“It might as well be,” Charles said gloomily. “If you kill him, you’ll most likely have to fly the country, and make your home on the continent these next twenty years. And I’ll be out of a job.”
Justin grinned a little in spite of himself at this lugubrious prediction. “And if he kills me?” he asked lightly.
Charles snorted. “Not bloody likely. Drunk or
sober, you’re the best damned shot I’ve ever seen. Take my advice, Justin, and don’t kill him. Think of the scandal.”
Justin’s mouth tightened. “I don’t give a damn about the scandal.”
“You should,” Charles said gently. “If not on your own account, think of Megan and Lady Alicia. Word of this is bound to get out, you know, and people will assume that Ivor either compromised Megan or seduced your wife. No other reason for you to meet him.”
“I’m meeting him because I am sick of his damnable taste in clothes,” Justin said, his eyes narrowing. Charles sighed.
“And if you think that anyone will believe that, you’re drunker than I thought you were.”
“I’m not drunk. I was, I admit, but I’ve been sober these two hours past.”
Charles turned to look at his friend, who stood perhaps half a head taller than himself. Justin’s hair waved wildly around his head despite the careless brush he had run over it before they had left Weston House. As usual his clothes were impeccable: A claret-colored wool coat fit his broad shoulders to perfection, his buff pantaloons encased the long, hard-muscled legs without a crease, his neckcloth was elegantly tied, and his Hessians gleamed despite the dulling effects of the fog. It was his face which showed how he had passed the night. His eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep and overindulgence in alcohol. Lines of dissipation creased the corners of his mouth and eyes.
Looking at him, Charles reflected that, if he hadn’t known Justin so well, he would have been much afraid of the outcome of this day’s work. But as it was, his only qualm was whether or not Justin would come to his senses at the last minute and merely wound Ivor. Justin was deadly with pistols. Charles could only wonder what had possessed Ivor to agree to this meeting. Justin’s reputation as a duelist was well-known.
“You never did say exactly what this is all about,” Charles hesitatingly remarked. Although, he could guess. Ivor had stepped beyond the bounds with either Megan or Alicia, and Justin had caught him at it or the lady had run to him bearing tales. And, knowing that Justin wouldn’t give a damn if Alicia cuckolded him with every man in England (not that it was likely), Charles assumed that the cause of the duel had to be Megan. Not for the first time had Charles wondered about the exact nature of Justin’s feelings toward his beautiful ward. Justin had been as grumpy as a bear with a sore paw for the last few weeks, and he had been drinking heavily ever since his return from Ireland. Charles was very much afraid that Justin found himself attracted to Megan, who was a lovely thing in all truth, and despised himself for it. For Justin, despite his other failings, which Charles would be the first to admit were many, was a man of honor. His treatment of Alicia was a case in point. Charles knew full well that that haughty lady had denied Justin her bed for years, and yet Justin still treated her with the respect and courtesy due his wife. Many men would,
at the very least, have beaten the cold bitch, and quite a few would have divorced her for failure to fulfill her conjugal duties. But Justin had done neither of these things, and, while Charles had lost track of the number of paramours that Justin had taken over the years, the man had even been discreet about them. So if Justin found himself wanting Megan, as Charles very much suspected he did, he would make a hell on earth for himself before he so much as considered giving in to temptation.
“I told you,” Justin said grimly just as Ivor’s carriage swept into view. “I don’t like his damned dandyish clothes.”
In addition to Ivor, and his particular friend, Mr. Nettleston, there was a doctor in the carriage. Justin observed this good fellow descending with raised eyebrows, and turned to grin sardonically at Charles.
“It seems as though my lord shares your faith in my abilities,” he said cynically.
Charles merely shook his head, and hurried over to meet with Mr. Nettleston and inspect the weapons. As the challenged party, it was Lord Ivor’s right to choose what weapons would be used, but as Ivor had no skill with swords, the choice of pistols was a foregone conclusion. Nettleston was as upset about the business as Charles, but, as there was no possible way of persuading Lord Ivor to apologize, and Charles was doubtful that Justin would accept it, there seemed nothing to do but allow the duel to proceed.
