VI. Sir James
"Now chaps, we've a few hours to dawn yet. There's no need of a posse, we will simply have a quiet, dignified disagreement between gentlemen, and God will sort the rest!"
James loved the tumultuous passion that devoured his entourage when there was the promise of bloodshed, and the attention it garnered for him at court was glorious as any Roman Triumph – he was their God-King, Emperor of the Cravat, and let the hangers-on render unto Caesar what was Caesar's. With the Gaulish brute in question, he had the right of challenge, and his entire flock of popinjays knew it, excellently. But the moral right was nothing compared to the satisfaction of honor at gun-point.
His last two duels had been a poor showing; as the other man had the right of him, and had fired into the dirt, he'd been obligated to scratch as well. God save England if the dissatisfactory sight of two gentlemen firing pistols at paces into the dirt became the thing! Dreadfully boring to see, but often excellent in the re-telling at parties, so at least that was something.
He'd not been cut for a life of Oxford dust or the Church, and – if he was honest – he would probably not make good on the Barony. Best to fight the good fight, sup well and keep a pin in his tailors before he expanded about the middle, took his seat in Parliament, and bloated up to the size of Prinny. The best coats already required a valet to wedge in – not at all suited for shooting – and James made a note to have his man help him change before the morning. Excitement – the fine art of a gentleman's leisure – made for very expensive sport, but dueling – like all sport – required a sense of daring and accoutrement!
"If you'll excuse me, gentlemen, I'm off to prepare myself!" James called back, as the crowd around him cheered and jarred. "Now, now, there's nothing like honor on an empty stomach, with tarnished brass. If you take away the pomp, it's a simple act of murder –" they really lauded him for that remark, and it took him a few moments to reel their enthusiasm in.
"So, gentlemen, I must bid you a temporary farewell!" They booed a bit, but let him go. It was a sobering thing, honor at gunpoint, though what little sobriety he'd found could certainly be drowned in champagne over breakfast as they celebrated his victory.
He'd killed before, in a bare-knuckles boxing match; he'd dueled and wounded two men with sabers, though they'd lingered for weeks afterward; it felt different to think of the impersonal flourish of a pistol, though he'd not ruin the high moods of his friends. Let them cheer and bray; he'd still accept their laurels graciously.
James caught a glance of himself in the mirror as he swept into one of Sir Henry's studies – no, this cravat and jacket would not do for a man who meant to live through the week; James went to work oiling and loading his pistols and thought on which knots he might like. The Millcrofts had a groom to handle both chores, certainly there was someone whom he could wake – or his own tiger, perhaps – but the tactile proof of his desires and the acrid smell of the powder focused him better than temperance ever could.
He'd only just finished lying out his first brace for inspection when the door to his chamber burst open without ceremony.
"Odd's fish, boy, what was that tumult in the Great Hall?"
"Good morning to you as well, father," James grinned, shifting some papers on Sir Henry's table. Just a lot of dodgy old Latin or something equally foreign, certainly nothing that couldn't be spared to camouflage a gun.
"Don't you good morning me, Jim. You've raised a mob, and now I find you sitting alone and brooding. What is the meaning of this? Our hostess will be demmed displeased," his father scolded, and his eyes were trained right to the stock of a pistol, bright brass shining out from the table. Of course he had noticed, but by the grace of God he would not say anything. No, that was not the Spencer way – better to have some grounds for deniability.
"You can't displease old Henry, so long as he's got a soft place to sleep," James retorted, lazily shifting another page over the offending object.
"I hope I'm not intruding?" Bloody hell, but it was Gold as well, lurking in his father's shadow. That'd take the fight out of anybody, a pair of old curs bristling, threatening to spoil his fight.
"No, no, you stay for this Gold. Maybe you can talk some sense of decorum into him, God knows I've tried. Jim, what have you to say for yourself?" his father grimaced, beckoning his old friend into the room.
"There's nothing more to be said, father. Words have failed us, and we are men of action, living in the age of action," he replied, flippant as he dared. The old man might be no end of seriousness and sobriety, but he'd come down hard if he caught his only son dueling outright in the garden.
"Oh, I don't know… Words do have power, in the right hands," supplied Gold. James glared at him.
