Chapter 30
Colt’s eyes snapped open, and he saw Sarah standing over him.
“What the devil … ?”
He tried to sit up. His quilt had fallen in a crumpled heap off the end of the bed during the night, and only a white sheet remained, covering the lower parts of his body.
He valiantly tried to assemble his thoughts.
This was certainly his bed. Whilst he welcomed Sarah’s presence in his room, he could not account for it.
The stab of pain in his left eye reminded him that he had indeed sustained a painful bruise at Lord Byron’s ball.
Rather unexpectedly, Sarah slapped him across the face.
“Sarah!” He dodged out of the way of a second blow to his cheek. “What are you doing?” he asked, gripping both her wrists in his hand to avoid her striking him again.
“A duel, Robert? Really?”
“Oh, that,” Colt replied in a sheepish tone, the corners of his mouth twitching.
“And over Miss Coombes, of all people. She is a fortune-hunter and a minx!” Sarah hissed. “You could have at least duelled over someone worthwhile.”
“Are you jealous?”
Sarah jerked her wrists, trying to break free of him.
“I’m sorry,” he answered with a little chuckle, tightening his grip. “It was not my doing. That young cub Dalrymple is at fault! I am blameless in the whole affair.”
“I suppose you are not to blame for accosting Miss Coombes in the first place?”
Colt shrugged in response. “Some things are not as they seem.”
“Do you love her?”
“What? No!”
“Release me. I will not beat you,” she instructed, her voice frosty.
He complied, withdrawing back into the mess of his sheets.
“You say you do not love her, but you will risk your life for her?” Sarah rubbed her wrist where his fingers had been.
He compressed his lips together tightly. The notion that Dalrymple would best him in a duel was absurd. “There is hardly a risk of that, Sarah. And I mean it; this is not how it appears. It’s a matter of honour now. I cannot withdraw. Would you have me look like a coward?”
“And is it not cowardly to duel with someone whose ability is vastly inferior to yours?”
“You think I’m superior?”
“You will not enjoy a life on the continent should you have to flee,” she said in a soft, low voice. “Nor would you relish being hanged for murder.”
Colt glanced at her lips. He yearned to kiss her. “Does that mean you would rather I die?”
“You know I would not. Ravenscroft has vowed to ensure your safety on that score.”
“Ravenscroft?”
“Yes. He wrote to me this morning, advising me of all this nonsense. He is Dalrymple’s second and will ensure his ward does not have a loaded gun. So, you must assure me that you will not take his life.”
“I will not kill him, Sarah. What do you take me for?” Colt leaned back on one elbow, aware he had exposed his broad, bare chest. Maybe all this intense emotion could play out nicely for both of them. “And Ravenscroft came to you for help because—”
The colour of Sarah’s cheeks darkened prettily, and she faltered over her words. “I suppose he knows we are friends, and that you hold me in high regard.”
“That I do.”
His body responded intuitively to their proximity, and she glanced down at the moving sheet.
“Apologies,” he said, abashed at the mound that stood beneath the linen covering.
“Send me a message tomorrow, after your duel,” she instructed. “I must go.”
“Would you care to stay awhile?” he asked, flashing his dimples.
“Nothing has changed, Colt. I fear that you simply do not know how,” she murmured, her words barely audible, before leaving the room.
***
Dawn approached, and the ghostly silhouettes of trees emerged through the early morning fog.
The dim light revealed the shape of two enclosed carriages as they pulled up on the heath.
From behind one, the figure of Colt emerged.
He wore a greatcoat with many capes, and a top hat sat at a jaunty angle on his head.
Leggy followed close on his heels, uttering a few words of complaint about the blasted cold.
Colt already questioned his choice of second. He should have petitioned Georgina, but he did not wish to implicate her in any more illegal activities. In his view, further brushes with Bow Street might see her in significant trouble.
They bade the surgeon to wait for them in the carriage, assuring him that he would be called if someone required medical assistance.
This proposition suited the mature gentleman, who snuggled back into the carriage with a hot brick at his feet and a small bottle of spirits clutched in his gloved hand.
Colt took a large swig from his own silver flask and offered it to Leggy, who drank from it readily. They waited patiently as Mr Dalrymple and Lord Ravenscroft alighted from their own carriage.
Displaying an expression of grave dignity, Mr Dalrymple lifted his chin and joined Colt and Leggy.
Lord Ravenscroft walked behind them. One hand leaned heavily upon his cane, while the other carried a heavy wooden case containing the pistols.
