In the Brief Eternal Silence (71 page)

“Damn right you will!” the Squire cried in
belated triumph. Then he turned to Lizzie at his side with a
pleased smile on his face as though he had accomplished a great
deal. “There!” he told her. “I told you I should get you
married.”

She disappointed him with her lack of
gratitude. “Oh, do shut up, father, for I have not forgiven you for
getting me into this mess to begin with!” and she rose from the
settee.

“And where are you going, lass?” her father
asked. “For you look like hell and you can not blame me for
thinking the worst when he brings you home in that condition! And
I'll not have you traipsing off with him again until we have had a
discussion and have set a proper date. Even then, I think he should
leave you here until the wedding day, for I still do not trust the
bugger!”

“I am only going to make coffee,” she
returned from the door. “For my head is fairly splitting with all
this shouting.”

But her father only cried after her, “There's
a cook for that now, ye know, ya damned, bloody, daft girl, and a
maid to bring it in!”

“I do not—” she began, but Ryan came bounding
down the stairs toward her, hastily dressed and a pistol in either
hand.

“Where is he?” he demanded.

And Miss Murdock only said in an aggravated
voice, “If you mean St. James, and I expect you mean no other, I
believe he has gone to the stables.”

Ryan pushed past her and slammed out the
door. She leaned over the banister and shouted up the stairs, “Lord
Tempton! Bertie! You had better come down for your brother is about
to be killed!”

“On my way!” Bertie called, and he came to
the head of the stairs, puffing as he tucked in his shirt. “No
fear, Miss Murdock, I shall handle it!” and then he too shoved out
the door. But he was not alone, for the Squire, still in his soiled
robe and with only a pair of boots shoved upon his swollen feet,
and Andrew, rather better turned out, jounced against each other in
their haste to catch the front door before it slammed and were
outside upon Bertie's heels.

Miss Murdock watched all this activity with
weary detachment, was about to turn again to the kitchens when the
banging of a cane above her forestalled her once again, and she
looked up to see the Dowager, with Soren to one side of her, and
Mrs. Herriot to the other, following as quickly as she was
able.

Miss Murdock watched their descent with
exasperation, and when they reached the bottom and the Duchess
glanced at her with some surprise to see her standing waiting for
her, Miss Murdock merely said, “You take cream in your coffee, do
you not, ma'am?”

“Why, yes, child. Yes, I do,” that old lady
answered.

“Then if you will make yourself comfortable
in the parlor, I shall return momentarily with a tray,” and Miss
Murdock turned to go toward the kitchens as had been her initial
intent upon first getting up that morning.

“Oh, Bloody Hell, What Now!” St. James said
as he turned from conferring with one of several grooms in the
rapidly improving stables. “Yes, young Ryan? Can I be of service to
you?”

Ryan stumbled to a stop in front of him,
panting, secured his pistols and removed his riding gloves from his
pocket, and with as much force as he could muster, slapped St.
James across the face.

Bertie appeared in the door behind Ryan, saw
the red glow of St. James' cheek and the lethal coldness in his
eyes and exclaimed to no one in particular, “Now he's done it! St.
James—”

But St. James snapped, “Name your second! I
should have known I would not get out of here before something like
this occurred.”

“Bertie,” Ryan pronounced.

“Not at all, lad,” that man interrupted with
indignation, “for I have always been St. James' second!”

Ryan turned on him, incredulous. “You are my
brother, I need not remind you!”

“Yes. But he is right, and you, my boy, are
wrong.”

For the briefest of seconds it looked as
though the whole sorry affair would end there, with Ryan looking
helpless to find his way around this sudden roadblock and St. James
only fuming at this further waste of time. But then Andrew, who had
arrived in the midst of this with the Squire not far behind, spoke
up. “I will be your second, Ryan, for if your brother can side with
him, I can certainly side with you, for I believe you to be right,
and he wrong.”

St. James clicked his teeth once in furious
regret. “Let's get on with it then. Squire, you may as well ride
out in a cart to pick up the remains of who falls.”

At this off-hand summation of the
consequences, Ryan's face blanched, but he was well and truly
offended over what he believed the ruination of Miss Murdock and he
would not back down.

