Chapter Nine
“Eight…nine…”
As Portia raised her arm, a shot rang out, and a puff of smoke exploded in the air. She heard a faint whistling, then caught sight of something moving fast toward her. She flinched, anticipating the hit.
Her opponent had shot wide.
“No!” Nerissa cried.
The acrid stench of gunpowder in her nostrils, Portia continued to raise her arm until the muzzle of her pistol was aimed directly at Lord Maybury.
“The devil fired before the count!”
The ringing in her ears could not completely muffle Sir Heath Moss’s indignant voice.
“How dare you insult me so, Maybury, you bounder!” Sir Heath continued. “Do you have no honor?”
Portia gritted her teeth. How typical of a man! To be more concerned with propriety than the fact that Maybury had cheated and could have taken her life.
Her heartbeat hammering in her ears, she willed her fingers not to grip the pistol too tight. For, as Mr. Greaves had taught her, the tighter the grip, the poorer the aim.
Slow and steady, your ladyship… A true shot is earned by a stable hand.
She drew in a breath then exhaled slowly until her aim was focused on her opponent, who now stood cowering at the far end of the lawn.
Oh, Mr. Greaves, if only you could see me now!
Withdrawing from the world around her, she focused on her breathing and the target. The muzzle of her pistol moved, faintly, in time to her heartbeat.
The right shoulder, I think.
Enough to incapacitate Maybury for a day or two, and ruin his jacket.
I’d like to see you explain that to your valet—or to Lady Maybury.
On the next heartbeat, she squeezed the trigger.
Slow and steady…
The weapon fired, and she let her arm relax, absorbing the recoil. To flinch in anticipation of the recoil was the marksman’s downfall.
Nerissa rushed to her side. “Oh, La—”
“Hush, Gerard!” Portia whispered.
“I mean…sir, are you all right?”
“A little shaken, Gerard, that’s all,” Portia said, willing her body to stop trembling.
When the smoke cleared, she caught sight of her opponent, bent over, clutching his shoulder.
“You cad!” he cried. “You shot me.”
“Isn’t that rather the point, Lord Maybury?” Nerissa said, her voice laced with loathing.
“Jephson, get your arse over here. Fuck, that hurts.”
Maybury’s second rushed over and inspected Maybury’s shoulder.
“I’m mortally wounded, I know it,” Maybury said, flinging his uninjured arm out in a dramatic gesture. “Tell my wife that I lo—”
“It’s just a flesh wound, Maybury old chap,” his second said. “No need to make such a fuss. Not when you shot before Bodkins finished the count.”
“I did not!”
“You did,” the adjudicator said. “I had not yet reached ten.” He turned to Portia. “Sir, you’re lucky to be alive.”
“So is he,” Portia said, gesturing toward Maybury. “You’re fortunate my aim is true, sir.”
“You mean you meant to shoot me in the shoulder?” Maybury’s voice took on a nasal whine reminiscent of a petulant child who’d been refused a second bowl of custard.
“Did you deliberately aim wide?” Portia asked. “That bullet went right over my head.”
“Ha!” Sir Heath laughed. “Maybury’s a poor shot—he’d have had a better chance hitting you if he’d aimed at that tree over there.
Perhaps, Maybury old chap, you should consider hiring the Farthing yourself the next time you accuse someone of compromising your wife—though if others are as dishonorable as you and shoot out of turn, the Farthing may not be with us much longer. ”
Nausea rose in Portia’s throat as the realization sank in. Today was the first occasion her life had been truly at risk. All it took was one man not obeying the rules of the duel, the unspoken oath of trust. And when had any man shown himself to be worthy of trust?
“You’re quite right, Sir Heath,” Maybury said. No longer clutching his shoulder—evidence enough that the injury was not as fatal as he’d previously declared—he approached Portia and fished several notes from his pocket. “I think five should suffice.”
“Or ten?” Portia said.
“You drive a hard bargain, sir. I may want to use your services in the future.”
“Then consider the extra five as a down payment for future services.”
She held out her hand, and he counted an additional five notes and placed them in her upturned palm.
“You have small hands, sir,” Maybury said, “and a rather light voice. You’re no man.”
Oh no…
“Perhaps if I removed that mask of yours, I’d find a mere boy.”
Portia forced a smile at the contempt in Maybury’s voice. “Imagine what your friends at White’s would think if they knew you’d been bested by a mere boy.”
I shall have to laugh with Nerissa in secret about the fact that you were bested by a woman.
“If your father knew you were here, he’d give you a bloody good hiding,” Maybury said.
“The head of my family would give me a hiding, sir, were he to know. But you should consider yourself fortunate that I was not aiming for your heart, Maybury. Perhaps next time I’ll aim elsewhere.”
“Next time?” Maybury asked.
Sir Heath barked with laughter. “Come, come, old chap. I’ll wager you’ll find yourself here again within a week—after your wife has parted her thighs for the next man.”
“So you did lift her skirts, Sir Heath?”
“I did nothing that she didn’t beg for. Come to think of it, she spent most of the night on her knees. Which is where every woman should be.”
Dear Lord! Was this how all men spoke of the female sex?
“Perhaps,” Maybury said, “but it’s not the done thing to rut another man’s wife.”
“I consider myself to be performing a service,” Sir Heath said.
