A Matter of Duty (6 page)

Anne’s mouth was set in a spiteful, malevolent line. It was time to sweep the house clean of governesses and spoiled brats; both would be gone before the end of the week, or Ashley’s life wouldn’t be worth living.

Trembling with inner rage, she went to her private apartment. The governess wouldn’t at any price be allowed to leave Lawrence Park tomorrow, and when dear Geoffrey arrived at the Green Dragon, he’d find a very different ladylove waiting for him!

L
ong after the lights at Lawrence Park had been extinguished and Geoffrey had arrived at Covent Garden to commence his night of debauchery, Tom Cherington was still sitting up in the apartment above the tea merchant’s writing a letter to Louisa. Dudley had retired to his small bedroom at the rear of the building and Kit had fallen asleep on a couch close to where Tom sat. A single candle illuminated the room, the pale light creating dark, dense shadows in the corners.

Tom put the quill down and sanded the paper. The candle flame reflected in his gray eyes as he read the letter, anxious to be sure he’d worded it so that his sister would do exactly as he wanted. He glanced at her little portrait, which he’d placed on the table before him. ‘Oh, Louisa,’ he murmured, ‘you must do this for me, you’re meant to be Lady Highclare and the next Countess of Redway, I know you are.’

Folding the paper, he held a stick of sealing wax to the candle and then allowed several thick blobs to fall on the fold. He pressed his signet ring into the wax and then sat back, drawing a long breath. He’d failed her in so many ways until now, but he was going to do right by her now, even if he had to do it from beyond the grave.

Behind him the room was quiet. Kit was deeply asleep, exhausted after the arduous journey from Cowes. His fair hair was tousled, giving him an almost boyish look, and his neckcloth was crumpled. Tom got up and went to look down at him as he slept. Kit had to give his solemn word to marry Louisa, and he had to promise to arrange the ceremony as quickly as possible, for any delay might see Thea’s return to complete favor. Tom felt no conscience about putting pressure on his friend, for he was convinced that the marriage was the perfect answer to everything. Thea might still linger in Kit’s heart, but she would become a mere memory once Louisa had entered his life, for Louisa Cherington was everything that cold, arrogant Thea was not.

Outside, New Bond Street had yet to stir. The street lamps cast pools of light over the deserted pavements, and the bow windows of the shops opposite were brightly illuminated. A carriage was approaching. Tom went to the window and looked down as Kit’s town coach drew up at the curb.

A cold, sinking fear passed through him, and he turned sharply from the glass, his tongue passing nervously over his lips. ‘Kit? It’s time.’

Kit stirred, and then sat up quickly. ‘Deuce take it, I didn’t mean to fall asleep.’

‘It’s as well you did, one of us needs to have his wits about him this morning.’ Tom’s light tone belied the awful apprehension he felt within. He picked the letter up and gave it to Kit. ‘This is for Louisa. Will you be sure to give it to her if things go against me?’

‘You know that I will.’

‘And, Kit…?’

‘Yes?’

‘Remember what I suggested about her.’ Tom pressed the miniature into his hand as well.

Kit nodded. ‘I’m a man of my word. I’ll give it my consideration.’

‘I know.’

Kit put both items into his pocket. ‘Tom, you know there’s still time to get out of this mess, don’t you? You can retract your accusations, and Rowe’s so-called honor will be satisfied.’

‘No.’ The single word was uttered quietly, but firmly.

‘Please, Tom.’

‘No.’

Kit drew a heavy breath and said nothing more.

Dudley had heard the carriage as well, and came into the room carrying the case of pistols. He wore a long gray coat and a low-crowned hat, and he looked pale and unhappy, avoiding Tom’s eyes.

A minute or so later the three left, descending the steps to the alley and emerging by the waiting carriage. As the other two climbed in, Kit instructed the coachman to drive to the Horse and Groom Inn, Kensington, from where they’d go on foot to the meadow.