“The training track, do you think, St.
James?” Bertie asked. “For then the shots will not be heard at the
house. Or at least, not loudly.”

“No. I haven't the time. We'll have our go in
the lane.” He drew one of his dueling pistols from his coat, handed
it to Bertie, and then with-drew the unmatched third gun also so
that he was left with but one pistol.

Ryan, observing this, relieved himself of his
extra pistol, perceiving that the proper etiquette was one shot to
you and be damned if you missed. Andrew took it a little nervously.
St. James proceeded to check the load in his chosen weapon, and
Ryan followed his lead, but he was so worked up at this point that
he would have hardly noticed if his pistol had been empty instead
of previously loaded.

The Squire hurried away and was heard bawling
for a cart to be hitched to a horse, and St. James, with a single
assessing look at his challenger, only said, “If you are ready,
young Ryan?”

Ryan nodded, his face tight as he held
himself together. He followed the smaller man from the stables as
St. James strode from the entrance and the four of them headed to
the lane.

“Count them off, Bertie,” St. James bade.

“Ten or twenty?” that man asked.

“Ryan? Your choice. Ten paces or twenty?”

“Uh, twenty. If that's all right with
you?”

“It's your show, Ryan, by all means, you
choose,” St. James told him with impatience. “And don't be overlong
about it.”

“Twenty then,” Ryan said with renewed fury.
“And damn you.”

But St. James only said to Bertie, “You heard
him, Bertie. That straight section there beyond that tree should be
adequate.”

And they strode in unison, the two older men,
the two younger men, to beyond the curve in the drive. “You have
handkerchiefs?” Bertie asked St. James.

St. James pulled two out, handed one to Lord
Tempton, who dropped it without fuss on to the road. “You will
stand there, Ryan,” Bertie explained. Then he strode up the lane,
keeping his paces even as he counted off twenty. St. James followed
behind and supplied him the other handkerchief, which Bertie
dropped in the road at the end of his count.

St. James took his mark without looking back
and stood facing away from Ryan.

Ryan, perceiving that they were to wait with
their backs turned, and somehow unnerved that St. James had not
even bothered to look back and appraise the distance between them,
turned hastily around. “What do I do now?” he asked Andrew to his
side.

Andrew, as nervous as Ryan, said, “Devil if I
know! Haven't you done this before?”

“No! He's your cousin. Haven't you ever been
with him when he's done this?” Ryan asked with anxiety.

“No! And why ever did you call him out?
Damned if I would not have had my first go with someone else!”

But Bertie yelled to Andrew and Ryan did not
have a chance to answer but jumped a little at the unexpected
bellow of his brother's voice. “Earl Larrimer! On the count of
three. Which you will start the count, I will continue it, and you
will end it, at which point they will turn and fire. And you had
better step back a bit, by the by, for that is a damned bad place
to be standing!”

And Andrew, flushing, stepped back several
yards from young Ryan Tempton, leaving that man to feel very much
alone. “Luck to you!” he exclaimed.

Twenty paces away, St. James was studying the
field to one side of them and the woods to the other. “Damned bad
timing, this,” he told Bertie.

“I know it, St. James. I had no idea what he
was up to until, as you saw, it was too late. Guess he took your
previous lesson a little too to heart!”

From behind him, St. James heard Andrew shout
out, “One!”

“Ready?” Bertie asked in an undertone.

“Yes. And try not to look so concerned, I
shall try mightily not to kill him outright.”

“I'd appreciate it,” Bertie said and then
shouted, “Two!” and stepped back from the line of fire.

Upon the heels of this second count, Andrew
shouted again, but damningly, he did not say 'three' but instead
exclaimed in sudden outrage, “Those are my bloody pants, damn
it!”

Ryan whirled at Andrew's words and he saw
that St. James turned also, although St. James' demeanor was of one
pushed well beyond endurance with someone else's folly. But before
Ryan could fully appreciate the lack of intent upon his opponent's
face, or the fact that he had not raised his pistol, Ryan had
already fired.

The gunpowder from his pistol stung his
nostrils, and that combined with the recoil of the gun nearly made
him drop his weapon. Andrew screamed beside him, “Bloody Hell,
Ryan! I did not say three, damn it!”

“Oh,” Ryan said foolishly. “I say, is he all
right?”

