The Maid of Fairbourne Hall (35 page)

The young man frowned in confusion. “I . . . No, sir. Not that I know of.”

“Did you not recognize his second either?”

“No, sir.”

Nathaniel scoffed. “Was he masked too?”

“No, sir.”

Nathaniel crossed his arms. “He did have a second?”

“Of course. But I didn't know him. Never saw him before.”

“How had Lewis offended the man's honor?” Nathaniel realized he assumed Lewis had been the one to cause offense. Guilt plagued him at thinking ill of his poor brother.

Connor squirmed. A valet was expected to be discreet, to keep his master's secrets. “I don't exactly know, sir. Something about a woman, I believe.”

Yes, that would be it.
Nathaniel flopped into a chair. “Tell me what happened next.”

“The other second and I inspected the weapons. Then they paced off and—”

“Not very many paces, by the looks of it. The surgeon said the shot was made at close range, judging by the wound.”

“I did try to negotiate for more than twelve paces, but the man was adamant. And Mr. Upchurch too proud to insist.”

“Was the duel fought to first blood?”

Connor paled further. “Yes.”

There were two other options, normally negotiated by the seconds—until one man could no longer stand, or to the death. “What then?”

“Well, like I said, the men paced off, turned, and shot. Mr. Upchurch fell.”

“At the first shot?”

“Yes.”

“And you watched to make sure nothing dishonorable happened?”

Connor pressed his lips together. Nathaniel feared the young man might retch. “Yes. I watched.”

“And the other man. Was he injured?”

“No, I don't think so, sir.”

Dash it.

“In any case, he and his second rode away. And when I saw how bad Mr. Upchurch was, I ran to the road and hailed the first wagon that passed.”

“And I thank you for doing so.” Nathaniel inhaled deeply. “You didn't recognize the man, but do you have any guesses? Know of anyone with a grudge against my brother?”

“I don't know, sir.” Connor's face puckered in thought. “I'm not thinking very clearly at the moment.”

Nathaniel sighed. “Of course you're not. Sorry to push you so.” He stood. “Very well, Connor. That will be all for now. If you think of anything else, do let me know.”

“Yes, sir. I am sorry, sir.”

“So am I. But don't despair; he may yet recover.”

“There is hope, then?”

“There is always hope, with God. Though the surgeon holds out little. I have sent for a physician, a friend of my father's. Until he arrives, we can do little but pray.”

Killing in a duel had long been outlawed by the
beginning of the 1800s, but the practice of dueling continued
to be found through the late 19th century, though by
this time duels were rarely fought to the death.

—Caliburn Fencing Club

Chapter 26

N
athaniel had not seen Mr. Saxby all day. But he did join Nathaniel and Helen for a somber dinner that night. Nathaniel asked him nothing during the meal, but when Helen excused herself to return to the sickroom, Nathaniel lingered in the dining room while Lewis's friend sipped his port.

“Do you know anything about the duel?” Nathaniel asked.

Saxby's eyes were steely. “What should I know about it?”

“Did you see Lewis last night after he left the ball?”

“No.”

“Where did he go, do you know?”

Saxby shrugged. “The only thing that would draw Lewis from a room full of ladies is a female more fair—or more willing—somewhere else.”

Nathaniel's anger flared, and Saxby must have seen it. “Come, take no offense, Nate. You know your brother as well as I do. There is no need to saint him while he yet breathes.”

“Do you know the identity of this
fair
lady?”

Saxby sipped. “Never said she was a lady.”

Nathaniel fisted his hand. “Then we are not speaking of Miss Lyons?”

The man's eyes flashed anger of his own. “No, we are not. Not that Lewis hasn't tried his charms in that direction. But that lady prefers a more . . . sophisticated gentleman.”

“Meaning yourself.”

He shrugged and flicked a piece of invisible lint from his coat sleeve. “A gentleman does not like to brag.”

“Then who? Who was she?”

“I don't know her name. Some local chit, I gather.”

Was it really some other woman, or was Saxby trying to cover for Miss Lyons? To save face by not admitting his lover had left the ball—alone at night—with Lewis?