The team’s hooves clattered on the cobbles, echoing sharply around the silent street as the carriage drew away, moving south toward Piccadilly, and then west in the direction of Kensington. They passed through the turnpike at Hyde Park Corner and then drove along the southern boundary of the park to the Knightsbridge turnpike. With this behind them, they passed on toward the little village of Kensington.

Tom gazed out the carriage window. This was the same road he’d taken in the past to Brentford to meet Louisa; now he knew in his heart that he’d never see her again.

Kensington was quiet as they drew up in the yard of the Horse and Groom in the village’s straggling main street. Lord Rowe’s blue barouche was already there, but there was no sign of either him or his second; they’d already proceeded to the meadow on Lord Holland’s land. At one time it had been the custom for duelists to drive boldly up to their chosen site, but recently there’d been an outcry about duels, with citizens alerting the Bow Street Runners or the constables, and so now it was the practice to prudently leave carriages at nearby inns, where they wouldn’t attract much unwelcome attention.

The first faint light of dawn was staining the eastern sky as the three alighted and walked north up a small lane between dark, silent houses. There were fields and enclosures ahead, and in the misty gloom the tall Jacobean chimneys of Holland House could be seen among the trees. Stepping through an open gate into a field, they quickly crossed the wet grass to a gap in a high hedge, and then they were in the secluded meadow chosen by Rowe. It was a silent place, with ghostly trees looming beneath a slowly lightening sky, and in the distance there was a large pond that glinted like steel. The air was cool, and there was the promise of more rain before long.

Rowe was waiting with his second, Jasper Dillington, a lisping fop who always dressed extravagantly, this morning in lilac satin. With them was a local surgeon, Mr Thomson, who looked decidedly uneasy about the whole business. William, Lord Rowe, was forty years old, and of slim, aesthetic appearance. His face was refined and aristocratic, but very cold and hard, and he was dressed in black. He had thinning dark hair, graying at the temples, and his eyes were a chill pale-blue; these eyes swung toward the newcomers the moment they appeared, giving them a calculating, malevolent glance that spoke volumes of the loathing he felt for them, especially Kit, because of the
Mercury
. He said not a word.

Leaving Tom standing with Dudley, Kit went to confer with Dillington. The main purpose of this preliminary discussion was to see if the duel could, with honor, be abandoned, but as the fop struck a pose and exuded an air of ennui, Kit knew that there was no hope of this.

‘I thay, Highclare,’ lisped Dillington, flicking open his snuffbox, ‘can’t we get thith wetched bithneth over and done with ath thoon ath pothible? I confeth I’m devlish hungwy, and the Horth and Gwoom do a thplendid beef pie.’

‘A plague on your stomach, Dillington,’ snapped Kit. ‘This is much more important.’

The fop was offended. ‘Ath you wish, of corth, though let me thay thwaightaway that me fwend here ith thet on eight patheth at the motht.’

Kit was appaled. ‘Eight paces? Convention demands twelve, no more and no less. I won’t agree to anything else.’

‘But—’

‘Twelve paces,’ insisted Kit, determined not to allow Rowe any more advantage than he already had over poor Tom.

Dillington closed the little box with a snap. ‘Vewy well, twelve patheth, if you inthitht. It don’t thignify much anyway, your fellow’th ath good ath dead.’

‘There’s no need for anyone to die, Dillington. All you have to do is get Rowe to admit he was a little slippery-fingered, and then we can
all
toddle off to the Horse and Groom for beef pie.’

‘Your fellow’th at fault, Highclare,
he’th
the one who mutht weetwact.’

‘If that’s what you believe, sir, we have stalemate.’

The fop affected to stifle a yawn. ‘Thith ith gettin’ tediouth, Highclare. Shall we pwotheed?’

‘Very well, but at twelve paces.’

‘Whatever you thay,’ drawled Dillington, turning and strolling back to Rowe and the surgeon.

Kit returned to Tom and Dudley. Tom smiled a little nervously. ‘It’s all set, then?’

