Elizabeth was sorry, also, for a great many things. “Who is she?” she asked quietly. “Other than St. Claire’s paramour.”
The duchess should have kicked Augusta harder. Gus should have kicked herself. She sat down beside Elizabeth on the sofa and took her hand. “Her name is Meloney Smythe-Litton. She is a dashing young widow who has been in Justin’s keeping for some time. Meloney is not important. She is but the favorite of the moment. You know how gentlemen are.”
If she didn’t, she was finding out. How foolish Elizabeth had been to hope she could attract her husband’s attention by putting on a pretty dress. Mr. Melchers would have been kinder to inform her that she couldn’t attract her husband’s attention if she ran naked through the streets.
Magda entered the drawing room, followed by a footman with a tray of refreshments, and another armed with burnt feathers, hartshorn, and vinaigrette. “This is a pretty kettle of fish. Saint is furious with Conor for luring Elizabeth into a gaming hell.”
“It’s hardly Melchers’ fault.” Gus waved a vinaigrette under Elizabeth’s nose. “We followed you there.”
“And set the cat among the pigeons.” Magda sat down in front of the teapot, and began to pour. “What were you thinking, to take Elizabeth into such a place?”
Augusta accepted a cup of tea. “What were
you
thinking, to go there yourself?”
Magda shrugged and selected a macaroon and an almond cake from the pastry plate. “I go where I please. Since you are so determined to know, I went to see Sir Charles.”
Elizabeth sneezed, and set aside Gus’s vinaigrette. “
My
Sir Charles?”
Magda popped the macaroon into her mouth. “It’s not what you imagine
.
But your Maman would not approve.”
Elizabeth suspiciously eyed Madame, so lush and devious and stuffed with pastries. “You’re not wearing your cameo.”
Magda removed a second almond cake from the tray. “The cameo was never mine.
Ah ça!
We have more important things to discuss. By morning all the world will know that Saint’s bride discovered him in Catterick’s with his
petite amie.”
So much for convincing the world that theirs had been a love match. “St. Clair is going to divorce me,” Elizabeth said gloomily.
Magda patted her knee, leaving pastry crumbs on the thin muslin. “Things may be in a bad case, but Saint will not divorce you.”
Elizabeth was in no mood for consolation. “How can you be so certain? He divorced
you.”
“That was because she had run off with Conor,” volunteered Augusta. “Poor Justin had no choice.”
“Conor?” echoed Elizabeth.
Magda bit into the ratafia. “You are startled
.
I can see it.
Hélas,
I cannot help but recall poor Armand.”
“Armand?” Elizabeth wondered just how many times Magda had eloped. “Who is Armand, and what has he to do with this, pray?”
Magda licked her fingers. “Armand met his end in an
affaire d’ honneur.
He was very jealous. As was
cher
Christienne. I was desolated,
naturellement.”
Though aware of Madame’s history with Mr. Melchers, Augusta was confused. “You said your husband’s name was Jules.”
Magda inspected the pastries still remaining on the tray.
“Oui.
Jules was guillotined.”
Elizabeth reached for the burnt feathers. “I don’t understand. Both Armand and Christienne died in duels?”
“They died in the same duel. And all over a simple kiss. But that is far and far off! The question is, what are
you
going to do?”
Elizabeth blinked. “Do about what?”
Magda threw up her hands in exasperation.
“Mon Dieu!
Will you stand there and let them blow each other’s brains out? Or maybe you will be more fortunate than I and one will delope. Which will it be, I wonder? Saint is the more honorable, but Conor holds you in genuine fondness and for that reason probably will not blow out Saint’s brains, in which case Saint will probably blow out his!”
Lady Augusta sighed. “You are trying to tell us something, Magda? Pray be less obscure.”
“I am not at all obscure,
chérie.
You are not listening. Elizabeth would not like being a widow. She has not yet learned to like being a wife.” Magda made another selection from the tray.
Nor did Elizabeth like being toyed with. “Are you telling us that St. Clair and Melchers are going to fight a duel?”
Magda bit into an almond cake. “They will meet at dawn. At Kingsdown on the outskirts of Bath.” Augusta moaned and groped for the hartshorn.
St. Clair and Mr. Melchers would fight a duel. One of them would be wounded, if not worse. If not both. And all because Elizabeth had wished to show her husband some fondness. Said the duchess, “Damn and blast!”
Chapter 24
“No circumstance, however trifling, which strengthens the bonds of an honorable and mutual attraction should be ignored.”
