The Double Wager (29 page)

“Little fool!” he exclaimed. “You would not dare. Murder is a hanging offense, you know.”

“Oh, but I do not intend to murder you,” she said, “as you would know if you had read more carefully the note that you hold. I am going to shoot you in the arm, Oliver. I am a good shot, I assure you. I shall hit the mark if you do not move. If you do move, of course, I might kill you by accident. That would be a pity, would it not?”

“This is madness, Henry,” he said impatiently. “You know that sooner or later I shall have my way with you. Why make it harder for yourself? Now give me the gun.”

He took one purposeful step in her direction.

“Take one more step, Oliver, and I shall shoot you in the leg,” Henry said calmly. He noticed that the barrel of the pistol angled downward very slightly. “I do not want to shoot your arm, you see, until you have signed that note.”

“You will give me that pistol, Henry, right now,” Cranshawe ordered, red with fury, “and be thankful if I end up making love to you tonight instead of thrashing you within an inch of your life, as you deserve.” But he did not move.

“Be careful, Oliver,” Henry replied, “your charm is slipping. Now, if you look at that note in your hand, you will be able to confirm that it says you were shot in the arm by Henrietta Devron, Duchess of Eversleigh, while you were trespassing on her brother’s estate and attempting to seduce her. You will note also that there is a space at the bottom for your signature. If you look on the ground, you will find a container of ink and a pen beside the stone that was holding down the paper. You see, I think of everything. Now, will you please sign it so that we can get the shooting over with?”

“You are mad,” he said. “What is the purpose of this, pray?”

Henry smiled grimly. “You see, Oliver,” she said, “you will be returning to London with your arm in a sling. You would be the laughingstock for a long time if it became known how you received your injury. I shall have it in my power to prevent or to provoke that ridicule.”

“Very neat,” he declared, a ghost of his old smile playing about his lips. “Your silence in return for mine, is that it?”

“There is a brain behind the charm, I see,” was the answer he received.

“I shall not sign, of course,” he said, the smile becoming firmer.

“Then I shall have to put a bullet in your leg,” Henry announced coolly. “The left one, I believe, just below the knee.” She raised her left hand to steady the wrist of her right.

“All right, you minx, you win this round,” Cranshawe said hastily, “but it will go all the worse for you, Henry, when I finally get you within my grasp.”

“Perhaps, but you will need two sound arms for that, Oliver,” she replied, lowering her left hand again.

Cranshawe searched around on the ground until he found the items she had described. He dipped the quill pen in the container and hastily scratched his name on the paper, using his knee as a desktop.

“Here is your paper,” he said, holding it out in her direction. “I am going to turn and leave, Henry. I trust that you have enough gallantry not to shoot a man in the back.”

“I shall still be aiming for your right arm between shoulder and elbow, Oliver,” she said, quite unperturbed. “Of course, it is always harder to hit a moving target with accuracy. I advise you to stand absolutely still.”

Again her left hand rose to steady her wrist. Cranshawe did as she bade him. A cold sweat broke out on his face.

“Don’t shoot, your Grace!” a voice yelled frantically from the gap in the hedge. The gun dropped a few inches as Henry, unnerved, glanced across the meadow to see James Ridley rushing in her direction, having dismounted while his horse was still in motion. Oliver Cranshawe moved at the same moment but stopped abruptly again when she brought the gun jerking back into line with his body.

“Don't move!” she directed him coldly. “Mr. Ridley, you are far from home. May I ask what brings you here?”

“We heard this morning that you were here, your Grace,” he replied, hurrying closer. “Then we found out that Mr. Cranshawe was on his way here too.”

“We?” asked Henry.

Her answer came in the form of a loud bark from the other side of the hedge, followed by voices.

“Where did he disappear?” called a high, piping voice that was unmistakably Penelope's.

“Into the meadow, silly. I hope Trevors was right. He said they came this way. Let's go, Pen.” The voice was Philip's.

“Wait for Manny. She's all tired out from running,” yelled Penelope.

A few moments later, there was a new invasion of the field. Brutus was in the lead. He rushed first to Henry in an ecstasy of recognition, and then to Cranshawe, who was still stranded, motionless, in the middle of the meadow, his attention fixed on the pistol. Brutus seemed unable to make up his mind if this person was friend or foe. He settled the problem for the time being by flopping to the ground and fixing Cranshawe with an unwavering stare. He panted heavily and occasionally growled.

