During the night the storm rumbled itself back toward the city, but although the wind and rain lessened and eventually stopped altogether, Lisette did not enjoy a restful sleep. Once, she half woke from a dream in which Justin invaded her bedchamber at dead of night, while singing a decidedly naughty Spanish lovesong. Typical of dreams, the song was delivered in a fine true baritone, whereas her husband’s singing left much to be desired. Despite her broken slumbers, habit decreed that she wake at dawn and, having lain staring at the bedcurtains for half an hour, she arose, reached for the bell rope, then relinquished it. Denise had been thoroughly worn out last evening; it would be cruel to waken the poor little creature at this early hour. Still, she would go down and see if there was some hot water to be had.
She put on her peignoir and started along the hall. It was a wide hall, richly carpeted and charmingly appointed. She had been too wearied last night to notice much of the house and now looked about her with interest. Her interest became consternation, however, as one of the doors she approached was flung open. She came face to face with Tristram Leith, considerably in need of a shave, his thick dark hair tumbling untidily over his brow, and his dressing gown tied carelessly so that a hairy chest was exposed to her startled eyes.
“Good God!” gasped Leith.
“T-Tristram!” Lisette squeaked, shrinking against the wall in horror.
“Your—your pardon!” He ran a hand hurriedly through his hair. “I came in very late and did not waken the servants. I’d not realized you and Strand were visiting us.”
“W-well, we are not!” she gulped. “Did Rachel and Charity come back with you?”
She knew from his sudden pallor that they had not and uttered a whimper of dismay. “Then—you … and I … have been here all alone? All night?”
Leith forced a grin. “None so dreadful, is it? I am your brother-in-law, after all. Come now, never look so scared. Perhaps I can creep away again before anyone knows I—oh, devil take it!”
A maid carrying a steaming copper jug was followed by a lad with a bucket of firewood. Both halted, staring in amazement at the two who stood as if frozen in the hall.
“Is—that for me, I hope?” called Leith with hoarse cheeriness.
“N-no, sir.” With her stupefied gaze fixed upon her employer’s broad chest, the maid said faintly, “It is hot water for—for Mrs. Strand.”
Leith glanced down and stifled a groan as he snatched his dressing gown into a belated propriety.
Ready to sink, Lisette contrived to walk gracefully back into her bedchamber, and knew only too well that her face was scarlet.
* * *
It was late afternoon by the time Lord Jeremy Bolster left Aldershot, his mood considerably less amiable than usual. The job horses he had hired in Godalming had been the best of a very poor lot. They had proven to be slugs as he’d feared, and as he had told them frequently but without result for the balance of their hire. The state of the roads compelled him to change teams at Aldershot, but his situation had not improved, for the pair he now drove were poorly matched and no more inclined to lean into their collars than had been their predecessors. He would, he realized glumly, be compelled to rack up at Basingstoke, a development he viewed without delight since the bad weather would undoubtedly result in overcrowded conditions and harassed servants.
Arriving at Basingstoke in the middle of a crashing thunderstorm, he was cold and irritable and wished he’d dared bring his groom. He’d not done so, of course, for fear of what he might encounter at Cloudhills, though with luck there would be nothing to encounter. It was unlikely that a lady would persevere with a journey in the face of such wretched conditions.
The yard of the fine posting house he selected was crowded. Despite the crested doors of his chaise, his lack of attendants was noted, his consequence suffered, and he was fortunate to be allocated a small and noisy room located directly over the kitchens. The sheets were so questionable that he tore the bed apart and aired the bedding before the fire. In the dining room he endured an execrable dinner, his misery lightened only by some tolerable Burgundy and the conversation of a wealthy local merchant who was so jovially ill-mannered that Bolster was fascinated. He slept poorly, falling soundly asleep at dawn and not awakening until eleven o’clock, the early call he had requested having been totally ignored. The thought of breakfasting in the crowded coffee room was unbearable, and he set out for Cloudhills under bright skies, but over roads clogged with mud. He stopped at the first promising hedge-tavern he came to and was restored to spirits by plain but good fare. He was soon on the road again and pulled into the stableyard at Cloudhills shortly after one o’clock. A groom ran to take charge of the team and tossed his lordship a sympathetic glance.
