The Paradise Will (22 page)
‘I’m sure it is, but you’re already as drunk as a wheelbarrow.’
‘Me? Drunk?’ He shook his head slowly and replied, ‘ ’S not true. Sober as a judge, Maxton. Sober as a judge. ’S nothing wrong in enjoying the free fare on offer though.’ He chortled at this, and Gil grimaced as he caught the reek of liquor on his breath.
‘If you will excuse me, Tilbury—’
‘Wait a minute. Want to talk to you about something. See that lovely filly there,’ he nodded in Alyssa’s direction; she was talking to a group of people close by.
Gil tensed. ‘I assume you mean Miss Paradise?’
‘That’s the one. A prime article, if ever I saw one,’ observed Tilbury, running his eyes lasciviously over Alyssa. ‘She’s a neighbour of yours, ain’t she?’
‘What of it?’
‘I want to ask you about her. Been hearing some tales about that lady this evening.’
Trying to remain calm, Gil shrugged. ‘Scurrilous nonsense. Miss Paradise was not involved; it was a distant cousin of hers.’
‘Oh? That’s a pity, but cousin or no, she looks a lively piece to me and I’d be obliged if you’d introduce me, Maxton. I’ve a mind to know her better, as she looks the type to know ’xactly how to satisfy a man!’ He finished with a
knowing
grin.
‘I strongly advise you to stop now, Tilbury, before I do something you will regret.’
But Tilbury was too drunk to heed this advice. ‘Now, now – ’s no call to be prudish. We are both men of the world.’ He leered at Gil, winked and whispered, ‘No doubt, with her being a neighbour, you’ve already found opportunity to sample her delights—’ He was forced to halt mid sentence. Unseen by other guests, Gil had grasped the lapel of his jacket and pushed him against the wall.
‘You damnable louse!’ he hissed, in a voice replete with menace. ‘I’d like to rip your tongue out and ram it down your throat!’
‘Eh?’
‘Unfortunately, my respect for the squire prevents me besmirching his house with an unseemly brawl so another method of redress must suffice. Name your weapons, Tilbury.’
‘Eh?’ The two bottles of burgundy he had consumed had made Tilbury’s brain decidedly sluggish, and he was dazed from being manhandled against an unforgiving wall.
‘Is your hearing fogged as well as your sense, man?’ retorted Gil. ‘Name your weapons!’
‘Weapons? D’you mean a duel?’ asked Tilbury, still struggling to comprehend.
‘What else could I be referring to? Of course I mean a duel – I demand
satisfaction
,’ muttered Gil, still gripping his coat. ‘You will answer for slurring Miss Paradise’s character in that fashion.’
There was nothing as effective as shock for sobering the inebriated and Gil’s challenge acted like a bucket of cold water over Mortimer Tilbury. He blinked again, and shuddered, then sought desperately for a way out. Mortimer had no intention of meeting this man in any form of physical or sporting contest; Sir Giles was a notable shot, an expert fencer and renowned amateur pugilist, so he retreated with alacrity.
‘Good God! Y-you must have misunderstood me!’ His slurred bluster went up a full octave to a high-pitched whimper. ‘You have misunderstood me. Indeed, I meant no offence. She’s a respectable young woman with no hint of scandal attached to her name, and you’ve totally misinterpreted my words. I do not explain myself clearly when in my cups.’
‘I did not misinterpret you.’
‘Damn it, Maxton, you misconstrued my meaning, I tell you!’ he squeaked.
Gil, appearing to consider the matter, said, ‘I’m not sure I should take the word of a jug-bitten fellow. However, unsurprisingly, I see valour has deserted you in the face of being called out – you are quaking like a frightened rabbit. I give you the benefit of doubt on this occasion, but make you this promise: one more word in denigration of Miss Paradise and I will seek you out!’
Tilbury swallowed the lump of fear which had risen painfully to his throat. Mightily relieved, he removed his coat from Gil’s grasp and turned quickly away.
But, in his hurry to escape, Mortimer’s head swam as did the room about him. He managed only five teetering steps before staggering from the effects of the squire’s burgundy. Pitching sideways violently, he fell into the table situated at the edge of the area set aside for dancing, and which bore the enormous silver punch bowl.
This occurred at the same moment as Caroline, fresh from the ignominy of dancing with Piers, stormed away from the dance floor. Everything happened quickly; there was no chance of escape. The punchbowl and several silver goblets jumped into the air with a deafening clatter after being struck by the
considerable
mass of a flying Mortimer Tilbury and the entire contents of the punchbowl cascaded towards Caroline with unerring accuracy.