"In the right ears, rather," James corrected, with his usual air of defiance. "But who has the time these days? When there are pretty ladies and witty gentlemen aplenty in Society to amuse us, the best bred need not say much of anything. I have led a mob into the foyer and I have dispersed them just as easily. That is the end of it, surely?"
His father seemed at a loss, but Gold pressed him: "Do you suggest that the art of interlocution is beneath the notice of accomplished ladies and well-born gentlemen?"
James just snorted. "Oh, who knows what I've said. I haven't the patience to mince words with you tonight, Goldie, there's still sport to be had."
"Nor the lexicon, one might think," the older man replied darkly.
"That's dashed unkind of you to say," said George, interrupting just as James had grown bored of listening. "What the devil's provoked you this time, Jimmy?"
"Does it matter?" muttered Gold, bowing curtly, and then turning to leave. James rather hoped his father would follow suit; he desperately hated being made to explain himself.
VII. Miss Clime
Jack had wasted no time in rousing a chamber maid to run and fetch her a few shards from the ice house, and as she reclined in a private parlor with a cool compress at her temple she'd never been gladder that the Millcroft's grand manor kept so many well-stocked luxuries close by. It usually bothered her in its long-lived grandeur, an amalgamation of wings and bygone eras; her own home would be furnished much more tastefully, with only the most modern apartments. And an ice house, she decided. A private ice house was a necessity.
She'd be very cross indeed if that buffoon had bruised her, the bloodied nose was insult enough, and she'd intended to ride out with the hunting party in the morning. Well, she could hardly do that with one eye swollen shut! Bad enough his tarty wife had shown her up for the evening – no one could deny that Mrs. Lacey outshone Miss Clime in their sky-blue, close-cut gowns, and what a misfortune to have dressed so similarly – but for drunken Colonel Lacey to have struck her! It was incorrigible.
Jack could and would have shot the scoundrel herself, right on the spot, if decorum had not demanded that she play the part of the victim and cower. James would handle it for her, and that pleased her. He was ever so charming and not known for his mercies.
Poor Mrs. Lacey, though. Tarty dress-thief or no, there could be no doubt that the blow had been meant for her. Two slight, brunette women in similar mode… the faux pas stung more than the injury, and Jack reached lazily for her wine glass to wash away the rage. There was nothing she could do about any of it, and she'd do herself no favors by nagging at James. He'd shoot the man, and that would be that. Mrs. Lacey certainly wouldn't mind the loss too terribly.
Jack grimaced again and tried the tender flesh with her fingers. The ice had done something for the swelling, undoubtedly, but it still ached. The Colonel was a brigand, entirely too large a man to permit him into polite company. Even if James did not kill him, which seemed unlikely, it might be enough to have him and his wife snubbed from society – or it would have been, had Miss Jacqueline Clime been a somebody.
How odious that the likes of Mrs. Lacey should, upon being born and wed to good families, outrank the victim of her husband's bullying. She was an actress, mistress to the man who would one day rule half the county, a sports-woman and a wit, lauded by everyone in London. Yet Mrs. Lacey had been the one to receive vouchers for Almack's in her youth, and Mrs. Lacey had been the better seat at Cora's teas in the afternoon.
The dowdy old blue-stocking had (very obviously) rather be left alone in Mr. Millcroft's library than asked to prance and play and recite poetry in the evening, yet here she was at every turn to upstage poor Jacqueline. And no petticoats – one could make out the shape of her thigh in even the poorest light! The woman would not be half scandalously popular without her husband to prod her. Then they'd see where the real wit and beauty lie.
Jack heard footsteps on the floorboards and righted herself, arranging her limbs just so – to bring about the look gentlemen always found so alluring.
Three knocks sounded at the door.
"Entree-vous!" she called.
"Ah, Miss Cline. I'd no idea you spoke French," came the gentleman's reply. It was only old Gold, dash it all, but it never hurt a lady's chances to flatter the men with their hands on the purse strings.
"Oui, je parler fraçais trés bien," she purred, batting her eyelashes prettily. "It is so good of you to pop in and visit me, I'm afraid I'm still a bit of an invalid – you will excuse me for not rising, non?" she asked, coquetting her head to showcase the hurt for his inspection and sympathies.
