The Wagered Widow (23 page)

“Miss Boudreaux overheard her cousin speaking of the duel, and came at once to me.”

“Oh, well, that's all right, then.” He resumed his contemplation of Miss Boudreaux. “I regret if my calling out your cousin has caused you pain, ma'am. But—ladies must be protected from dishonour, y'know.”

Entranced, Letitia breathed, “Indeed, I quite understand your gallantry, sir. Though I cannot suppose my cousin to have intended…” Her words trailed off and for a long moment they regarded one another, while Rebecca looked hopefully at the silent interchange.

“I must tell you,” Miss Boudreaux went on dreamily, “that Trevelyan was most disturbed to learn that word of his wicked wager had leaked out. He did not dream the other gentleman would be so—unwise.”

Boothe slanted a glance at his sister. “Did de Villars tell you with whom he made the wager?”

Mistakenly thinking the question intended for herself, Rebecca shook her head. “He said I do not know the man, but—”

“He—
what?
” thundered Boothe, his brows jerking into a black bar above his nose. “You—
went to
de Villars?”

“Oh…” stammered Rebecca. “I—er, I—that is—”

“You went to
beg
for my life!” Boothe raged, his tones vibrating the prisms on the candelabra. “By God, girl! Are you gone
daft
to interfere in an affair of honour? I can well imagine the Cheltenham tragedy you enacted him!” He began to pace up and down the room, quite forgetting Letitia's presence, and driving one fist angrily into his palm, groaned, “I shall never be able to hold up my head again! Never! Lord! How de Villars must have laughed!”

All too aware of how The Villain had laughed, Rebecca bit her lip and sought desperately for something to say that would mitigate her heinous offense.

Watching the man of her heart, Letitia's calm good sense returned. She dropped gracefully to her knees, clasped her hands, and gazed up at Boothe. “Then you shall be able to laugh together, sir. For it is in just such a cause I am come here tonight.”

“Dear … heaven!” yelped Boothe, cringing away. “No—no, ma'am! This will not do! Please allow me to help you up.”

Instead, she reached out, saying piteously, “Sir, I beg of you. Abandon this madness! I love my cousin deeply. If you feel he has offended—as indeed I fear he has—then settle it with your fists. In a boxing ring, dear sir! Not with cold steel! I
implore
you!”

The unhappy Boothe tore out his handkerchief and began to mop at his brow. “Oh, Gad! This is awful! Oh, burn it all … Rebecca, for mercy's sake, make her get up!” Meeting his sister's adamantine look, he wailed, “Ma'am—Miss Boudreaux … I cannot bear it! Please—
please
get up!”

“I will gladly do so,” sighed Letitia, “if you will only give me your word not to persist with this murderous folly.”

He ran a hand through his already wildly disordered locks. “I
cannot!
Surely you must understand that—”

Lord Graham Fortescue, also in full ball dress, rushed in. “He is here then,” he cried eagerly, then recoiled with a gasp as he took in the dramatic scene.

“Forty!” exclaimed Boothe with unmitigated relief.

“Wrong house!” squeaked his lordship, deserting.

“Wait!” cried Boothe, anguished.

“Sorry!” The word was flung over the shoulder of the vanishing craven.

In hot pursuit, Boothe tore after him.

“Snow!” called Rebecca, but her angry attempt to stay him was doomed. Pale and perspiring, Boothe dodged around her, took the steps in one wild leap, and was gone. “I shall wait up!” she shrilled after him.

“Oh, dear,” sighed Letitia, climbing to her feet. “I suspect he is in full flight, Rebecca. He'll likely not come home at all, for fear we might follow him to the duelling ground.”

Stamping her foot, Rebecca said, “How wretched they are! He is just as bad as de Villars! I wash my hands of them! Let them have their silly duel!”

“Well—we tried, at least.”

“And failed miserably. Here, let me pour you some fresh tea.”

Letitia accepted the cup and sat down again. Stirring her tea, she said, “Oh, I don't know. I have heard that Mr. Boothe is a splendid swordsman, but—forgive me—I hold my cousin to be the greater menace.”

“In every sense,” Rebecca agreed gloomily. “But I do thank you, for you were superb in your little drama.”

“Was I?” asked Letitia eagerly. “I own I had hoped I might be doing quite passably.”

