Miss Darby's Duenna (18 page)

Once inside, it became evident that the marquess had put a great deal of advance preparation into his revenge. The taproom was empty, and the innkeeper was nowhere in sight, but Mannerly led his lady unerringly up a steep flight of narrow stairs to a bedchamber where a fire was already burning. Georgina’s hackles rose as she noted that the bed was turned down.

Mannerly closed the door and turned the key in the lock, then removed his domino and cast it over the back of a chair. “Now then, my dear,” he said, advancing toward Georgina, “shall we get on with it?”

“My lord, there is—something you should know—” she stammered, backing away from him.

“I shall know all I need very shortly,” said he, dismissing her concerns. “Come, Miss Darby, a bargain is a bargain.”

He plucked at the strings of her domino, and the white satin hood fell away to reveal Georgina Hawthorne, her coppery curls aglow in the firelight.

“Good God!” uttered the marquess.

While her captor was momentarily bereft of speech, Georgina took a deep breath and launched into her prepared sermon. “My lord, I must beg you to reconsider a course of action which you will ultimately live to regret—”

“Have no fear,” said Mannerly, cutting short this homily. “I draw the line at kidnapping children fresh from the schoolroom!”

Somehow Georgina found this unflattering assessment even more offensive than all the marquess’s other sins combined. “I am not a child, and I have been out of the schoolroom for almost a year!”

“A female Methuselah, in fact,” observed the marquess wryly. “At any rate, it would never do for you to be discovered here with me. Put your domino back on, and I will endeavor to return you to Vauxhall without anyone being the wiser.”

Georgina should have been vastly pleased to have succeeded in her mission so easily, but instead, she found herself oddly reluctant to end the
tête-à-tête.
“First you must tell me, my lord. What did he do?”

Lord Mannerly had picked up Georgina’s domino where it lay on the floor and was in the act of placing it across her shoulders when he froze, baffled by the apparent
non sequitur.
“I beg your pardon?”

“What did Harry do, to make you so thirsty for revenge?”

He knew he should tell her it was not a fit story for a lady’s ears, but something about the wide hazel eyes gazing expectantly up at him required an answer.

“It is a long story. As might be expected, it involves a woman.”

“Olivia?”

“I said a woman, not a lady.”

“Oh,” said Georgina, pondering this disclosure with mixed emotions. “And she preferred Harry?”

The marquess winced. “That, my child, is the unkindest cut of all! As a matter of fact, your brother effectively removed me from the lists by the simple expedient of emptying a glass of Madeira over my head.”

“Well! I must say, I think that very shabby of him.”

“In all fairness to Sir Harry, I do not believe malice was his intent. It was an accident. Miss Hawthorne.”

As a new thought occurred to her, Georgina fixed her gaze on the diamond winking in the marquess’s immaculate cravat. “If you have gone to such extremes to avenge an accident, my lord, you must—you must have loved her very much.”

Mannerly looked nonplussed at the very suggestion. “Loved her? In truth, Miss Hawthorne, I can hardly remember what she looked like. It was the loss of my dignity which I could not allow to go unchallenged.”

All Georgina’s sympathy for the marquess instantly evaporated. “And you are prepared to ruin Harry—yes, and Olivia too!—because of an imagined blow to your
pride!
Well! I daresay if I had a glass of Madeira at hand, I should be tempted to pour it over you myself!”

This was not at all the response the marquess had expected. “Now, see here, my girl—”

“Oh, I see it all too clearly! You, my lord, are nothing but an arrogant popinjay!”

“Indeed? Then give me leave to inform
you,
miss, that you are a self-righteous hypocrite, and if you intend to wed that vicar of yours, you had best learn to distinguish between play-acting piety and the real thing!”

Thus Selwyn St. George, fifth marquess of Mannerly, indulging in a bout of name-calling with a girl barely out of the schoolroom. Instantly the fire went out of Georgina’s flashing eyes, only to be replaced by tears.

“Here, now!” protested the marquess, dismayed. “I should never have said such a thing—I beg your pardon!”

“N-no, no, y-you are quite right,” sniffed Georgina. “I—I fear I am not a—a suitable wife for a minister, after all.”

