In the Garden of Disgrace

IN THE GARDEN OF DISGRACE

by

Cynthia Wicklund

SMASHWORDS EDITION

*****

PUBLISHED BY:

Cynthia Wicklund on Smashwords

In the Garden of Disgrace

Copyright 2010 by Cynthia Wicklund

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London—September, 1802

Lady Jillian Fitzgerald peeked around the
base of the oak as she grasped the tree trunk with nervous fingers.
The branches overhead formed an enormous canopy, shielding her and
her two companions from the misting rain.

“What do you see, Jillian?”

Jillian squinted into the early morning
drizzle, hoping to glimpse something, anything. She knew the meadow
was out there, but the fog hovering eerily over the ground had
obliterated it. She turned to answer the young woman next to
her.

“Not a thing, Merry. Are you certain you’re
not mistaken? Perhaps this morning is not the morning.”

“Of course, this morning is the morning,”
Meredith Tisbury snapped, her words rising above a whisper. “Duels
are planned hours in advance, not days. They are entered in the
heat of the moment when tempers are at their worst. Isn’t that
right, Phillip?” She turned a green-eyed gaze on the only male
member of the trio.

Phillip Angsley, Jillian’s cousin, nodded
his blonde head. “Yes, Merry. But if you don’t keep your voice down
our fun will end before it has begun. They will be here. Lord
Wicked never misses an appointment on the dueling field.”

At the mention of the corrupted version of
Lord Wickham’s name—a version fostered by a titillated
ton
—Jillian experienced a thrill of excitement. The Earl of
Wickham had a deliciously roguish reputation, a situation that had
set the females of the population on their collective ears.
Unfortunately, along with his dangerous ways came a charming
personality and a handsome countenance. That made the earl
irresistible even to women who should know better. Jillian was no
exception.

Meredith broke the quiet again. “What is
taking so long?”

“Shhh!” Phillip brought his index finger to
his lips. “I think I hear voices.” He hunkered down next to the oak
and stared into the murky dawn.

Jillian also heard the voices, accompanied
by the crunch of wheels over a graveled road. A carriage door
slammed and then another. Still she saw nothing but her heart began
to rattle with anticipation. Next to her Meredith inhaled
audibly.

Adrian St. John, Earl of Wickham,
materialized out of the fog like a shadowy phantom in a greatcoat,
the mist curling around his legs as though he had stepped from
another, more macabre world. The unearthly light that reflected off
the fog illuminated his face and cast the angles of his features
into sharp relief.

He took off his coat, seemingly unconcerned
by the soft rain that continued to fall, and allowed the garment to
fall to the ground. The white of his unruffled shirt glowed
strangely in the haze, emphasizing his black hair. For a moment the
earl stood unmoving as if he were a statue, broad-shouldered,
narrow-hipped, a prime example of the male specimen.

“Oh my!” The exclamation, louder than she
intended, escaped Jillian before she could stop it. She felt
Meredith stiffen beside her.

“I think it improper for a betrothed female
to show a marked interest in another gentleman,” that young lady
said. “How do you think Lord Edgeworth would feel if he knew his
affianced was entranced by the infamous Lord Wicked? Your intended
is too fine a gentleman to be treated in such a cavalier
fashion.”

Jillian felt her cheeks grow hot with
indignation. “I am not
entranced
with Lord Wickham,” she
said in a fierce whisper. “And if you thought my future wedding
plans were that sacred, why did you insist I come here tonight?
This was not my idea, you know. If we are caught—”

“Simply seems to me—”

“Ladies, ladies,” Phillip interrupted. Still
squatting on the ground, he reached out to grip Jillian’s hand in
warning.

She clamped her lips together, aware
Meredith and she had nearly exposed their game. Now chastened, she
watched silently as another gentleman with fiery red hair joined
Lord Wickham. The two men exchanged words, speaking too softly to
be heard.

All at once the meadow filled with people.
The movement of many bodies caused the fog to swirl languidly as if
those on the field waded through smoke. Bits and snatches of
conversation drifted toward the trio in hiding.

Viscount Findley, Lord Wickham’s opponent,
arrived at last, and the two men came to stand in the middle of the
meadow. The remaining individuals formed a circle around them. She
now could see who the seconds were, Lord Wickham’s being the
gentleman who had talked to the earl a few minutes before. Though
not certain, she thought she recognized the redheaded man.

A box was taken from beneath the coat of
Lord Findley’s second and the lid opened, producing a pair of
handguns that gleamed ominously in the growing light. For the first
time the deadly nature of the meeting fell full force on Jillian.
Pistols at dawn
—until that moment it had been a fascinating
tale, not something that actually happened. Why, oh why had she
come? The sinister ritual commenced with Lord Wickham and Lord
Findley squaring off, back to back. The count began. Findley paced
step by deliberate step in the direction of Jillian and her
companions, stopping only a few yards from where the three spies
watched from behind their oak. The earl had paced in the opposite
direction, and Jillian could barely see him although the fog had
begun to lift.