"Of course, mademoiselle, and you must forgive me the intrusion – I am so sorry to see you are unwell. I must admit the circumstances of your injury remain a mystery to me."
"Would you believe that it was the brutish act of a gentleman of our mutual acquaintance? I cannot repeat the details before James has settled his claim, but I am certain that you know who I mean. The lush ape mistook me for his wife and struck my face!"
"Mistook you for his wife, you say?" Gold seemed genuinely interested at that notion, and Jack felt a little lost in the intensity of his gaze. She'd never held the man's attention so fully before, it was almost disconcerting. "Are you quite alright?"
"I shall be by morning, I think," she demurred, pouting a little for effect. "Can you imagine it, though? Me, mistaken for an older woman whose face is naught but sour derision and discontentment from the moment she arrives to the second that ape of hers takes her home? Not to mention how bulky her figure's grown."
"No," Gold allowed, eyes dark, "I cannot imagine anyone mistaking you for she."
"Vous sont plus gentile avec moi," Jack replied prettily.
"Miss Clime, I believe that your French is second only to your talent on the stage."
"Le langue est comme une vin bonne pour moi. But what has brought you to my quiet little sanctuary this evening – or is it morning? – if it is not too impertinent to ask, Sir? A young lady alone in the parlor with an unmarried gentleman is not a common sight."
Jack drew to her feet slowly, letting her figure show to best advantage. She thought she might have a new admirer in the notoriously sharp-tongued gentleman, and that was a feather for her cap that even Mrs. Lacey could not emulate.
"Do you know, I've entirely forgotten. I rather think I ought to excuse myself and alert old Henry to the assault carried out on his estate, don't you think?"
"Mr. Millcroft's been abed for ages," Jack objected, setting aside her small sachet of ice. "He's always the first to leave the party after the cigars and brandies have done; I think it'd be a greater crime to go and wake the poor man up."
"Alas, I fear I must. Good night, Miss Clime."
"Call me Jacqueline. Please, there's no need for a lack of familiarity between us."
"I think not," Gold replied, eyeing the little hints of dawn pushing through the gap in the drapes. She followed his line of sight to the cool, pale morning and looked back toward Gold, but he was already gone.
VIII. Mrs. Millcroft
Cora shuffled through the papers her husband always left strewn about the library, shifting through sheaves of notes on the Greeks, income figures, lines of Latin, and the little continental correspondences he kept-up in an amateurish fascination with the ever-expanding habitats of English roses. It was nearly breakfast, not that anyone would be awake for hours – some of her guests might not even be abed yet, if she was frank – and certainly none of them would be up for mid-morning deer stalking.
No, she rather expected that the eggs and sausages would be a dull affair, with perhaps a light tea taken as the grooms saddled their mounts. She decided to double her order of cakes for the ladies – they'd be famished by the time the men were finished parading up and down the gravel and finally left them to their parlors for the afternoon.
The usual program of merriment and sport allowed her plenty of time to tend herself, perhaps even to tempt one of Sir James' young ne'er-do-wells to her chambers, yet just as she'd been preparing to retire, there had been such a riot through her house that the usual routine became untenable. As the sun rose on the county, she'd had no choice but to abandon her pleasure and seek out her sleepy-eyed husband.
If he was not snoring in his own quarters or in the parlor where he tended to nod off as the gossip turned to beaus and officers, then he ought to have been in his library. Yet the library was precisely where he was not, though the writing desk certainly looked as though it had been strewn about since she last saw it. It was certainly unlike Henry to remain awake until early morning, not even for his dratted English roses and Lake Poets.
Cora required only two services of her husband - to post her letters and to interfere with their guests as little as possible. A mob in the entry hall, however, demanded his attentions - suppose something peculiar had transpired and she missed it? Cora did not appreciate guesswork as to the highlights and scandals of her own parties. That was the benefit of going out-of-pocket for the gentry: one always knew a thing or two about the drunken passions, loyalties, and proclivities of one's guests.
The uproar must not remain a mystery.
"Henry?" she called, hearing rushed footsteps in the corridor. "Mr. Millcroft, is that you come at last? I'll have your valet flogged for taking so long to fetch you. I've been all about the house searching, I'm practically exhausted!"
