The Baskerville Tales (Short Stories) (13 page)

“I dare not comment, except to say that I hope that favored suitor is me.”

“What is your design in bringing me here?”

“To make you absolutely certain that you are my queen, and to convince you that I would dare all for the sake of your affection.”

She caught her breath.
That
was what she’d yearned for ever since their first kiss—and what she had begun to believe that she would never, ever hear. “And how will you demonstrate that fact?” As if her legs had a will of their own, she sank onto the black sea of the cape, the soft wool a contrast against the cool green grass.

He sat down next to her, long legs stretched out. “Stay with me and I will show you.”

Imogen’s heart pounded beneath her stays, robbing her of breath. He was inviting her to be daring. Wicked, even. “And if I protest, as I no doubt should?”

“Oh, but you were abducted,” Bucky gave her a very male smile. “Is that not why we love tales of pirates and robbers in the woods, because they break rules that we cannot touch? Because they would have the courage to allow themselves an oasis of true happiness, if only for an hour?”

Caught up in the moment, Imogen plucked the glass of champagne from its mechanical roost and sipped it. The bubbles, tart and fizzy, felt wonderful against her dry throat. “I do love a good robber.”

“Enough to share a meal with one?”

“Just a meal?”

He lifted a tray of savories from its perch and offered it to her. “With as many or as few courses as you desire.”

She would have given much for an explicit definition of dessert, and even more for the pluck to throw all caution to the wind. “As highwaymen go, you are eminently reasonable.”

“I’ve been told that’s a bore.”

She set the champagne glass aside and picked up a tiny morsel of cracker topped with cream and caviar. “Blandness depends entirely on the recipe. Even an ordinary dish can be cleverly subtle. It is all a matter of the herbs.”

“Ah, the herbs,” he nodded. “How very sage.”

She rolled her eyes. “I am a strict judge of seasoning. There must be just enough, and never an excess.” And she popped the cracker into her mouth, letting the delicate, salty taste unfurl on her tongue.

He reached up, brushing a crumb from the corner of her mouth, and Imogen’s heart skipped at the touch.

“The same principle applies to robbers,” she continued, her voice suddenly rough. “I’m very particular about the kinds of thievery I permit.”

He grinned. “May I steal a kiss?”

She thought he would never ask. She leaned forward, unable to wait before their lips met. Bucky’s mouth was hot and soft, hungry and eager. A thrill of pleasure streaked through Imogen’s body down to the soles of her dainty lace-up boots. Her arms wound around his neck, her body falling against his in a delicious languor. This was even better than the kiss at the
Duchess of Westlake’s ball.

Bucky trailed his thumb down the line of her jaw to the sensitive spot just below her ear, brushing the loose tendrils that had worked their way free of her upswept hair. A tingling path followed his touch, making her arch her neck against his fingers, like a cat begging to be stroked.

Imogen’s breath hung suspended, and she was afraid he would stop. Then she felt a soft kiss, and then another, his lips working down the same line where his fingers had been a moment before. Every press of his mouth sent a tingling along her nerves, igniting heat through her whole body. And at last his mouth found the curve of her throat, lingering at the point where her skin met the lace of her collar. Shivering, she gasped in air, almost tasting the tension between them. Her pulse pounded, hot and slow, eager for more as a restless ache invaded her body.

“I gave you permission for a kiss,” she murmured. “Just a kiss.”

“Did I fail to adhere to the boundaries?” he asked archly.

Imogen gathered her wits, blinking him back into focus. “I think you are taking highway robbery delightfully to heart.”

Far away, church bells rang the hour into the hot afternoon sun. Half a mile away, Diogenes Smythe, followed by Stanford Whitlock, would be waiting for her at home. Imogen twined her fingers in Bucky’s hair, only vaguely aware of the world beyond the idyllic glade.

Smythe could go hang.

* * *

“Duel?” Far too early the next morning, Imogen stared at her little sister over the top of her covers. The room was gloomy with predawn light, the edges of dresser and bedpost fuzzed with
shadow. Poppy stood at the foot of the bed, candle in hand, like something out of
A Christmas Carol
. “What do you mean duel? Nobody fights duels anymore. Surely that sort of thing went out of fashion along with knee britches and the stagecoach.”

