The Second Shot (The Dueling Pistols) (4 page)

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William Bedford leaned over and checked his pocket watch. He waited at Chalk Farm for his opponent. Would he show?

William paced back and forth. The low rolling hills of the countryside protected them from view of the main road. He understood now why this matter had resulted in the public slap that left no recourse but a challenge or humiliation. Not only the slap, but the accusation of cheating.

Lungren was dead, by his own hand, just after he'd signed the deed to the estate over to William. No wonder Major Sheridan had thought him involved and had pulled off his glove to slap William.

By the code of honor no apology for the blow was acceptable, but William wasn't above bending rules when necessary, though he usually stopped short of outright cheating. The last thing he would have done was cheat his friend out of his estate. He hadn't dreamed that Lungren would kill himself. If he'd had the merest inkling, he would never have let his friend sign over the deed. He would have remained there for the night, the week, the month just to stay Lungren's hand.

He heard the jingle of harnesses and the roll of carriage wheels and realized he was sweating. His opponent, Major Sheridan, lately of the Peninsular campaign, was war seasoned. No doubt he thought nothing of shooting a man. Doubtless he had done it many a time before. With that limp, he would choose pistols. Not a chance he would bring swords and they might satisfy themselves with first blood.

This was not the outcome he had intended when he faced Captain Lungren and allowed the stakes to rise impossibly high. Lungren had been remarkably cool as he exchanged the deed to his property for his vowels. William wanted to shout that it was all a mistake.

He bent over and rested his hands on his knees. He felt dizzy and sick. It would be just his luck if he cast up his accounts just as Sheridan arrived.

The major descended the steps with perfect military posture that marked his control. He wasn't suffering a humiliating battle with his nerves. Sheridan's icy blue gaze shot through William and chilled him to the core.

William straightened, as if Sheridan's disdain called what little honor he had to the fore.

Sheridan stripped off his coat, a blue morning coat rather than his red uniform. He unbuttoned his buff waistcoat.

"I would have allowed him to grant me an annuity in lieu of the deed."

Sheridan paused only the space of a half second before continuing to remove the waistcoat. "He's dead. Shall we get on with it?"

William shivered and wondered at Sheridan's cold statement. How many times had Sheridan spoken those words? How many men had fallen under his command, under his watch? How could the man be anything but cold?

"Is it to be pistols, then?"

"Show him the barkers, Randy."

William unfastened his jacket with trembling fingers. Although the air was frigid, his shaking was not due to the February weather.

Lieutenant Randleton brought out a carved walnut box and flipped back the lid. Inside, red velvet cradled two elegantly tooled dueling pistols, their handles inlaid with mother-of-pearl.

William's second moved to inspect the weapons. "Capitol set of poppers."

"Spanish, you know. The major got rather fond of things Spanish."

"He bring 'em back with him?"

"Didn't bring any of his Spanish things back with him. Found them here in London."

"By Jove, not at that place off Bond Street, near Clifford Street?" exclaimed the man who had volunteered his services to William after the unexpected slap.

Dread crawled up William's spine as he listened to the two seconds discuss the pistols, as if he and Sheridan weren't about to kill each other with them.

"I believe so," answered Randleton. "Dusty little shop with all sorts of odd weapons."

"I say. I believe those pistols are cursed."

Randleton gave a tight-lipped shake of his head.

"Burn my breeches if those aren't the very pistols used for grass before breakfast just over a year ago by...well, by two men I know. They were pearl-inlaid and Spanish-tooled," said Bedford's second.

William didn't want to hear about curses. He could hardly keep the contents of his stomach down just thinking of their deadly purpose. He stared across the field, where the major had limped out into position. The sight of the two men dropping ball and powder into the barrels and packing them down wasn't doing his puling stomach any favors.

"Had it from the shopkeeper that there was a curse. Now, what was it? Something about marriage." William's second tapped a finger against his lips. "Ah, yes. The winner shall gain a jolly good wife. The loser shall be leg-shackled to a horrid bride."