Lord Mannerly could not have said why he should find this admission so satisfying, but observing with interest her quivering lower lip and the swift rise and fall of her bosom, he silently conceded that his dismissal of Georgina as a mere schoolgirl, and therefore beneath his notice, was in error. But before he could pursue this novel idea to any sort of a conclusion, a disturbance below recalled his attention to the matter at hand.

“Good heavens!” cried Georgina, similarly distracted. “What is that?”

“That, if I mistake not,” said the marquess with a world-weary sigh, “is your rescuer.”

Admonishing Georgina to remain out of sight in the bedchamber, Lord Mannerly left the room and descended the staircase to find a very vocal Sir Harry in full evening attire of tailcoat and pantaloons, demanding from the innkeeper the whereabouts of a tall masked gentleman accompanied by a lady in a white domino. The innkeeper, who had been well paid for his silence, was denying all knowledge of any such persons when Mannerly, without ever raising his voice, interrupted his protestations.

“Good evening, Hawthorne,” said the marquess smoothly. “How may I be of service to you?”

Sir Harry looked up and beheld his nemesis standing on the stairs. “You have something that belongs to me,” he informed the marquess bluntly. “I want it back.”

“May I suggest we discuss this in the private parlor, away from inquisitive ears?” Lord Mannerly gestured toward a door leading from the taproom.

Seeing that they were indeed the object of several curious stares, Sir Harry nodded his acquiescence, and led the way to this chamber. Here, too, a fire burned cheerfully in the grate, and over the mantle were hung the two burnished swords from which the hostelry derived its name. Lord Mannerly entered the room in Sir Harry’s wake and closed the door behind him.

“All right, Mannerly, where is she?” demanded Sir Harry, eyeing his adversary through narrowed eyes that glittered dangerously.

Lord Mannerly, seeing the intensity in the look being leveled upon him, judged that the violence of feeling in those eyes transcended mere sibling devotion.

“Ah!” he exclaimed as one enlightened. “Am I to understand that you desire the return of the fair Olivia?”

‘“Miss Darby,’ to you,” retorted Sir Harry through clenched teeth.

The marquess shrugged. “As you wish. Unfortunately, I am powerless to assist you. So far as I know, Miss Darby is at Vauxhall Gardens,” he added, adhering to the letter of truth if not its spirit.

“Liar!” spat Sir Harry, striding to the fireplace and laying hands on the swords that hung over the mantle. “By God, Mannerly, you have been the thorn in my side just long enough!  You will give me satisfaction, sir!”

“I am, of course, yours to command.”

Sir Harry tossed one of the swords to the marquess, who caught it by the hilt. Divesting themselves of coats and gloves was the work of a minute, as was joining in the rare cooperative effort of shoving the furniture back against the wall. At last ready to begin, the two combatants faced one another, teasing each other with the tips of their blades, until Sir Harry made the first thrust and the battle was joined in earnest. For the next several minutes there was no sound but the ringing of steel on steel and the labored breathing of the participants. Sir Harry had not the benefit of the French fencing master which the marquess had enjoyed in his younger days, but he had all the advantages of youth and purpose in his favor, and the marquess, parrying his thrusts, was forced to admit a certain grudging respect for his foe.

Georgina, meanwhile, was left alone in the upstairs bedchamber with nothing to do but listen for sounds of any activity from below. Upon hearing her brother’s voice, she had forced herself to remain above, trusting Lord Mannerly to settle the matter quietly and return her to Vauxhall—or to her brother—as he had promised. But when the steely clash of swords met her ears, she realized that the interview had taken a very different turn. She hurried down the stairs and followed the sound to the private parlor opening off the public taproom. Finding herself locked out, she pounded on the door, calling first her brother’s name and then Mannerly’s, but it was doubtful whether the two men, intent upon their duel, ever heard her cries.  In desperation, she turned to the innkeeper for assistance.

Although he had been well compensated by the marquess for his silence, that astute businessman reasoned that the shedding of blood upon the new cut-pile Wilton carpet (for which he had just paid all of four shillings the yard) was not reckoned to be part of the bargain. Producing a key from a drawer behind the bar, he inserted it into the keyhole, and a moment later the door was open.

“Gentlemen, please, stop this at once!” beseeched their host.

“Harry, you’ll kill him!” shrieked Georgina.