She listened again, and thought she heard the lilt of a cane upon the carpets.
"Mr. Gold, come in here," she tried again.
Of all the gentlemen with whom she'd been intimately acquainted, Gold had been her only regret. They'd nearly formed an attachment after his divorce, but he'd hardly deigned to kiss her hand since she'd wed Henry, and that was a pity; they might have found out every dark corner of the manor and been content in their secrecy.
The door opened more swiftly than she'd expected as the filthy-rich sod stormed in.
"Where is your husband, Madame? Quickly, if you please."
"I've spent the last half hour asking precisely the same question," Cora sighed, tossing Mr. Millcroft's papers into the bin for good measure.
"We must find him immediately – I suspect that Sir James means to duel and kill Colonel Lacey!"
"Speak sensibly," Cora demanded. "They cannot be stupid enough to draw pistols on the pavement like common highway men."
"That is precisely what I mean," Gold snarled. She'd never seen him so frantic, so nearly unhinged – by passion or mania, she could not tell.
"Well then go out and stop them!" Cora shrieked. She liked a rowdy party, but a body – a murder – would topple her every ambition, lay waste to every hope and dream.
"Damn it, woman, there's naught to be done without the landowner's condemnation! Shall I shamble outside and shoot the pair of them? Where is your husband?"
"I don't know!" she shouted back at him. "Henry? HENRY!"
"I'm here," came a drowsy voice from the adjoining study. Cora watched with roiling contempt as her sleepy-eyed husband shambled out of his chair by the fire place and padded into the library.
"Didn't you hear me calling for you!?" she snapped at him. "There's to be a duel in the garden, you must stop them! Well don't just stand there gaping like a trout, Mr. Millcroft, hurry!"
"Now, Cora…" Henry began, with his usual good-natured patience and utter lack of energy.
"He's a wife to think of!" implored Gold, rushing to her husband's side.
"I know," Henry sighed. "I know, and I'm sorry. Truly, I am."
"It will ruin everything," Cora wept, dropping to her knees, pressing her bosom to his leg. "Be brave – be brave for Gina's sake."
"I am," Henry replied, looking down at her with a firm face. "By God, I am. And for the sake of my daughter, a man might die this morning."
IX. Mr. Gold
"No," Cora shrieked, and Gold could scarcely believe what he was seeing. "No, Henry, please – think of the wedding! Think of their estates!"
Gold fought the urge to let his temper get the best of him. A man might die – and he very much doubted it would be Sir James, the lad knew his way around a weapon. The Colonel was a contemptible man, but his wife… Mrs. Lacey, the briefest glimpses of her potential had convinced him that someone, anyone, ought to care for her interests for a change.
He could abandon the Millcrofts – mid confession – and perhaps arrive in time to avoid bloodshed, but Neal… He had to control himself, reign in his frustrations, for Neal. The ground beneath him and the air in his lungs might well have turned to fire and hot lead for all the comfort his resolve gave him.
"But she'd be unhappy," Mr. Millcroft replied sadly. "My poor girl, she's so young Cora, and he's… I've given you your way, made you mistress of this household in everything, but I cannot consent to wedding my only child to a widower three times her age."
"He's a general, a Duke!" Cora snarled, rising to her feet.
"She doesn't love him."
"I've endured your objections and meddling, Henry, but do not test me. When Lord Blanchard returns from France—"
"If," said Gold. He exhaled a breath he didn't know he was holding. It was coming together, taking shape in his head, but Mrs. Lacey… No, he could not let glittering blue eyes distract him. And a different part, a darker part, thought the absence of her husband might not be such a bad thing.
"If he returns safely," Gold continued. "And you've been seeing to it that Blanchard and his men meet no end of difficulties, haven't you Henry?"
Mr. Millcroft colored, but could not deny it.
"This is absurd!" Cora snarled, her hair coming uncoiled in the frenzy. "You stand in my own house and accuse my husband of treason? You—"
Whatever additional insults Gold was meant to have paid the Millcrofts, he never found out. The sound of two pistols cut through the room, followed by the echoes of shouting and horror, silencing Mrs. Millcroft in the middle of her phrase.