Gooseflesh pebbled her arms, but she wasn’t certain if it was the cold room or the growing sense of horror that was turning the moment into a waking nightmare. Imogen grabbed her shawl, wrapping it around her.

“I’m afraid that is wishful thinking. Captain Smythe challenged Bucky Penner at the dance,” Poppy announced with gory satisfaction. “Don’t you know anything?”

“
What?
And the great ninny accepted?” He hadn’t said anything to her during the picnic. He’d just kissed her senseless and fed her strawberries and foie gras.

“Of course he did. I confirmed the facts. I got it all out of Bucky the day before yesterday.”

The fool
. She felt his hands on her again, the heat of his mouth. Did he understand at all that she wanted that warmth far more than she wanted some penny-dreadful ideal of a dangerous man? But he had done all that for her. Shown her how much she cared. She would be a hypocrite if she pretended that his turn at highway robbery hadn’t stolen her heart all over again.
Oh, damn him!
The idea that a duel could mean death was nibbling at the edges of her mind, but she was denying it with a vengeance.

“I wouldn’t worry too hard,” Poppy went on cheerily. “He’s a better shot than you’d think. He’s a bit like that mystery knight who shows up at a tournament and beats everybody else. Captain Smythe has no idea what he’s in for.”

“Blast Smythe to the Antipodes!” Imogen fell back against the pillows with a groan. Her mother had been incensed when she’d shown up hours late for her appointment with Smythe.
She’d had to endure a hideous tongue-lashing and the captain
still
hadn’t taken a hint.

“It’s clear what you have to do,” Poppy said in a matter-of-fact voice. “You have to put a stop to it.”

“I’ll call Father.”

“No, don’t do that.”

Imogen raised her head, realizing with a dawning sense of horror that Poppy had one of her plans. “Why not?”

Poppy set the candle down and opened Imogen’s wardrobe doors. For the first time, Imogen noticed her sister was already dressed. “You have to throw yourself between the two men who desire your hand and make your choice clear.”

“Throw myself between two men firing guns?” Imogen said dubiously.

“It’s the done thing,” said Poppy. “Great love demands grand gestures. Surely you can’t do less than Bucky and Captain Smythe. It’s your honor they’re fighting for, after all.”

“What? How did I cause all this?”

Poppy tossed one of Imogen’s walking dresses on the end of the bed. “Now hurry up before they kill each other. They’ll be at Field’s Green in twenty minutes.”

* * *

The practice of dueling was believed to increase civility among the male members of Society. Probably, Bucky surmised, because a careless word could result in having to get up at some ungodly hour before dawn. There was a part of him—the reasonable part—that was terrified something would go horribly wrong. That part of his brain was arguing with another part that
had somehow imbibed all the nonsense about honor and duty and why one never shirked the prospect of getting shot at dawn. So far, the debate was a draw.

Field’s Green lay in a haze of fast-fading mist, shafts of sunlight angling through the trees. Bucky had arrived first with Stanford Whitlock in tow. Normally it would have been Tobias either egging him on or trying to talk sense, but his friend was in London hard at work for Jasper Keating. Whitlock was merely an acquaintance—and one of Imogen’s most steadfast suitors—but there hadn’t been a lot of choice available at the time. Fortunately, Whitlock had agreed to act as Bucky’s second, and there was no denying the man knew his business. The formalities of setting time and place had been carried out with square-cornered precision. Even now Whitlock was dusting off a tree stump and placing the case of pistols upon it, ready for inspection by Smythe’s second, another hussar. Then, as soon as the mist had entirely lifted, Bucky saw two blue-coated men coming through the trees.

Whitlock gave Bucky a significant look. “Are you ready?”

No
. “Of course I am.”

Showing up for this folly wasn’t enough—unlike a fistfight, where one could defend against attack, a duelist had to stand still while his opponent pointed a pistol and fired. Somewhere out of sight there was a surgeon, ready to clean up whatever damage would ensue. There would be two shots for each opponent—four chances that someone would lose an eye or a limb or his life.
It’s a wonder the aristocracy survived to breed
. But a cool, steady hand in the face of violence was the expected thing. Refusing a challenge was a loss of honor. Showing fear was even worse.
Women love a victor
.

Bucky wrestled himself into a state, if not of calm, of irritated acceptance. Smythe was just a few yards away now, whey-faced—actually, black-and-blue-faced from Bucky’s fists—
and trying to cover it up with a swagger. At least the peacock wasn’t enjoying himself.