Philip, Penelope, and an exhausted-looking Miss Manford came next.

“Henry!” Penelope yelled.

“Oh, I say,” said Philip, “a gun. Are you going to shoot him, Henry?”

“Oh, bless my soul,” Miss Manford gasped, “are you safe, dear girl? Please put down the gun. There is no need to kill Mr. Cranshawe, indeed there is not. Mr. Ridley is here to protect you.”

“Come, Henry,” Cranshawe coaxed, his voice not quite under control, “you really must do as you are told. There are witnesses now, you know.”

“Yes, but friendly witnesses,” she replied, “and I have not changed my mind. I want you to sweat and squirm for a while, Oliver. Maybe you will have an inkling of what I have been through in the last weeks. Don t come any closer, please, Mr. Ridley. You will be close to my line of fire if you do.”

“Really, your Grace, I sympathize with your feelings,” Ridley said calmly. “I know much of what he has made you suffer. But nothing can be gained from bloodshed and violence. Give me the gun.” He held out his hand slowly, but he did not move from where he stood, about twenty-five feet from Henry.

“Oh, James, do be careful,” Miss Manford wailed.

“She is quite mad, as you see, Ridley,” Cranshawe said. He was recovering his poise somewhat. The lengthy delay seemed to be to his advantage. Henry’s arm would tire soon.

“Read them that paper,” Henry ordered coldly.

“What?”

“The paper that you still hold in your hand—read it!” she repeated.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Henry.”

“Read it!”

There was a pause of some seconds. Finally Cranshawe lowered his head and began to read.

“Louder!” she directed.

He read what was written on the paper in a loud, clear voice.

“Now, Mr. Ridley, would you take it from Mr. Cranshawe, please? I do not really want to have it spattered with his blood.”

Ridley did as he was bid, pleading with Henry all the while. Finally he moved to one side and Cranshawe was again isolated in the middle of the meadow. Philip and Penelope stood at the other side of the field, one of Miss Manford’s hands on a shoulder of each. Henry adjusted the pistol so that it was again in line with Cranshawe’s right arm. Again she raised her left arm to steady her wrist.

“Drop the gun, Henry!” said a cool, authoritative voice from the gap in the hedge. The words were not shouted, but they accomplished what all the commotion of the previous few minutes had failed to do. The pistol immediately dropped to the ground from nerveless fingers as Henry turned her head toward her husband. Cranshawe visibly sagged with relief.

“You!” Henry said. “What are you doing here?”

“The same as everyone else, I presume,” Eversleigh said, strolling unhurriedly forward, “viewing the beauties of nature.” He lifted his quizzing glass to his eye as he gradually approached Cranshawe.

“Oliver!” he said, affecting surprise. “I did not know you were one of nature's devotees.”

“I never thought I should be glad to see you, Marius,” Cranshawe said, his self-assurance visibly restored. “Your wife was just about to kill me. She should be locked up in a madhouse.”

Three voices chorused from the sidelines.

“Don't talk about my sister like that!”

“Don't listen to him, your Grace. He's a black-hearted villain.”

“Oh, bless my soul, what an evil man.”

Brutus growled threateningly.

“There is a letter here that you should read, your Grace,” Ridley said calmly from his place to one side of Henry.

“I heard it, thank you, James,” Eversleigh replied. “I think it would be rash of you to thank me for saving your arm, dear boy,” he continued, turning his attention and his quizzing glass back to his heir. “I stopped Henry only because I could not possibly deny myself the pleasure of dealing with you myself.”

“Oh, no, you don't!” Henry exclaimed, fury animating her again. “Why should men get all the satisfaction of working out their anger? This one is mine!” She strode determinedly toward Cranshawe, and before he could see what was coming and react, she had raised her fist and driven it with all her strength into his face. Her target had been his nose. She missed and connected with one eye instead. Her sapphire ring gashed him just below the eye.

“Little vixen!” Cranshawe gasped, clamping one hand over the wounded side of his face.

There was a chorus of cheers from the background, including some from Miss Manford. Brutus leapt to his feet, barking with excitement.

“Bravo, Henry!” Eversleigh said quietly. “Now stand aside, my love.” He beckoned Ridley to his side, carefully removed his coat, and handed it to his secretary.