Silence ensued. Interested onlookers, who included Gil, Alyssa, Letty, Piers, Mrs Nash, every other guest present, Simmons the butler and two junior
footmen
, all held their breath. Caroline was drenched from head to foot in sweet smelling punch, and not an inch seemed to have escaped its attention. The liquid dripped from her hair and face, and her jonquil gown was soaked from bodice to flounce. To add to a vision that would not have disgraced Pomona, a slice of lemon was perched amongst her carefully arranged curls and shavings of orange peel decorated the lace at her bosom.
A frozen rigidity descended upon Caroline, like Lot’s wife when turned to salt. Only her tightened lips hinted at inner fury and mortification despite the best efforts of the lemon slice and orange peel to soften the image. Eventually, she made a moue of disgust and threw fulminating looks at Piers, Gil, Alyssa and finally towards her nemesis, in the unlikely form of the prostrate, moaning Mortimer Tilbury who lay surrounded by punch cups and the splintered
wreckage
of the table. Then, with a clipped cry of outrage and as much dignity as a lady bedecked in a macédoine of lemon and orange peelings and soaked in punch can muster, Caroline walked to the door, not forgetting to grind the heel of her evening slipper into Tilbury’s hand as she passed by.
Laughter rippled around the room – Caroline, like Mortimer Tilbury, was not generally liked.
In contrast to Caroline’s paralysis after being dowsed in punch, Mrs Nash,
watching
these tragic events unfold, had developed a nervous tick which made her ostrich feathers twitch alarmingly. She stared at the tableau before her in
disbelief
and wilted visibly, her anguished gaze switching from Caroline’s retreating figure to Mortimer Tilbury, pushing aside punch goblets and cursing profusely as he struggled to his knees.
Overcome, Mrs Nash closed her eyes and groaned. She sank into a nearby chair, moaning at the pain in her neck even this invoked and offering up a fervent prayer the ground would open up and swallow her if Mrs Bailey gloated even for an instant over this concatenation of embarrassments.
The unexpected denouement to the party was spoken of by many the next day, including Alyssa and Gil as they dined at Hawkscote. Only when the covers had been removed and the servants had retired were they able to speak freely.
‘I cannot feel too sorry for Miss Nash,’ admitted Alyssa, ‘but I hope the squire was not annoyed by the fracas. When Letty and I left, Miss Nash, rather than Mr Esidarap, was the topic on everyone’s lips.’
‘Caroline was hoist by her own petard,’ said Gil. ‘She set out to ruin you
without
a qualm and, having chosen that path, it was fitting that she was responsible, albeit indirectly, for what befell her. Once I had a chance to explain to Henry how things came about, he was mortified, and furious with Caroline. Although no blame could be attached to her for Tilbury’s drunkenness, he felt she was ultimately culpable.’
‘I wonder what she will do now. She is very proud and will find it difficult to face everyone for some time.’
‘Henry had already offered to despatch her to Bath, and Caroline is apparently anxious to leave as soon as possible – after the embarrassment she suffered, a spell away from Dorset is advisable.’
‘And what of Mrs Nash? Was she angry?’
‘She was naturally upset to see her daughter drenched by the contents of the punchbowl but seemed more concerned with her own discomfort, as far as Piers and I could ascertain. The combined weight and difficulties of perching silk turban and feathers upon her head had led to an acute stiffness of her neck. Even as her guests were leaving, she was calling for lavender water and hot compresses. Piers was sympathetic and suggested several remedies; I think he felt responsible for her predicament,’ he explained.
Alyssa shook her head but could not repress a smile. ‘Oh, I could box his ears for suggesting those feathers!’
‘I suppose Mrs Nash was silly enough to take his word to the extreme. I did not witness the whole thing, and I should not condone his behaviour when
dancing
with Caroline either but’ – his deep chuckle sounded – ‘it was the funniest thing I have seen for some time.’
Alyssa laughed. ‘He would not have done it if Caroline hadn’t provoked the situation. Piers can be a devil, but he would not ridicule anyone for the sake of it.’
‘I don’t believe he would.’
Alyssa was quiet for a moment and then murmured, ‘I want to thank you, Gil.’
He gave her a quizzical look. ‘What for, my darling?’
‘Oh, several things,’ she mused. ‘For making a difficult evening bearable … for watching over me … for being willing to defend my honour … would you really have fought a duel for my sake?’
‘I would lay down my life for you if necessary.’
She smiled, but said with a tremor in her voice, ‘I don’t want you ever to have to.’