"Are we ready, gentlemen?" Sheridan's deep voice boomed across the field with a commanding authority impossible to ignore.

William suffered a turn for the worse. His stomach roiled. Probably a good thing he hadn't eaten breakfast.

"I say, are you quite all right, sir?" asked the jackanapes that was his second. "You look as if you might flash your hash."

"Let's get on with it, do," William managed to grind out.

The two assistants measured the field and pointed out where to stand. There would be no pacing with Sheridan's bad leg.

One of the pistols was pressed into William's hand. The heavy weight punished the wrist not used to holding anything heavier than a deck of cards. The Spanish tooling marks cut into his palm, while the mother-of-pearl felt smooth. He prayed that the target practice he'd done yesterday behind Manton's would assist his aim.

He lifted his gaze to his opponent. Sheridan's eyes darted around as if surveying the lay of the land. Was he expecting the authorities to stop them? William shook his head at the fleeting hope of salvation. Sheridan's icy blue gaze snapped to him, no doubt provoked by the small movement of William's head.

Chills ran down William's spine. He couldn't look away from that penetrating stare. How many Frenchmen had looked their last into those winter-cold eyes?

"Are you ready, gentlemen?" asked Lieutenant Randleton.

William squeaked out an answer that vaguely resembled a yes.

Major Sheridan gave an imperturbably calm "I'm ready."

"Aim..."

William brought the pistol up and sighted down the barrel. He strove valiantly to keep his knees from knocking and his aching wrist steady.

"Fire."

His finger slid off the trigger and he fought to reposition it without dropping his sights. He heard the click of Sheridan's pistol, and time stretched as he waited for the spark to ignite the powder. One heartbeat, two heartbeats...

His heart had grown so large, it pounded in his gut and his throat at the same time. He managed to pull his trigger, heard the click and the chattering of birds, the sway of the breeze in the leaves of the trees. Sheridan's narrowed eyes stared through him. If William lived, those pale eyes would haunt his nightmares.

The detonation of the pistols in quick succession blasted his ears. Pain ricocheted through his eardrums, and the world tilted madly. The sky tumbled toward the ground, and then the faded yellow grass rushed up to meet his face.

Chapter Three

Felicity smoothed her gray gloves over the back of her hand and adjusted her hat. Seeing the man, first his head, then his shoulders as he ascended the steps, she said, "Stand up straight, Charles."

She leaned over and picked up the worn valise that had belonged to her husband, and transferred it into her left hand. As the balding middle-aged man approached the locked door where she stood, she extended her hand.

The man eyed her skeptically, but Felicity kept her hand extended and her voice calm and purposeful. "I'm Mrs. Merriwether, Layton's widow, and this is my son, Charles."

The man looked as if he'd swallowed sour milk. Finally, when it became clear that Felicity wasn't about to move from in front of his office, he gave one halfhearted shake of her hand.

"Since you are such a busy man, I thought it best to take care of our business first thing." Felicity smiled without baring her teeth. She had never felt less like smiling.

Her husband's London banker had been avoiding her. He mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like
"meddling woman"
but was spoken too low for her to be sure. She had sent several notes requesting a convenient time for her to call, without receiving an answer, and arrived at his office only to be repeatedly told by the young man who was his secretary that he was otherwise engaged and could not see her.

"I'm a bit preoccupied, Mrs. Merriwether."

Felicity nodded. "I see, but we shall have to take the time to sever our business relationship, and I have the time now. However, it will take quite a space for me to be sure all of Layton's holdings are intact and the necessary audits of his accounts are complete."

"You can't do that!"

Felicity stepped to the side of the door. She was glad her gray kid gloves concealed her damp palms. "I'm sure this discussion should take place in your office."

Her eyes on the door, she waited until he slowly withdrew a ring of keys.

