Give All to Love (45 page)

“No … need, Marty,” interposed Devenish rather unevenly. “Fontaine challenged me some time back.”

“Devil I did,” snarled Fontaine. “You—”

“Have I mistook it?” said Devenish with a puzzled look. “I was sure that after I knocked you down that day, you'd felt obliged to call me out. Didn't you think so, Leith?”

“I did. One might suppose any—gentleman—would have defended his honour after being struck. But if the Viscount drew back from—”

Aware that many pairs of eyes scrutinized him curiously, Fontaine bit his lip, cursed audibly, and grated, “Very well! Have it your way. The end will not be changed, save that I'll put some of your friends out of their misery before—”

“No, no,” smiled Devenish. “Mine is the prior claim. You must face me first, my dear Viscount. If you can command your nerves.”

Sir Martin grasped his principal's arm and held him back. “Really, Dev, this is most irregular. Fontaine is to fight Bolster, and—”

“The hell with Bolster,” snarled the Viscount, livid. “This bastard is the one I want first! I fancy you've not the guts to fight with swords, Devenish?”

“I wonder you would ask, my lord,” Leith put in grittily. “You must be aware that Devenish just underwent surgery—”

“Ah yes,” sneered the Viscount. “The clever amputation … whereof it was thought he would politely die. A vainly awaited result that I shall expedite today. I presume, Leith, you are to act for the poor fool…?”

Watching in helpless misery, Guy put a hand over his eyes. “Poor little Josie!” he said brokenly. “How shall we tell her of
quelle grande catastrophe? Mon Dieu,
but she will die of grief!”

Harry muttered, “It ain't a tragedy yet, for Lord's sake.” “Much chance Dev has of out-shooting Fontaine.” Lyon shook his head unhappily and picked up his bag. “I'd best get over there. Looks as if they're ready.
Damn
that miserable Fontaine! Only see how he struts!”

The Viscount having selected his pistol meanwhile, Devenish took up the remaining weapon. With a confident smirk, Fontaine said, “Nice pistol. Very nice. Distance, Leith?”

Heavy-hearted, Tristram asked, “Fifteen paces, Dev?”

Fontaine shrugged. “Give the clod whatever he wishes.” He grinned. “I can kill him as easily at twelve paces, or twenty…”

“Thank you,” said Devenish politely. “Four.”

There was a concerted gasp. Every face jerked to him.

“Wh-what…?”
gasped Mitchell, whitening.

“My God!” exclaimed Blanchard. “You jest, man!”

“Four … paces,” repeated Devenish, calmly deliberate.

“You're out of your senses,” said Fontaine, staring wide-eyed. “You'd as well shoot yourself now!”

“Devenish, be reasonable,” urged Sir Martin. “It's suicide!”

Leith, aghast, said, “Dev—my dear fellow, you'd—you'd both be killed.”

“Which is, after all, only fair.” Devenish turned a faintly rueful smile on this faithful friend. “Fontaine runs no risk. He is by far the better shot. This merely evens the odds.”

“Like hell!” exclaimed the Viscount. “I came here to fight a duel, not to commit suicide at the whim of a lunatic!”

Devenish glanced at him. “Whatever else, I'd not expected you'd show yellow, Fontaine.”

“No such thing.” The Viscount looked at his seconds. “Well, tell him you fellows. I don't have to agree to such stuff.”

Sir Martin and Mr. Blanchard exchanged troubled glances. “Er…” said the latter diffidently, “you—
did
say you had challenged, Elliot. And you told Devenish to name the distance. I do not see—”

“Then you're a damned fool,” rasped Fontaine. “You've more sense, eh, O'Brien?”

“Well—I … The thing is, Taine—”

“That you have no choice,” said Leith coldly. “Either you're a man of your word, Fontaine—”

“Or you're a cowardly, sneaking, worthless mongrel dog,” Devenish put in with a curl of the lip.

Purpling, blinded by hatred, Fontaine shouted, “Very well, you damned insolent commoner! I call your bluff! Get on with it!”

Mitchell felt terribly cold. “Twelve … feet…!” he muttered numbly.

The seconds proceeded to a level spot in the snowy meadow, measured out the distance, then looked at each other across that horribly short space.

Redmond whispered, “My God! Tris, it's—it's murder!”