“Do not d-dare to ask if they’re mine!” warned Bolster, jumping down and peering into the stables.
“Be ye lookin’ for the Colonel, sir?” the groom enquired.
Admirably concealing his dismay, Bolster lied, “Yes. Have they all re-re-come back, then?”
“Just the Colonel, I do believe, sir. Comed in late last night, he did. Left ’s’marnin’ though. Don’t blame him. Stinks up there. Drefful!”
Undaunted, Bolster pressed on but reaching the house, he was obliged to agree. The painters were busily and vociferously at work in the great hall. Following Mrs. Keene, he was guided through a welter of planks, ladders, buckets, brushes, and rolls of wallpaper to the kitchen and the small office beyond it where the butler handled his transactions. “Sorry I am to bring you back here, milord,” she apologized, “but the paint smell is not quite so bad, you’ll notice. Did you wish to leave a message for Colonel Leith?”
He shook his head and, feeling like a spy, said, “Wanted to t-tell you that Mrs. Strand m-might come. She th-thinks her sisters are here. I’ll try to head her off, if I can, but—”
“No need for that, sir,” the housekeeper assured him with a rather tight smile. “Mrs. Strand overnighted with us. Poor soul was that disappointed, but I gave her the ladies’ direction in London, and she left early this morning.”
“I see. And—er, the Colonel?”
Mrs. Keene’s eyes dropped. Reddening, she began to fuss with a neat pile of statements on the desk. “He stays with—with Mr. Devenish, I believe, sir.”
After a brief pause, he said blandly, “The roads are very b-bad. I f-fancy Mrs. Strand will go straight home—to Sussex, I m-m-mean.”
“Oh, I doubt that, milord. She was most anxious to see Mrs. Leith.” Fixing him with a defiant stare, she added, “That was why she come, you see. I doubt the roads will intimidate such as Mrs. Strand. Likely she will drive straight on and try to reach Berkeley Square before dark.”
Bolster thanked her, said his farewells, and made his way outside.
Climbing into his chaise, his eyes were very grim indeed.
* * *
Despite Mrs. Keene’s faith in her, Lisette’s hope of reaching London that evening was foiled by the state of the roads. Mud was everywere, fallen trees blocked thoroughfares, and clogged traffic resulted in interminable delays and confusion. They arrived in Stoke Poges as the light was fading, and were able to bespeak some passable rooms at a small hostelry. A private parlour was not to be had, however, and Lisette ordered dinner sent to her room, where she shared the meal with Denise and then tumbled into bed, close to exhaustion.
Had she known it, she had fared better than the faithful young Corinthian who followed her so doggedly. Lord Bolster’s job horses were not pleased by the littered highways and short of lashing at them with his whip, he could not convince them to travel above a snail’s pace. Leaving Reading, one of the animals took violent exception to a wagonload of pigs that jolted raucously past. My lord’s hack reared, startling his lazy companion into a buck. The chaise went off the road, the wheel demolished a signpost and fell off, and the chaise lurched and splashed into the mud. Bolster was thrown clear and, shaken and muddied, all but danced his fury. Fortunately he was a well-known young gentleman and the occupant of a passing phaeton, chancing to recognize him, came to his resue. The wheel, however, was badly sprung, and it was necessary that Bolster, horses, and chaise be returned to Reading to join the many travellers awaiting repairs to their vehicles.
* * *
“Not work today?” Strand reached up to halt Green’s ministrations and over the lathered shaving brush regarded his faithful valet incredulously. “Why the devil not? It’s stopped raining, hasn’t it?”
