Elizabeth Powell (22 page)

She gasped and sat up. Her gaze flew to the space next to her; the indent of Sebastian’s head remained in the pillow, but her husband was gone. Pale yellow light filtered through the opening in the curtains, and suddenly Jane could not breathe.

Dawn. Sebastian’s absence.

The duel.

“Damn you!” she cried, vaulting out of bed. Had he done this on purpose? Had he made love to her so she would still be sleeping and thus out of the way and blissfully ignorant? How dare he! Did he really think he could keep her away?

A scrap of parchment on the bedside table caught her eye. She reached for it, the paper crackling beneath her fingers.

The note fell from Jane’s shaking fingers.

Know that I loved you.

Tears flooded her eyes and spilled over onto her cheeks. He could not have told her last night? He had to share this with her in a
note
, of all things?

He loved her.

She could not let him die!

There was still time to stop this madness. She started toward the door, determined and angry.

And naked.

With a startled yelp, she yanked a sheet from the bed, then twined it around herself. Clutching the material to her chest, she hurried down the hall to her own room, where she all but threw herself into her riding habit.

Her fingers trembled as she did up the buttons; she swore an unladylike oath at her own clumsiness. Her boots likewise conspired against her by refusing to go
on her feet. She took a deep, steadying breath, then concentrated on putting them on properly. Then she grabbed her gloves and, her unbound hair streaming behind her, ran all the way down to the stables.

“Will!” she shouted. “Will, where are you?”

The head groom emerged from the stables and stared at her, openmouthed. Small wonder—she must look like a maenad, all wild hair and wild eyes. “Miss Jane? Is anything wrong?”

She whirled on him. “Where is my husband?”

Will took a step back. “He rode out of here about half an hour ago on Oriole, ma’am, with Mr. Finley and Mr. Monk in the dogcart. Thought it was a mite strange, but—”

“Finley? He is in on this? Did they say where they were going?”

“Something about the stream in the far pasture, but—hey, wait! Miss Jane! What in blazes is going on?”

Jane had already hurtled past him and into the stable, stopping only to grab Tamerlane’s gear from the tack room. The big gray shied when she threw open the door to his stall, but she grabbed his halter and cross-tied him between opposite sides of the stall so he would stand still.

“No time for explanations, old fellow,” she muttered, throwing first the saddle pad, then her sidesaddle, unceremoniously over his broad back. Her shaking fingers fumbled with the buckles on the girth until she was ready to scream with frustration.

“Let me help you, Miss Jane.” Suddenly Will was there—loyal, steadfast Will who had put her on the back of her first pony—his gnarled hands sure and steady.

“Thank you,” Jane said, unable to keep the quaver from her voice.

The saddle secure, Will slipped the bridle over Tamerlane’s head and buckled it into place. Then he led the gelding out of the stable and cupped his hands, waiting.

Jane set one foot in his hands and let him boost her into the saddle.

“Please, Miss Jane, tell me what is happening,” he pleaded.

“Augustus Wingate is going to kill my husband,” she replied through her tears. She kicked her heel against Tamerlane’s flank and took off at a gallop.

“Well, gentlemen, it seems we are all here,” said Mr. Monk. “Are you certain there can be no reconciliation between you?”

“Not unless this greedy, tallow-faced bastard gets down on his knees and apologizes to my wife for all his insults, bullying, and blackmail,” Sebastian replied in a pleasant, conversational tone.

Augustus Wingate flushed. “Go to hell, Langley.”

Sebastian inclined his head in a mocking bow. “After you.”

The seconds inspected the pistols; when they were assured everything was in order, they presented them to the duelists. Sebastian hefted the weapon in his hand. Rays from the rising sun glinted off the blued steel barrel. Soon this would all be over, and, if the Almighty had heard his prayers, he would still be alive.

He thought of Jane, sound asleep in his bed, and grinned. If everything went as he hoped, he could return to join her before she ever woke up. If not… His grin disappeared. If not, then he would go to his grave with
one of the sweetest memories of his life. And Jane would still be safe.