‘I’m afraid so. God damn it, Tom, why won’t you retract? To go ahead with this now is to throw your fool life away!’

‘If I step back from this, Kit, I’ll never be able to look anyone in the eye again. I have to go through with it, no matter what the price.’

‘None of this is worth your life.’

‘It is to me.’ Tom looked urgently at him then. ‘Kit, you must give me your word you’ll marry Louisa.’

Kit was startled. ‘Tom, I can’t just—’

‘Of course you can. Please, for it means everything to me.’ Tom knew he was being grossly unfair, begging such a thing when the circumstances were so very dire, but he was absolutely convinced that the marriage was the answer to everything. ‘Your word, Kit. I implore you.’

Kit didn’t want to promise anything, but the urgency in Tom’s eyes was very hard to resist. Reluctantly he nodded, hardly able to believe it was his own voice replying. ‘Very well, Tom, you have my word, but only if she wants such a match.’

Tom thought of what he’d written in the letter and smiled. ‘She’ll want it, you have my assurance of that. Marry her quickly, my friend, don’t give yourself time to fall back into your old ways. Thea will give you nothing, my sister will give you everything. Promise me you won’t delay. I want no respectful but pointless mourning for me, I want the marriage to take place immediately.’

‘You’re not dead yet,’ said Kit uneasily. He was being cornered and didn’t much care for it.

‘Your word on all I ask, Kit. Please.’

Kit nodded. ‘Very well.’

Tom’s eyes cleared then. ‘Thank you, Kit. I know I’m not being fair, but it’s too important.’

‘No, you damned well aren’t being fair, but you’ve got what you wanted, I’ve given my word and I’ll stand by it.’

‘I know you will.’

Rowe was taking up his position in the center of the meadow, and Tom went to join him, followed by Dudley with the open case of pistols. The morning light was pale and translucent, shimmering in the middle distance as dawn began to break fully. The two duelists selected their weapons, and Dillington and Kit tossed a coin to see who would call the commands. Kit won, and the fop retreated to join the surgeon, who was glancing nervously around, half-expecting to see the Bow Street Runners appear through the gap in the hedge. Duels were risky for everyone these days, not just the two principals.

Rowe and Tom stood with their backs to each other. The meadow was very quiet, except for the first blackbird singing in a tree nearby. In the distance a dog began to bark, the sound seeming to carry too clearly. Tom’s face was pale and strained, but Rowe’s already bore an expression of anticipatory confidence.

Kit breathed in heavily, reluctant to issue the first command, but he knew he had to. ‘Twelve paces, if you please, gentlemen.’

They obeyed.

‘Turn and cock your pistols.’

The sounds clicked horridly over the meadow.

‘Take your aim.’

Slowly the barrels were raised; Rowe’s was steady and remorseless, but Tom’s was trembling and uncertain.

With a supreme effort Kit brought himself to utter the final command. ‘Fire!’

Two reports split the silence, reverberating through the trees toward Holland House. A cloud of rooks rose screaming into the sky, and every dog within a mile seemed to set up an immediate clamor. The noise was deafening.

Rowe gave a sharp cry, whipping around and dropping his pistol to clutch his left arm, where a stain of crimson blood was suddenly visible on the costly black cloth.

Kit and Dudley stared at him in astonishment, as did Dillington and the surgeon. Against all the odds, it seemed that Tom had emerged the victor. But then the little valet gave a dismayed cry, tugging Kit’s arm and pointing toward Tom, who was slowly sinking to the ground.

As Dillington ran to Rowe, who was still standing, the others hurried to Tom, who lay motionless on the grass. A bloody wound on his chest marked the place where Rowe’s ball had found its deadly target.

The surgeon knelt to examine him. Tom’s face was ashen, and he made no sound or movement. ‘He’s still alive,’ said the surgeon, ‘but only just! We’ll have to get him away from here, the law will be upon us within minutes!’

Rowe and Dillington were already making good their escape, and Kit looked anxiously at the surgeon. ‘But should we move him?’