Knowing he might very well say something he regretted if he stayed longer, Nathaniel excused himself and went to join Helen in the sickroom.

Before dawn the next morning, Nathaniel trudged downstairs in his dressing gown to check on Lewis. The chamber nurse, Mrs. Welch, reclined on the settee in the corner, softly snoring. Helen sat on a chair near the foot of the bed. She was bent forward at the waist, her arms folded on the bed, her head on her arms. Asleep. Poor thing had sat there all night.

Lewis lay, unmoving. Yet beneath the bedclothes his bandaged chest rose and fell. His breaths were shallow, but he was still alive. Nathaniel thanked God.

He gently touched his sister's shoulder. “Helen?” he whispered.

“Hmm?” she murmured, eyes flickering open, then widening when she saw him. She pushed up from the bed, her gaze flying to Lewis's face. “Is he . . . ?”

“He's breathing. Go up to bed. I shall get dressed and then sit with him while you sleep.”

“I did sleep,” she protested.

Nathaniel was reminded of when they were children. Helen, small for her age, had always been determined to prove herself as strong and capable as both her older and younger brother. Now, seeing the imprint Helen's sleeve had left on her cheek, he felt tenderness for her tighten his heart.

“Go on,” he gently urged. “Besides, you need your beauty sleep.” He winked. “I shall be down directly. In the meantime, Mrs. Welch will tend him.” He turned his head and said more loudly, “Won't you, Mrs. Welch?”

The older woman sputtered awake, straightening on the settee. “I was only resting me eyes.”

Brother and sister shared wobbly grins.

Nathaniel returned to his room and set about washing and dressing. A knock sounded at his door.

“Enter.”

Connor stepped inside. “I was wonderin', sir.”

“Yes?”

“Would you like a shave? With Mr. Lewis abed, I would consider it an honor to valet for you.”

Nathaniel ran a hand over his bristly jaw. “Very well. Thank you.”

“Don't thank me, sir. I wish there was more I could do.”

A few minutes later, Nathaniel sat before his dressing mirror, face lathered and a white cloth tied at his neck to shroud his clothes. Connor stood, wielding the razor far more deftly than Arnold ever had. The valet tilted Nathaniel's jaw and stroked the straight razor across his whiskered cheek, pausing between strokes to swish the blade in the basin of water.

Connor began, “You told me, sir, to tell you if I thought of anything. . . .”

“About?”

“About the man who shot Mr. Lewis.”

Nathaniel's eyes flashed upward, catching the young man's face in the mirror. “Yes?”

“There is something. I don't like to speak out of turn. . . .”

“Go on.”

“You asked if I knew of anybody who had something against your brother.”

“Yes?”

“I wonder, sir. How well acquainted are you with Mr. Saxby?”

Nathaniel felt his pulse begin to accelerate. “Fairly well. But don't let that hinder you.”

“It's only . . . I do know those two gentlemen argued over a certain lady. A lady they both admired.”

“Miss Lyons?”

“I . . . believe so, sir. Though one tries not to attend to every detail of personal conversations.”

“Of course. Did you hear Saxby threaten Lewis?”

“I wouldn't say threaten exactly. But he did warn him to stay away from her.”

“I see. Are you suggesting the man at Penenden Heath might have been Mr. Saxby?”

“I'm not suggesting anything, sir. It isn't my place. I just thought I should mention it.”

“But you said you didn't recognize his second. You have met Mr. Saxby's valet, I trust, while he's been here?”

“I have, sir. And no, he wasn't the second. I didn't recognize the man.”

“What did the second look like?”

Connor shrugged. “Average looking. Slight. Dark hair. Maybe twenty or a few years older.”

No one came to mind. “And the masked man—what you could see of him?”

“He was well-dressed, sir. A gentleman—that I did notice. Medium build. Brown hair. Perhaps five and thirty years of age.”

Nathaniel considered. Such a description might fit Saxby. Perhaps even Preston, though he was closer to forty. But it wasn't enough to act upon. Nathaniel asked, “Are there other women . . . other jealous suitors or offended fathers I should know about?”

The young man reddened. “I couldn't say, sir.”

“Couldn't or won't?”