Lord Ravenscroft’s eyes rested upon Colt, a glint of silent appeal within them.
Colt gave a slight nod of acknowledgement. Sarah had executed her task satisfactorily. Colt turned to Mr Dalrymple. “Do you wish to apologise, whelp?”
Bristling at once, Mr Dalrymple threw him a disgusted glare. “Never. You are depraved.”
Colt shrugged. “So be it,” he said and removed his coat.
The sound of hooves approaching through the mist made everyone suspend what they were doing. If the authorities came upon them now, it would be difficult to explain away their presence. They exchanged uneasy glances.
“Only one horse,” Colt muttered to Leggy.
Through the mist, a sole rider became visible.
“George!” Colt exclaimed.
“Morning, chaps,” she chirped, springing down from her horse. “Spot of hunting? Unusual location and weather for it, I must say.”
Mr Dalrymple swelled. “I beseech you not to interfere, Miss Pace. This is a matter between Coulthurst and myself.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it, my dear fellow.” Georgina approached Colt and linked her arm through his. “But a word with my friend.”
Unsure what peculiar nonsense she had taken into her head, Colt followed her away from the others.
“I cannot let you do this, Colt. Think of Sarah. I have a pistol. If necessary, I will abduct you.”
His eyes widened. “The devil take you. You are not carrying me off, George! Of all the indignities you would subject me to. I am thinking of Sarah too.”
Her blue eyes scanned him piercingly, even through the murky gray dawn. “But this appears to be about Miss Coombes.”
“And one day you will hear the full story, but not now.” He hushed his voice further still. “Believe me when I say that all is in hand. No one shall be shot today.”
Georgina digested this assurance for a moment and finally nodded. She returned with him to the group. “And Leggy is your second?”
“I am. You can’t elbow in, Miss Pace. Not the thing,” he admonished. “Not when I came all this way. If you intended on doing that, you should have told me before I got out of bed this morning.”
Colt clapped his indignant friend on the back. “No one is stopping you from being my second, Leggy.”
It drizzled now, and Leggy went over to Lord Ravenscroft to inspect the pistols.
Lord Ravenscroft opened the boxes, at first allowing Leggy only a quick glimpse inside.
Leggy, taking the role of second seriously, insisted on retrieving both pistols from the box, one after the other. He even crouched down on the ground so that he could inspect the barrels and triggers of each, to ensure perfect uniformity.
Colt met Lord Ravenscroft’s eyes once more and took an additional swig from his flask. Georgina watched on with a critical eye.
After examining the duelling pistols to his ultimate satisfaction and identifying nothing amiss, Leggy stood up, returned them to the box and randomly selected one for Colt.
He did not see the slight jerking movement from Lord Ravenscroft behind him, who attempted to direct him to the loaded one. But it was too late.
Leggy had already grasped the gilt-engraved handle of what must have been the unloaded pistol and placed it confidently into his friend’s hand.
Colt, who had noticed Lord Ravenscroft’s slight look of alarm, accepted the underweight gun warily.
Instead of coming to his immediate aid, Lord Ravenscroft hurried over to his ward, who retrieved the remaining pistol from the box with a shaking hand. Mr Dalrymple forced a timid smile up at his guardian. Lord Ravenscroft murmured something to him and patted him on the back.
Colt threw one final, accusatory glare at Lord Ravenscroft before moving to his position with his back to Mr Dalrymple.
Georgina cast her eyes between Colt and Mr Dalrymple.
As Leggy signalled for the duel to commence, Colt cursed and paced forward.
The distance increased between the opponents, and the mist rose in a merciful shield, somewhat obscuring Colt’s figure from view.
When they turned to face each other, he levelled his pistol in futility, not even bothering to cock it, knowing it to be completely empty of bullets.
Through the fog, a piercing crack sounded as Mr Dalrymple fired his pistol in the direction of his adversary.
Colt dropped his gun to the ground as pain shot up his forearm. The blasted young cub had struck him. Blood oozed through his white shirt, turning it a bright shade of crimson, and he clutched his arm near the elbow to stem blood loss as much as possible.
He heard Georgina’s voice—in a much higher pitch than normal—scream his name. She was the first to reach him and supported his arm as he crumpled to the ground.
The other parties rushed to them.
Leggy released a small cry of despair, followed by a little gagging cough, then lurched off towards a nearby pile of rocks to cast up his accounts.
Lord Ravenscroft crouched down with a wince and unfurled his neckcloth to use it as a tourniquet, knotting it tightly around Colt’s arm.