‘Would you have him arrested and flung into jail? Listen, the whole neighborhood’s been aroused. The alarm’s already been given, you may count upon it! If we can get him to my house, we’ll avoid detection, and I can tend him as best I can.’

‘Will he come through it?’

The surgeon shook his head. ‘He won’t see another dawn.’

There were shouts coming from the village now. The surgeon was anxious. ‘Please, sir! We must get away from here!’

Kit nodded then and helped the man to lift Tom’s unconscious body. Followed by Dudley, who’d rescued the pistols, they moved as swiftly as they could back out into the lane and toward the village, where there were lights in many windows now. They reached the sanctuary of the surgeon’s house without anyone seeing them and were safely inside as the first Bow Street Runners ran past.

A
s the morning progressed, the early sunshine was replaced by rainclouds, and before noon it began to rain heavily, with now and then the familiar roll of distant thunder.

It was quiet in the bedroom at the surgeon’s house as Kit stood looking out of the rain-soaked window at the chimneys of Holland House across the fields. The change in the weather had swiftly dampened the enthusiasm of the Bow Street Runners and constables who’d swarmed over the meadow, and they’d soon abandoned their search for the guilty parties who’d met at dawn on Lord Holland’s land.

Rowe and Dillington were long since back in London, having evaded the hue and cry by managing to reach the barouche and driving off before the alarm had been fully raised. Now they were ensconced in Rowe’s fine Berkeley Square house, where a fashionable physician had deftly attended to his lordship’s unfortunate ‘hunting’ wound.

Looking out of the rain-soaked window, Kit couldn’t help marveling that poor Tom had been carried safely back to this house without detection. Mr Thomson’s residence stood close to the Horse and Groom, in full view of many of Kensington’s dwellings, and yet no one had seen the furtive little party slipping back through the dawn light, carrying a mortally wounded man.

Kit turned, looking at the bed where Tom lay, still clinging to life. His face was gray and there was fresh blood oozing onto the dressing the surgeon had placed over his wound barely a minute before. His life was ebbing slowly and inexorably away, and there wasn’t anything his friends could do but stand helplessly by.

Dudley’s thin little face was sad as he stood by the door, watching as Mr Thomson leaned over the dying man again.

Kit went closer to the bed. ‘How is he?’

The surgeon shook his head. Unexpectedly Tom stirred a little, his lackluster eyes flickering and opening.

Kit sat on the edge of the bed, taking one of his cold hands. ‘Tom? Can you hear me?’

The weak fingers moved barely perceptibly. ‘I hear you.’ The once-strong voice was a shaky whisper, only just audible.

‘Is there anything you wish me to do for you?’

‘My-my affairs….’

‘I’ll settle everything.’

‘Kit…?’

‘Yes?’

‘You gave your w-word.’

‘I know.’

‘Don’t let me down.’

‘I won’t.’

‘I l-love my sister, Kit. You-you’ll soon love her too.’

Beads of perspiration dampened the dying man’s forehead, and the effort of speaking seemed to have drained him of his final strength. Kit felt the weak fingers begin to relax, and then they were completely still. He looked anxiously at the ashen face. ‘Tom?’

But the gray eyes were lifeless. Tom Cherington was dead.

There seemed no end to the rain as Kit drove back to London with Dudley. Thunder growled dismally across the low heavens, and the two in the carriage said nothing; they were both lost in their own private thoughts and memories of the man who’d so needlessly left them forever. They’d both miss Tom Cherington very much indeed, and they were both aware of a perverse, unspoken anger, directed not at Rowe for killing him, but at Tom himself, for having gone so willfully into the duel. That willfullness now thrust an awful sadness upon those he’d left behind.

As the carriage drove past wet Hyde Park, Kit looked out and saw some stalwart gentlemen riding in their fine clothes, ignoring the dreadful weather. He watched them without really seeing, because all he seemed able to see in the rain-washed glass was the reflection of Louisa Cherington’s smiling face. He’d given his word; he’d promised to marry her without delay.

