Hampstead Heath, London, England
1 April 1815
Four horses huddled together beneath the heavy boughs of a large elm tree in the early dawn. Cool rain fell gently, producing a layer of fog that sat just above the ground, creating an eerie visage. Four men stood in pairs at opposite sides of the wide tree, taking advantage of the cover the branches offered.
A short round man stepped out of a black unmarked carriage drawn close to the elm.
“Thank you for coming, Doctor Bernard,” a tall blond man acknowledged the practitioner, pulling a handful of white cloths from his pocket. “I am Lord Willington, Lord Greystone’s second.”
After shaking the doctor’s proffered hand, Willington strode from under the cover of the trees. He approached one man from the other pair and went about setting up the square. The two men stepped off twenty paces from opposing corners, dropping white handkerchiefs at the established corners. The men then divided into two small groups at opposing sides of the tree. Lord Adam Hunter, Marquess of Greystone, stood with his friend Benjamin Crewe, Lord Willington. Lord Aster stood with his second, Lord FitzRoy, on the farthest end.
“Are you sure you can issue no apology, Lord Aster?” The stout doctor held up his hands plaintively from the other side of the tree.
“I have nothing to apologize for, so no,” the man replied, nervously twirling the ends of his long mustache.
“Then I should speak with your second.” The doctor returned after a moment of contemplation, then stumbled over to the man’s second to discuss the proceedings.
“It is time,” Willington announced, tucking a gold pocket watch back into his waistcoat.
“Yes. Thank you, Willington. It is time.” Adam’s voice sounded hard, even to himself. He unwrapped a long box covered in a large oiled cloth and extended it to his opponent. It contained the swords he had inherited from his late uncle. “Choose your weapon, Lord Aster.”
God help him, but the man would feel the sting of whichever rapier he did not choose. It had come to this. Honora was dead, and every nerve in his body told him that this man was the reason for her death.
He had survived Waterloo only to return home to find himself jilted by the woman he had professed to love. They had been affianced for months, having signed the documents and discussed wedding plans several times, even in letters. Had Napoleon not reemerged, they would have married by now, and he would have felt blessed to have her by his side as his marchioness.
Honora was dead, having cast herself from a cliff shortly after marrying. His ears had heard of her death, but his head had found it hard to believe. She had been so full of life. His Honora had feared the ocean; he could not visualize her near a cliff, let alone jumping from one.
His heart filled with such pain and anger, he wanted to fight to the death; however, he had agreed to first blood. Aster had chosen swords over pistols, thinking it the safer choice. Adam felt confident with either.
His opponent picked up both swords and examined them, finally deciding on one. Adam gripped the remaining sword from the box, feeling the familiar touch of its hilt in his hand and unexpectedly recalling his father’s insistence he have excellent fencing skills — a skill he owed his life to many times over in the war.
The two men walked to opposing corners with swords sheathed. Motionless and quiet, they waited for the signal to start. Lord Willington stepped forward and recited the Code Duello, including the agreed upon “to first blood.”
“Begin.” Willington gave the signal, and both men advanced. The sound of steel clashing and heavy breathing pervaded the grounds for long minutes as each man lunged, parried, and riposted. A moist, heavy smell of sweat added to the wet scent of rain.
Adam knew Aster was tiring. Tension focused him, keeping him alert for whatever his opponent threw. He seized upon the opportunity to draw first blood and nicked Aster on the arm. A river of red seeped through his shirt. Thinking the fight had ended, he turned away.
“Adam!” Willington yelled.
Adam turned, holding his sword prepared to block. He was not fast enough. The tip of Aster’s sword had gotten too close and sliced the skin on the side of his face, barely missing his eye. Furious at the breach, he lunged at Aster, burying his sword deep in Aster’s side. His opponent went down.
Loud noises of wheels and horses erupted from nowhere, and Adam reeled to see the duke’s carriage racing to the scene. “Father,” he murmured, barely able to see and scarcely with any voice. Satisfied that his opponent was down, he threw his rapier to the ground and leaned into Willington, allowing him to lead him away from the dueling ground.
The Duke of Lancaster alighted from his carriage and charged into the clearing. “Son!”
They stopped. Wordlessly, his father placed his arm around Adam and pulled him close before he and Willington continued toward their horses. He could hear his father’s tone issuing directives, speaking to Aster’s second and the doctor.
When they were away, Willington spoke under his breath. “Your father saw Aster’s foul play. You were perfectly within bounds—or would be if dueling was still legal. Let us get out of here and let the duke handle things. I believe I just heard Lord FitzRoy affirm to your father that Aster cheated.”
An hour later, Doctor Henley, his father’s physician, was sewing and bandaging his wounds. Henley was a young doctor who had served in many of the recent battles. He insisted on newer methods of medicine, some he felt strongly about, even though they were not proven. Father liked him. Henley had insisted on cleansing the wound first, contending that it would get any debris out of it. Hell’s teeth, the searing pain from flushing the wound hurt as much as the stitches.
“At least your eye remains untouched. You were fortunate, my lord,” Henley allowed between stitches. “Our biggest concern will be infection. I will leave instructions and will be back to check on you tomorrow,” he said, tightening the thread.
A knock sounded at the door, and his father entered. “Doctor, how is my son?”
The doctor lay down the needle and scrubbed his hands. “I finished closing the wound and counted twenty-five stitches. I made them as small as possible, but your son’s face will scar. We will have to wait until healing takes place to see how badly.”
“And his eye?” Adam heard his father probe.
“Is safe, for now. I cannot say what will happen if this becomes infected. Try to keep it clean and the bandages changed,” the young doctor returned. “I trust that you have taken care of the situation?”
“The other man is in terrible shape,” the duke responded. “That is all I know. And Doctor Henley?” He paused. “This never happened.”
“Understood,” Henley responded.
The next day, Adam woke to the news that Lord Aster had died from injuries sustained the day before in a street altercation with no witnesses forthcoming. The assumption would be that it was a robbery that had ended badly.
He tried to feel something — guilt, anger, anything. Reaching his hand to his face, he touched it and winced. He felt nothing — nothing except pain.
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Thank you for taking the time to read my preview. If you enjoyed it and would like to buy The Duke’s Golden Rings, you can purchase it on Amazon or find the purchase links for B&N, Kobo and ITunes here: www.annastclaire.com
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~~ Anna St. Claire ~~