Helen Dickson (20 page)

‘And it may not. Neither of us knows that. If you were to stay, to give me this night, it would have to be of your own accord, but I feel I must warn you now that afterwards you may find something in our loving that will bind you to me more firmly and more eternally than anything in your life.’

She nodded, thinking at first that he was implying that a child might be the outcome of their loving, but, looking into his eyes, she knew it was something deeper, something profound that would happen to her emotionally.

‘So go to bed. Rest assured, it will all be over quickly. I expect to deal with Winston exactly as I think fit.’

Reluctantly Maria left him then, confused but somehow encouraged by his remark, but as he kissed her one more time, he refused to enlarge on it.

S
hortly before dawn Maria fell into an uneasy slumber, only to wake what seemed like minutes later to the sound of someone moving down the landing outside her room. When she heard the front door open and close, immediately she was out of bed. Rushing to the window, in the first rosy glow of the pre-dawn light she was just in time to see a closed carriage drive away.

It was only now, facing the possibility of Charles’s death, that suddenly it was important that he should know that she loved him. She had to tell him. A new sense of urgency banished the defeatist despair that had clouded her thinking. Hurriedly she dressed and dashed to the stables. She managed to wake one of the grooms and asked him to saddle her a horse.

Yawning and shaking the sleep from his head, he clearly thought she was quite mad, but in the end he did as she bade with surprising swiftness and soon had a horse saddled, and one for himself—it was more than
his life was worth should Sir Charles find out he had let his guest ride out alone.

Maria was an excellent horsewoman. In the normal way, she would have enjoyed enormously the hectic ride, but today the stakes were too high and the risk of failure too great. Galloping in a desperate bid to see Charles before the duel, she knew beyond all doubt that her own life, too, hung on the outcome.

A slight mist hung in the low spots as they entered the park in the chill, brisk morning air. It was deserted at that hour. She rode in every direction, her eyes searching for the carriage she had seen drive away from the house.

And then there it was, along with two others in a grove almost concealed by trees and shrubs. She was too far away to see what was happening.

‘Wait here,’ she commanded the groom. ‘I may have need of you. I don’t know.’

Without further ado she left the bemused groom and rode towards the grove, keeping to the confines of the trees. Within sight of where the duel was to take place, she dismounted. Grateful for the camouflage of the foliage, she peered ahead. She stood for a moment listening, then her throat tightened as her gaze settled on a small gathering of people some distance away. She saw Charles and Henry, but did not recognise the other men.

The physicians and surgeons both men had obtained waited impassively by their carriages. The two seconds were in quiet discussion, making sure the bullets carried equal charges of powder. Charles and Henry had removed their coats and kept some distance apart.

Out of the corner of her eye Maria caught a move
ment. Directing her gaze to one of the carriages, she saw a face peering out, an attractive face, a very worried face, a face she had seen before.

It was the same woman who had embraced and kissed Charles at Westminster.

Maria clung to a low branch, feeling as if every drop of blood in her brain had left it, seeping away into other parts of her body and leaving her sick and faint. In a daze she watched the proceedings. She watched Charles and Henry take a loaded pistol each and stand back to back in the centre of the grove. Charles’s second was to do the honours of dropping a small white square of silk to mark the start of the duel. Henry’s second would give another signal and the two men would start walking the required twenty paces.

Then everything seemed to happen at once, but to Maria, it was as if it happened in slow motion. She watched with a mounting horror when Henry turned and fired before the call was given or the silk dropped. Charles turned just as the ball whined viciously and ripped across his upper arm.

Too far away to hear Maria’s gasp from the confines of the trees, Charles’s expression was incredulous. Ignoring the fiery pain in his arm and the blood that poured out and covered his fingers, he raised his dark, glittering eyes to his quivering assailant. Slowly, he raised his weapon and, taking his time, aimed directly at Henry’s heart. Maria could almost smell Henry’s fear and see the perspiration dripping from his forehead. Then Charles changed his aim at the last possible moment and aimed high, the crack sending birds startled from their roosts flapping into the sky.