Leaving the valet at the lodgings in New Bond Street, Kit went about his remaining sad duties as Tom’s second. He settled all his outstanding bills and made arrangements for his funeral in two days’ time at fashionable St George’s, Hanover Square. The interment would take place at the burial ground in Uxbridge Road, near Tyburn, because St George’s didn’t possess a graveyard.

Word of the duel hadn’t got out fully over Mayfair; there were just whispers that there might have been one. If Rowe’s fashionable physician had his suspicions about the so-called hunting wound, then for the moment he kept them to himself, and Kit explained Tom’s sudden death was the unfortunate result of a terrible fall from his horse. But there were still whispers, and it wouldn’t be long before names were circulating.

It was the early evening when Kit at last returned to his house in Grosvenor Square to change out of his tired clothes and take a well-earned bath. The house was a handsome four-story property built of red brick and occupying a prime corner location. It was reckoned one of the finest in the square, and certainly had the most handsome facade.

As Kit entered, he felt very low-spirited and tense. He needed to relax, but too much had happened, and too much had yet to happen, not least of which was that he had to go to Lawrence Park and seek what had to be a very painful interview with Louisa Cherington.

It felt good to take off the clothes he’d been wearing since leaving the Isle of Wight and step into the hastily prepared hot bath. He then took an early dinner, a cold chicken salad, which he ate at the gleaming mahogany table in the elegant dining room. Outside, the rain continued to fall. Thunder rolled from time to time, fitting weather for such a harrowing day.

He debated whether to go out to Lawrence Park tonight. The weather was very bad for traveling, and it would be late when he arrived, but he wanted to see Louisa Cherington and break the sad news to her of her brother’s death. He also wanted to get his first meeting with her over and done with. He didn’t know what he was expecting, he only knew that sooner or later he had to face her; he’d prefer it to be sooner, because his resolve might weaken.

The light was fading fast as he emerged once more into the rain to climb into his carriage. The roads were running with water as he drove again along the highway to Kensington. He didn’t look out as he passed the Horse and Groom, nor could he bring himself to glance up at the curtained bedroom window of Mr Thomson’s house. The rain made the light deteriorate quickly, even though it was August, and Holland House was a vague outline in the gathering gloom as the carriage left Kensington behind and drove on toward Brentford.

The road was worse than he’d anticipated, with so many deep puddles that the coachman dared not proceed with much speed. The flashes of lightning were becoming more frequent, stabbing the darkness with brilliant white light that was swiftly followed by threatening rolls of thunder. The carriage lamps barely pierced the murk, and the downpour shone silver as it sluiced past their light. By the time Brentford was at last visible ahead, Kit knew that he wouldn’t be able to reach Lawrence Park that night, after all; he’d have to take a room at one of the town’s many inns.

Lowering the glass, he shouted above the noise of the rain. ‘We’ll go no farther tonight. Stop at the first suitable hostelry in Brentford.’

‘Yes, my lord.’ The coachman thankfully touched his dripping hat.

Brentford was the end of the first stage out of London, and consequently boasted many fine inns. Driving slowly along the High Street, the coachman glanced at the line of swaying signs: the Pigeons, the Catherine Wheel, the Green Dragon.… The Green Dragon seemed a more handsome establishment than the rest, and therefore more suitable. Clicking his tongue, he maneuvered the tired team into the inn yard.

As the carriage came to a standstill, some grooms came out to attend to the horses, and Kit alighted quickly, stepping through the rain toward the taproom door, above which there was a sign: ‘Under New Ownership Today.’

There was a drone of conversation in the taproom. A number of men sat playing cards, while others talked over their ale. The innkeeper was a burly, red-faced, rather harassed-looking man wearing a round-skirted, sleeved fustian waistcoat, with a starched white apron tied around his thick middle.

‘Good evening, sir. Welcome to the Green Dragon. May I inquire if by any chance you are Captain Lawrence?’