“Yes, sir.” Misliking the glittering brightness of his employer’s eyes, Green said carefully, “Only—well, you did become very wet yesterday, and I—”
Lowering his hand, Strand interrupted hurriedly, “How the deuce was I to know the skies would fall just as we were dragging the old tub down our slips? Anyway, she’s launched, and watertight, at least. Mr. Norman will be proud. It would have been a fine bobbery if he’d stepped on the deck and she’d sunk like a stone!”
Green smiled politely in response to the mischievous grin that was slanted at him. He said nothing, but turning Strand’s head, his fingers lingered on the strong jaw a shade longer than necessary. Frowning, he murmured, “I doubt one more day would prove disastrous, sir.”
Strand, already chafing at the innumerable delays that had kept him from returning to his bride and determined to be done with this business before he left, said with a trace of asperity, “Likely you do. But the boy’s to come down next weekend. I want it done!”
The valet’s bushy eyebrows lifted, and his lips tightened. It was comment enough.
“Oh!” groaned Strand. “Had I but known in India that you were going to be such a confounded mother hen! You are angered because I did not give over yesterday when you bade me, is that it?”
“You were soaked, sir.” Since it was now out in the open, the valet applied more lather to his master’s upper lip with rather unnecessary vehemence, so that Strand sneezed. He then bent a grim stare on his victim and nodded, “Quite so, sir. You’ve took a chill is what.”
“Damn you! You splashed soap up my nose is all!”
The indignation in the blue eyes brought a softening to Green’s brown ones. “Sir, your skin is very warm, and—”
“Aye. I’m alive! Not the bloodless corpse you will make of me do you not cease brandishing that razor about! Have done, man! I feel splendid. Besides, I mean only to see Silvering Sails varnished and I’m off! I’ll not wait to have the sails fitted. I’ll send my amateur shipwrights to convey them here, but we’ll allow the professionals to attend to that business. There, does that suit your Finickyness?”
Green bowed, and his demeanour became of polar propriety. Aware that he was in disgrace, Strand cursed him roundly, teased him, and finally, unleashing the brilliant grin the valet was never able to withstand, brought him neatly around his thumb. He agreed to a request that he at once return to the house should it start to rain again, and even submitted to having a wool scarf wrapped around his throat. Whistling cheerily, he then strode outside, stubbornly ignoring the fact that his head ached annoyingly.
Watching that jaunty stride, Green pursed his lips. “I doubt,” he muttered, “that scarf will stay in place above five minutes.”
He was right. However, since the sun now smiled down on drenched Sussex, awaking the dancing light of the river and bringing a welcome warmth to the damp air, Green ceased to be quite as concerned and went about his own affairs.
With his customary zeal, Strand threw himself into the final sanding and varnishing of the rails, so that he was soon very warm indeed and his jacket was shortly tossed down on the deck beside his scarf. The work went along well, and the final brush stroke was applied shortly after noon. The little crew gathered up their materials and repaired to the dock, turning back to survey the results of their labours. Strand mopped perspiration from his brow and joined the men in a cheer. The battered and burnt old hulk that had occupied the barn was now, to his eyes at least, a splendid sight, the cabin rebuilt and bright with white paint trimmed in yellow, the decks immaculate, the masts tall and proud and, thanks to a talented village artist, the name tastefully emblazoned on bow and stern.
Strand told Shell and the men to report back to Mr. Connaught, who would instruct them in the matter of transporting the sails, and they moved off, passing Best, who came up and, surveying the craft with a less loving eye, suggested that she appeared to lean to the right a bit. “Just a teensy bit, mind.”
“There is,” said Strand loftily, “a deal of work remaining to be done.”
“Ar, fer ye got to get something to hang on they masts,” observed the groom knowledgeably. “Ship cannot sail ’thout sails. Not nohow.”
“But she can drift, blast it!” Strand exclaimed, and sprang quickly to secure the aft mooring line that had worked loose, probably by reason of the surging of the rain-swollen river invading even this quiet inlet. By the time he finished, he was considerably warmer and irked by reason of having forgetfully rested his hand on the newly varnished rail. Straightening, he was dismayed by a sudden chill that caused him to shiver violently. He groaned and cursed his frustration. Green had been right as usual. He’d spent altogether too much time in the rain, but—
“Pssst! You deef, or wot is it?”