The signal was given and the combatants
turned and fired.

For a frozen moment everything stood still.
Not until Jillian saw Lord Wickham, his tall, lean form sauntering
across the field did she realize she held her breath.
He was
unscathed!
The pent-up air rushed from her mouth in a gust of
relief.

Lord Findley was not so lucky. He lay on the
ground, moaning as he clutched his left arm.

Lord Wickham reached the viscount’s side,
and there was no mistaking the contempt that marked the earl’s
features. He tossed his emptied gun at his opponent’s feet.

“Get up, Findley. You’ve only been nicked.
Be thankful your challenge did not end your miserable life.”

His teeth clenched in pain, the viscount
snarled, “I should have killed you, Wickham. You’ve dishonored me
and mine.”

“A man who leaves the bed of his mistress to
defend his wife’s reputation is a hypocrite. You have no honor to
defend.”

Several individuals gasped. From behind her
tree, only a short distance from the tense dialogue, Jillian was
one of them.

“Bastard!” Findley struggled to his feet,
weaving on wobbly legs once he got there. “You won’t get away with
this!”

Again the earl’s contempt was clear. “I
already have.” He turned, moving toward the coat he had dropped
earlier.

What transpired next happened so quickly
only later did Jillian reconstruct the event.

Lord Findley bellowed a curse, an expression
she had never heard before, although by his inflection the words
were obscene. The viscount lunged at his second, grabbing a pistol
the man held. Shaking visibly, he pointed the weapon at the earl’s
back.

Several of the onlookers issued an anxious
warning, and Lord Wickham spun around to face his attacker. The
earl instantly responded. In one fluid movement he extracted a
dagger from his top boot and with the expert flick of a wrist flung
the knife, burying it to the hilt in the viscount’s chest. Lord
Findley fell back, the gun discharging into the air.

The scene on the field dissolved into
chaos.

Jillian, dismayed by the sudden violence,
panicked. She heard Phillip’s urgent whisper but ignored him. Her
only desire was to escape this place and to do so as quickly as
possible. She clutched her skirt in both hands, lifting the hem
from the ground, and dashed back toward the hackney that was
supposed to be waiting for their return. Oh yes, merciful heaven—it
was still there!

She pounded toward the vehicle, never
looking over her shoulder, assuming Phillip and Meredith were
following her. She had a glimpse of the driver as she yanked open
the carriage door and scrambled inside. Though she believed he saw
her, the man’s attention was captured by the goings on in the
meadow.

Inside the hackney Jillian slumped against
the seat, nauseous. Lord Findley’s piercing scream continued to
ring in her ears.
And the blood!

Several seconds lapsed before she realized
her cousin and Meredith had not yet joined her. What was keeping
them? she wondered. Had they been discovered? Cautiously, almost
afraid to learn the answer she peeked out the window.

The misting rain had ceased. The sun having
crested the horizon was burning away what remained of the fog. This
she noted vaguely, for she was consumed by the sight that met her
gaze.

Running across the field not thirty paces
away came the Earl of Wickham. And he was running straight for her
hackney. Behind the earl trailed his second—and yes, she knew the
redheaded man. The two people she wanted most to see, Meredith and
Philip, were nowhere in view. Jillian fell to the floorboards,
hiding.

She heard the earl and his friend arrive at
the carriage.

“Get down, man!” Lord Wickham yelled at the
driver.

“Can’t do that, gov’nor,” came the stoical
reply.

“I’ve already killed once this day—do not
make the mistake of believing I won’t do it again.”

The words were delivered in a cold voice
devoid of emotion, and Jillian did not doubt the earl meant what he
said. The driver must have felt the same way, for the carriage
shifted as he jumped to the ground.

“See here, you take my hack you take my
livelihood. Besides, there’s someone—”

The earl cut him off. “Your hack will be
returned or you will be compensated for your loss.”

Again the carriage swayed, and she detected
not one but two individuals climbing onto the bench. As the import
of what was transpiring struck her, Jillian was propelled into
action. She reached for the door handle, but her effort came too
late. The hackney lurched forward and barreled into the road at
high speed. Over the thundering of horses’ hooves she could hear
the stranded driver bellowing curses from the edge of the
field.

For a moment Jillian was immobilized while
wave after wave of raw fear washed over her.
This cannot be
happening!
She drew in a deep breath and held it briefly before
allowing the air to escape in a shaky sob. Though trembling from
the inside out, she pulled herself onto the seat and forced herself
to think the situation through.

Should she knock on the roof of the carriage
and make her presence known? She lifted her hand but drew back. Try
as she might she could not bring herself to reveal her plight.
Perhaps when they reached London she would find the nerve to warn
them, and they could let her off on one of the streets near her
home.