“I suggest that you do likewise, Oliver,” he said amiably. “I do believe you will be measuring your length on the ground rather soon, and there might be some bloodshed. I would think it a shame to ruin a perfectly good coat, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes, this is just the type of situation you like, is it not, Marius?” replied his cousin bitterly. “You can show off your superior physical strength in front of an appreciative audience.”

“I know it is not your style, Oliver,” Eversleigh replied calmly, unbuttoning the lace cuffs of his shirt and rolling the sleeves back to the elbows. “You prefer to wound your opponents through women and through lies and trickery. Unfortunately, dear fellow, on this occasion you have no choice.”

Cranshawe grimly pulled off his coat and tossed it from him. His eye was already beginning to swell, the onlookers noted with satisfaction.

Really, the fight was disappointing when it finally got started, Philip confided to a small audience later. Eversleigh’s very first punch—a right jab to the chin—produced a crunching sound and Cranshawe fell backward. He scrambled to his feet again, but spent the rest of the unequal contest defending himself. He did manage to land one lucky punch on Eversleigh’s mouth; he even drew blood. But one punch after another of Eversleigh’s was a potential leveler.

Cranshawe’s weakening guard would drop to protect his ribs and stomach after the breath had been knocked out of his body by a well-placed fist, and then the same fist would punish his face and jaw. When he chose to protect his head, then his body was pummeled. To his credit, he did not go down easily the second time, but in the end he was swaying on his feet, his hands, still held in loose fists, hanging useless at his side.

Eversleigh held his opponent by the right shoulder, while he threw all his weight behind the final punch, a wicked right hook that caught Cranshawe squarely below the chin and snapped his head back. The duke released his hold and watched his cousin crumple to the ground.

There was a curious silence among the onlookers. Even Brutus,standing to one side, was only panting. Henry broke the spell.

“Marius, you are hurt!” she said, her voice shaking uncontrollably, and she rushed to him, hurled herself into his arms, and burst into tears against his shoulder.

One arm came around her. The other hand cupped the back of her head and held it against him. “It’s all over now, Henry,” he murmured soothingly. “You are safe, my love.”

All else was forgotten for a couple of minutes as Henry let herself sag against him, allowing all the firm warmth of him to penetrate her exhausted limbs. She felt the truth of his words. Nothing could ever threaten her again now that Marius was here.

Finally outside noises began to penetrate her consciousness and she pushed herself wearily away, aware again that nothing had changed except that she was free of Oliver Cranshawe and that apparently all the world knew about her indiscretion.

“What the devil is going on here?” a new voice was demanding crossly. “Are you all mad? Am I master here or am I not?”

“I say,” said Giles admiringly, “is this your handiwork, your Grace? How splendid!”

“Not entirely,” Eversleigh replied modestly. “The eye is Henry’s work.”

“I say!”

“You should have seen it, Giles,” Penelope shrieked. “He must have a broken jaw. I could hear the bone cracking way over there.”

“Henrietta, what is going on here?” Peter demanded in fury.

“It is quite a long story,” she replied. “Could I tell you at the house, Peter?”

Cranshawe was beginning to stir on the ground. Eversleigh, carefully rebuttoning his cuffs and smoothing the lace over his hands, stood over him until he opened his eyes.

“I shall be returning to London tomorrow, Oliver,” he said gently. “When I get there, I would wish you to be gone. I would advise you to remain outside the city for at least one year. If I encounter you within that time, or if after that time you so much as let your eyes alight on my wife, I shall engineer a quarrel in which, for honor’s sake, you will be forced to call me out. That will give me the choice of weapons, and I shall choose swords. I trust I make myself clear?”

Cranshawe gingerly fingered a split lip and moaned something unintelligible.

“Quite so, dear boy,” his cousin replied, and turned away to put on his coat.

“Are we just going to leave him here, your Grace?” Ridley asked doubtfully.

“This is Sir Peter Tallant’s property,” Eversleigh pointed out coolly. “If he wishes to extend his hospitality, it is no concern of mine. But I would suggest that Mr. Cranshawe be allowed to recover here in quiet and take himself off to the nearest inn when he feels ready to travel. He may save his pride there, if he wishes, by saying that he has been set upon by highwaymen.”