“Passably!” Rebecca giggled suddenly. “Did you not see Snowden's face? And—and poor Graham Fortescue! Were ever two men so totally petrified?”

They burst into laughter, but in a moment the merry peals faded and they eyed one another askance.

Rebecca said contritely, “How dreadful of us to laugh so when—when in the morning … We must be very wicked, I think.”

“Perhaps, but the gentlemen do not seem in the slightest concerned.”

“No. But gentlemen have so little sense when it comes to duelling and wars and such.”

“No less than I! Do you know, dear Mrs. Parrish, that I have been here all this time, and never told you the real reason I came? I dare to think Trevelyan's guns are rather soundly spiked, ma'am. I made him promise me faithfully that he would neither kill nor gravely wound your brother.”

Rebecca leaned out to clasp her hand. “How good you are. Do you think he will keep his word?”

Letitia's brows arched. “I have never known him to break it.”

“My apologies. I meant no offence.” Rebecca sighed. “It is something, for which we must be grateful.”

Letitia was silent, staring rather blankly at the tea cosy. “I only hope,” she murmured uneasily, “that in attempting to spare your brother, Treve may not himself fall.”

Three hours later, Rebecca leapt up in bed, her heart thundering, and with those ominous words echoing in her ears. Panting for breath, she lay back down again, staring wide-eyed at the canopy high above her. It was ridiculous, of course. A bad dream merely. Snowden would not do anything really dreadful, even if given the chance. Yet she could hear again de Villars' odious voice, so full of laughter, “‘Come away, death … I am slain by a fair, cruel maid.'”

The picture of him, stretched bloody and dying at her brother's feet, would not be banished. She did not sleep again.

*   *   *

The skies began to lighten shortly after four o'clock, and by five the heavens glowed faintly pink; a luminous pink, as delicate as clear jade, with not a cloud to mar it. The air was cool, full of the fragrance of hedge roses, and wet grass, and trees from which the dew dripped softly. The birds were beginning to twitter, their pure voices the only sounds to disturb the sylvan silence save for the hushed conversation between two young men who stood at the edge of the clearing, cloaks close drawn against the chill. One of these, very tall, wore a tricorne over his powdered hair. He sneezed, and raised his handkerchief, and his cloak fell open to reveal the simple stock and dark garb of a clergyman. The other man, not above middle height, wore a moderate wig whose loose curls framed a lean face, marked by laugh lines at the corners of the green eyes. Well-shaped lips that could curve swiftly to an impudent grin were set now, his intent regard fixed on a third man some distance off.

“Look at him,” muttered Viscount Horatio Glendenning. “All business, as usual. Treve fights so well because he never makes the mistake of setting his opponent's worth too cheap, or failing to inspect the ground. This is how he was when he met Kadenworthy. Lord, what a battle that was! I made sure Treve would fall! Matter of fact, I lost two hundred guineas on it!”

Shocked, the Reverend FitzWilliam Boudreaux exclaimed, “But you was his second, I thought!”

“Was.” His lordship's grin flashed. “I did not
wish
that he should fall, you understand, Fitz. Purely a matter of odds. Didn't think Treve had a chance—not against Kadenworthy. Of course, I hadn't seen him fence, then. Have now.” A thought seizing him, he asked, “Don't suppose you would be interested in putting a few guineas on—”

The reverend gentleman's grey eyes regarded him steadily.

Unabashed, Glendenning chuckled. “You wouldn't. Sorry. I forget sometimes that you're now a man of the cloth. Damned if I can see why you agreed to be old Treve's second. A trifle removed from your—er, persuasions, ain't it?”

Boudreaux sighed and nodded. “I chanced to be there when Boothe struck him. And—well, I'm very fond of Treve. He's my cousin, after all. My sister's fond of him, too. Trouble is, I like Boothe's sister. Delightful. Beastly situation. I agreed to serve mostly in the hope my presence might deter Treve from putting a period to Boothe.”

“Good Lord! Oh, sorry, Fitz. What I mean is, this ain't going to be a killing matter, surely? Swords, dear old boy. Not pistols.”

“True. But Boothe struck him
twice.
”

They looked at one another with foreboding, but their discussion terminated as a pounding of hooves announced the headlong arrival of a light travelling coach that tore up to halt beside a cluster of tall elms. The door was flung open and the steps let down before the groom could perform those services. Snowden Boothe jumped out and hurried over, followed by Mr. Melton and Lord Fortescue.