Andrew peered through the dissipating smoke,
said through clenched teeth, “No, by God, he isn't for he is
doubled over and clutching his stomach!”

“Oh, God! Gut shot!” Ryan said with horror.
They both broke from their frozen, shocked stances and ran down the
lane, expecting St. James to drop to his knees as they neared him
and to lie dying in horrible pain upon the lane.

But as they drew closer, their running
slowed, and they were both more angered than relieved to find that
although he was doubled over and clutching his stomach, he had not
been shot, but was laughing until the tears streamed down his face,
and that Bertie was laughing as hard, and had picked up the
handkerchief that had been at St. James' feet and was wiping his
face with the dusty folds of it.

“I had wondered,” St. James gasped as he
tried to recover himself, “where Steven had gotten those
breeches!”

And Andrew, recalling what had distracted him
to the degree that he had miscounted, looked to where he had caught
sight of that lad, who had moved closer at this turn of events, and
exclaimed hotly, “Yes, by God! The little heathen has stolen my
pants, and they were quite the best pair I owned! And look at what
he has done to them, for not only are they dirty beyond cleaning,
they are sheared off and will never fit again.”

Steven, with wide gray eyes, said, “Aye, I'm
sorry, m'lord, but I awoke without me own, and never have I been
able t'ken what happened to 'em.”

Ryan turned with fury on Andrew. “You nearly
made me kill him, damn you, for you could not even keep your mind
upon the count. And I would have been a murderer, thanks to
you!”

“I say!” Andrew defended himself. “T'is up to
you to wait until the count of three! Don't blame me if you were so
nervous that you jumped the count!”

St. James, still laughing, but at last able
to stand erect, asked, “Care for another go, Ryan?”

“No, by God, I don't!” Ryan said with
ill-grace. “For I have had quite enough, with you and my own
brother laughing your fool heads off at me!”

“Very well, Ryan,” St. James agreed, trying
to curb his amusement. “Let us just chalk it up as another lesson
learned, shall we, and no hard feelings? For if you had only asked,
you would have learned that Miss Murdock is quite unharmed and that
the banns of our engagement were posted in yesterday's
newspaper.”

“Oh,” Ryan said. “But I was only following
your advice!”

“I generally recommend that you apprise
yourself of all the facts before you go off in a dudgeon, but I
must have missed that point,” St. James explained.

But Steven interrupted. “Pardon, m'lord, but
I've come to fetch you, for Tyler lies an hour back on t'road, an'
I don't know how long he will last without help.”

“Damn it!” St. James said, his amusement gone
and all his attention now on the boy. “How bad, Steven?”

“Don't think too bad, m'lord, but he's in
pain, and bleedin' an' unable to ride further.”

St. James closed his eyes for one second.
Then they snapped open and he said, “Is your horse blown, lad?”

“Aye. I rode 'im 'til he was on his knees an'
left 'im a mile back.”

“To the stables, then,” St. James said and
turned in that direction. Bertie followed and, after a second's
hesitation, Andrew and Ryan hurried to catch up. They met the
Squire a dozen yards up the lane with the cart and horse. “Very
good,” St. James nodded. “Steven, can you drive it?”

“Aye. Think I can.”

“Then up you go, lad, and Squire, you'd best
get down.”

“We're going with you,” Ryan told him.

“No. You're not,” and he turned long enough
to pierce them both with his gold eyes. “You're to remain here and
make sure that no harm comes to Miss Murdock. You, also, Bertie,
for after this display out here, I think they are as likely to
shoot each other as they are any attacker and will need someone to
show them the ropes.”

“You're going alone then?” Bertie asked.

“Yes. Steven will get Tyler with the cart,
and I will take care of these two remaining threats before they
cause more trouble, damn them!” They reached the stables and St.
James continued, “Ryan, which is your horse, for mine is in no
condition after being ridden hard all night.”

Ryan sped down the aisle until he located his
horse, St. James upon his heels. When they reached the proper
stall, St. James threw open the door. “Fetch the tack, Ryan,” and
if he were cursing the fact that he had not Tyler with him who knew
his every move, nearly, before he made it, he made no indication of
it, only went about his business with a tired and singular
purpose.