"Well," sighed Henry sadly, "it's done now. The chaps will have ordered up a coach and a doctor, if they've any sense at all, so perhaps it will still turn out well. And I suppose you mean to turn me in, eh Gold? How did you know?"
"I didn't, until a few moments ago. I suspected your wife. I knew there was an informant, someone sneaking information to the French, and hoped very much that the culprit would be in attendance tonight."
"How could you suspect that I—" Cora began, but her husband silenced her with a gesture.
"Elimination and guesswork. I thought it must have been someone who had been here before. Reeve is too base and cowardly, even for a spy; the Colonel is a brute and a brigand, but a patriot in his way; and his wife… his wife doesn't seem…" Gold could scarcely qualify how he'd found Mrs. Lacey above suspicion, it was simply that he'd never seen her so vulnerable and articulate before, and he'd simply known. If she'd meant to bring down the country, it would've been smoldering ash and brimstone by now.
"Lord Nolan is too reserved to play at wars, and Sir James too forward – he's unfocused, and the culprit had to be clever to communicate so quickly without being discovered. The only thing worse than Miss Clime's acting is her French, and besides that I think all of her ambitions lie in London. That only left Cora, so I'll admit, Henry, you've surprised me.
"It's very simply deceiving – you pretend to sleep as the gossip unfolded around you, and as tongues loosen your presences was forgotten entirely. I'd never… War is a very large brush for the delicate shape of assassination, but an efficient one. I'd never have suspected you of anything, except – you see, my own son is in Blanchard's army."
"I never wanted to hurt your son," said Henry, full of apology. "Or anybody, really – only to bide for time. I had to put an end to this engagement, but Blanchard's little girl adores our Gina, and he wouldn't release her. The obligation was too great. I'm sorry."
A page interrupted them, rushing in to whisper something in Cora's ear before departing just as hastily as he came. The men stood silent, their business not meant for the servants.
"Colonel Lacey is dead," Cora announced. "Sir James shot him squarely between the eyes. Lord Nolan has agreed to settle whatever remained of Lacey's debts, in hope of avoiding charges, though I suppose that will come down to the Colonel's wife. Spence would have a better time of it if he'd offered to pay her in barrels of wine, don't you think?"
"Cora, be kind. A man has died," said Henry.
"He'll never take her now," sighed Cora, flinging herself onto a settee. "Even for Lady Mary's sake, he won't tarnish the family name by marrying a girl whose family associates with murderers."
"Indeed," agreed Henry, soberly. "And now, my dear, the High Court awaits me."
"For the sake of our children," said Gold gravely, "good men can do unspeakable things."
"Aye," agreed Henry.
"But you've no further cause to inform against the movement of Blanchard's troops?"
"None."
"How were you able to send word over the channel so quickly?"
"Ah," said Henry with sad eyes. "That's the beauty of the Royal Society – I know a botanist who shares my passion for roses, rather well-placed inside Napoleon's army. Our correspondence slips the barricades, and most turn a blind eye – science has overcome many a war and plague, progress stands without borders so to speak. It even survived the Dark Ages."
"Suppose, then, that your channels were turned to misinformation, that the English got the advantage for a change. And suppose that, in helping thusly, I might get you pardoned for your earlier crimes…"
"I'd owe you my life."
"Yes," agreed Gold, looking Mr. Millcroft squarely in the eyes. "And if my son dies from your refusal to stand up to the likes of Blanchard and your own wife, I plan to collect that debt personally. However… you and your botany are more of a comfort alive than the satisfaction of seeing you hanged. What do you say?"
"We have a deal," nodded Henry.
"Excellent," Gold replied, and they shook hands.
"Now," Gold continued, "take your wife and see to the corpse in your garden. Someone ought to wake Mrs. Lacey."
Cora, still flummoxed and fuming, followed her husband out of the library almost obediently. Gold had no doubt she'd cause a fuss in the future, but – this time, at least – he'd outmaneuvered her and converted an enemy to an ally.