“I don't like to speak ill of Mr. Lewis. Not when he's laid low.”

“I'm not asking you to gossip, Connor. Only to tell me anything that might help me identify the man who shot my brother.” A thought struck Nathaniel. “Can I ask you something? The masked man—would you recognize his voice should you hear it again?”

The valet hesitated, frowning. “His voice . . . ? I don't know.”

“He didn't happen to speak in a certain, say . . . accent . . . perhaps an upper crust accent, or poetical speech?” He didn't like to lead Connor but didn't know how else to pull the information from him. He wanted to know. If Preston had shot his brother, Nathaniel would not rest until he had found him and demanded satisfaction of his own.

“Poetical, you say?” In the mirror, Connor's face puckered. “You're not suggesting that Poet Pirate might have done it?”

“The thought did cross my mind.”

Connor hesitated, considering. “They say he looks and dresses every inch the gentleman, don't they?”

“Yes. I know the man, and it is true.”

The valet's eyes widened. “Do you indeed, sir?”

“I'm afraid so. Dashed fiend torched my ship.”

The razor hovered midair as Connor winced in concentration. “He . . . may have spoken a bit pompous-like. But poetical? I'm not sure. I shall have to think about that, sir. See what I might remember.”

“You do that.”

Connor wiped the lingering soap from Nathaniel's cheek and smoothed on a spicy-smelling balm. “Would you mind, sir, if I looked in on Mr. Lewis myself? I could bring down fresh nightshirts and help the nurse bathe him. Maybe even shave him if she thinks it wouldn't hurt him.”

“You certainly may.” Nathaniel felt the slightest flicker of wistfulness. Perhaps he ought to have hired his own valet years ago. “Your thoughtfulness does you credit.”

Connor shook his head, sheepish. “I just want to do
something
.”

Nathaniel nodded. “I understand exactly how you feel.”

Margaret went through her early morning duties in a haze. She couldn't believe it. She felt ill at the thought. Who would shoot Lewis Upchurch? Lewis was a flirt, but she could not imagine him challenging anyone to a duel. So what had he done to cause another man to rise up in defense of his honor? Had Lewis insulted the wrong man . . . or the wrong man's wife, sister, or lover? That she could imagine. Still, she shuddered to think of him hovering near death.

Margaret went upstairs in hopes of offering Helen some comfort, but when she reached Helen's room, Betty was just coming out, lips pursed.

“She's not there. And her bed hasn't been slept in either. Spent the night in the sickroom, I'd wager. Poor lamb.”

Margaret had no appetite, so instead of the servants' hall for breakfast, she stopped in the stillroom, hoping to talk with cheerful and level-headed Hester. She found Hester bent over her worktable, both hands gripping a scrub brush, bucket of soapy, steamy water nearby. She bent from the waist, using her entire body to push the brush over the surface with grim-lipped vigor, cheeks ruddy from the effort, breath heaving, forearms bulging.

“Hester . . . ?”

Hester glanced up but did not cease her motions. “No matter how many times I scrub it, with salt, lye, soap . . . It makes no difference. I can't get it clean.”

Margaret had never seen Hester upset before. She touched her shoulder. “Let me have a go. You're exhausted.”

Hester nodded gratefully, wiping the heel of her hand over her brow. She leaned against the sideboard while Margaret picked up the brush and resumed scrubbing.

“Between you and me,” Hester said, “I'll never be able to roll dough on this table again. I shall always have to cover it with parchment or a tray. No matter how hard I scrub, I still see his blood. Smell it too.”

“I'm so sorry, Hester. It's awful, isn't it?”

“Awful. Never saw the like before and pray I never do again.”

“Is there anything else I can do to help?”

“Just having you to chat with has helped already, Nora. I don't care what the others say, you're a bit of sunshine to me.”

Chagrined, Margaret scrubbed the worktable for a quarter of an hour, then rinsed away the soap and dried it with a clean towel. “Spotless,” she announced.

“Better,” Hester amended.

Margaret squeezed Hester's hand and took her leave, realizing it was almost time for morning prayers. She stepped into the passage and nearly ran into Connor, who was just coming into the stillroom. “Oh! Excuse me.”