Frowning heavily, Charles waited while Lord Ivor
selected a pistol from the pair that was offered to him, and silently congratulated the lord on his courage. Except for a certain whiteness of face, Lord Ivor looked perfectly composed, although he had, Charles noticed, arrayed himself in sober black so as to make as small a target for Justin as possible. Having seen Justin snuff the flame of a candle at forty yards, Charles could have told him that such precautions were in vain, but he held his peace.
The fog had begun to lift by the time Charles made his way back to Justin’s side. Faint fingers of sunlight wandered down to sparkle on the droplets of water that still clung to the grass. A grove of tall pines at the far end of the field stood like mournful sentinels. It seemed impossible that in just a few minutes two shots would ring out, and one of the men standing in the field would die.
“For God’s sake, don’t kill him, Justin,” Charles urgently whispered as Justin moved to take his place in the center of the field. Justin gave no sign that he heard.
The doctor, as the only impartial one present, gave the instructions: “I will count to ten, gentlemen, and as I call out each number you will each take one step forward. On the count of ten, you will turn and fire, with no holding back on either side. Is that clear?”
“Perfectly clear, Dr. Rollins,” said Lord Ivor. Justin merely nodded tersely. His eyes were hard as twin topazes as he looked at Ivor. The picture of Ivor as he had seen him last, holding Megan in his arms while
she struggled to escape him, was imprinted on Justin’s brain.
“You’ll die for that,” he promised Ivor silently. Ivor, catching the murderous glint in Justin’s eyes, visibly paled.
The two men stood back to back, one clad arrogantly in deep red as though mocking by his very choice of clothes his opponent’s skill as a marksman, the other was prudently dressed in black. The doctor began his count. Backs held stiffly erect, pistols pointed at the ground, they paced apart. Charles, watching the tableau, felt little fear for Justin’s life. But he did fear most grievously for Ivor’s, and as the count neared its end he muttered a little prayer.
“Nine!”
The sound of hoofbeats caused Charles’ attention to be momentarily distracted from the field. The horse was coming fast, and he was just able to note that the rider was a woman when the doctor cried, “Ten!”
“Stop!” cried the newcomer as the men turned and fired. Charles recognized first the voice and then, as she galloped closer, the rider herself as Megan. Justin’s head jerked around even as he pulled the trigger; in that instant it was all over. Megan halted her horse and leapt down, her skirts flying up to reveal ruffled petticoats. Charles saw that she was clad in a pale yellow morning gown that looked, from the wildly askew buttons and sash, as if she had thrown it on at a moment’s notice.
Megan had seen all she needed in a glance. Since
Mary had released her from the locked room, she had been terrified that she would be too late to even try to stop the proceedings. Galloping onto the scene, hearing the short little man in the sober gray clothes call “Ten” even as she approached, she had feared that she really had been too late. Now, as she ran toward Justin, her skirts flying behind her and her unbound hair blowing in the breeze like a silken banner, she was sure of it. Lord Ivor lay sprawled on the ground at the far end of the field while two men bent anxiously over him, but it was on Justin that her attention focused. A bright scarlet stain was beginning to mar the smooth perfection of his coat.
“Oh, my God, Justin,” she moaned, reaching his side and staring with fearful eyes up into his face. Charles, his mouth open at the sight of blood on his friend’s coat, was right behind her.
“What the bloody hell are you doing here?” Justin rasped furiously. Her face was white as death as she stared at that spreading stain; her hands were frantic as she clutched at him.
“Darling, are you badly hurt?” Her mouth quivered as she looked up into Justin’s harsh face. Charles, hearing that “darling,” stopped in his tracks, his eyes moving from Megan to Justin with visible shock. Both were completely oblivious to his presence.
“No, no thanks to you,” Justin growled, reaching out to take hold of Megan’s arm in a grip that looked brutal. “What the hell do you mean by coming here? You’ve got no business here, and you could have got
me killed, distracting me at such a time! Anyway, how did you get out of your room?”
Charles listening to this conversation, which was growing more incomprehensible by the moment, felt his ears pinken. The one thing that was as clear as sunlight was the intimacy between the two of them. It was clear that they were far more than guardian and ward; Megan’s face as she looked up at Justin was the face of a woman looking at the man she loves. Justin’s face was less easy to read, but that hand on her arm and the harsh voice told its own story.
“Mary let me out,” she said impatiently. “Justin, how badly are you shot?”
