Mary Blayney - [Pennistan 03]

ALSO BY MARY BLAYNEY

Traitor’s Kiss/Lover’s Kiss

For Diane Gaston
and
Julie Halperson:
Thank you for your friendship, inspiration, and
laughter

London
January 1818

T
HE DUELING PISTOL
lay heavy in his hand. Lynford Pennistan, the Duke of Meryon, counted off the paces with his second, staring at the ground as if each blade of grass mattered.

“Have you decided?” Lord Kyle asked.

Meryon didn’t answer. Kyle’s practical question belied what was at stake.
Kill the bastard or let him live
. Meryon knew his hand was steady, but his anger burned white hot.

“Lyn, please, you’re a better shot than Bendas. He doesn’t have a chance.”

Kyle’s hands were clasped behind his back, a gesture that Meryon recognized. His friend wanted to do something physical, most likely beat some sense into him. “He is the Duke of Bendas.” Kyle came close to pleading. “There will be consequences.”

“You handle your role as second with honor, but you will not talk me out of this.” He reached twenty paces but Meryon kept his back to the field.

“Can whatever happened between you be worth this risk?”

“Yes. It is.” Meryon took the cloth that Kyle offered and wiped the barrel and the grip one last time. He owed Kyle this much at least. “Bendas tried to ruin my sister so that she would have no choice but to marry his grandson.” Meryon could still see the bruises on Olivia’s neck, the way fear shadowed her for weeks.

“He did what?” Kyle straightened. “Lady Olivia …”

“The end was better than anyone could have wished. She is happily married, not to his grandson, and she is safe.” Meryon narrowed his eyes. “This is not a story I want broadcast.”

“Of course not. I have sisters. I know how precious a woman’s reputation is.” Kyle shook his head, still incredulous. “But why, Lyn? Why would Bendas do something so medieval?”

“For land. He thought his empire more important than Olivia, or his grandson.” Meryon gave Kyle his full attention. “What would you do to Bendas?”

Kyle drew a breath. “All right.”

With a sharp nod, Meryon faced Bendas.

Kyle stepped in front of him. “One more thing, Lyn. Dueling is not illegal, but
murder
is.” Without waiting for an answer, Kyle moved to the sideline.

Meryon watched as Bendas’s second handed him the pistol, and with a profound bow he, too, moved to the side of the field.

Kyle spoke to the man who would be counting, someone both seconds seemed to know. How odd, Lyn thought, that his life was in the hands of one man he did not know and another man he hated.

Lyn buried the thought and concentrated on the moment. The ground was softening, filling the air with an earthy scent, carrying the first hint of warmer days. One deep breath told him that it might still be winter but spring would come. He heard the jingle of the horses’ tack and the sound of the groom’s words as he tried to quiet them.

“Your Graces,” the man called out in a strong voice, not turning toward either one of the duelists. “My name is Carstairs. Mr. DeBora and Lord Kyle have asked me to officiate. A physician is present, should there be an injury.” He waited a moment. “I will count to three and on the count of three you may shoot at your discretion.”

Forty paces away, the Duke of Bendas stood still as a stone gargoyle.
To kill him or not
. The answer came to Meryon as he concentrated on the pistol. Death was too easy. Bendas deserved to suffer in this life. He would burn in hell soon enough.

“Your Graces, are you both ready?”

Meryon gave a slow nod without taking his eyes from Bendas. His hand was steady.

Bendas’s expression was more guarded than arrogant, as if recounting the stupidity that had brought him to this.

“On the count of three.”

Meryon nodded again.

Carstairs coughed and after a beat called out, “One!”

Meryon did not want to leave his children orphans, but if he died, surely his wife would be there to meet him.

If he went to heaven.

Meryon drew a breath to steady his arm.

“Two.”

He raised his pistol for the count of three as an explosion assaulted his ears and a bullet grazed his coat sleeve at the shoulder, too close to his heart to be an accident.

Astonishment held him still long enough for two thoughts.

Bendas had shot before the count of three.

And missed.

The caller counted, “Three!”

Bendas stood still as a statue, awaiting Meryon’s volley. Did the man want to die?

“The duke thought three numbers had been counted.” DeBora’s confusion showed his shock.