The evening had left him drained, feeling out the edges of shallow, vapid personalities and suspecting the worst of old acquaintances did nothing for his nerves, but the task was complete. He poured himself a snifter of Mr. Millcroft's finest brandy, and dropped with much the same elegance as the shot Colonel Lacey into one of the large wing-back chairs in the study.
He could not muster a single ounce of regret for Colonel Lacey, nor enough energy to properly mourn the loss of sons and daughters for the sake of wanting more. In war and marriage, sacrifices were made – would always be made – and one man's victory was another man's loss. Or woman's loss, he allowed.
Reality weighed heavily on him as he poured the sweet, burning liquid into his mouth, and he knew – without a trace of doubt – that he'd do it all again to bring Neal home safely.
X. Belle
Belle discovered Mr. Gold quite accidentally, asleep in Mr. Millcroft's study and holding a half-empty decanter of brandy. It had been a memorable, if tragic, evening for everybody, she supposed, and he – who had been kind to her, more kind than he could possibly know – must have endured his own trials and Odyssey to have come to so undignified a close.
She hadn't meant to rouse him; she'd planned only to find a quiet space to appear to mourn. George loathed her reading, and blamed it for every fault and flaw he found (or invented) in her. Still, she could not be glad he'd died – no death was wanted – and she felt a bit guilty as a smile played up in the corner of her mouth.
Imagine two, or perhaps three, whole years of mourning. No guests, no parties, no lecherous Sir Reeve… only herself, at home, with books to read. It was ungenerous and uncharitable of her, yet – even with funeral arrangements still left to settle – she was smiling through the ache. She liked books – she used to love them – and here she was, in one of the finest libraries in the county, as a starving man before a feast with no idea where to begin. A novel, maybe?
She would pick one, somehow, and she'd begin to read; she'd take her tea in the nice set that belonged to her mother – the fleur-de-lis style that George loathed to see and threatened to shatter like a bully – and never have the maids box it away again. It seemed such a small luxury, an unworthy dream in the wake of death and dueling, but it was hers – one of the few things she knew she liked, prior to matrimony.
She giggled at then, despite herself, and that giggle awoke Gold – much to the gentleman's dismay.
"Mrs. Lacey?" he asked, taken aback.
"Call me Belle," she replied without thinking.
He gazed quizzically at her.
"I know it's too familiar. I'm sorry. And I'm sorry George is dead, truly I am, but I can't abide being Mrs. Lacey again."
"A mixed-mercy, then," he said, voice neutral. "You have my condolences, however unnecessary."
"You must think I'm wretched," Belle sighed, tears pooling in her eyes. She knew she was smiling, and that she shouldn't be, but she'd lost all sense of self-mastery.
"No," he replied as his eyes schooled on her face, his own face softening in reply. "Before I knew you, perhaps, but no longer. I think you must be very kind, to have been so sad and still shed tears for a man who struck you."
"How do you—"
"Because he struck Miss Clime, mistaking her for you I believe. That's what started it, so – in the conventional ways – I suppose James had the right. I tried to prevent it, but I cannot say that I am over-sorry at the outcome. You seem a woman reborn."
"But not a kind one," Belle replied. "I don't know why I'm crying. It's not sadness, not solely. I'm just so relieved not to have to pretend any more, but I don't suppose that's something you can understand. Gentlemen always do as they like, don't they?"
"Not as often as you'd expect," he said. The sadness in his eyes spoke loudest of all, and Belle reached out to take his hand. If they were both adrift, then let them be bereft together and sod the cause.
"Playing the part, wearing a masque… it's a bit like navigating a room strewn with hot coals and broken glass, isn't it?" Gold asked, making no move to acknowledge her small, pale hand on his larger, dark one.
"It can be, yes," she told him.
"It's exhausting; I don't know how you could have done it for so long without shattering. You must be very bright, very resilient."
"You're probably the only one who thinks so."
"The rest of them are fools, then." Mr. Gold's finger moved a fraction of an inch, lacing through her own, and their eyes met – blue to brown – as the pair of them reveled in the tiny miracle of joining hands.
A noise in the hall disturbed them, and they moved apart at last.
"You must summon me," he said, righting his jacket, waistcoat, and sagging cravat. "If ever you have any need, any desire to see me… Belle, I am yours to command."
Belle thought she'd like that.
Fin.