“Well, what the devil do you think he’s trying to do to me?” panted Sir Harry, too intent on avoiding the marquess’s flashing blade to question his sister’s presence in a place where she had no business being.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen—”

“Harry! Lord Mannerly,
please
!”

But the combatants continued to bob, thrust, and parry, paying no attention to the protestations of their audience. Sir Harry’s strength was beginning to flag, for he had thrown himself into the battle with reckless abandon, whereas the marquess, some twelve years his senior and aware of the limitations that came with age, had paced himself. Indeed, Sir Harry might shortly have been very much the worse for wear, had it not been for the timely arrival of a new player upon the scene.

“Stop this foolishness at once, or I shall send for the constable!” demanded a booming female voice.

Lord Mannerly darted a quick glance at the newcomer and beheld an elderly lady in an outdated powdered wig. Having been long convinced that “Lady Hawthorne” existed solely in the person of the young man on the other end of his sword, the marquess was so astonished at this sight that, for the merest fraction of a second, he relaxed his guard. Sir Harry, to his own surprise as much as Mannerly’s, found his mark, and his point sliced through the marquess’s sleeve up the length of his arm, where it buried itself in his shoulder.

As Mannerly’s immaculate white linen turned crimson with blood, Georgina broke away from the little group clustered about the door and ran to cling to the marquess’s uninjured arm. “Oh, my lord! He has killed you!”

“Nonsense! You overestimate your brother’s skill with a sword, my child,” panted Mannerly, applying his handkerchief to the wound. “ ‘Tis the merest scratch.”

Sir Harry’s sword fell from his nerveless hand as he stared open-mouthed at the spectacle of his sister hanging upon the marquess’s arm.

“Well, Miss Darby, I can tell you were quite right to send for me,” said Lady Hawthorne, surveying the scene with a marked air of disapproval. “Innkeeper, we shall require hot water, and as many sheets as you can spare.”

“Yes, my lady, right away!” As his host bustled off to carry out the dowager’s orders, Sir Harry came to life.

“Grandmama! And Livvy!” Forgetting his wounded adversary and distraught sister, Sir Harry rapidly crossed the room to seize Olivia by the shoulders. “Livvy, darling, are you all right? I thought Mannerly had you!”

“I am fine,” Olivia assured him, clinging to his arms through the thin fabric of his shirt. “I was supposed to have gone with Mannerly, but Georgina somehow found out and—”

“You—would have gone with Mannerly?” Sir Harry echoed bleakly.

“Only for you, Harry. You see, Mannerly found out that you were ‘Lady Hawthorne,’ and he threatened to expose you unless I agreed to—that is, he offered to exchange—” Breaking off in confusion, she fixed her gaze upon the top button of his waistcoat.

“I should have killed him when I had the chance!” growled Sir Harry, glowering at his fallen adversary, who, having been seated in a chair before the fire, was submitting with every appearance of willingness to Georgina’s tender ministrations.

“We shall deal with the marquess shortly,” said Lady Hawthorne, cutting her grandson off before he could act on his more bloodthirsty impulses. “For now, I daresay the two of you have much to say to each other. I shall give you five minutes, but no more—you have strained the bounds of propriety quite enough already.”

With those words, she herded her granddaughter and Mannerly out of the room, advising the marquess to take himself to one of the bedchambers upstairs before he bled all over the carpet. Having emptied the private parlor of all its occupants but two, she firmly shut the door.

Alone with Olivia at last, Sir Harry had so much to say to her that he didn’t know quite where to begin. Of his allotted five minutes, he wasted perhaps ten seconds in stroking his shorn jaw before finding his tongue.

“I don’t know what to say, Livvy, except that you made a bad bargain,” he said at last. “I’m not worth such a sacrifice.”

“I’m sorry about your sidewhiskers, Harry,” Olivia answered, blinking back tears.   “By deliberately flouting your wishes and encouraging Lord Mannerly, I put you in danger. I shall not easily forgive myself for that.”

“You’ve nothing to forgive yourself for,” Sir Harry insisted, possessing himself of her hands. “Livvy, I asked you to marry me once because our parents wished it, and because I wanted a biddable wife who would not interfere with my pleasures. I am asking you now because I find I cannot tolerate the thought of life without you. So for the second time, if you can bring yourself to marry a blind, jealous fool who loves you to distraction, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”