Gayle Buck

THE DESPERATE VISCOUNT

Gayle Buck

Chapter 1

The dawn was chill. A light drizzle had begun to fall, making the grass slippery under the feet of the intent swordsmen. Under the watery gray sun, the steel whipped like so much dull silver.

The dance woven by the flashing blades was too swift for the three intent spectators to follow. One of the silent gentlemen held in his hand an open pocket watch, at which he periodically glanced. At the feet of another of the gentlemen was a small black valise. He coughed, then mumbled an apology when the third gentleman, an extraordinarily tall and fashionably dressed personage, threw an irritated glance at him.

The coatless swordsmen engaged in a long deadly ballet. It was parry, turn, leap, thrust, circle, over and over. The blades flitted, flirted, retreated, only to return to hungrily probe again. The swords rasped together, the sound falling unpleasantly on the ear.

One of the swordsmen lost his footing on the slick grass. He went down on one knee, throwing up his sword defensively. Immediately the other swordsman stepped back and dropped his point. His breath fogged the cold air on his harsh command. “Get up.”

The flicker of a mocking smile crossed the downed swordsman’s face. “Much obliged.” He leaped up, setting himself firmly.

The sword points flashed up in mutual salute, then down to meet with a resonance of clashing steel.

The duel was resumed more furiously than before. Heavy breathing cut the peaceful morning air, punctuated by an occasional terse, pungent curse.

There was a flurry of incredible action, the white shirts and swords blurring together. “Good God, they’ll spit each other at this rate,” said the tall gentleman, with more irritation than concern. He did not heed the disapproving glance cast him by the owner of the black valise.

Suddenly one of the swordsmen leaped back, clapping his hand over the blood swiftly darkening his pristine shirt. “Damn you, Weemswood!”

The other swordsman dropped his bloodied point to the ground and leaned lightly on the hilt. He dashed the perspiration out of his cool gray eyes. A smile flashed over his thin face. “I am satisfied. And you, my friend?”

“Oh, aye,” said the wounded man in disgust, tossing aside his sword.

The seconds had conferred softly over the open watch before converging on the combatants to hand them their coats. The doctor opened his valise and bound up the wounded gentleman’s shoulder, quietly recommending a rare steak for breakfast to replace the small loss of blood.

“Here you are, Hargrove. I’ll play the valet this once,” said the tall gentleman.

“My thanks, Connie. I don’t believe I could manage otherwise. It’s a deuced awkward cut,” said the wounded gentleman, allowing his second to ease his coat over the pad of bandages. He flexed his shoulder cautiously, grimacing.

“You’ll survive, Hargrove?”

Captain Hargrove, on leave from his company on the Peninsula, looked round to meet his former antagonist’s amused gray eyes. “Indeed I will, my lord. It is a mere trifle. I congratulate you. Nicely pinked; but I believe outside the time allotted. What say you, Lord Heatherton?”

The second thus addressed, who had already put away his watch, shook his head regretfully. “All too true, my lord. Captain Hargrove has won by a scarce half minute.”

Lord St. John, Viscount Weemswood, threw back his head in a rare display of laughter. When he looked across at his former opponent, he said, “Well done, Hargrove. You have succeeded in surprising me. I shall have my man of business forward the draw on my account.”

“A pleasure doing business with you, my lord,” said the captain, grinning. He started to offer his hand, but wincing, he thought better of it. “Though I must admit it was a deucedly harder bet to win than I anticipated.”

“A compliment, indeed,” said Lord St. John. “Will you join us for breakfast? We’ve bespoken a table at the small inn up the road.”

“Thank you, my lord. We will be happy to do so,” said Captain Hargrove, speaking for himself and his second, Mr. Conrad Dennard.

The gentlemen separated to their various carriages. Lord St. John shook out the reins of his phaeton, while Lord Heatherton got up into it, and then set out with a flourish of his whip. Captain Hargrove and Mr. Dennard followed in a barouche. The good doctor left in his gig, shaking his head over the so-called intelligence of well-bred gentlemen who thought nothing of an illegal sword duel at dawn to settle a bet.