—Lady Ratchett
The plateau atop Kingdown Hill commanded a lovely peaceful view of noble trees and rolling green hills dotted about with farmhouses and sheep. Some five miles in the distance in one direction lay the city of Bath, while the opposite side of the hill faced eastward toward Box. Along the hillside stretched a village, several of the homes quarried from the local limestone rock. The local pub perched so precariously on the slope that it was secured by chains.
The pub was not open at this early hour, as the first fingers of light inched their way across the sky, and two carriages rattled along the road to the heights, where a herd of grazing sheep were enjoying the emerging view. The carriages drew to a halt. Mr. Melchers emerged from one vehicle. Unenthusiastically, he observed the brightening sky. “This is curst uncivilized,” he said, for the second time in as many days.
From the second carriage descended the Duke of Charnwood, followed by Nigel Slyte. The duke looked murderous. This expression was due less to the earliness of the hour than to the circumstance that Mr. Slyte was engaged in reciting the twenty-seven rigid rules which governed a dueling event. It had been Mr. Melchers’ prerogative, as the challenged party, to make the choice of weapons. Since Mr. Melchers had opted for fisticuffs, the duke was consequently unable to utilize either his excellent dueling pistols or a sword. If it was not at all the thing to settle an affair of honor in such a manner, neither was Mr. Melchers the thing. The gentlemen had dispensed with the nuisance of seconds. St. Clair stripped off his coat.
Nigel drew out a flask. “Whiskey anyone? It’s damned cold out here. No? Excellent. That means more left for me. I can see that you are anxious to bludgeon one another. You will please remember Broughton’s rules. No hitting below the belt. Wrestling holds not allowed below the waist. No hitting or kicking an opponent who is down. I don’t suppose I can persuade either of you to call off the business?” Hopefully, he paused.
St. Clair and Mr. Melchers glared at one another. Nigel shrugged. Flask in hand, he chose a well-situated boulder, and sat back to watch the mill. Though Nigel was not addicted to sport himself, he had in honor of the occasion scanned Mendoza’s
Art of Boxing,
not that said art had stood the champion in particularly good stead when Gentleman Jackson grabbed him with one hand and beat him senseless with the other and took away his crown. Also in honor of the occasion, Mr. Slyte was dressed in funereal black.
“You’re set on this?” inquired Mr. Melchers, as he took off his own coat. “You might recall that this won’t be the first time I’ve given you your bastings, Saint.”
“Tongue-valiant, aren’t you?” inquired the duke, as he unbuttoned his shirt. “
I
haven’t spent the last twenty years drowning myself in dissipation. No, I will give you
your
bastings, and you will take a fancy to someone else’s wife and leave mine alone.”
“You are rapidly becoming a bore on that subject.” Mr. Melchers pulled off his cravat. “Your wife has a level head on her shoulders. You, however, are a chowderbrain.”
Justin yanked off his cravat and dropped it on the grass. “Gobblecock!” he snapped, and raised his fists. Mr. Slyte explained to an inquisitive ewe that this would be no rough and tumble turn-up, but a scientific application of the manly art of self-defense. Short, choppy blows delivered with the swiftness of lightning. A crushing blow to the jugular delivered with the full force of the arm shot horizontally from the shoulder. The gentlemen would stand up for a round or two until one cracked the other’s napper, after which they would all shake hands and go home.
The men circled, trading insults. The terms ‘knock-in-the-cradle,’ ‘cabbage-head,” and ‘fatwit’ were employed. St. Clair was a proper man with his fists, Nigel informed the ewe, as he took another swig of whiskey; while Melchers had a handy set of fives. In height and build and science they were excellently well-matched, although their footwork was likely to be complicated by the presence of copious amounts of sheep dung.
“Stifle it, Nigel!” snapped the duke, mid-jab. “I’m sorry I ever saved you from drowning. I should have let you fall through the ice.”
“You
did
let me fall out of that tree!” Nigel pointed out. “I still have the scar.”
Mr. Melchers ducked, and circled. “And I still have the scar from when
you
hit me with that stick.”
“I was searching for the Holy Grail. Saint was King Arthur, and you were Lancelot, and I was Sir Galahad.” Nigel waved the flask, and explained to the sheep: “Conor got the girl. Conor always got the girl. I never
had
a girl, which is probably a good thing, because Conor would have taken her away from me also. As it was, he locked me in the feed shed. I might have died there and been a mouldering skeleton by now if one of the grooms hadn’t set out to swive the kitchen maid.”
