The Bastard (47 page)

She found his powder flask and bullet bag, which she shoved in her pocket. The gun was there, too. Securing it between Henri’s belt and the bare skin of her stomach, she gave her parents one last look, said a silent good-bye, and headed outside.

The soggy grass squished beneath her feet as the long barrel of her father's pistol pressed against her hip and leg, extending almost to her knee. She had nearly achieved St. James’s Square, which was empty this time of night, when she heard a drunken voice singing an old ballad.

Someone was making their way home from the pubs.

Ash trees grew at the side of the road. Her breath misting in front of her, she ducked into them, using the fog for cover as well, while she waited for the stranger to stumble by. But it wasn’t easy to waste the time. She had at least two miles to walk to make the duel site before the baron or the lieutenant arrived.

As soon as the man was gone, she trudged on and on—endlessly, it seemed. Fortunately, Oxford Road was easy to find. So was Lambsdell and the old beech tree with its massive trunk and giant spread of branches.

But how would she watch unobserved? The fog would help cloak her, but she could not rely on that alone. And if she had to hide herself too far away, she would not be in a position to help if something went wrong....

As she circled the beech where the duel was to take place, the snap of a twig brought Jeannette to a halt. She tried to hear beyond the soft rush of her own breathing, listened for the sounds of some small animal, which it probably was, but heard...nothing. Silence reigned, broken only by the sudden trill of a bird.

She was just considering a thick stand of trees as her hiding place—she might be able to view the action despite the thick fog from there—when the ground began to vibrate.

Someone was coming. Moving deeper into the surrounding woods, she found an icy ditch and climbed into it.

Peering over the lip of her hiding place, she caught a glimpse of black through the branches and dense gray of a stormy-looking dawn: the baron’s carriage. It sped so confidently toward her, she began to feel more and more justified in her fear for Treynor’s safety.

“My, you are eager for this meeting with the lieutenant,
monsieur
,” she murmured to herself. “What, exactly, do you have planned?”

The carriage pulled to a stop so close to her hiding place that Jeannette could almost reach out and touch the wheel. She wished she had managed to find a spot a little farther away—something that would give her more room to maneuver, if necessary. But it was too late. She couldn’t risk moving. Not now.

St. Ives’s shoes came into view as he descended from his carriage. Ralston Moore climbed out next. Jeannette recognized him as he walked in front and gazed down the road as if he thought he should be able to see Treynor coming toward them in spite of the fog. Evidently, the solicitor was playing the role of the baron’s second.

“Are you sure this is the place?” Moore rubbed his temples as though trying to relieve a headache.

The baron came to stand next to him. “He can’t miss the tree.”

“But...did you want to get under the branches or—”

“The road is fine. There isn’t a soul around.”

Moore kicked at the ice-hardened mud. “Is it truly needful to go through with this? I mean, certainly there must—”

“There is no other way! This is where Lieutenant Treynor draws his last breath. And I, for one, cannot wait.”

“But—”

“Silence!” St. Ives glared at him, then tossed a glance at his liveried driver and lowered his voice. “Do you think I wanted any part of this? I have no choice. It is all Richard Manville’s fault. If not for him, I would have my wife with child and tucked safely away at Hawthorne House even now.”

Moore shook his head. “But death is so...permanent.”

“Always a good thing to keep in mind.”

“You are not threatening
me
....”

St. Ives lifted his head in an imperious manner. “Merely telling you that your concern is unwarranted. You need only watch—” he smiled “—and report what I told you.”

Moore hesitated, but ultimately acquiesced. “Yes, my lord.”

“Now.” The baron clapped his hands. “My pistols.”

With a sigh, Moore returned to the carriage. When Jeannette saw him next, he was holding a velvet box from which he took two ivory-handled guns. “Here they are.”

“And just in time.” St. Ives gestured toward the road. Two men approached on horseback, coming from the city. Jeannette couldn’t see them, but the clopping of hooves and the whinnying of their horses carried to her ears.

It had to be Treynor. She strained to catch a glimpse of him and the man with him, but the fog was too thick. It wasn’t until he was nearly upon them that she could make him out—and what a vision he made sitting astride his horse, his back straight, his shoulders square, the brass buttons of his uniform shining despite the dull, overcast sky. Bosun Hawker was his second. Although they appeared at ease, there was a predatory awareness about them that made Jeannette feel slightly reassured. Had they gotten the message?

There was no way to be sure....

Treynor’s eyes scanned the dark, foggy woods on either side of him, causing Jeannette to hunch down. “I see you have chosen a spot with plenty of cover,” he said as soon as they were close enough for him to speak. “Somehow, I thought you might.”

The baron didn’t respond to his sarcasm. “This need not take long.” He walked to meet the lieutenant, his steps jerky without the aid of his cane.

“It need not take place at all,” Treynor responded. “I have no desire to kill an old man who is ill-equipped to face me.”

St. Ives’ voice revealed his eagerness. “I have had my share of success with a pistol. Take heed for your own hide, Lieutenant Treynor. Your minutes on this earth are numbered.”

Treynor chuckled, but didn’t get off his horse. “Is there no way to talk you out of this madness?”