Lord St. John breakfasted with his three companions. Then taking leave of Captain Hargrove and Mr. Dennard, he returned to town with Lord Heatherton. After dropping Lord Heatherton at their club, he whiled away the day by making a few social calls, boxing a few rounds at Gentleman Jackson’s saloon, and buying a new horse at Tatter-sails. In the evening he attended the theater in the company of a slightly scandalous lady, whose widow’s weeds did not prevent her from indulging in a heavy flirtation. The viscount was not adverse to pursuing a more intimate acquaintance with the lady and accepted her invitation to come up for a late coffee when he had escorted her to her door.

It was after midnight when Lord St. John left the lady’s town house. Restless and not inclined to return home, he went to his club, where he eventually found himself involved in a card game with a gentleman whom he detested. Perhaps at any other time Lord St. John would have quietly folded and relinquished his place at the table. However, Sir Nigel Smythe was known as a regular card shark and that evening he had already made several remarks touting himself every bit as good as his reputation had painted him.

Lord St. John found the gentleman’s boasts distasteful. He was not precisely a gamester himself, but he did possess an extraordinary affinity for the cards. He could not resist the temptation to pit his skill against the man, with the object of serving the gentleman just such a defeat as he was all too willing to dispense to others. One by one the other gentlemen at the table gradually realized that the game had become a contest and withdrew, leaving the viscount and the self-proclaimed card shark to it. The news swiftly traveled the club and soon spectators stood two deep round the table.

Lord St. John surveyed his cards with boredom. He sprawled in his chair in a careless fashion, his thin lips curled in a lazy half-smile. A small pile of coins and scribbled vowels sat next to his elbow. Beside his other hand was a half-full wineglass.

“Well, my lord?” His opponent’s voice was impatient, almost eager. “What is it to be?”

Lord St. John lifted his gaze to stare at his opponent’s smirking expression. He smiled, slowly and mockingly. Without a word he pushed the entire pile of coins and vowels to the center of the table.

Sir Nigel Smythe’s eyes momentarily bulged. Then his face turned expressionless. He studied his cards again.

There was a guffaw from one of the gentlemen ringing the table. “Weemswood has called your bluff, Sir Nigel.”

The baronet flushed. “We shall see which of us is bluffing,” he snapped. He pushed his own measure of coins to add to the pile already in the middle of the green baize. He spread out his cards. “Your cards, my lord!”

Lord St. John laid his cards down. Sir Nigel and the spectators craned to look at the viscount’s hand. Then laughter rose again.

A gentleman clapped Lord St. John on the shoulder. “Well done, Sinjin! Oh, well done!”

The baronet’s mouth stretched in a tight smile. “Indeed, my lord. It was extremely well-done.” The acknowledgment was grudging but with scarce-veiled anger.

Lord St. John smiled again, mockingly. “The game is done, Sir Nigel,” he said softly.

Sir Nigel swept what little he had left of his winnings into his pockets and left the table. The spectators drifted away, while the viscount’s friend dropped into the chair vacated by the baronet. Mr. Carey Underwood gestured at the viscount’s winnings. “You’ve a small fortune there, Sinjin.”

Lord St. John shrugged. He tossed off what was left of his wine. When he looked across the table to meet his friend’s eyes, he said, “A fortune tonight or penniless tomorrow. It’s all one to me, Carey.”

Mr. Underwood frowned slightly. “You’ve a damned uncaring outlook, Sinjin.”

Lord St. John laughed quietly. “Uncaring, Carey? Hardly that. It is boredom, my friend, nothing more. I cannot recall when I last felt anything but this deplorable ennui. The turn of the cards, a horse race, a woman—these are temporary respites at best. Pleasurable but all too fleeting.”

He abruptly stood up, regretting his revealing confidence. “I’ve enough of gaming this night. My head needs clearing of brandy fumes.”

“I’ll walk with you,” said Mr. Underwood, also rising. He caught the viscount’s forearm as that gentleman turned away from the table. “Sinjin, your winnings.”