Turning sharply at this, Strand discovered a small but very pugnacious-appearing personage who scanned him narrowly.
“I’ll be gormed if you ain’t shot the cat!” observed this youthful apparition with considerable righteousness. “And ’fore noon, too! ’Ere, you best take care, my cove! You’ll be proper lurched if old swivel nose catches you wiv a ball o’ fire!”
Not unfamiliar with cant, and aware he also presented a most inelegant appearance, Strand grinned and vouchsafed the information that, contrary to the belief held by his visitor, he was not in the least over the oar.
“Garn!” scoffed the boy derisively. “You’re clean raddled, you is!” He ran a shrewd eye over Strand’s dirty and occasionally varnished shirt and ragged old breeches and shoes and, concealing his incredulity, stepped closer, and lowering his voice asked, “Want to earn a borde? Good clean work. Nuthink smoky. All y’got t’do is take a writing to ’er nibs up in the palace yonder.”
Something in Strand’s eyes became very still. “Do you mean Mrs. Strand?”
“‘Course! Didya fink I meant the Queen o’ Sheba? ’Ere”—a grubby, folded paper was thrust out—“take it. And you wanta be cagey-like. It’s—er—” the small countenance twisted into a leering smile that was ageless, “It’s from ‘A Friend’ as they say. See?”
Strand’s gaze travelled from the wizened face that had seen too much of evil to the paper he held. “Yes,” he said quietly. “I see.”
“Orl right.” The boy dug into his pocket, unearthed a shilling, and handed it over reluctantly. “I bin ’anging about all mornin’. Tried to get it ter the ’ouse, but ol’ swivel nose—Mr. Green to you, my cove—was allus about. Don’t ferget now. Cagey-like. Fer the lady, and no one else, eh?”
Strand nodded and, the smile quite gone from his eyes, agreed to be cagey.
When he reached the Dutch door, Green swung it open for him. “Good gracious, sir! You’ll be wanting to bathe. I—”
“Tell Best to saddle Brandy,” Strand interposed shortly, and strode past.
Staring, Green protested, “But—”
“At once!” Strand flung over his shoulder. “I must return to the Hall. Follow me as soon as you’ve packed.”
Green knew the tone and scurried for the stables. The cat, he thought, was in with the chicks. Though why, he could not guess.
Strand washed hurriedly. Green came to him then and silently assisted him to change clothes in record time. One look at that bleak expression had frozen the valet’s final attempt to reason with his master, nor did he request to rush with the packing and accompany Strand back to the Hall. He knew he would be refused.
Once in the saddle, Strand rode out at the gallop. He avoided roads and by-ways and headed straight across country, violating several warnings anent trespassing as he sent Brandy to the northeast. He had been riding for some time when he felt the chestnut stagger. Appalled, he reined up. The horse was lathered and breathing hard. Enraged with himself, Strand dismounted and walked until the pleasant structure that was The Pines hove into view. He handed Brandy over to the ostler, flushing slightly because of the amazement in the man’s eyes. The parlour of the usually cosy inn was positively frigid. Mr. Drye, hastening to welcome his favourite customer, was checked by the jut of the chin and the thin, hard line of the mouth. “Alone today, sir?” he said mildly. “If you’d care to sit here at the window, Mrs. Drye will have some—”
“I’ll take the table by the fire,” said Strand. “It’s blasted well freezing in here, Drye.”