“Lady Maybury likes to be ridden daily—twice daily, so De Blanchard tells me. If she gives your friends a little distraction once in a while, where’s the harm?
You already have your heir and spare, so there’s no risk of any of my by-blows taking your title—unless she was sharing her favors during your honeymoon. ”
“Why, you—”
“Oh, stow it, Maybury!” Sir Heath said, offering his hand. “Let’s shake on it and speak no further on the matter. Honor has been satisfied and we’re free to go about our lives.”
“Fair enough.”
“What about your wife, Lord Maybury?” Portia asked, unable to restrain the anger simmering inside.
“What of her? She’s content enough, having performed her duty.”
“Which is?”
“To furnish me with a dowry, and an heir.” Maybury let out a sigh. “If only a man could dispense with his wife once she’s carried out her duty. It would save his ears from the nagging. But you’ll soon learn that yourself, young fellow.”
Despicable man—they’re all despicable!
Anger flared, and Portia curled her hand into a fist. She may have only grazed Maybury’s shoulder, but there was nothing to stop her knocking out a tooth or two.
A calm hand touched her sleeve.
“No, your ladyship,” Nerissa whispered. “It would serve no good.”
“What’s that you say, young man?” Maybury barked.
“My manservant was reminding me of the necessity for haste,” Portia said. “Gerard, you’re right, of course. It’s almost light. And Lord Maybury needs to get his wound seen to.” She gestured to his shoulder.
“Waste of a damned good jacket,” Maybury said. “My valet has no skill at removing bloodstains.”
“Then next time I’ll aim for your head to preserve your jacket.”
“And there’ll be a next time,” Sir Heath said.
“Lady Maybury’s shared her favors with almost everyone: De Blanchard, of course, Cholmondeley-Walker, naturally…
even Foxton’s been between those thighs, and he’s usually more discerning.
He’s always said his cock refuses to perform if the woman has a face like a horse. ”
“He what?” Portia cried before she could stop herself.
Sir Heath chuckled. “I didn’t take you for a greenhorn, Mr. Farthing. Have you not been broken in yet?”
Portia opened her mouth to reply, but Nerissa placed a warning hand on her arm.
“It matters not,” Sir Heath continued. I’m sure once you’ve been broken in, you’ll shag with the best of us. And, of course, no man would dare call you out—unless he’s a cheat, like Maybury here.”
“I swear I heard Mr. Bodkins finish the count,” Maybury said.
“And that’s what you’ll tell the company at White’s, but take care, my friend, not to make your point within my earshot,” Sir Heath said. “Or this fellow’s,” he added, gesturing to Portia, “which may prove a challenge, given his anonymity.” He stepped toward Portia, his gaze searching.
There came a time, after every duel, when the client grew a little too eager to discover the Farthing’s identity.
She bowed, bade them good morning, and retreated, Nerissa at her side.
“Heavens, Nerissa! That was the closest one yet.”
“Perhaps you should stop, your ladyship. It’s getting too dangerous.”
“I doubt Sir Heath would reveal my identity when he’s in constant need of my services.”
Nerissa let out a sharp sigh. “I meant the danger to your life. Lord Maybury fired before you were ready.”
“You saw what a poor marksman he is,” Portia said. “Gentlemen are such idle creatures—they lack the tenacity to perfect the skill at anything other than gaming and debauchery.”
“Not every man in London displays such idleness.”
“It’s fortunate then, Nerissa, that duels are mostly the province of the idle rich.”
“You were lucky today,” Nerissa said, “and luck always runs out. I sometimes wonder if you’re truly aware of the danger you’re placing yourself in.”
“It’s no more dangerous than surrendering my person in matrimony. At least as the Farthing I am living, not merely existing.”
“And it’s precisely my wish for you to continue living that compels me to caution you.”
“I cannot surrender my responsibilities, Nerissa. Dr. McIver depends on me—or, at least, the money I provide him.”
“Your brother would, I’m sure—”
“No,” Portia said, bitterly. “He wouldn’t. He would see any expenditure a frivolity unless it were to make myself more attractive to a potential suitor.”
“Then perhaps you should take his counsel and find yourself a generous husband.”
“Good Lord, Nerissa, what nonsense!”
“You cannot be the Farthing forever,” Nerissa said. “Sooner or later, your secret will be out. I pray that the revelation happens as a drawing room anecdote and not when someone pulls the mask off your lifeless body in Hyde Park at dusk.”
They continued in silence, and as they approached the entrance to the townhouse, Nerissa took Portia’s hand.
“Forgive me for speaking out of turn, Lady Portia. I speak only out of concern for you. I’d be distraught if anything were to happen to you. So would your brother.”
“He’d merely be angry that I was disobeying his orders.”
“His Grace is a harsh man, but it’s out of necessity in a harsh world. But he does possess a heart, even if he hides it well.”
Portia squeezed her maid’s hand. “What would I do without you, my lovely Nerissa?”
“You’d be late for breakfast,” Nerissa said with a smile. “Make haste. Go directly to your chamber and I’ll fetch your clothes.”
Portia made her way up the back stairs, pausing as she heard the bustle of activity in the kitchen. From the aroma, Mrs. Winston was preparing kedgeree, and Portia’s stomach growled with hunger.
As she slipped into her chamber to await Nerissa, the maid’s words hung in the air.
Luck always runs out.