St. Clair swung a good roundhouse right and missed. Conor protested, “You had Gus.” Nigel shuddered, and made application to his flask. “Fighting hurts,” Conor added, as he got in a good body blow. “You don’t really want to hurt me, Saint.”
“Who says I don’t?” inquired St. Clair, as he cuffed Mr. Melchers smartly on the ear. “You’ve been taking things away from me since we were nine years old. I’m sick to death of it.”
“You always had the best of everything.” Mr. Melchers feinted with his left. “And you were never inclined to share. I find it interesting that you never made any effort to stop me taking things away from you until now. One might conclude you have a fondness for your bride.”
“Fondness or not, I intend to keep her!” snapped the duke, just as Mr. Melchers’ fist connected with his face. “Dammit, I think you broke my nose!”
“I knew I should have bet on Melchers,” said Nigel to the ewe. “Saint is bleeding like a stuck pig.”
Conor lifted his hands. “I didn’t mean to do that. It was an accident, Saint.”
“This isn’t!” said the duke, and popped Mr. Melchers in the eye. Further fisticuffs ensued. By the end of the round, St. Clair’s cork may have been drawn, but Mr. Melchers sported two black eyes and a split lip. “If I ever see you with my wife again,” Justin panted, “I won’t be satisfied with putting out your daylights. I trust I make myself clear.”
“Clear as pudding,” agreed Mr. Melchers. “You’ll carve out my gizzard and serve it up to me on a plate. Here, take this handkerchief and wipe your nose. You are horn-mad, Saint.”
The duke had been reaching for the handkerchief. Upon receiving this provocation, he smote Mr. Melchers in the jaw instead. Mr. Melchers retaliated with a body blow. “Not below the belt, remember!” called out Mr. Slyte, who had by this time imbibed a great deal of whiskey and had one arm draped around the ewe. “No, Saint, you must not kick him. The two of you resemble rustics. Yes, and smell like them!” He began to laugh.
St. Clair and Melchers paused to look at each other. As a man, they moved toward Nigel, grasped him by his arms, and tossed him into an especially large pile of dung. Nigel howled and came up swinging. The sheep paused in their chewing and moved closer to observe the three gentlemen rolling around the hilltop in a tangle of arms and legs.
Hoofbeats thudded, wooden wheels clattered. Combatants and sheep alike paused as a third carriage rattled into view. A magistrate perhaps, sent to break up the affair?
The carriage door swung open. The duchess tumbled out. “Imbeciles! Jingle-brains!” she cried. “Magda said you were going to blow each other’s brains out. Yet here you are, brangling like schoolchildren. Someone will explain before I blow out your brains myself. Get up off the ground!”
With alacrity, the gentlemen sprang to their feet, due less to the fire that shot from the duchess’s fine eyes, or the acid that dripped from her tongue, than the dueling pistol she clutched awkwardly in her right hand. Nigel cleared his throat. “Duchess? The, er, gun?”
Elizabeth pointed the pistol at him. “Stay right there, Mr. Slyte. I made Thornaby give me this gun. Yes, it is loaded and no, I don’t know how to use it, and if you do not stop this stupidity immediately I will blow
all
your brains out. Mr. Melchers did not take me to that gaming hell, St. Clair. Augusta and I followed Magda there. Gus was worried that Magda was in trouble.
I
was worried that Gus might gamble, and I knew you would not like her to. Mr. Melchers was trying to persuade me to leave before I saw you with your ladybird.”
If this was true, Justin might have cause to be grateful to Conor Melchers. He glanced at his old foe. Conor was gazing at Elizabeth with overt admiration. “Magnificent! If you don’t want her, I’ll take her myself, Saint.”
All thought of gratitude flew out of Justin’s head. “Who said I didn’t want her, you sapskull?”
Conor regarded him ironically. “She did.”
“Stop it!” Elizabeth was finding herself a tiny bit distracted by the sight of two gentlemen stripped naked to the waist. Mr. Melchers made a fine figure, even with two black eyes, while St. Clair— Well. The duke was all that was desirable, even with dirt and bits of grass stuck about his person, and blood crusted on his face. “We were talking about your ladybird, St. Clair. Don’t bother to tell me that I shouldn’t know about ladybirds. Or that I am behaving badly, or I have sunk myself below reproach.
Or
that you will cast me off!”