The host blinked. He had lit the fire only because the walls were almost two feet thick and tended to be clammy of a morning. Already, two travellers had complained of the heat in the low-ceilinged room. Showing Strand to the table he had requested, Drye poked the logs into higher blaze and went into the kitchen, fanning himself
Left alone, Strand contemplated the hearth. It would, he told himself, be despicable to read the letter he carried. It would be utterly disloyal to pay heed to the insinuations of that grubby little boy with his too-wise eyes and leering mouth. If Garvey still pursued Lisette it was only to be expected, was it not? And he had, after all, not yet begun his own campaign to win his bride. He had no right … no right at all.…
He drew a hand across his eyes, wishing his confounded head would stop aching so. How the letter came from his pocket to the table, he could not have told. But it was there. Creased and none too clean. Mocking him. Daring him to read it. Tempting him to dishonour.
He was relieved when Drye came back to set soup and bread before him. The hot soup warmed him a little, but the bread seemed to stick in his throat. And ever as he ate, the greyish edge of the letter peeped from beneath the breadboard as though it whispered, “Take me up. See the message I have for her. Take me up—if you are man enough!” But he would not. He was not that base. Not yet, by heaven!
“Oh, your pardon, sir!” The serving maid set down a tankard of ale at the same instant Strand reached for the salt. “Now look what I’ve gone and done!” she gasped, using her apron to wipe the splashed table. “Oh! All over your letter it do be! Let me…” She dabbed anxiously at the paper, Drye running over to add his own efforts and apologies.
“Oh, it is nothing! Nothing!” said Strand pettishly. “Have done, man!”
Drye caught the girl’s surprised eye and jerked his head meaningfully and they retreated to the kitchen.
His fingers trembling, Strand took up the letter. It was not very wet, but the ink might smudge. He would dry it at the fire. The blasted seal was already loosened and, perhaps, did he spread it, it would dry faster.
He unfolded it and held it to the flames, resolutely keeping the writing turned away from him. But he could not keep his eyes from that horribly tempting page, and with the glow of the fire behind it, the words began to be clear. One word fairly jumped out at him … Leith. Leith! Muttering a curse, he snatched up the page, and read:
Dearest beloved—[Strand swore]
You married Strand reluctantly, and knowing you had my heart. Nor did I feel constrained from pursuing you, since I held his “courtship,” if one can call it that, to be dishonourable.
I cannot condone what you now mean to do (and do not ask how I learned of it, for I’ll not betray a confidence). I entreat you to abandon your plans. I know you have long nourished a tendre for Tristram Leith, but do not, I beg of you, go to him! To do so can only bring heartbreak upon the Leiths, more and perhaps fatal rage from your unpredictable husband, and grief to—
Yrs, forever,
Garvey
* * *
Lisette’s original intention to go straight to her parents’ home on Portland Place was abandoned when she realized this must necessitate further delays. Her need to talk with Charity had become of such importance that all else must be set aside, and to that end when they at last came into Mayfair late next morning, she directed her coachman to drive straight to Berkeley Square and the residence of Tristram Leith’s uncle, the Earl of Mayne-Waring.
Being a well-bred individual, with long years of experience in his profession, the butler who opened the door of the impressive mansion evinced not the slightest surprise upon discovering a morning caller upon the porch, with behind her an extremely muddied travelling coach complete with coachman, groom, and what appeared to be an abigail peeping from the rain-beaded window. He bowed deferentially to Mrs. Strand and imparted his regret that neither Mrs. Leith nor Miss Strand was in Town, they and Lady Mayne-Waring having gone down to spend a week or two with Lord and Lady Moulton in Sussex.
Lisette could have wept her frustration. Greenwings, the Moultons’ lovely old country home, was not above five and twenty miles southeast of Strand Hall! These three miserable days had been wasted in searching for a girl who had all the time been only three hours’ drive from home! She thanked the butler, returned to her carriage, and instructed the coachman to proceed to Portland Place.
* * *
Lord Jeremy Bolster was despondent. For three days his frenzied pursuit of Lisette Strand had all but banished his own problems from his mind. This morning, however, he had reached Town and learned from his valet, an unfailingly reliable source, that only an hour since Mrs. Justin Strand had called briefly at the mansion of the Earl of Mayne-Waring, and then proceeded to the home of her parents. The danger was, it would appear, past. Bolster was nothing if not thorough, however, and so it was that he strolled up Stratton Street, his heart as heavy as his steps.
