Chapter 15
T heo stood upon a muddy incline in full duelling attire, nursing a set of bruised ribs and the distinct impression that this might very well prove the most ill-advised morning of his life.
He could not help but wonder, rather resentfully, why he had not remained abed and allowed Benedict Tolliver’s temper to cool over a tray of kippers and strong tea.
Mr Jasper Deverell, by contrast, appeared entirely at ease, adjusting his gloves with the lazy composure of a gentleman awaiting his carriage to the opera, rather than preparing to officiate an affair of honour that might end in bloodshed.
“I have already marked out the paces,” Jasper said, without so much as glancing up.
“Fifteen yards, or possibly fourteen. Difficult to determine with certainty, given the slope.”
“Excellent,” Theo muttered. “Do ensure I am shot uphill, will you? I should prefer to be mourned from a flattering elevation. ”
“I shall see to it,” Jasper said evenly, moving to adjust the fall of Theo’s coat. “If you are to perish this morning, Langley, you may at least do so with your hemline in proper alignment.”
“Thank you. That shall no doubt be of great comfort when the ball lodges itself in my lungs.”
Across the clearing, Benedict Tolliver stood with the rigid bearing of a man prepared for war. At his side, Cousin Horatio was pacing the ground as though he were a clergyman measuring out a grave.
“Tolliver looks as though he’s preparing to storm Badajoz,” Theo observed.
Jasper followed his gaze. “Do you believe he truly means to shoot you?”
“Oh, I hardly think he rose before dawn to take in the scenery.”
“Mm.” Jasper said mildly. “Perhaps he will aim for the shoulder. Something painful, certainly, but not altogether fatal.”
“He has five younger sisters and a loaded pistol. I daresay he is aiming for something deeply symbolic.”
“That reminds me – I have been meaning to ask you to make the proper introductions. If you survive the morning, of course. Who knows – perhaps I shall end up as your brother, after all.”
Theo cast him a withering look. “Most of the Tolliver sisters still bite.”
“That only renders them more intriguing.”
“They have not yet been introduced to Society. One of them is three-and-ten.”
Jasper grimaced. “Ah. In that case, I withdraw the remark. ”
“See that you do. If Tolliver doesn’t put a ball through me for kissing Hetty, he’ll most assuredly do so for so much as catching you looking sideways at the others when they make their come-outs.”
“I should vastly prefer not to be shot at all,” Jasper said lightly. “Which leads me to a novel notion: have you considered offering an apology? I understand it occasionally yields results.”
“I did consider it. Briefly,” Theo replied. “But then I recalled Hetty’s expression when I implied she had been enjoying herself, and concluded that death might, on balance, be the simpler outcome.”
Jasper studied him for a long moment. “You are exceedingly fond of her.”
Theo turned away, pretending to adjust the set of his coat. “We are here for pistols, not confessions.”
“That is not a denial.”
“Nor is this a sermon. Shall we proceed with this farce?”
Jasper offered a languid shrug. “As you wish. But if he manages to shoot you somewhere… significant, I must entreat you not to bleed upon me. This waistcoat is new.”
A discreet figure loitered just beyond the rise of the hill – a physician, engaged for the morning’s business and generously compensated for his silence. He was presently feigning an absorbing interest in the bark of a nearby elm.
Across the clearing, Horatio raised one gloved hand with great solemnity. “Gentlemen, are you prepared?”
“Not in the least,” Theo muttered, as Jasper pressed the pistol into his hand.
“Take your places! ”
Theo stepped forwards, his boots squelching in the damp grass and positioned himself back-to-back with Benedict.
“Pace!” came Horatio’s cry.
They had scarcely taken two steps when a sharp snap echoed across the field, followed, almost at once, by a muffled but entirely discernible: “Bugger!”
Theo halted mid-stride. “Did anyone else hear – ?”
“Charlotte Tolliver!” Benedict roared, whirling round before Horatio could call the next number.
From behind the gorse bush burst Lottie Tolliver, her appearance more woodland nymph than lady: cheeks flushed, bonnet askew and wearing what was unmistakably a borrowed greatcoat over her day dress.
She did not appear the least bit sorry. “Do carry on,” she said cheerfully. “I was merely observing.”