Kit looked a little testily at him. England was at war with Bonaparte’s France, and all military personnel were required to wear uniform at all times. Here he was, wearing a claret-colored coat and white corduroy trousers, with a jeweled pin of very unmilitary fashion reposing in his neckcloth, and this fool asked him if he was a captain! ‘Do I
look
like a Captain Lawrence?’ he inquired dryly.

The man was covered in confusion. ‘Er, no, sir, of course you don’t. I wasn’t thinking. I’ve been rushed off my feet today and don’t know whether I’m coming or going. It’s my first day here,’ he added by way of explanation.

‘Do you hope to survive to a second?’

The innkeeper cleared his throat, his face redder than ever. ‘How – how may I be of assistance to you, sir?’

‘By providing me with your best room for the night.’

‘I’m afraid the best room is already taken, sir, by the lady who is expecting Captain Lawrence. I have other rooms, though, all of them very fine.’

‘Then I’ll take one of them.’

‘Very well, sir. Do you wish to dine?’

‘No, but you can bring me a bottle of your best Burgundy – unless, of course, the same lady has taken that as well.’

The man looked as if he wished the ground would open up and swallow him. Everything that could go wrong had gone wrong today, and now he had to have a swell with a sarcastic sense of humor. ‘A bottle will be brought to you immediately, sir. If you will come this way, I’ll show you to your room.’ Picking up a lighted candlestick, he led Kit toward a low door, beyond which rose a steep wooden staircase.

At the top, the door of the principal bedroom faced them, easily identifiable by its intricately carved architrave. A little farther along the passage was the room selected for Kit.

The candlelight flickered and swayed as the innkeeper flung open the door. Apart from an immense, brocade-hung four-poster, so high off the floor that a small flight of steps was required to climb into it, the room was furnished with a wardrobe, a chair, a washstand, and a small table. Before the innkeeper set down the candlestick and went to draw the curtains, Kit saw that the window looked out over the rain-drenched main street outside.

The man turned to look at him. ‘I’ll have the Burgundy sent up directly, sir. Will there be anything else?’

‘No. Thank you. I’d like to be called before nine in the morning.’

‘Very well, sir. Good night.’

‘Good night.’

The door closed and Kit was alone. With a heavy sigh he removed his top hat and gloves, tossing them on the table. Then he took out Tom’s letter and the miniature of Louisa. He looked at the latter for a long moment. This was the face of the woman he’d promised to marry. But as he stared at it, the features and colors became blurred, and it was Thea that he saw.

A maid tapped at the door and came timidly in with a tray on which stood a glass and the promised bottle of Burgundy. She slipped hurriedly out again, evidently having been told that the gentleman in this room had a particularly acid tongue.

Kit poured himself a glass of the wine and then sat down in the chair. He seldom stayed in inns, and when he did, he loathed it. The rooms were so impersonal. Suddenly he became aware of voices in the adjoining room. The lady expecting Captain Lawrence was talking to her maid, and the wall was so thin he could hear every word.

‘That will be all, Johnson. Be sure not to return until I send for you in the morning.’

‘Yes, my lady.’

‘And remember, not a word of this is to get out. As far as Sir Ashley and everyone else at Lawrence Park is concerned, I’ve been visiting Lady Dales, who’s sick. Is that clear?’

‘Yes, my lady.’

‘And see to it that fool of a coachman knows it too. One slip and I swear I’ll have you both dismissed.’

‘We won’t say a word, my lady.’

‘You may go.’

The door opened and closed, and Kit heard the maid’s footsteps as she descended to the taproom.

Kit looked thoughtfully at the adjoining wall. The lady had to be the new Lady Lawrence, for she’d referred to Sir Ashley and to Lawrence Park. And here she was, waiting in an inn for a certain Captain Lawrence. Was it possible that she was actually keeping an assignation with her stepson?

Kit sipped the Burgundy. Yes, from what he’d heard of both of them, it was only too possible that this was what was happening, for neither of them appeared to possess many commendable qualities.