The Random Gentleman (18 page)
The Duke was awaited at the inn. His groom lounged in the stable doorway, blowing a cloud from one of the Duke’s cigars. When he heard Ben’s hoofbeats on the highroad, Dolby hastily disposed of the butt and prepared to accept His Grace’s horse. The Duke had nothing to say, and, sensing his mood, Dolby dared say nothing. When the Duke approached the inn itself, Pliss was there waiting to open the door and conduct him to his room, where a beaker of hot coffee sat upon the hob beside the fireplace, and his night robe and a pitcher of warm water were prepared for his comfort.
The Duke undressed in silence, sipped the coffee, and then commanded, “You will call me at eight o’clock in the morning.”
Pliss nerved himself. “The Lady Freya is still awake, sir. She wished to be informed when you returned.”
“Inform her.”
“Will you speak to her tonight, sir?”
“No.”
Pliss escaped the room thankfully.
The Duke’s silence, so puzzling and deflating to Belinda, was at first mostly chagrin at the minor and unheroic role he had played in the evening’s activities. Rather than rescuing a grateful and adoring girl, he had himself been rescued by her quick and reckless action in hitting The Whip with a lantern. This led to the realization that Belinda might have been injured or killed. The emotion he felt when he considered her rash behavior was not the complacent, slightly amused affection he had felt for a charming child-woman as he rode to the rendezvous. Instead he experienced a blazing anger at the impulsive, precipitate action which could so easily have resulted in serious injury for her, and this anger quite outweighed his resentment that she had usurped his role as the savior of the situation. The Duke struggled to keep his lips closed and his temper on rein during the long ride to Sayre Court, lest in his rage at her foolhardiness, he might do her an injury.
Even after his return to the inn, the chit safely delivered, his anger did not abate. When he thought of Belinda—and he found it impossible to think of anything else—he knew a strong impulse to turn her over his knee and give her a sound thrashing. How dared she risk her life in such a stupid, unnecessary imbroglio? Romantic rescue, forsooth! Involving a grown man in her silly fantasies! The Duke did not get to sleep until dawn was lightening the sky. And when he awoke, his rage, or whatever the uncomfortable emotion was, had not abated, but was, rather, exacerbated by his white night.
When Pliss ventured to wish him a good morning, he bit his valet’s head off and was so uncivil to Freya that she gave him a thundering setdown. This did not serve to soothe his temper, and he departed for Sayre Court in a towering rage. Freya, watching him ride off this time, was gloomily convinced that something had gone very wrong with the romantic rendezvous, and that, in his present mood, he would assuredly ruin his chances for a reconciliation with the girl, to say nothing of her irascible progenitor.
The gatekeeper at Sayre Court did not challenge the Duke but bowed him through as though he had been expected. The approach to the great house was thought by connoisseurs to be particularly fine, but Dane had no eyes for sylvan glens, ornamental waters, or splendid plantings. Instead he stared ahead, absorbed in his own thoughts, allowing Ben to set his own pace through the golden morning.
Thus he was completely unprepared when a thin, vicious lash snaked out from the trees. It was aimed to circle his neck and pull him to the ground. Ben, however, not so bemused as his rider, sensed the attack from ambush, and leaped forward and to the side. The tip of the lash, instead of encircling the Duke’s neck, cut deeply into his cheek.
Ben was already at full gallop, most properly removing his master from the site of ambush, but the pain of the cut, now bleeding profusely over the Duke’s impeccable linen, released his demons. With a growl of fury, he pulled Ben about and charged the point of ambush.
Had Anton had two whips, the affair might have ended differently. While he was hastily recoiling his weapon, the maddening aristocrat was in front of him, bellowing insults.
“Come out, you sniveling coward! Show your front, you hedgehopping, back-stabbing craven, and I’ll mill you to the ground!”
Such an invitation was not to be ignored. Snarling with rage, The Whip lunged into the road, all weapons forgotten save the primitive, original, most deeply satisfying ones.
It was a noble, an epic, encounter. Years later, recalling the fight with the wistful pride which comes with healed wounds and decreased ability, the Duke would wish that there had been a witness to the event, some knowledgeable bard who could have described the mighty blows given and received, the wily attacks and skillful counterattacks, the feints, the doublers, the trenchant hits and magnificent recovers. At the time, however, the Duke was too busy trying to kill his opponent before he himself was killed, to appreciate the science, skill, or pure savagery of the encounter.
Within a quarter of an hour the antagonists, bleeding, battered, and gasping for air, faced one another across two feet of open ground.
“Had ’nuff?” panted the Duke, wiping blood from his face for a clearer sight of his enemy.
“No,” grunted The Whip through smashed lips.
“Good,” gasped the Duke. How he was going to get his battered hands up and into action again, he had no idea. But the will was still there.
“—kill you—!” promised The Whip, glaring through two blackened eyes. Then he collapsed very slowly, first to his knees, then prone upon the road.
“Well done,” admitted the Duke, thickly, through numb lips, yet ever the sportsman. Then he called for Ben and leaned against the warm, steady flank until he could gather the strength to mount.
His arrival at the Court caused a considerable stir. The butler and all four footmen rushed out to aid the injured guest.
“My Lord Duke!” groaned Dittisham. “Who has done this to Your Grace?”
Fellow’s down in the road,” Dane managed, through puffed lips. “—get him to gypsy camp—they’ll take care of him.”