He lifted the hand he was holding to his lips. ‘There was no need to be concerned. Tilbury would have struggled to be sober enough to crawl out of bed, let alone fight a duel, even if he possessed the necessary courage,’ he said with a grin. ‘Now, enough talk of everyone else—’
He pulled Alyssa gently to her feet. Holding both her hands between his, he whispered, ‘Let us speak of our future. Finally, there are no obstacles in our way.’ He kissed her passionately before his gaze searched hers and he said, ‘My heart is yours, Alyssa. I love you more than I can ever put into words, and want you near me always. Will you do me the honour of becoming my wife?’
‘Oh, my love,’ she said, smiling tenderly up at him. ‘Yes – there is nothing I want more!’
‘Then you have made me the happiest man alive,’ he said, in a husky voice, his arms stealing around her.
Lost in spiralling passion, neither was aware of voices emanating from the hall. They gradually grew louder and more insistent until the door was suddenly thrust open. Charles stood on the threshold in a long driving cape, his silhouette illuminated against the light from the hallway beyond. His gaze fell immediately on Gil and Alyssa, locked in their passionate embrace, and he uttered a violent expletive before demanding, ‘What the
devil
is going on here?’
‘Charles!’ exclaimed Alyssa.
‘I’m sorry, miss,’ explained Rowberry, casting a look of withering disapproval at the visitor, ‘I asked Mr Brook to wait until I informed you of his arrival—’
‘It seems just as well I was not announced,’ interjected Charles unceremoniously.
‘Thank you, Rowberry, you may leave.’ Alyssa gently disengaged herself from Gil’s embrace but he did not release her entirely, reaching out for her hand instead; she could feel latent tension pumping through his every sinew and muscle. ‘How like you to arrive at an inopportune moment, Charles,’ she added in a cool voice.
‘Inopportune?’ He snorted derisively as he strode forward. ‘When I find you being mauled like a common serving wench? On the contrary, I arrived most propitiously. Sir – I presume you have something to say?’ he added, raking Gil over from head to toe with a hard look.
Gil moved imperceptibly to stand in front of Alyssa, tense but perfectly in control. ‘I have a great deal to say and am delighted to have this opportunity.’
‘Bah!’ Charles waved an impatient hand. ‘My impression of you was fixed from the start: once a rake, always a rake!’
‘Indeed?’ replied Gil sardonically, raising his brows. ‘Then perhaps we should discuss this further in private, away from Miss Paradise?’
Alyssa took a purposeful step forward. ‘No! I want to stay.’
‘It might be best if you left,’ murmured Gil, eyeing Charles’s rising choler.
‘I would prefer to hear since it concerns me also.’
‘And so you should, Alyssa. Your morals have gone a-begging and I am sadly disappointed in you.’
‘Another lecture, Charles?’ she queried. ‘You must find them very tiring. You have no jurisdiction over me.’
‘I claim that of a long-standing friend, and you would do better to listen to me than cavort in that infamous way with this fellow. As for you, sir, you are
nothing
but a disgrace!’
Gil’s lips tightened and he said in a voice of icy politeness, ‘Mr Brook, you should ascertain some facts before interceding further in this clumsy fashion. Neither I nor Miss Paradise has behaved improperly.’
‘That is a matter of opinion; from what I witnessed, you were taking
advantage
of Alyssa.’
‘Of course he was not!’ she retorted.
But Charles was no mood to listen. The weeks spent in London had increased his self-importance to the point that he considered his opinion almost inviolate. No one thought more highly of Charles than Charles himself and, having set himself even further apart from his fellow men because of his recent change in circumstances, his superior attitude had increased. He had a right – a duty even – to correct and admonish when he saw fit and if ever a scene and its players warranted correction and admonition, this was it.
He had also spent the last hour in a draughty carriage, bumping over
potholed
country roads in the company of a whining pug dog, all of which had tried his patience sorely. His consolation had been the thought that his discussions with Alyssa could be despatched quickly and, notwithstanding her natural disappointment, followed by epicurean refreshment before returning to his warm bed at The Antelope.
Instead, he found Alyssa in an embrace that would not have disgraced a scullery maid, and indignation rushed through his veins. What he saw grated horribly upon his sense of propriety as well as his empty stomach, and fanned the vestiges of his temper into self-righteous anger.
Alyssa would receive a piece of his mind, but first he was eager to teach Sir Giles Maxton a lesson. A physical outlet for his disapprobation beckoned
appealingly
. He was not a man whose thoughts naturally turned towards violence, but the art of pugilism was a necessary accomplishment amongst the ton and a man who could acquit himself well in a mill for honour’s sake was considered a Corinthian of note. Charles had a rare fancy to be considered a Corinthian and here was a chance to put those recent sparring sessions with Gentleman Jackson to good use. This damned fellow had rubbed him up the wrong way from the first time they met – he would enjoy drawing his cork.