“The merest scratch,” Charles heard Justin say as he raised a hand to his shoulder, and then Charles turned and went over to see how Lord Ivor fared. The exchange between Megan and Justin was too private to be witnessed by outsiders.
Lord Ivor was not mortally wounded. Justin, distracted by Megan’s cry, had fired wide. The ball had pierced Ivor’s chest, and though he was presently unconscious, Dr. Rollins assured both Charles and Mr. Nettleston that Ivor would recover.
“And what of your man?” the doctor inquired, after instructing Ivor’s lackeys to carry their master into his carriage and convey him home at all speed.
“He is shot, but he feels it is not serious,” Charles answered curtly.
Nettleston’s eyes widened. “Ivor actually shot Weston? Famous!” he crowed, then, lowering his voice,
added, “Distracted by that wench, I know, but still… Who is she, anyway, Stanton?”
But Charles prudently refrained from answering.
When he returned to Justin’s side with the doctor at his heels, both Megan and Justin seemed to have recovered themselves. Megan no longer clutched at Justin’s coat, and Justin had released his vise-grip on Megan’s arm. But nothing could conceal the look in the girl’s eyes.
“Put her in my curricle,” Justin instructed Charles, giving him a hooded look. Charles tried his best to return that look blandly, but his consciousness of the true state of affairs between Justin and Megan must have shown in his face, because Justin’s face tightened suddenly so that the hard bones sprang into prominence.
“My lord… ” Megan began to protest, sounding worried and oddly decorous at the same time. Justin flashed her a commanding look.
“Go with Charles,” he ordered, and with a single anxious look up into Justin’s face Megan allowed herself to be led away.
“Now then, my lord, if you will remove your coat,” they heard the doctor say punctiliously. As Charles handed Megan up into the curricle and went to retrieve her horse to tie it to the rear, he saw that Justin had obeyed. It was some fifteen minutes before Justin joined them, disdaining Charles’ offer to drive and taking the reins himself. Only the tiny blackened holes high up on his shoulder and its darkening scarlet
stain revealed that he had been wounded. Otherwise he appeared as healthy as when he and Charles had left Weston House that morning.
It was still early when the little party returned to Weston House, and except for Ames, whose discretion was legendary, no one saw them enter the house. A single hard glance from Justin’s golden eyes sent Megan scurrying upstairs. She went meekly enough, exhausted from the sleepless night she had passed and the emotional turmoil that had accompanied it. Charles adjourned with Justin to the study, where Justin rang for breakfast to be served. Charles thought about commenting on the exchange he had witnessed between Megan and his employer, but something in the flinty set of Justin’s face stayed his tongue.
Over the next several days, there was some little tongue-wagging about Megan’s hasty and unheralded exit from the Chetwoods’ soiree in her guardian’s company, but Megan explained that she had developed a sudden headache and, not wanting to disturb the enjoyment of the rest of the company, she had persuaded Justin to take her home. Justin curtly endorsed this explanation, and the talk died for lack of fuel to feed it. No one seemed to connect Lord Ivor’s sudden indisposition with Megan’s headache, and so all was well in that quarter.
As that week passed, and then the next, Megan’s suspicions were confirmed. She was with child. She trembled when the realization dawned, knowing that, as soon as her condition became obvious, she would
be ostracized by the very people who were so anxious to know her now. Her condition would be the talk of the Season, and speculation about the father’s identity would be rife. Megan speculated that Lord Ivor would probably be named as the most likely candidate. She doubted that Justin’s name would enter into consideration.
He had asked her, not long after that nightmarish duel, if she was “all right.” Correctly interpreting his meaning from the speculative look he bent on her, she had assumed the most angelic face and boldly answered yes. Knowing Justin as she did, she guessed that, if he knew that she was expecting his child, he would never let her go. For her own sake, she might not have objected too strenuously to being set up in a discreet little house on a London sidestreet as his mistress. She loved him, after all. But for the sake of the unborn child, she could not allow such a thing to happen. She wanted her baby to be born in all honor, to grow up able to look any man or woman in the eye, to need feel no shame over his origins or parents. Already she loved the child; she shuddered at the thought of it carrying the label “bastard,” and she vowed that it would not happen. If she could contrive it, this child would have the best of everything the world could offer, no matter what it might cost herself.