“My lord, it might serve you well to listen—” Moore started. Jeannette could tell he was hopeful the duel would be canceled, but St. Ives squelched any talk of forgoing the bloodshed.

“A pity my wife is not here to see what a sniveling coward you really are,” he snapped at Treynor and Moore’s shoulders slumped in defeat.

Bosun Hawker mumbled something, and he and Treynor dismounted.

Jeannette crawled down the ditch, trying to get a better view, but the rustling of her movements sounded far too loud. Afraid the foursome would turn and see her, or at least investigate, she held still.

They didn’t even glance over.

The cumbersome gun wedged inside her belt poked into her stomach, which was uncomfortable. She was just reaching for it when she sensed that she had company and froze. Someone or something had come up from behind. Who or what? St. Ives, Ralston Moore, Bosun Hawker, and Treynor were already marking off their paces, oblivious to her presence.

The hair on the back of her neck rose as she braved a glance over her shoulder. Sir Thomas, the baron’s filthy-minded friend, crouched beside her, wearing a sinister smile beneath the shadow of his big nose. The other man she’d met at her wedding, Desmond Something if she remembered right. He crept out of the fog on her other side, trapping her between them. Bringing a pistol into view, Sir Thomas pointed it at her head and motioned her to silence.

Jeannette began to sweat despite the cold, damp air as Desmond put a hand on her shoulder to hold her in place.

“Four...five...six...” Moore counted as Treynor and the baron walked.

Jeannette watched the men move apart. According to the rules set by their seconds, at ten, they would turn and shoot. Only Treynor would be dead before he could pull the trigger. Sir Thomas was already taking aim.

“Seven...eight...nine...”

Jeannette’s nerves stretched so taut she tingled all over. Taking short, quick breaths, she prayed for the opportunity to do what she must.

Sir Thomas watched the men on the road as carefully as she did, waiting for the right time. She could see his finger tighten on the trigger, knew she had to stop him or Treynor would die, just as St. Ives intended.

As soon as Ralston Moore cried, “Ten!” everything happened at once. Using all the energy she possessed, she broke free from Desmond and knocked Sir Thomas off balance.

His gun exploded in spite of her efforts.

She pulled out her father’s pistol, but several more shots rent the air before she could fire, and Sir Thomas and Desmond both fell.

Scrambling up and out of the ditch, she took no time to wonder who had shot them. Frantically, she looked around for Treynor, half-expecting to find him in a heap on the ground. But he wasn’t dead; he was striding toward his opponent with his gun raised. Amazingly, the baron stood, unhurt, as well.

“Evidently you do not understand the rules of a duel, my lord,” Treynor said. “No doubt the tactics you have employed this morning is how you have won so many.” He motioned for St. Ives to drop his pistol as men from the
Tempest
came out of the foggy thicket behind Jeannette.

The baron complied, his eyes daggers of hate.

“You see,” Treynor continued, “having a hidden accomplice shoot your opponent is against an Englishman’s code of honor. Or, at least, that is what I have been told. But I am just a bastard. Hawker, have you ever heard otherwise?”

“Not me, sir, no.” The bosun held a gun to the frightened Ralston Moore to keep him from going anywhere. “But then I’m not a bloody aristocrat, either. Seems the baron thinks ’e can murder in cold blood whenever it suits ’im.”

“I tried to stop him,” Moore said, his voice filled with regret. “I told him it was wrong.”

The baron sent his solicitor a disgusted glance for this betrayal, one that said he was lower than a dog.

“Fortunately for me, I brought a little insurance,” Treynor said.

“Sorry we was late, Lieutenant.” A pig-tailed sailor dragged a sullen Sir Thomas into the open; another man did the same with Desmond. They’d both been shot and were in a great deal of pain, but they did not seem near death. “We ’ad a ’ell of a time findin’ these blokes after we watched ’em go in. But the lad here—” He nodded at Jeannette, then blinked in surprise when he recognized her. “Blimey! ’Tis Jean Vicard! I mean Lady St. Ives, if ye’ll forgive me language!”

Treynor’s steady gaze pinned Jeannette to the spot where she stood.

She looked down at the gun in her hands, only now remembering that amid her fear and worry, she had forgotten to load and prime it.

“She’s a right brave lass, sir,” said the man at her side.

“That she is,” Treynor acknowledged, but he hardly seemed pleased. “I still say you deserve a good spanking,” he told her. “And I know just the man to give it to you.”

His lips curved into a wry grin that Jeannette answered with one of her own. “Proceed with caution, Lieutenant. This time I am armed.”

“May you both rot in hell!” the baron growled.

Treynor raised a sardonic eyebrow as he turned back to St. Ives and reached into his jacket to withdraw a packet of papers. “I believe you have an agreement to fulfill, sir. I happen to have all the paperwork right here.”

At the mention of a document, Ralston Moore craned his head around to have a better look. “What is it? A confession?”

“It’s a promise to seek an annulment, you idiot.” St. Ives visually checked with his driver as though considering the possibility of escape, but his man sat slack-jawed on the seat, stunned. He definitely didn’t seem to be thinking about going anywhere. Even if he was, the tars surrounding him stepped closer.