the end of thirty minutes, with half a dozen mangled attempts lying at his feet, he was at last satisfied. The valet helped him to slip into his tightly tailored coat. Sir Lionel picked up his hat and his gloves and left his rooms with but one object in mind.

When word was brought up to the upper sitting room to Michele that Sir Lionel awaited her downstairs, she hesitated. She was uncertain whether she should receive him. Lady Basinberry, whose arrival in the sitting room had coincided with a pot in steaming tea and a pattern book containing several examples of wedding gowns, looked at Michele with delicately raised brows. “My dear, shall I send him away for you?” she asked.

Michele swiftly made up her mind. She shook her head, and her mouth became firmly set with determination. “I shall meet with him. It is for me to send him away.”