Chapter 15
Fifteen
Branford raised his right arm in one swift, smooth motion. When it reached shoulder level, he adjusted his aim with a quick, precise movement and pulled the trigger.
Justin had not yet lifted his pistol above his waist when he heard the sharp crack. Squeezing his eyes tight, he waited for the inevitable impact. His last thought was of how furious Alex would be at him to let it all end this way.
But truly, for honor’s sake, there had been no other choice.
He almost didn’t feel the rush of air as the bullet whizzed past him, as it was so far off the mark. His jaw dropped in astonishment and it took an instant for him absorb the fact that he was indeed unscathed.
Branford dropped his arm to his side and stood motionless. Even in his black clothes he was clearly visible in the gathering light.
Justin’s pistol was now pointed straight at the earl’s chest. All he had to do was take his time and make sure of his aim.
How simple.
So what is holding him back? He blinked as he sighted down the barrel. Why couldn’t he shake the image of Branford’s face, naked for that brief moment yesterday morning before his defenses had covered up the look of searing pain?
Justin gritted his teeth. Go on, urged an inner voice—the man was a blackguard, a rake, a scoundrel!
Justin jerked his hand slightly to the right and fired.
At the same time, Branford turned straight on to face his adversary, exposing himself more fully to the young man’s aim.
“No!” cried Ashton, taking an involuntary step forward.
The bullet tore into Branford with a sickening sound. He staggered backwards for a step or two, then collapsed on the ground.
“Sebastian!” Ashton sprinted to his friend and knelt to cradle his head as a dark stain began to spread across the earl’s shirt.
Justin threw his pistol to the ground and ran over to Branford’s prostrate form. Hartley came up behind him.
Ashton shouted for the surgeon as he pounded his fist onto the ground in frustration.
“Is he …” faltered Justin.
Branford’s eyes fluttered open. “For God’s sake, Henry, get the lads out of here,” he whispered weakly. “I depend on you—the doctor shall see to me.”
“Sebastian …” Ashton began to argue but the earl had already lapsed into unconsciousness. The doctor pushed him aside and hurriedly applied a compress to the wound to staunch the bleeding.
“We must be away from here,” he cried, his voice betraying his nervousness. “Help me get him to the carriage.”
Ashton called for his coachman and the three of them lifted Branford and carried his limp form to the waiting vehicle. As soon as the door was shut, the coachman tied the reins of the earl’s stallion to the back rail, grabbed up the whip and set the horses off at a gallop.
“In the name of the devil, get moving!” cried Ashton to the others as he retrieved the weapons from the ground. He ran to Hartley’s carriage where he none too gently shoved the two dazed young men up the steps towards the dark interior.
“Spring ‘em,” he snarled at the terrified driver. Then he climbed in himself and slammed the door.
Every joint of the vehicle creaked and groaned as the wheels bounced over the rutted roads at high speed.
For a time, Ashton was content to mutter darkly to himself, casting occasional glowering looks at the two figures hunched on the seat across from him before directing his gaze back at the small side window.
Finally, though, he could contain his anger no longer.
“Are you well pleased with yourself, Chilton?” he asked bitterly. “You have perhaps ended the life of the best man I have ever had the honor of knowing. A man who has been nothing but a friend to you and your family—for some reason that eludes me, he liked you, damn it all.”
Ashton balled a fist and smacked it against his palm. “And this is how you repay him! Challenging him to a duel in which his own sense of honor would not allow him to defend himself …” He trailed off with a string of muttered curses.
Justin’s face was deathly pale, his eyes hollow. “I didn’t mean …” His voice caught in his throat. “The blood—there was so much of it,” he whispered. “I …” He gave a sudden lurch towards the door.
Hartley rapped a signal for the coach to stop. Justin staggered out, fell to his knees and was violently sick. When he climbed back inside, he slumped against the squabs and lowered his head into his hands.
No one spoke for a time. Finally Hartley, a glazed look still on his features, cast a look bordering on awe at his friend. “Good Lord, Justin, “ he breathed. “You … you actually bested Lord Branford in a duel.”
Justin’s head snapped up. “Don’t be a gudgeon, Freddy,” he said sharply. “We’ve both seen His Lordship shoot. He was off the mark by more than three feet—he missed me on purpose.”
“At least you aren’t stupid as well as foolish,” growled Ashton.
