Chapter 45
Lord Malcolm Gillett stood upon Hampstead Heath the day after receiving a written challenge from a gentleman unknown to him. The message, delivered by a solicitor, accused him of immorality and questioned his honour. Gillett confirmed the encounter, his excitement barely contained. He had chosen the third son of an impoverished peer to stand up as his second, as he had been conveniently at hand. The pair waited for their opponents with anticipation.
Two men approached. The baron cringed as his second put a fist to his mouth and laughingly gagged at the sight of the hulking giant walking beside a grey-haired man.
“He looks as if he is half a century, if not more.” Gillett smiled. This will be fast and easy.
Adding to his primary’s insult, his second said, “He is rather long in the tooth.”
“The freak, I fear, would be more trouble than the old sod,” said Gillett. He focused on the fossil as he came to a stop a few feet away. “With whom do I have the pleasure of crossing swords?”
“This be the master,” rasped the giant.
Ignoring the lack of a full answer, Gillet’s companion spoke. “I am Sir Montgomery Price. I am second to Lord Malcolm Gillett. I am sure his reputation precedes him.”
“I am aware,” replied his challenger.
“Are you?” asked Gillett.
“I am aware you are an addlepate, scapegrace, shamming cur.”
Gillett’s lip curled. “Very well. Let us delay no longer...?”
“Bennet. Mr Thomas Bennet.”
Gillett seized Price’s arm and spun him around. “Have you lost your wits? That is Tommy Bennet! Have you not been to Angelo”s?”
“You could delope,” Price replied. “I am sure time would allow the stain to pass.”
“No, that will not do.” Damnation!
“When you defeat him—and you shall—your victory will be your stepping stone to fame and further fortune.”
Resolved but still wary, Gillett turned back towards Bennet and unsheathed his sabre. Bennet did the same.
Price called the duellists to begin. “En garde.” Both men assumed their footing.
“Prêt.” Two weapons rose into position.
“Allez!” Steel clashed with steel. Up and right. Left. Down. Gillett separated from Bennet, then met him again. Crossed swords at chest level, Gillett pushed off. As he stepped back, Bennet slashed his forward thigh.
“A hit,” shouted Price. He removed his cravat and bound the wound. “Should I signal you choose to withdraw?”
“It is but a flesh wound, Monty,” hissed Gillett loudly. He looked at Bennet and tested his stance. “I would rather die than surrender. You are only the second to have ever drawn my blood. The first walks with a cane, a daily reminder of his good luck.”
Bennet shrugged. Gillett nodded to Price.
“En garde,” called Price. “Prêt.”
“Allez!”
Steel clashed again. Right. Left. Down. Again, Gillett crossed swords with Bennet at chest level before feinting a step back and lunging. He passed left into Bennet’s sabre, the blade slashing his non-sword arm. Grimacing in pain, Gillett dropped his weapon and covered the wound.
“Shall we continue this farce?” Bennet asked, his disdain thicker than molasses.
“You may still yield,” Price whispered. “You did, at least, accept his challenge.”
“It is not enough. I will not submit.” Gillett picked up his sword. “Engage him again, I shall!”
Price called the duellists to the ready position. “En garde.”
“Prêt.”
Gillett lunged. It was if Bennet had expected him to cheat, he so quickly parried and spun him around. Off-balance and in fear for his life, Gillett swung wildly; he was now face-to-face with Bennet, a completely vulnerable position.
Bennet smacked his fisted hilt against Gillett’s forehead, stepped back, and rammed his sabre through his chest. Gillett gasped, then dropped his sword.
Bennet held him upright, one hand under the pit of his arm. As Gillett exhaled his last, he used his weapon as a lever to lower the dead man to the ground. He tucked a note into the corpse’s hand and a sealed letter into his breast pocket.
The giant placed a greatcoat over Bennet’s shoulders, and both men left Hampstead Heath in silence. Price watched them off. Once they were out of sight, he retrieved the note and read the betting line.
“Thankfully, I was not so foolish to wager on the Scarred Lily,” he admonished the corpse. He replaced the note in the manner he had found it. He ignored the letter.