Tenderly Dittisham helped the wounded man inside, got him seated, and, sending one footman for Doctor Mannering, dispatched another to fetch clean cloths and water and a third to inform the Earl his guest had arrived. “Though how we shall make you presentable, Your Grace, I have no idea.”
The Duke indeed offered a shocking appearance. His shirt was soaked with gore; his coat, which in the heat of anger he had neglected to remove, was torn and split; his face and hands were rapidly swelling and darkening. Dittisham instructed a fourth footman to send a groom to The Climbing Man, there to request a complete change of clothing from His Grace’s valet, but the Duke countermanded that order.
“Don’t wish to disturb m’ sister,” he enunciated carefully. “Besides, m’business here will be brief.”
These ominous words caused Dittisham, who, like all the servants, had a very accurate idea of what was going on between their mistress and this London swell, to experience a Sinking Feeling. Had the noble suitor lost his ardor? Dittisham was compelled to admit that his wooing had been, for the wooer at least, a stormy one, and that this latest setback would be enough to discourage all but the most lionhearted of swains.
While he was gently wiping the worst of the bloodstains from the ducal brow and cheeks, and tutting over the gash The Whip had cut on one cheek, Belinda and the Earl entered upon the scene, she from the stairway, he from his bookroom.
Belinda was first to the Duke’s side. Kneeling beside the chair in which Dittisham had placed him, she stared at his face with grief and pity.
“Oh, my dear heart, have I caused this to happen to you?” and bowing her head in remorse, she clasped and held a corner of his coat, fearing to touch the injured hands.
The Earl, catching sight of the battered features, was not appalled. He had seen much worse damage in his time, and began by asking the Duke, on a regrettably jovial note, how his opponent had fared. The Duke rose to this, and was understood to say that he’d left him flat on his face in the road, from which place he had better be removed before someone drove over him.
Belinda, affronted by this levity in the face of the Duke’s injuries, told her grandfather pretty sharply to bring Dane a glass of brandy. Dittisham had already seen to this essential restorative, and the girl was able to put the glass to Dane’s lips most tenderly. He drained it and it seemed to put new heart into him, for he sat up and requested the Earl to grant him a few moments in private.
This did not suit the girl. She rose from her knees and followed the Earl and the Duke (supported by Dittisham and the strongest footman) into the bookroom.
“This is beyond anything foolish!” she began, shocked quite out of decorum by her fears for the Duke. “He should be lying upon his bed, attended by a physician!
Where is
Dr. Mannering? Has he not been sent for?”
“Quiet, Belinda,” warned her grandfather. “Dittisham has sent round for him, I’ll be bound. Now leave us child, until he comes.”
Belinda set her chin stubbornly, and got a firm grip on the Duke’s sleeve. “No,” she said firmly.
Dane, for his part, was feeling like a man who has just endured a brain-loosening, cheek-splitting, body-shattering passage at arms with a more than worthy opponent—in other words, he was in no mood to observe the niceties of civil behavior. He was also deeply embarrassed at having to present himself to Belinda in his blood-spattered state—for not having seen the Whip, she might be supposed to think that the Duke had gotten the worst of the encounter. And after his airy assumption of the heroic role, it was deflating to be compelled to display himself in such a guise. For these and other reasons—his head was aching so badly his eyes felt as though they were crossed—the Duke’s patience, never his strongest suit, and now, God knew, tried beyond endurance, snapped. Detaching his coat from Belinda’s grasp, he rose unsteadily to his feet and faced the Earl with a military stance.
“
Sir!
Permission to speak!”
“Granted!” agreed the old General, recognizing the gambit.
“Request permission to deal with my future wife as I see fit.
Sir
.”
The fierce old eyes peered out from under the bushy brows, took the measure of the man, and replied crisply, “Granted.”
The Duke turned, staggered, then seized Belinda firmly from behind by her arms and propelled her before him to the door. This was opened for him at the correct moment by Dittisham, who had been anxiously listening from the hall. The Duke and his unwilling companion passed through without pause, let, or hindrance. Under the fascinated eyes of the footmen, the Duke deposited the furious girl at the foot of the stairs.
“Go to your room, Belinda! I shall talk to you later,” ordered her arrogant lover. Then he turned about and made his way back to the library and if his step was not as steady as it might have been, at least his shoulders were held straight, and his head high. He closed the door after him with a firm snap.
It was a thrilling exit. The flame of outrage faded from the girl’s cheek and a reluctant smile softened her lovely features.
“May I offer you my sincere congratulations, Miss Bel?” said Dittisham in a reverent voice. “If I may be permitted to say so, there goes a Nonpareil!”
Belinda chuckled. “I believe I shall find him adequate,” she said softly. Dittisham and all the footmen joined in her laughter.
Elizabeth Chater was the author of more than 24 novels and countless short stories. She received a B.A. from the University of British Columbia and an M.A. from San Diego State University, and joined the faculty of the latter in 1963 where she began a lifelong friendship with science fiction author Greg Bear. She was honored with The Distinguished Teacher award in 1969, and was awarded Outstanding Professor of the Year in 1977. After receiving her Professor Emeritus, she embarked on a new career as a novelist with Richard Curtis as her agent. In the 1950s and 60s she published short stories in
Fantastic Universe Magazine
and
The Saint Mystery Magazine
, and she won the
Publisher’s Weekly
short story contest in 1975. She went on to publish 22 romance novels over an 8 year period. She also wrote under the pen names Lee Chater, Lee Chaytor, and Lisa Moore. For more information, please visit
www.elizabethchater.com.