The porter admitted him to number 15, and he climbed the stairs to Devenish’s rooms. The door was opened by an impressive valet who advised that his master was not presently at home, but expected to return before noon so as to change his clothes for an afternoon engagement. Since it was then half-past eleven, Bolster accepted an invitation to wait, rather than again venture into the rain in search of his quarry. He bestowed his long drab coat upon the valet, tossed hat, gloves, and cane onto an already littered sideboard, and settled himself in the comfortable chair beside the fire of the cosy parlour. He was scanning The Racing Calendar when he heard a carriage rattle at a spanking pace along the street and stop nearby. A moment later, someone pounded on the door, and voices in the hall were followed by a quick, light step that Bolster knew all too well. His heart sinking, he sprang up to confront the man he was least desirous of beholding.
“S-Strand!” he said nervously. “You here?”
Strand carried his hat and whip and was still wearing a many-caped drab coat. He looked haggard and grim, and returned a pithy, “Evidently. Have you seen Leith?”
“Leith?” Bolster echoed, his voice squeaking a little. “N-n-no. Not here, dear old b-boy.” To which he added a reinforcing, “I come to s-s-see Devenish. D-Devenish lives here.”
“So I understand.” Strand passed his hat and gloves to the hovering valet, but retained his whip. He then flung himself into the one remaining armchair and glowered at the fire.
Bolster thought he looked ripe for murder. “Catch cold in here with your c-coat on, old fellow. Want to walk? I’ll come with you.”
“Thank you,” Strand muttered. “But I shall wait for Devenish. He may be able to tell me where I can find a filthy snake that calls itself Tristram Leith.”
Anguished, Bolster thought, He knows! But springing to his feet, he tried to look shocked, and expostulated, “Confound you, Justin! Here you go r-rushing off half-cocked again! What is it this time? Tristram’s a spl-splendid fellow.”
Strand leaned his head back against the wing chair and with a curl of the lip observed, “The kind of ‘splendid fellow’ who marries my sister and within a year seduces my wife!”
“No, no! That ain’t so! I swear you are quite out there!”
“Devil I am!” Strand uttered a mirthless bark of laughter and stood to take off his greatcoat and toss it over the table. “I chance to have intercepted a letter warning my devoted bride against going to Leith. I reached home to discover she had already done so!” He paused, his face turned away, and added as though the words scourged him, “I traced her as far as Cloudhills.”
“Yes, but she d-did- did not st-stop there.”
For moment Strand was very still. Turning his head, he looked at Bolster enigmatically. “She didn’t?”
“No, no, old fellow. Saw her m’self. In Oxford.”
“Did you now?” said Strand in a soft, almost caressing tone. “How very remarkable. I was told the road to Oxford was flooded and that the military was turning back all travellers.”
“Oh … well, I must have dr-dr- passed through b-before that.”
“Indeed you must,” Strand said dryly. “And come away by means of a rowboat, eh? Do you mean to explain away the letter also?”
“Er—likely it was more of Garvey’s no-no-nonsense is all.”
“And he tricked Lisette into driving to Berkshire also, no doubt? Good try, my friend, but…” He stood, rummaged under his coat, retrieved his whip, and sat down again.
Bolster eyed the heavy whip uneasily. “Wh-what d’you m-mean to do?”
“Call Leith out,” Strand grated. “The sneaking, lying cur!”
“Good God! You mustn’t talk like that, Justin! He’s wed t-to your sister!”
“The more reason to slaughter the—” Strand paused, listening intently.
To Bolster’s horror, wheels sounded outside, followed by a sudden burst of male talk and laughter.
Strand came to his feet in a fluid, pantherish movement. Jumping up also, Bolster gripped his arm. “Justin! For the love of God! Do not!”
“Stand clear, Jerry.” Strand wrenched free. “I’d not have you hurt.”
“You’re m-mad! C-consider Rachel! Consider Lisette!”