Henry backed away as chaos broke out on the field of honour. Angry words of disgust from the two seconds, that he had broken the rules in a cowardly act, were directed at him. In the natural order of things, Maria wanted to run and fling herself thankfully into Charles’s arms, but someone was there before her. The woman had left the carriage and hurried to his side, calling his name, quite distraught, and the doctor, carrying his bag, crossed towards him to tend the wound in his arm before he bled to death.

They did not see her as the slow death of Maria’s heart began. She watched as, for an achingly tender moment, Charles placed his good arm about the woman and cradled her against him. He smiled, a warm, gentle smile, saying something to her, something that made her tip her head back and return his smile. The moment was very tender, very intimate. Then very deliberately he bent his head and placed a kiss on her forehead.

Maria started to tremble, cold now where not so very long ago she had been sweetly warm with the intoxicating memory of the illicit pleasure she and Charles had shared, delighting in the precious world of her newfound love—a love that was not reciprocated. Heartbroken and humiliated, she now understood that his decision to fight this duel of honour was for no other reason than to protect her.

Unable to stand it, Maria turned and stumbled towards her horse.

The jealousy she felt was a fierce, burning thing. It was a pain, a rending agony, an uncontrollable quivering at the thought of Charles and that woman together.
Who was she? What did she mean to Charles? Since coming home he spent little of his time there. Did he spend all his time discussing his time in France with those members of the government who had sent him there, or was that what he wanted them to think? And why hadn’t he introduced her to his mother—unless she wasn’t the type of woman a man would introduce to his mother?

That could explain everything. Yes, she could be his mistress—and besides, a lady would never have attended a duel. Nor did men marry their mistresses, but she was not so naïve as not to know they often kept them on when they married a woman according to their station.

Feeling that she had lost any chance of happiness with Charles, as she rode back to the house she resolved to leave London for Gravely at the earliest possible moment.

Inordinately pleased with the way the duel had gone, although he cursed the injury, impatient to see Maria and put her out of her agony, Charles walked swiftly down the main hall to the breakfast room. His mother was breakfasting alone.

‘Ah, here you are, Charles,’ she said, reaching for a small piece of freshly buttered toast.

‘Good morning, Mother.’ He grinned and, bending over, kissed her cheek before striding to the sideboard and helping himself to bacon and eggs, careful not to overwork his injured arm, which was sore rather than painful.

‘I see your ride has given you an appetite,’ Lady
Osbourne commented, biting into her toast, licking her lips delicately.

‘It was most enjoyable,’ he replied, wincing as he pulled out his chair.

‘What is wrong with your arm? Does it pain you?’ Her sharp eyes missed very little.

‘I met with a mishap in the park—nothing serious.’ He glanced towards the door. ‘Where’s Maria? Have you seen her? Has she—?’

Lady Osbourne looked across at him, her expression so foreboding that Charles stopped in mid-sentence.

‘She’s helping Ruby to pack.’

Unable to react, Charles stared at her in blank disbelief. ‘Pack? Is she going somewhere?’

‘To Gravely. She decided all at once. Of course we can’t stop her going home—and it’s only natural that she should, after being away for so long. She’s already instructed Denning to have her carriage made ready.’ She sighed, her expression one of melancholy.

Rather forcefully, Charles pushed his chair back and stood up. ‘Excuse me, Mother.’ He stalked to the door.

As Charles headed for Maria’s room with rampaging emotions, his expression was as murderous as his feelings. What was she playing at—leaving without a by your leave or without waiting to hear the outcome of the duel? He might have been killed, for all she knew. He had returned expecting her to be confused and distraught and to fling herself into his arms and cry tears of relief at his safe deliverance, but instead he found she was preparing to leave his house.

He was so angry he entered her room without bothering to knock. Maria came out of the dressing room
carrying an armful of clothes. She was not at all surprised to see him, having expected him, fully prepared for a confrontation.

‘Charles! Come in—I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you knock.’