Sir Montgomery Price left Hampstead Heath with shoulders more than a thousand pounds lighter.
Marquess Beauford gasped. He had been jolted awake from a most disturbing dream. He had started the night in his luxurious bed, but now found himself on the floor, gasping for air as if he had been submerged in water. In fact, he had been struggling to come to consciousness, feeling a crushing weight upon his chest and an overwhelming sense of suffocation. I cannot breathe! The weight on his chest eased and blessed air filled his lungs. Is someone sitting on me? “What the deuce?” he exclaimed. A hand clamped down hard upon his mouth.
“Shhh... no talking,” whispered a voice. Deep. Male.
The room’s curtains ensured the ebony darkness remained uninterrupted; there was not a hint of shadow. Beauford tried to sit up but discovered that his hands were tied securely; he could not lever himself upright. He groaned softly against the rough, filthy hand on his mouth and tried to look around, wondering what manner of devilry had been wrought upon him.
“I’m lifting me hand. Be a good lad. Nod if you can.”
Beauford nodded. The liberty to breathe freely was sweet. A cold blade against his neck soured the momentary reward.
“I want you to know it be me girl you was thinking to pluck.” The blade pressed forcibly into his neck.
It took him only a moment to realise which girl he meant. Beauford swallowed and sputtered, “It was a foolish wager. A game. A prank, that was all.” A sharp prick bit the tender flesh below his earlobe. A hand clamped over his mouth preventing his cry to the fiery pain coursing down his neck.
“Prank, my arse,” snarled the shadow. “Tell me all you’ve done and you may see the light of day.”
Beauford confessed his every transgression—gambling hells, opium dens, servant girls, tenants’ wives, and ladies of little means. Miss Bennet had been his last sin and first unsuccessful tryst. It had rankled him not to gain her notice, so he set up the wager at Boodle’s.
“If she had not been Lambrook’s favourite,” he gasped, “I would have moved on to easier fish.”
“Why Lambrook?”
“He is my Seymour cousin and next in line. Moralistic monks, the whole family.”
The shadow patted his cheek. “You done well.” An iron hand clamped down under his chin. Beauford sucked in a breath. He exhaled a gasp of pain. His neck heated as warm fluid oozed down its side. His bladder released warmth under his derriere. His eyes felt heavy. Just a moment’s rest, I need…
Reeves wiped his blade on his victim’s nightwear. “The Colonel was right. Find the intelligence, win the war.” He rose from his chair and grinned at the dead marquess.
Let’s see what secrets the old man hides. Like father, like son.
He strode towards the duke’s bedroom; the door was unlocked. It took but minutes to have the decrepit old man secured into a large reading chair, wrapped up with a bedsheet and gagged. “If you makes a sound, you die. Nod if you understand.”
The duke did so. Reeves removed the stocking trailing from his mouth and fed him some water. “Years ago, you sent a man to spy on your cousin.” The duke started to shake his head. Reeves grabbed his chin. “I killed him.” Reeves leant in; they were nose-to-nose. “Lie again and I will leave your entrails on the floor.”
The duke nodded.
“You didn’t hear no more from him. Who else did you send?”
The duke stared at him. Reeves slapped his cheek. “Who?”
“Kelly. Kelly the Scotsman.”
Reeves nodded. “How would I know him?”
“His right hand. Lacks fingers.”
“Ayuh. That’s good to know. What else?”
“Release me,” the duke begged. “I will fatten your pockets.”
Reeves pulled his dirk and tucked it under the duke’s ear. “Where did you send Kelly? What did he do?”
The duke shook his head.
“Last warning.” He pushed the blade into a whiskered cheek. “Where did you send Kelly?”
“St Albans.”
“To do what?”
“To crash the Lambrook carriage.”
Reeves almost bit through his tongue as his temper flared hotter than he ever remembered. He saw red and blindly lashed out until his rage was sated. He panted as his fury dwindled and closed his eyes to reclaim himself. With his calm restored, he looked at the duke.
Or, what was left of the duke.
I’ll find me some clean clothes and be on my way.