Charles eyed Gil carefully, measuring his opponent’s reach and weight while Gil returned the scrutiny with an equally purposeful flint-like gaze.
‘It is my opinion,’ began Charles a moment later, removing his cape and pulling off his gloves, ‘that ruffians like you understand only one language, and you need a sharp reminder of how a gentleman behaves.’
Alyssa regarded him with puzzlement and some misgiving. ‘What on earth are you doing, Charles?’
‘Preparing to teach this fellow a lesson.’
She laughed incredulously. ‘No, you cannot be so idiotic! I wrote a letter which explained everything – did you receive it?’
‘Letter? I received no letter, but that is of no matter now.’ Charles shook off his jacket. ‘Stand away, Alyssa. There will be time enough for explanations
afterwards
.’
Alyssa was conscious of a strong desire to slap Charles’s smug face. She repressed it with difficulty, saying, ‘You
are
a pompous ninny! I think you have run mad while you have been away.’
‘Hmph! It is your state of mind that is questionable, but we will address that when I have dealt with Maxton.’ He looked at Gil. ‘Now, sir, have you the
stomach
for this or are you a
coward
as well as a rake?’
‘Are you certain what you are about here?’ asked Gil, in a silky voice.
‘Quite certain: you are a rag-mannered libertine! Is that sufficient challenge or must I offer still more?’
‘Charles!’ cried Alyssa, horrified at his rudeness and manifest desire for confrontation. She glanced across to see Gil strip off his coat and throw it on to a nearby chair. Hurrying over, she placed a detaining hand on his arm and
whispered
in a low desperate voice, ‘No! No, Gil! I don’t know what ails him, but you should not, you
must not
encourage him.’
‘Would you have me insulted to my face with no right of reply?’ he asked softly, a hint of a smile in his eyes.
‘Well, no, but this – this is sheer folly! You cannot engage in fisticuffs in the diningroom!’
‘It is as good a place as any other,’ said Gil, flexing his shoulders. ‘At least the china has been cleared away.’
‘If I can extract a moment of sense from him, I will explain.’
Gil shrugged. ‘Brook does not want explanations; he wishes to teach me a lesson and to settle our differences in quite another way. So be it – I am more than willing to oblige him. I did not start this, but by God I shall finish it.’
‘But you might be hurt,’ she pleaded.
‘I doubt it. He may have more science and recent sparring practice, but I can give him height, reach and a stone in weight,’ observed Gil. He rolled up his shirt sleeves and sat down to remove his boots, as Charles had already done.
Alyssa, studying him in disbelief, whispered, ‘So, you still intend to respond?’
He nodded. ‘I must.’
‘You are
both
mad!’ she cried, aghast.
‘Quite possibly, but it will be satisfying nonetheless.’ He stood up and gazed at Alyssa, tenderness mingled with understanding in his look. ‘Try not to worry, my darling. This meeting was inevitable after all that has happened, and Brook is obviously determined to have the matter out between us, here and now. I’m only sorry you are here to witness this but there is still time to leave and I would prefer it if you did.’
‘I have already told you I will not. Oh! I am out of patience with both of you for this piece of nonsense, and I could cheerfully strangle you, Gil, for your
insistence
on being honourable,’ she cried, watching perturbed and, she was ashamed to admit, with no little degree of fascination as he deftly untied his cravat, placed it to one side and unfastened the buttons of his shirt to reveal the strong muscles of his neck and upper chest. Incredibly, even at this moment, she felt desire spiral outwards from the pit of her stomach as her eyes drank in his masculine beauty.
‘I hope after we are married you will curb your desire – understandable for the most part – to punish my intransigence in such an unsophisticated way, my love,’ he said laughing softly.
She gave a watery smile but said, ‘Gil, do be serious for a moment. I do not want you to fight Charles.’
‘Neither do I, but now he has insulted me and more importantly, questioned your honour, I have no choice but to respond in kind.’
She fell silent, seeing there was no possibility of dissuading him. In truth, she could hardly blame him after the insults Charles had unleashed, coupled with his swaggering manner – even she had been tempted to slap him. ‘Then there is nothing I can say or do further to prevent this,’ she said with a heavy sigh. A smile trembled upon her lips but there was deep apprehension in her eyes. ‘Please take care.’
He lifted her hand to his lips and said, ‘I promise I will; I have some ability and we are both gentlemen so once satisfaction is obtained, I hope that will be an end to it, once and for all.’