He turned to Hartley. “And you—you had better remember your oath of silence about this affair. If I hear even a whisper among the young bucks concerning this morning, you shall answer to me. And I assure you, I will not be as charitable as Branford.”
Hartley shrunk back in his seat.
Ashton regarded Justin’s haggard face. “Just what was this senseless bloodletting all about?” he demanded. “I have a right to know for what reason my closest friend may give his life.”
Justin looked uncomfortable. “I cannot discuss the particulars. But Lord Branford broke his word to me. Her promised he would not hurt my sister. He … took advantage of her trust—and mine.”
Ashton frowned. “I don’t believe it. Sebastian would never do such a thing. His code of honor wouldn’t allow it.”
“But he admitted it,” cried Justin. He bit his lip. “He admitted it to her face.”
Ashton shook his head doggedly. “I don’t care. I know him. It can’t be true. He has nothing but … the highest regard for your sister.”
Justin’s hands clenched in his lap. “If he is so honorable, what of the other duels he has fought over a lady’s honor?”
“Ah, the infamous duels.” Ashton’s mouth tightened.
“Let me tell you about the first one. The lady in question was my sister-in-law. Her husband proved to be one of those so-called gentlemen who amuse themselves when in their cups by beating their wives. It got even worse when she began increasing. Finally she fled to her sister—my wife—when she feared not only for her own life, but for the life of her unborn child.”
He paused for a moment to compose himself. “I was away on a diplomatic mission to the Peninsula. It was Branford who took it upon himself to protect my family. As you well know, the lady had no recourse under the law—she was her husband’s chattel, with no more rights than a horse or a hound.”
Ashton’s face was now pale with the terrible memory. “Branford caused word to be spread that my sister-in -law was indeed under his protection in every sense of the term. Her husband had no choice but to issue a challenge or become the laughingstock of the ton.”
He took a deep breath. “The world is a better place for the vicious Lord Underhill having taken his leave of it. If you think Branford’s actions were dishonorable, I invite you to meet a two-year-old with golden curls and her mother, who may now venture out of her house without bruises covering her face? ”
Justin turned even paler.
“Branford has never allowed me to tell the truth of the tale, for my sister-in-law’s sake.
I do it now, Mr. Chilton, to show you why I think you are dead wrong.
I trust both of you will honor my insistence that the story never be repeated.
” A pause. “And I assure you, the second lethal duel has an equally compelling explanation.”
Justin looked stricken. His head turned to stare out the window, hiding his expression.
After a few minutes of silence, Ashton picked up the wooden box beside him and tossed it onto Justin’s lap. “I was told that these are for you.”
Justin looked totally confused as he fingered the polished brass fastenings. “What do you mean? These are His Lordship’s—”
“Open it. Didn’t you look at them carefully? Those aren’t Branford’s initials.”
Justin picked up one of the beautifully crafted pistols, traces of wet earth still clinging to the bright steel barrel, and regarded the chased silver cap on the butt. The carved initials read J.T.C.
“He said he planned to give them to you on your birthday,” explained Ashton, “but decided you should have them this morning, as a gentleman ought to have a decent weapon with which to defend his honor.”
The earl’s friend took grim satisfaction in seeing the young man’s jaw twitch uncontrollably. “See to it that you put them to more honorable use in the future,” he finished harshly.
The rest of the ride passed in a miserable silence.
Alex clenched her hands as she stared at the half-finished painting in front of her, restraining the urge to rip the thick, grained paper into tiny shreds. The colors were dull, the composition awkward, and the curling curves of the leaves looked as if they were chiseled out of stone.
In a word, it was lifeless.
Repressing a sigh, she took the sheet from her easel and slid into a portfolio case. As she began rinsing out her brushes, she looked over to where her aunt was perusing a rare eighteenth century translation of Homer.
“I hope Justin is not beginning to associate with the wrong sort of set.”
Lady Beckworth laid aside her book and removed her glasses. “Your brother has always shown himself to be an extremely level-headed young man. Has something specific caused you concern?”
Alex hesitated. “Well, I couldn’t help but notice that he didn’t return home two nights ago. And when he did stumble in late the following morning, he looked absolutely awful.”
She shook her head “It appeared as if he hadn’t slept at all, and not only was his clothing in disarray—by the look of things, it appeared he had cast up his accounts.”