“Dashed sorry I'm late,” Boothe apologized, as de Villars wandered to join them. “Couldn't wake Forty. Sleeps like a veritable Mephisto, dashed if he don't.”

De Villars regarded his lordship with ironic amusement.

“Methuselah,” Boudreaux corrected gently.

Boothe began to put off his cloak and said with a hard look at de Villars that he didn't see what difference it made. “We're all the same in the water closet, ain't we?”

The reverend looked shocked.

De Villars mused, “Somehow I have never pictured Mephisto in a water closet.”

“Why not?” Boothe demanded, defiantly. “Who the devil is the fellow?”

“Just so,” de Villars said with a grin.

Glendenning noted Boothe's irked frown and said placatingly, “Mephisto is a devil, Snow. Or
the
devil, perhaps, according to Greek mythology.”

Boothe broke into a shout of laughter. De Villars chuckled. Taken aback by such levity, Fortescue put in, “Are we ready, gentlemen?”

“By all means,” said de Villars, shrugging out of his jacket.

“Hold hard.” Glendenning pointed out, “Surgeon's not here yet.”

“Well, where the deuce is he?” Boothe demanded. “Dashitall, I'm famished. Hadn't time to stop for breakfast.”

“Perhaps,” drawled de Villars, as he folded back the lace at his cuffs, “you would prefer we adjourn to the tavern first?”

Boothe's face lit up. “Jove, but I would!” He saw de Villars' incredulity and flushed. “You was quizzing me, eh? Very funny, I'm sure. But if you was as hungry as I am…”

“Had you arisen at a proper hour…”

“Arisen! I did not arise because I did not go to bed, damn you!”

De Villars' lip curled unpleasantly. “Nervous, Boothe?”

“Another witticism like that,” Snowden grated, looking up from attending to his own shirt sleeves, “and I'll call you out, sir, devil take me if I don't!”

Lord Fortescue, who was nervously anxious to fulfil his duties as a proper second should do, protested, “You can't call him out now, Snow! Ain't allowed! Must finish
this
one first, dear boy.”

“What? Oh. Well, blast it all, de Villars, I vow I cannot understand why some public-spirited citizen ain't put a period to you long before this.”

De Villars, whose cynicism had given way to amusement during this interchange, said, “Are you public spirited, Boothe? I'd not have thought it.”

Boothe was mulling over the matter when a third carriage approached, was drawn to a decorous halt, and the surgeon alighted, to be met by Melton and Glendenning.

Lord Fortescue, meanwhile, apprised his principal in an undertone that the rules must be adhered to. “You two gentlemen,” he pointed out solemnly, “ain't supposed to be brawling like this.”

“We ain't brawling,” said Snowden with an indignant air. “We are enjoying a civilized discussion. Eh, de Villars?”

“Oh, decidedly.”

“And if truth be told, Forty,” said Boothe, turning on his friend, “you and the rest of 'em ain't doing what you should, neither. Has anyone checked the swords? Have you looked over the ground?”

My lord flushed guiltily, and hurried to the coach to collect the long, flat case that held the duelling swords.

De Villars said, “I've checked the ground, Boothe. There's a slight rise at the western side. Over here.”

They wandered off together to inspect this irregularity. Returning with the sword box, Fortescue paused and stood staring after the departing principals with such a bewildered expression on his face that Glendenning came over to ask, “Are you thinking there still may be a chance of effecting a truce, Forty?”

Fortescue sighed. “I wish we might. Like 'em, y'know. Like 'em both.”

Boudreaux came up, and having heard the last few words, said, “Does anyone know why they fight?”

“Not a word out of either of them,” Glendenning replied. “I heard there was a woman at the root of it. Here they come—Gad, you'd think them bosom bows!”

Hope for a reconciliation faded, however, when it was seen that the principals were engaging in a sharp discussion as to whether to remove their shoes. Boothe was shocked by de Villars' refusal to do this, and de Villars said unequivocally that he did not propose to prance about the wet grass in his stockinged feet.

“Then I shall have an advantage over you,” Snowden said with a frown. “I always fight better without shoes. Anyone does.”