This is ridiculous. I knew Smythe all through school. I’ve drunk with the man more often than I can count
. Bucky’s stomach churned with the sheer awfulness of it all.
Well, bugger that. I don’t want to play this game. I won’t
.

But he would—unless he wanted to be marked a coward. And there was the rub. He’d seen the wonder and admiration in Imogen’s eyes when she’d realized who had literally swept her off her feet—and he’d felt like a god. He’d thought long and hard about that fact as he’d prepared for this morning. As insane as he found the notion of a duel, the last thing he wanted to sacrifice was that spark in her eyes. That meant making a most unreasonable compromise. He would have to do this his way, and make the moment his own.

“Ah,” Smythe said, the breeze plucking at this clothes. “You brought weapons from your papa’s factory. I’m sure the family product will do, but Harris will have a look.”

The man sounded stuffed up. Bucky noticed his swollen nose was back in the right part of his face—a surgeon must have set it. Smythe nodded to his second, who joined Whitlock in peering down gun barrels and checking the triggers.

“Are you sure you gentlemen won’t come to a truce?” Whitlock asked. It was part of the second’s job to try and avert the duel, even as he began loading the bullets Bucky had made by hand.

Smythe and Bucky exchanged meaningful looks. This was the moment when reason could take back the reins. “Unacceptable,” Smythe returned.

“Not without the captain making a full disclosure and an apology to Miss Roth,” said Bucky, anger sharpening his tone.
This is ridiculous. Give it up
. But no one endangered his chances with Imogen, and he sorely wanted to prove that point to Smythe.

“Ah, wait!” The captain held up his neatly gloved hand. “You have no objection if I supply my own ammunition?”

“Do you think I am loading your weapon with blanks?” Bucky scoffed.

“Hardly,” said Smythe. “But I have my superstitions. You wouldn’t want to throw me off my game, now, would you?”

Harris produced Smythe’s box of lucky bullets—the ones he’d claimed had Bucky’s name written all over them—which Whitlock inspected with far more care than Harris had taken with Bucky’s rounds.

“They look regulation to me,” Whitlock announced with his usual brevity.

There was nothing Bucky could say to that, and he swore under his breath as his stomach cramped with apprehension.
You made the bargain, and now you pay the piper
. “Let him have his magic bullets.”

A bird warbled a high, sweet greeting to the sun. The morning was still cool, but Bucky was sweating. The sight of the lead going into Smythe’s gun made everything far too real. Bucky’s gut turned to ice as he picked up his weapon, his hand shaking faintly. Overhead, a watery sun struggled through thin veils of cloud.

Then came the coin toss. Smythe would fire first and had the advantage of the sun at his back. Bucky felt the urge to pray as the distance between the combatants was paced out, but he wasn’t sure the Almighty ought to be bothered by self-destructive idiots.

“Stand sideways,” Whitlock advised. “It makes you less of a target.”

“Gentlemen, are you ready?” Harris demanded.

Bucky made a noise of assent, and Smythe raised his pistol by way of reply. There would be no flaw in the barrel that sent the shot mercifully wide—not in a weapon from the Penner
factories. With preternatural clarity, Bucky heard the wind in the trees stirring each leaf. There were the morning sounds of a cock’s crow and, some distance away, the lowing of a cow waiting to be milked. It was a gorgeous dawn, the greens of the oaks and waving grasses almost sweet on the tongue, but the only sensation he was aware of was the ache in his flesh as it anticipated being torn apart.

He felt alarmingly light-headed, and he braced his feet wider to stay steady.
This is going to hurt. There is no way it can’t hurt
. He would be lucky if that was all it did.

He wanted to squeeze his eyes shut, but refused to let himself flinch.
For Imogen
. He tried to remember the admiring look in her eyes, but his mind had frozen to a blank, terrified whiteness.
Bloody, fardling hell!

He thought he saw Smythe’s finger tighten on the trigger. In the same instant, a shriek ripped through the pastoral morning air. “Stop this at once!”

Bucky felt the kiss of the bullet as it skimmed his sleeve. The shot smashed into an oak tree, shattering a branch. A hail of bark and leaves spun to the earth with a rending sound. Bucky hauled in a noisy gulp of air.
I’m not hurt!