He glanced over at Augustus Wingate, who appeared to be deep in conversation with his second, Sir Roger Ainsley. Sebastian then turned to his own man. His opponent had sneered at Sebastian’s choice, but Mr. Finley had done him a great honor by coming here.

“There is still time to settle this, my lord,” the steward said, his thin face pale and grim.

“You know as well as I that will never happen, sir,” the viscount replied, and pulled the pistol’s hammer back to half cock.

Mr. Finley ran a hand through his shock of grizzled hair. “What shall I tell her?”

Sebastian smiled. “Don’t worry, Finley—I have already said everything she needs to hear.”

“Are you ready, gentlemen?” asked Sir Roger.

“I am,” grunted Wingate. “Let’s get on with it.”

“Indeed,” Sebastian acknowledged, coming to stand back to back with his opponent.

“I shall count off ten paces,” said Sir Roger, “at which point you shall turn and fire one shot each.”

“That will be all I need,” Wingate muttered. “Hope you said your good-byes to your wife, Langley.”

“I’d advise you not be so hasty. You do, after all, present a very large target.”

“Not if I shoot you first.”

Sebastian did not reply, but shifted his hold on his pistol; his hands had grown clammy, and it was difficult to maintain a decent grip.

Sir Roger began the count, and he began to pace accordingly.

“One … two … three … four …”

I love you. Jane. I always will.

“…five …six …seven …eight…nine…”

“No!” someone shouted.

He started to turn around; the report of a pistol startled him. Something struck him hard in the back, knocking the breath from his lungs. Blazing agony followed—his body was on fire. His knees crumpled. The ground rushed toward his face.

Bloody hell
.

Faster, faster!

Jane crouched low over Tamerlane’s neck; her hair whipped about her face, getting into her eyes and mouth, mingling with strands of her gelding’s black mane and the metallic taste of fear. Her heart beat a frantic cadence in time with the horse’s hooves. They soared over hedgerows and fences, disturbing coveys of quail and grouse. The misty morning landscape rushed past in a blur of green; Jane could barely see any of it through the veil of her tears. All that mattered was that she get to the north pasture. Sweat beaded on her forehead.

“Fly, dear heart,” she whispered to the horse.

Dear God, let her get there in time …

The field lay just over the next hill; she urged Tamerlane upward. As they were about to reach the top, the sound of a gunshot pierced her.

Oh—please, no … !

She crested the hill and reined the gelding to a halt. Below her in the field a small cluster of men stood grouped around a single prone figure.

Her pulse pounding in her ears, she strained to see who had fallen.

Then she realized that her husband lay crumpled on
the ground, a bloodstain blooming over his chest like a grotesque flower.

“Sebastian!” The scream tore from her throat like a living thing, and she sagged over the gelding’s neck, weeping.

She had lost him.

A woman’s scream split the air like the cry of a hawk.

Sebastian opened his eyes. What the devil… ? He felt as though he’d been beaten all over with a cricket bat. He tried to sit up. Excruciating pain shot through his shoulder.

Finley restrained him. “Easy, now, my lord, none of that.”

The viscount heard the tumultuous pounding of hooves. Over Finley’s shoulder he saw Jane draw her rangy gelding to a sudden halt. She flung herself from the saddle, her hair flying about her head like a halo, her eyes huge gray pools of anguish, her bloodless lips parted.

“Sebastian?” she wavered.

“Good morning, dearest,” he said woozily, giving her the best grin he could manage. God’s teeth, his shoulder hurt. He saw what remained of her color drain away, and he added, “Finley, I think my wife is about to faint.”

“No, I am not,” she declared, kneeling by his side. She caressed his face, her hands cool against his skin. “Are you in pain? I thought—I thought…”

“The ball went straight through his shoulder,” said Mr.
Talbot brusquely. He finished bandaging the wound. “A clean shot.”

“Then he’ll be all right?” Jane asked, her anxious face upturned.