“Consider the marriage vows! Consider honour and decency!”
“Aye, but if—”
Footsteps were in the hall. Devenish’s voice said laughingly, “… but it was his wife, eh?”
Strand’s lips pulled back and from between gritted teeth came a low, menacing growl.
Attempting to seize the whip, Bolster pleaded, “Give over, man! You will never b-be able t-to—”
Strand shoved him away. “I shall kill the swine who was with my wife last week-end!”
“But—I swear it w-wasn’t Leith!”
Strand caught his breath. His eyes, turning to Bolster, put that earnest young man forcibly in remind of two sabres. “Then … who…” he breathed, “was she with?”
The door was flung open. Desperate and thinking only to prevent the impending tragedy, Bolster cried, “Me!”
Alain Devenish and Marcus Clay paused on the threshold, struck to silence by the dramatic pose of the two before them: Bolster’s hand clutching Strand’s wrist, Strand, pale and rigid, every inch of his lean frame reflecting restrained fury.
For Strand, time seemed to stand still. A series of cameos flickered through his mind with blinding speed: Lisette, saying so casually that Bolster had visited her during that first horrible week of their marriage—ostensibly to leave Brutus in her care. Bolster, usually so painfully afflicted with shyness at the presence of a female, yet conversing merrily with Lisette. The two of them, standing very close together before the weeping willow at Silverings, and on Bolster’s face that almost ludicrous expression of guilt. Lisette’s deep concern when Bolster had wrenched his arm while working on Silvering Sails … the way they’d sat together on the sofa later, whispering so softly, so secretively … Lord! How could he have been so blind!
“By God!” he snarled. “You? Of all men? You?”
His lordship blinked. It had never occurred to him that Strand might think he had cuckolded him, and briefly, he was stunned with surprise. If ever there was a moment when it was imperative that he enunciate clearly, this was it. But the more nervous Bolster became, the worse was his stammering, and thus, belatedly attempting to extricate himself from this deadly development, he uttered an unfortunate, “N-no! Not—I didn’t—we didn’t—L-L-Lisette and I d-d-did—but we didn’t mean t-t-to—”
A red haze was before Strand’s eyes. Quite forgetting he still held the whip, he struck out, the blow catching Bolster across the left side of his face so hard that he was sent reeling back.
“Foulness!” spat out Strand, advancing on his dazed victim. “Judas!”
Recovering their wits, Devenish and Clay jumped forward; Devenish, to support Bolster, Clay to leap before the enraged Strand.
Appalled, Clay demanded, “Justin! Are you run mad? Bolster is your closest friend!”
With an effort that left him shaking, Strand overmastered his fury. His face very white, he said with devastating and deliberate clarity, “Lord Bolster is no friend of mine! He is a damned cheat! A lecherous, conniving, disloyal, womanizing vermin I can scarce wait to shoot down so I may wipe my boots on his worthless carcass!”
“Good … God!” gasped Devenish. “What in the name of—”
“Name your seconds, Bolster!” thundered Strand.
With deepening horror, Clay noted that the door to the hall stood wide and that the porter, who had been conducting two military gentlemen on a tour of some available rooms, stood with his charges gazing across the small vestibule at the dramatic confrontation. Stifling a groan, he raced to close the outer door, his heart plummeting as he recognized one of the officers as Captain Butterfield, a likeable but garrulous young man. There was, he thought miserably, no quieting this now!
“J-Justin,” Bolster managed faintly, one hand pressed to his cheek, “you m-must not—”
“If your friend, Mr. Devenish,” sneered Strand, “lacks sufficient backbone to meet me, I would as soon bring my pistol here and shoot him down like the dog he is!”
To swallow this, added to the former insults, was unthinkable, and Devenish and Clay exchanged stricken looks. His lips tight, Devenish turned to Bolster. “Jeremy, do you wish that I act for you?”