‘Are you ready, Maxton?’ said Charles curtly, casting him another look of dislike. The sight of Gil kissing Alyssa’s hand had again offended his sensibilities and he was eager to get the matter over with. His boxing skills having improved during his time in London, he did not consider it would take long and the fellow could then be thrown out by his ear, suitably cowed. The physical exertion would add an edge to his appetite.
‘I am at your disposal,’ drawled Gil, thrusting the heavy table across the floor before bowing slightly. ‘But before we begin, may I offer a few candid words?’
‘Very well, but it is too late for an apology now, even one prompted by fear of a beating.’
‘I do not intend to apologize, Brook,’ said Gil curtly. ‘I wish to tell you I find your manners priggish, your sanctimonious prattling tedious in the extreme and your refusal to venture into Dorset when Alyssa was ill, unforgivable. I’ll not tolerate your behaviour towards her any more.’
This speech fanned Charles into a fury and his habitual punctiliousness fell away. ‘Damn you, Maxton! I’ll make you regret those words!’ he cried.
The two protagonists began to circle each other slowly in front of the
fireplace
and Alyssa moved behind an oak chair. She gripped the carved back,
feeling
utterly helpless. Uncle Tom peered down from his portrait and Alyssa, attributing it to a trick of the light, could almost believe he was smiling again. How had events moved to this so quickly?
Alyssa wanted to cover her gaze, but she also needed to see what was
happening
. Could she have done more to prevent it? No, she thought not. Her entreaties had fallen on deaf ears and, short of offering physical restraint to both, there was no more she could have done. Arrogance on one side and a thirst for recompense on the other meant each man was hell-bent on a mill.
It began with harmless sparring. Charles demonstrated good technique but moved too slowly. To any experienced onlooker, it would have been clear he had been taught well – his recent practice with Gentleman Jackson was evident – but his ponderous stilted style was no match for Gil’s agility, greater power and reach. Time and again, Gil parried Charles’s blows and, quick as lightning, moved in over his guard.
Eager to land the first telling blow, Charles suddenly spied an opening and feigned a left then struck with a right jab. But again Gil was too quick and the blow glanced harmlessly off his jaw as he moved aside. His face was a study in concentration and determination as he lifted his guard and advanced towards his opponent, putting in a deft right then a blow to the body which made Charles stagger backwards. A vase of flowers, caught by Charles’s flailing arm, smashed upon the floor. He grimaced but regained his balance and fought back, aiming a flurry of blows in quick succession, none of which did real damage to Gil whose fleetness of foot ensured he moved out of range for most of them.
Alyssa watched in mute anguish as they swayed towards each other, their feet padding back and forth across the floor. She could see that Gil had the better of the contest thus far, but she watched intently and with bated breath in case of injury. By now, she was sure all the servants had their ears pressed against the door. She was also certain Letty would have been made aware and was outside, waiting to enter.
They closed again and even to Alyssa’s inexperienced eye, Charles seemed to be struggling for air. His breath was now coming in great gulps and beads of sweat rolled off his forehead as he ploughed on doggedly. Gil was still full of energy, easily avoiding the increasingly wild lunges that came his way. Several chairs and ornaments went crashing over in the mêlée.
‘Stand and fight, damn you!’ cried Charles, irritated by his opponent’s ability to dance nimbly out of reach.
‘With pleasure!’ said Gil, through gritted teeth and landed a short, effective jab to his opponent’s cheekbone as he charged with his guard down.
Gil had drawn first blood: Charles’s left eye quickly began to swell and close and, with a growl of frustration, he lunged, managing a glancing blow to Gil’s throat. Gil stumbled and fell to his knees, winded and gasping for breath.
‘Oh! Have done, for God’s sake!’ cried Alyssa, stirred from her silent vigil. ‘Surely you both have satisfaction now? Are you fighting for my sake, or for your own sense of honour?’
Her pleas went unanswered; the contest was too intense for either combatant to listen. As soon as he recovered, Gil rose quickly to move out of range of the advancing Charles who looked much worse than his opponent. His face was badly disfigured: his left eye was nearly closed, and blood oozed from a cut on his opposite cheek.
‘Not finished, Maxton?’ panted Charles, exhaustion receding momentarily as he sensed victory might be near. ‘You’re a game one, I’ll grant you. That blow would have finished a lesser man.’
Gil smiled crookedly and gave a mocking salute in reply, all the while waiting for his opportunity to strike.
It soon came. Thinking he had the upper hand, Charles grew over-confident and rushed in, dropping his guard. Gil judged the distance and weight of his blows to perfection and threw in a short, quick jab to the body, followed by a devastating right uppercut which caught Charles on the point of his jaw. His head wobbled on his neck and he went crashing backwards like a felled tree,
insensible
.