His palms wet, Leith said “We tried, Mitch. Nothing more we can do.”

Amid a hushed silence each protagonist shook hands with his friends and was led to his place. Their pistols were raised to point in the air; they turned slightly, each from the other so as to present as slim a target as possible. And those who watched, trembled, appalled by the inevitability of the impending tragedy.

Devenish was white, but had himself well in hand.

Fontaine's sneer was marked, but the side of his mouth quivered betrayingly. “Retract, idiot,” he said. “Before it is too late.”

“Would you wish to make your peace with your Maker, before we go?” asked Devenish coolly. “I realize 'twould take some time, but…”

Fontaine's snarled response was crude and not quite steady.

Sir Martin, his voice hoarse, said the familiar, “Gentlemen, I will count to three. I will then drop my handkerchief. When I do so, you will fire. Is that understood?”

The seconds stepped back.

Sir Martin hesitated, bit his lip and, struggling to command his voice, croaked, “One…”

There was a pause. Beads of sweat began to stand out on Fontaine's brow.

Sir Martin said, “My God! I
cannot!
It's murder! Leith … you must—must call.”

“Then—damn you—do so!” raged Fontaine, a little rivulet creeping down his brow.

Leith frowned, then reluctantly moved forward to take Sir Martin's place.

Fontaine, watching Devenish narrowly, hissed, “Madman! You would have a slight chance at fifteen paces! You have none like this!”

“I know you, Fontaine,” Devenish answered as softly. “I know you were the man in the Morrissey affair.” He saw the Viscount's hand jerk, and added, “You enjoy hurting people. It would please you to maim my friends, one after another. I shall deny you that pleasure.”

Fontaine read death in the coldly inexorable eyes of the younger man, and moistened his suddenly dry lips.

Suspecting what Devenish was about, Leith judged it a forlorn hope, but gave no sign of it. “I shall start again, gentlemen,” he said coolly. “One!”

His gaze steady on his antagonist, Devenish thought that the Viscount looked sick. He was a bad man—a merciless rogue who must be stopped. Josie's loved face was before his mind's eye, and he prayed she would understand. This fight was of his making and he must deal with it as any honourable man would. Certainly, he could not stand back and let his friends do his fighting for him!

“Two!”

The meadow was so quiet that Leith's voice was like a thunder clap. Fontaine jumped visibly. Sweat was running down his face now, and his mouth was twitching uncontrollably.

Delaying as long as he dared, Leith took a breath.

“Call it! Damn your soul! CALL it!” screamed Fontaine. And his nerve broke. His pistol whipped down.

“No!” shouted Mitchell, frantically.

The shot was deafening.

Devenish, every nerve strung to breaking point, had been watching Fontaine's eyes. In that deadly split second as Fontaine's pistol flamed, he thought, ‘Josie!' Something jerked at his coat and he staggered.

Anguished, Leith shouted, “You stinking apology for a man! Dev! Are you—”

“Very—fine…” gasped Devenish, his knees like water. “My shot, I believe…”

Grey faced, shaking visibly, Fontaine let the smoking pistol slip from his palsied hand.

Devenish lifted his weapon with slow deliberation and aimed, his hand steady as a rock, at his enemy.

“N-no…” whimpered Fontaine, dodging aside.

“Good God!” breathed Redmond.

“Taine!” cried Sir Martin, horrified.

“
Stand,
you damned cheating poltroon!” roared Leith.

Devenish lowered his pistol. “I believe I will reserve,” he said. “Until another time.”

They all stared at him.

Fontaine, looking barely able to stay on his feet, said chokingly, “En-enjoying yourself … ain't you?” His voice rose to an hysterical scream.
“Damn you!”

“I shall finish,” said Devenish, “whenever I so choose. However, you must not arrange another duel, Fontaine, without allowing me my shot at you. That
is,
I believe, my right—gentlemen?”

Sir Martin, flushed and mortified, said, “Indeed it is, Devenish. Dashed decent under … circumstances.”

Mr. Blanchard, also red with embarrassment, muttered, “Most awfully sorry, Dev. Can't tell you—Terrible business.”

Knowing he was ruined and disgraced, Fontaine said nothing, but flung around, and reeled like a drunken man to the waiting carriage.

Devenish took Leith's ready arm and they made their way back to their own vehicle.