The surgeon scowled, then nodded once. “He’ll have the arm in a sling for a few weeks, but he should recover. Demmed foolish business, dueling.”

“Thank God,” she murmured, then leaned down and kissed him. If he hadn’t felt so thumpingly awful, Sebastian would have pulled her down against him, but since he did, he had to settle for kissing her back.

“What—happened?” he inquired, when her lips finally left his.

His wife glared at the assembled men. “Yes—what happened?”

Mr. Finley glared at Sebastian’s erstwhile opponent, who stood to one side, weak-kneed and shaking. “This fellow,” he jerked his thumb at Wingate, “turned and fired early.”

“I did not!” Augustus protested. Perspiration plastered his hair to his scalp. “You said ten, Sir Roger. I would swear to it!”

“You turned on nine,” Sir Roger said quietly. “We all saw it, Augustus. There is no excuse.”

“No—no! You said ten. I am certain you said ten,” Wingate babbled. “You are my friend, Sir Roger. Please—”

“I just watched you try to murder a man,” the baronet replied, stern and unsmiling. “I am not sure I know you any more.”

“No—I would never—I just…” Wingate floundered like a drowning man.

Sebastian opened his mouth to utter a scathing retort, but his wife beat him to it.

“You turned early?” she demanded. She rose, noted that Sebastian’s blood stained the sleeve of her riding habit, then focused her stormy gaze on her former betrothed.

Wingate held out a hand to her. “Jane—my darling, you must understand—I did this for you!”

Sebastian snorted. A fresh bolt of pain lanced through him, and he winced.

She bent down and retrieved something from the grass; the viscount recognized his discarded pistol. His discarded, still loaded pistol.

“Now, Miss Jane, don’t do anything hasty,” protested Mr. Finley.

She did not seem to hear him; her eyes drilled into Augustus Wingate.

“You would have murdered my husband, and you have the audacity to claim you did it for me?” she asked, a thread of ice running through her voice. She turned the pistol over in her hands, grasped the pommel, and slipped her finger through the trigger guard.

Wingate paled. “Please… Jane … !”

Her grim expression never wavered. “I should serve you the same way,” she said.

“I’m sorry—I’m sorry—I did not mean—really— oh, God—do not—please!”

Sebastian reached out his good hand. “Jane …”

Jane glared a moment longer at Augustus Wingate, then uncocked the pistol’s hammer and handed the weapon to her steward. “Mr. Finley, I trust you will take care of this. I must see my husband home.”

Wingate fell to his knees, sobbing.

“Good for you,” Sebastian murmured.

“What are we going to do with him?” Finley said,
crossing his arms over his chest and staring at Wingate with undisguised loathing.

“I would have to take him to the magistrate in the next county,” Sir Roger mused, “since Mr. Wingate’s brother-in-law serves in that capacity here. Even so, I am not certain the fellow could protect Augustus, even if he wanted to.”

“I have a better idea,” Sebastian said. Every eye swiveled in his direction. “Here … help me up.”

Jane, the surgeon, and Mr. Finley maneuvered him to his feet. He stood there, swaying, propped against his wife for support.

The viscount met Sir Roger’s gaze. “This man is a bully. He has terrorized the neighborhood with his gossip and his threats, but for all his bravado, he is nothing but a coward. I think a more fitting punishment would be to let the whole county know exactly what happened here this morning.”

“What?” Wingate raised his head, his face pale with horror.

“Would serve him right,” Finley grumbled. “Lots of folks would love to see him brought low.”

Sir Roger gave a grudging nod.

“Word will be all over the county by tomorrow,” Sebastian said to Wingate. “And then every insult, every threat, every malicious piece of gossip will come back to haunt you.”

“What am I supposed to do then?” Augustus demanded petulantly, rising to his feet.

“I hear the continent is nice this time of year,” Sebastian suggested with a lopsided grin. “You will not even have to worry about that Corsican upstart breathing down your neck.” A wave of dizziness crashed over him, and he
swayed heavily against Jane. “I think you had best get me home, my love.”