Bolster lowered his hand, revealing a great darkening welt across his cheek. “No! Justin, I b-beg of you to l-l—”
“Observe the whining coward,” sneered Strand. “What is your next move, poltroon? Shall you fall on your knees and beg pardon?” Bolster flushed, and Strand snarled, “Can you suppose I would ever pardon such treachery?”
“N-no!” Bolster said with a faint frown. “B-but I am n-not—I did not—”
“You convicted yourself with your own mouth,” Strand raged. “Unless—” The glaring, murderous light in his eyes softened. He said an all but pleading, “There can be but one reason for your refusal to meet me! You are innocent and it was Leith, as I suspected! Jeremy, for the love of God! Only tell me that is so, and—”
“No!” gasped Bolster. “But there is no n-n-need for us to fight, and—”
“No need?” Strand thundered. “Damn you! Do you rate her favours so cheap?” He sprang forward, but Clay stepped between them, and said, a touch of frost in his voice, “Bolster. You have no choice, you know.”
Bolster sighed. “I know,” he muttered, and drawing himself up, added with the odd judicial dignity that occasionally marked him, “Gone too far now. Quite r-right. I th-thought Leith was c-coming in with you, else I’d not have said—oh, well. Too late n-now.” He glanced at Devenish. “Thank you for the offer, D-Dev. I’ll accept it.”
Devenish nodded gravely.
Strand turned his glittering gaze on Clay.
“I’ll act for you, Justin,” the Major said with frowning reluctance. “When?”
“Now!”
Devenish gave a gasp and, with sudden and uncharacteristic propriety, remonstrated, “Cannot fight at this hour! Ain’t done!”
“Don’t be so damned prim!” growled Strand.
“If you were caught,” Clay pointed out reasonably, “you’d have to make a run for it. Better be dawn, Justin, or—”
“Now!” Strand reiterated. Green had been right, as usual, and he had contracted a heavy cold. Already he felt hot and feverish, and his head so wooden that to think was an effort. Lord knows if he’d be able to fight at all tomorrow! He said stubbornly, “I’ve to leave Town first thing in the morning. No one will see us in this miserable weather. We can meet in Wanderer’s Spinney off the Wimbledon Road. If”—his lip curled unpleasantly—“you can get your man there, Devenish.”
With his wide gaze fixed on the hearth, Bolster did not hear this latest slur. He was instead experiencing a vague and foolish sense of pride that Strand had suspected him of engaging in an affaire with the lovely Lisette. This emotion was followed at once by regret that the beauty had proven so faithless. She had spent the night at Cloudhills, alone with Leith. That much he’d been able to determine. It was a pity he had been unable to come up with a believable explanation for her activities—or his own. But at least Strand no longer suspected that Leith had been his betrayer. Perhaps, did Strand wound him a little … for he certainly would not shoot to kill, would he? Bolster frowned thoughtfully. Perhaps he’d best write a note to Lisette and to Leith, warning them. Just in case. He thought with regret of his love and of the life they might have had, save for her high sense of honour. And with a sudden stab of guilt, knew that his mother would mourn him deeply. And there was good old Harry Redmond and his tempestuous brother, Mitchell. And Lucian St. Clair, and Vaughan, and … He started when Devenish touched his shoulder and repeated a gentle, “Well, Jeremy?”
“Eh? Oh, whatever. I shall choose pistols if you d-d-do not mind.” He looked to Strand apologetically. “Never was much good with swords, you know.”
Not glancing his way, Strand nodded. “Two o’clock!”
“Good God, no!” Devenish was nursing the hope of reaching Leith and somehow calling a halt to this, and he expostulated, “That’s ridiculous!”
Bolster gestured fatalistically. “Two o’clock is acceptable to me, Dev.”
Strand took up his belongings and marched to the door. Bolster called to him. He scowled and swore under his breath, but turned back.
Bolster held out the fateful whip. “F-forgot this,” he said quietly.
A wave of grief racked Strand. His exquisite and wanton wife … and Jeremy…! He took the whip and strode out, leaving the door open.