“You stupid, blasted block,” gritted Lyon. “What a frightful chance to take!”

“If you don't think—my knees are blancmange,” gasped Devenish.

“I don't understand how the hell he came to miss you!” Leith glanced at the silent Redmond.

“He was shaking with fright,” said Devenish. “I'll own I was.”

“You didn't show it. And to fire before the word! God! If ever I heard of such a thing!”

Conscious of an icy silence, Devenish glanced at Redmond. “Mitch? Are you—”

“You will excuse my braggadocio if I say I prefer to fight my own duels,” said Mitchell acidly. “Much as I appreciate your intercession in my behalf.”

Devenish grasped his arm. “Mitch, for Lord's sake—”

Redmond tore free and held out the pistol box. “Yours, I believe, sir.”

Leith said sharply, “Dev! Are you hurt? Your coat's torn!”

“No, Tris. He—took off my button, though. Blast him!”

Leith touched the rent. “Just over the heart, by Jove. An inch or so to the right, or had you been standing square…!” He and Redmond exchanged sober glances.

Devenish said apologetically, “Mitch—I know
you
could have dealt with that ruffian. But—you see, you were not the next in line…”

“Jerry.” Redmond scowled. “I suppose—Fontaine would have killed him, all right.”

“No. He writ me a letter. He had no intention of killing Jeremy. He meant to blind him.”

Leith swore under his breath.

Redmond gave a gasp. “Then why in hell didn't you shoot and be done with the filthy swine?” And then, seeing Leith's grin, his own mouth curved to a smile and then to a laugh. He clapped a hand on Devenish's shoulder. “Damme if I ain't as big a fool as you are! You raving maniac! Of all the cork-brained starts! I about suffered a heart seizure!”

Whooping, Harry and Guy were hastening to meet them. The reaction set in then, and they were all laughing foolishly when they reached the coach.

On the box beside the coachman, Cornish, muffled to the ears and with a gigantic and lurid scarf wrapped several times about his throat, grinned at them. “Wot-cher, Sir Guv,” he beamed. “Thought I'd 'aveter find meself a new gent, s'elp me!”

Devenish told him cheerfully that he was a blasted scoundrel and had no business to be here. Unrepentant, the atypical footman offered to guide them to a nearby tavern called The Country Gentleman. “If you lively gents is ready for a bit of a bite.”

They were, they found, ravenous, and they piled into the coach. The coachman untied his reins and gave his horses a friendly curse and a light crack of the whip, and the carriage set off.

A shout of laughter came from inside, but Cornish glanced back at the Viscount's disappearing chaise and for once his unlovely face was set in sombre lines.

The Country Gentleman was a rather indifferent hedge tavern, and the food not exceptional, but the cheerful Corinthians were in no mood to find it anything but superb and their meal was consumed with all the joy and verve that could be expected of men who had started the day with the terrible anticipation of finishing it in mourning. They argued merrily about everything but the fiasco of the duel, discussed the forthcoming holiday season, and generally behaved as if they'd not a care in the world until Lyon muttered, “D'you know, I still cannot believe our ignoble Viscount actually lost his nerve like that.”

The grins faded; the eyes became sober, and there was silence.

Leith said thoughtfully, “Perhaps he'd never come face to face with certain death before. He's so accustomed to winning.”

“That's what I counted on,” said Devenish. “I hoped it might make him so offstride he'd fumble his shot.”

“He fumbled all right, dirty bastard,” gritted Harry Redmond. “When I saw him fire before time—by God, I couldn't believe you were not killed, Dev!”

Guy said in his quiet fashion, “He is a very bad man, that one. And ruined now.” He shook his head. “He will find it a bitter road. Almost, I pity him.”

“
Pity
the wicked devil?” exclaimed Mitchell, indignantly. “He deserves everything that may befall him! When I think he planned to blind old Jerry—”

“Jerry!”
gasped Devenish, suddenly pale. “Oh, Lord! He'll kill me!”

Leith grinned. “I've meant to enquire how you persuaded him to stay in Town.”

“I made no attempt to.”

Awed, Lyon said, “You never—
hit
him?”

“Hard,” nodded Devenish. “Then I tied and gagged him and rolled him under his bed.” He contemplated his hysterical friends glumly.