Ignoring her sarcasm, his eyes slid to Ruby, who stood frozen to the spot. ‘Leave us.’

Ruby seemed to wilt from the cutting tone. She looked desperately at Maria.

‘It’s all right, Ruby. Do as Sir Charles says. You can go and pack your own things. I’ll send for you shortly.’

When the door had closed on the terrified maid, Charles strode to the window, standing with his back to Maria, trying to calm his temper before speaking. After a moment he turned, the warm daylight behind him, his shadow stretching across the room. There was a brief silence, then he was striding forwards, tousled dark hair curling into his neck and outlining his handsome face. There was that magnetism in his light blue eyes. The room seemed to jump to life about him as his presence filled it, infusing it with his own energy and vigour.

Placing the clothes into an open trunk, joining her hands in front of her, Maria calmly stood and watched him as he began to pace back and forth in feverish rapidity.

‘My mother has informed me that you are leaving for Gravely this morning. I assume you have some legitimate reason for doing so.’

‘As a matter of fact I have a very good reason. I want to go home. It’s as simple as that. I have spent enough time replenishing my wardrobe and attending to business matters. I have my own carriage and horses—for which I have you to thank—and I am now ready to leave.’

‘And the fact that I might be lying dead in some secluded grove in Green Park on your behalf does not concern you?’

She flinched. There was a fleeting spark of guilt in her eyes and then it was gone. ‘Of course I was concerned. Are you hurt?’

‘A flesh wound in my arm. Nothing serious.’

‘I’m glad—not that you’re wounded, but that it isn’t serious. And Henry? Is—is he wounded?’ Maria asked—even though she knew the answer she had to go through with the deception. Charles must not find out she had been there, had seen what had happened, had seen that woman.

He shook his head. ‘As you now know he refused to delope. Before the duel it was agreed that we would both fire at the same time. Winston fired before the call was given. He didn’t miss. It was fortunate for me that he was still drunk from the previous night and it affected his aim. The man’s a coward and a disgrace—a man without honour.’

‘And you?’

‘I fired into the air. I could have killed him—I may live to regret not doing so.’

‘So Henry walked away.’

‘He didn’t wait around.’ Charles stopped pacing and looked at her sharply. His eyes narrowed, his forehead creasing in a familiar frown, a look so familiar to Maria she felt her heart knock agonisingly against the wall of her chest, but her face remained smooth and unconcerned, her eyes a frosted, brilliant green. ‘But I didn’t come here to talk about him. I came to talk about us.’

‘I know. I do so hope you are not going to object to me leaving.’

‘As a matter of fact, I do object and I cannot understand why you are behaving like this. Are you telling me your show of affection last night was a delusion on my part?’

‘I—we—got carried away.’

He moved to stand in front of her, looking deep into her eyes, as if trying to read something in their depths that would give him some indication of what was wrong. ‘What has happened, Maria?’ he asked on a softer note. ‘What has happened that has brought about this change in you—to make you angry? Have I done something wrong—something to offend you?’

She was not angry. She was trying to harden herself against him, but the tenderness in his voice was making her raw. She wanted nothing more than to drag him to her, for him to set her on fire as he had done last night. She looked up at him, looked away, and looked back at him again. She wanted to ask him about the woman she had seen him with, but her pride forbade her.

‘You have done nothing wrong, Charles. I simply want to go home. Why can’t you accept that?’

‘You cannot travel alone—’

‘I shall have Ruby with me.’

‘You have no idea what you will find when you get there.’

‘Yes, I do. The house has been in the hands of caretakers—a Mr and Mr Thomas and his wife. My solicitor, Mr Pettigrew, has assured me that things have been kept in order and are just the same as when I left for France.’

‘And how would Mr Pettigrew know this? Has he visited Gravely?’

The startling eyes rested on her ironically. ‘No, but
Mr Thomas sends him regular reports. Anyway, I shall see for myself very soon.’

‘I take full responsibility for this,’ he told her, beginning to pace the carpet again. ‘I know how insecure you must be feeling, but let me assure you that you need not fear for your future.’