He fumbled to insert his key in the lock of his office. Felicity swept through the door in front of him and, without waiting, opened the door to the inner office and took a seat. Charles followed her and climbed into the morocco leather chair beside his mother. Felicity perched on the edge of her chair. She removed a copy of Layton's will. After the banker seated himself, she placed it on top of the papers scattered over the desk.

"As you can see, Charles is too young to manage his father's businesses and Layton named me as the sole trustee until such a time as Charles reaches his majority."

The banker's disgust grew apparent on his face. He picked up the will and read it. "This can't be right."

"Whether you like it or not, I am the one you have been dealing with for the past two years. Layton's illness precluded him from making business decisions and I—initially with his guidance and approval—have completely taken over the management of his holdings."

"He wouldn't have let a woman run his business."

"Businesses, sir. There is the coal mine in Cornwall, the textile mill in Cumberland, his ownership of the sugar plantation in Haiti, the thirty-three percent share in the Moore, Merriwether, and Turner shipping company...Shall I continue?"

He shook his head.

"Are you sure you wouldn't like me to list his various investments, also?" She did want to make sure that the banker knew she knew Layton's holdings down to the last farthing.

Charles watched her with a wary eye. He could probably hear the tightness in her tone.

"I could list the income of each, quarterly or annually."

"That won't be necessary."

Felicity didn't really want to switch banks. Many businessmen didn't want to deal with a female, but she was bound and determined to be given her due for the work she had been doing for years as Layton's illness progressed to the point where he was incapable of making any decisions. She'd be damned before she'd apologize for being an intelligent woman.

"I'm sure the most satisfactory arrangement for all of us would have been if Layton had continued managing his own affairs, but his death precludes that."

"Surely there is some other relative—your father—who could shoulder this burden for you, Mrs. Merriwether."

Her involuntary snort should have been clue enough to what she thought of her father's financial ability. Felicity couldn't possibly trust her father to understand the intricacies of her husband's investments. The only way to be certain her son's inheritance wasn't mismanaged was to maintain control herself. She wasn't about to let anyone else the opportunity to foul up the businesses.

"A future husband, perhaps," he suggested weakly. "Your brother by law."

She didn't allow herself to dwell on the idea that Tony sprang to mind when he suggested a future husband. No, she'd never allow him control over her again. The wounds were still too deep, and she'd been powerless to change the outcome. She'd never let herself be in that position again. "Why, I'm surprised you would suggest that, sir, knowing as you do how ill-equipped and inept Layton's brother-in-law, Thomas Fielding, was with finances."

The banker had to admit to himself, at least, if not to her, that Layton's brother-in-law was a disaster in the financial arena. He'd run through his wife's fortune before his death, while Layton had steadily increased his wealth from an almost unheard-of equal split of their father's holdings between Layton and his sister.

But that had nothing to do with her handling of Layton's affairs. "Have there been any troublesome issues that have surfaced for you in the last two years, since I have been in charge?"

His response was reluctant. "No, madam." He leaned back in his chair and cupped his chin in his hand. "You've made your point."

"Are we going to have problems, sir? I know it is not to your liking to deal with a woman, but I am afraid that is the way it will be for several years." He'd had no problem when he hadn't realized he was dealing with her. "If it is not convenient for you to arrange a meeting when I request one, then I am afraid I will have look into other banks."

"That's not necessary, Mrs. Merriwether."

Felicity nodded. "Good, then. Just so there won't be any confusion, I will continue to manage my son's inheritance. On the off chance that I should remarry, I will not turn over my son's finances to a future husband or anyone else. Also, I will be bringing Charles along on all business meetings, so he can learn as he grows up." No man was likely to take her on those terms, but she didn't plan to marry again anyway. The real danger was that she could succumb to the same sensual madness that had taken her before. Pigs had to fly first, she reminded herself.

"Yes, ma'am."

Felicity heaved a sigh of relief. "Now, I should like to talk about arranging a suitable dowry for my niece." Her penniless niece, but Felicity didn't think she needed to make the point again about how inept Diana's father—a male—had been.