Lord St. John smiled crookedly. “I had forgotten. I must be more disguised than I thought.” He swept up the heavy coins and vowels into his coat pockets. With a grimace, he observed, “I am weighted down like a millwright.”

“All the more reason for me to walk with you. Footpads are not as likely to take on two gentlemen,” said Mr. Underwood.

The gentlemen left the club and, followed by the porter’s “good night,” sauntered down the sidewalk. The driver of a hackney called to them, offering to take them up, but Lord St. John waved the carriage off.

“That fellow Hargrove has been talking up the wager he won from you all day. It seems the fellow stands in considerable admiration of your courage and skill,” said Mr. Underwood.

Lord St. John laughed somewhat sardonically. ‘The captain has reason to be generous. An inordinate sum passed from my hands to his this morning.”

“Then I am glad that I did not hear of the duel until I returned to town. It would have annoyed me to have lost on the outcome,” said Mr. Underwood.

“Your loyalty warms my heart,” said Lord St. John with heavy irony.

The gentlemen continued down the walk in companionable silence, finally broken by Lord St. John. “I am something of a fool, Carey,” he observed dispassionately. He paused on the curb, lifting his heated brow to the cool night air. His eyes closing, he murmured, “ ‘Vanity, vanity, all is vanity.’“

“What was that, Sinjin?”

Lord St. John opened his eyes and shook his head. “I was but recalling the text of a sermon I once heard. Strange how the most unexpected memories come back to tease one’s mind.”

“Sermon?” Mr. Underwood stared at his friend. “You in church, Sinjin?”

“I do occasionally attend for the sake of my immortal soul.”

At Mr. Underwood’s expression, Lord St. John laughed and clapped his palm against Mr. Underwood’s shoulder. “Absolve me of false piety, my friend. The last time I stepped foot inside hallowed walls was at the insistence of the duke. I suspect the text on that particular occasion was chosen specifically for my benefit. His grace disapproves of my extravagances and heedless hedonism. In any event, the sermon was from Ecclesiastes, which teaches that, absent God, everything in life is fleeting and without meaning.”

“Good God!” said Mr. Underwood blankly.

Lord St. John gave a crack of laughter. “Exactly! You should make certain that I get home this evening, or rather, this morning, Carey. I have the most lowering suspicion that I am four sheets to the wind.”

“At least, if you are mulling over a sermon,” agreed Mr. Underwood. Following his own train of thought to its logical conclusion, he asked, “Do you go to see his grace, then?”

Lord St. John grimaced. “Aye, today. I have not yet made my quarterly pilgrimage, having put it off until the duke’s communications have become quite pointed.”

“A pity that the old tartar does not kick up his toes and leave you in peace. Bad
ton,
that’s what it is,” said Mr. Underwood darkly,

“You’re drunk, too, Carey,” said Lord St. John.

“Well, it ain’t natural that his grace should last this long. No, nor that he should possess that fine ladybird. What the devil does that gorgeous female see in that old reprobate?” said Mr. Underwood.

Lord St. John’s smile twisted. “I suspect that in the lady’s eyes the title overrides the duke’s obvious octogenarian infirmities.”

Mr. Underwood digested the viscount’s statement for a moment. He shook his head in true regret. “Women are fickle creatures at best. There is no depending upon their loyalty. Why, I have myself enticed several ladybirds away from their previous protectors. The pretty creatures, for all their softer attributes, all have a sharp nose for gain.”

“You would know better than I,” said Lord St. John indifferently.

“Aye, I’ve a vast experience with the females,” Mr. Underwood agreed with modesty. “It’s a pity that you have not a portion of my charm, Sinjin. You could have lured that luscious little piece out from under the duke’s long nose long before this.”

“You forget, Carey”—Lord St. John yawned, with scarce interest in the conversation.—”the title.”

Mr. Underwood wagged his finger. “You mistake my meaning, Sinjin. One tryst, followed by the duke’s discovery of same, and in the blink of an eye the lady would be cast out the door. She’d be willing to take up with you then.”