“I missed.” Bendas dropped his arm to his side, smoke curling from the barrel of his pistol, an odd smile twisting his mouth. “Are you just going to stand there, Meryon? Take your shot.”

Bendas wants me to kill him
. It would be easy enough to do. The man had no heart, so it would be best to aim for his head.

“The groom is dead, Your Grace! He’s dead!” The hysteria in John Coachman’s voice reached him before the words made sense. Lowering his gun, Meryon abandoned the field and ran to the fallen man. The physician reached him first, felt for a pulse, and shook his head.

The boy lay on his back, shot in one eye, the other
wide open, as if stunned to find himself the center of attention.

“It was an accident, a mistake.” DeBora took one look at the dead boy, then ran toward the woods. Retching sounds reached their ears.

Lynford Pennistan, the third Duke of Meryon, kneeled down beside the dead groom, put his pistol on the grass, and closed the boy’s undamaged eye, straightening his arms and legs. Except for the ugly seeping hole in his face, the groom, whose name Meryon had to ask for, looked as though he slept.

The duke’s hands shook as misery consumed him.
To say I am sorry is woefully inadequate
. Despair overcame anguish and he clenched his fists. Why did God allow this? Joshua was an innocent with his whole life before him. His eyes filled. Just as Rowena had been too young, much too young.

Ignoring the chaos around him, Meryon prayed for Joshua Kepless. He commended his soul to God. And to his wife, Rowena. Surely she would embrace this boy. One more who had died for the Pennistans.

Rising to his feet, pistol in hand again, Meryon felt years older than he had five minutes ago. The coachman was crying, but tried to compose himself while Meryon waited. When he raised his head, Meryon met his eyes.

“Take Kepless up in the carriage. I will ride home with Lord Kyle. Find out about his family and come to me immediately. The majordomo will direct you to my study.”

John Coachman touched his hand to his head in a gesture that was as old as any dukedom. “As you wish, Your Grace.”

Meryon shifted his pistol to his right hand and walked to Bendas. DeBora, pale as smoke, stepped between the two.

“The death of the groom was an accident,” DeBora insisted.

Bendas elbowed his second aside. “I aimed for your heart, Meryon. This gun’s balance is off.” Bendas sneered at his second. “That is your fault. Your sole task was to make sure the guns work and I had the better of the two.”

Bendas tossed the pistol to the ground. “It’s your shot, Meryon. If you are done grieving for a groom.”

Bendas’s disdain was enough to merit a death sentence. Meryon raised his pistol, aiming it at Bendas’s eye. Bendas stood still, waiting. Rage clouded Meryon’s judgment, he knew that, but it was impossible to ignore the way it burned through him, demanding action.

Demanding justice.

“Your death will be a blessing to your family, king, and country.” Meryon set the trigger.

“Please, Your Grace, a word.” Kyle stood next to him as he spoke.

Reason cooled his temper. Yes, Bendas was willing to die. Because it would mean Meryon’s ruin. If he killed Bendas, he would have to leave the country, his children, his world.

A renewed surge of fury burned through his trigger finger.

He fired.

DeBora screamed as Bendas fell to the ground. Meryon waited, finding some pleasure in Bendas’s white face as he lay blinking on the dew-covered grass.

“I missed.” Meryon used Bendas’s words and then added, “But I missed on purpose.” He handed the pistol to Kyle, whose hand, he noticed, was not quite steady. “Stand up, Bendas, you son of a bitch.”

DeBora helped Bendas to his feet. Meryon grabbed the other duke by the lapels and pulled him up so they were face-to-face.

“You are a disgrace to your title and your name. My sister almost died because of you. And now you’ve killed a boy with as little thought as a man brings down a stag.”

“I am the Duke of Bendas.”

“And your house is the poorer for it, you bastard.” Meryon tightened his hold, coming closer to strangling Bendas, then let go of him with enough force that Bendas staggered.

“I will see that justice is done, Bendas. I will destroy you. In the end you will wish you had died here today.”

Meryon nodded at Kyle, who picked up the second pistol. They made their way to Kyle’s carriage. Meryon’s breathing evened a little.

Ruining Bendas would take more of his time than the man deserved, but this was one task the Duke of Meryon would see to himself.