“Observing?” Benedict thundered. “You were expressly forbidden to come within five miles of this field! Have you taken complete leave of your senses?”
“I told you I could sneak out quite easily,” she replied proudly, brushing a bramble from her sleeve. “And I have brought scones. You are always dreadfully ill-tempered before breakfast, Ben.”
“What in God’s name – !” Ben’s face turned a shade of purple not seen in nature. “You cannot be here! This is a duel!”
“Precisely!” Lottie beamed. “I’ve never seen one before. Besides, it is barely dawn and you are all being remarkably theatrical.”
“Go home!” he bellowed, advancing upon her like a country squire intent on chasing livestock from his orchard. “This instant!”
“I shall not! I want to see if Lord Langley dies! ”
Jasper, who had not so much as blinked throughout the exchange, inclined his head slightly toward Theo. “I assume that is the biting one?”
Theo, still watching with some concern as Benedict lumbered towards his sister as she skipped backwards with the grace and speed of a fox, replied, “Only if she likes you. If she does not, she throws things.”
“Charming. Perhaps I shall court her next Season.”
“Please do not,” Theo muttered. “She once made a stable hand cry with a teaspoon.”
“That only increases her appeal.”
“I beg you – do not.”
At that precise moment, Benedict bellowed, “You are going home, Charlotte, if I must throw you over my shoulder and carry you bodily across three counties!”
Lottie promptly darted behind Horatio, who gave a strangled yelp. “You shall not lay a hand on me!” she cried. “This is a matter of public interest!”
“It is not!” Benedict thundered. “It is a private matter of honour!”
“Well then, you ought not to have scheduled it on common land!”
Theo cast a sidelong glance at Jasper, who had now produced a silver pocket flask and was sipping from it with the idle contentment of a man attending a play.
Across the field, Benedict lunged for his sister, but Lottie was swifter. With a cry of triumph, she darted behind Horatio, seized one of the pistols from the velvet-lined case, and bolted into the open heath at a full sprint .
“Return that at once!” Benedict roared.
Horatio let out a strangled gasp. “That pistol is a family heirloom!”
“She’s going to shoot a duck,” Theo said placidly, watching the spectacle unfold, “or her brother… possibly both.”
“She’s magnificent,” Jasper murmured, taking another sip.
“She’s mad.”
“Undoubtedly. But you must concede, she’s elevated the entertainment value of this lamentable farce tenfold.”
Benedict, now at full gallop, was in hot pursuit, roaring threats such as, “Come back here this instant!” and “I shall have you locked in the attic until your thirtieth year!”
Horatio, scurrying in their wake with his embroidered duelling cravat flapping like a distressed flag, shouted, “That pistol is not ornamental!”
Theo turned slightly towards Jasper. “Do we still regard this as a duel, or has it descended fully into pantomime?”
“Oh, it was pantomime from the first.”
At that precise moment, there came the sound of pounding hooves, and a voice cutting through the morning mist like the blade of justice itself: “Charlotte Clarissa Tolliver!”
Hetty appeared at the crest of the rise, astride her grey mare, her hair tumbling in wild curls from loosened pins, riding cloak billowing behind her like the wings of divine vengeance. She looked, for all the world, as though she might smite the entire assembly where they stood.
“I believe this is the part wherein we are struck down for our manifold transgressions,” Jasper murmured .
Theo did not look away from the spectacle. “If so, I shall perish without a single regret.”
Hetty reined in hard, the mare stamping and tossing its head, as though it, too, resented being drawn into so sordid a morning’s business. “Charlotte Tolliver!” she bellowed again, her voice ringing across the heath with the force of a thousand governesses. “Cease this nonsense at once!”
Lottie, still clutching the pistol as though it were some great and curious treasure, skidded to a stop. “Oh, good morning, Hetty. You have only missed the opening act!”
“What,” Hetty said, dismounting with astonishing speed, “in the name of all things respectable, do you imagine you are doing? Gallivanting about the countryside with a pistol in hand!”
“I was not going to discharge the pistol! Not at anyone of consequence.”
“Give it to me. At once.”
Hetty strode across the field like the wrath of God, seized the weapon from her sister’s hand, and in that fateful instant, the pistol discharged with a violent crack.