Chapter 25

The Aftermath

By nightfall, the news of the duel and its rather incredible outcome had spread like a wildfire among the fashionable gentlemen’s clubs in town. Arguments rang predominantly amidst a babel of speculations; some would have it that the Earl had chosen to delope because it was plain as pikestaff he was the superior marksman, and would have killed or mortally wounded Wickham easily. This argument was then corroborated by the suggestion that it was indeed mercy for poor Wickham, and he should’ve been grateful that Stokeford didn’t give him his due despite his contemptible behaviour towards him. Odd as it might seem, but no one had really taken into account that ‘poor’ Wickham had been nearly successful in putting an end to the Earl’s life.

There were others, too, who’d dared to argue that for all his fierce look, Stokeford ain’t a crack shot after all. This proved to be too much for several of the gentlemen present, and so Lord Giles, himself included in this number, entered the dispute by drawling: “My poor deluded fellow, where have your wits gone begging, I wonder?”

“Well, but you must admit that Stokeford hasn’t fought a duel till now,” the man said obstinately. “At least, never heard of it. Daresay he’s bang-up in all shooting matches, but it’s different when you’re shooting a person. Never shot a fellow in all his life, or deuce take me if he did! A damned hum, is what I say!” Murmurs of agreement followed this assertion.

Lord Giles regarded him languidly above the rim of his wineglass. “Oh, but I did see him shoot a fellow once you know,” he replied, and suddenly all attention was on him. “Nearly seven years ago, if my memory serves me. Stokeford had shot one of the ruffians who’d attacked a — gig, I think,” he paused, and took a sip of his wine.

“Well?” someone prompted impatiently.

Smiling lazily at their attentive faces, he went on: “Well, what do you think happened next? Stokeford fired at the galloping man and got him by a mile. A masterly performance, I should say, considering how far the range was.”

“Now that I think of it, I’ve heard that story before!” exclaimed the man beside him.

“Then you have my felicitations, my dear fellow,” responded Giles ironically, to the other men’s amusement. “So you see, ten paces was a bagatelle and our dear Stokeford could have wounded Wickham had he wanted it as. For some reason known only to himself, he missed his fire and voila! He now carries the keepsake of their duel, and that’s all there is to it, gentlemen. An unhappy conclusion, I must say.”

Most of the men nodded and concurred. Lord Giles was a veracious source of tell-tales after all, and every word that escaped from his lips must be gospel-truth. “But what if something’s gone amiss?” insisted a young gentleman who’d been listening to Giles wide-eyed. “Perhaps — don’t you think there’s a hitch in Stokeford’s pistol?”

This provoked an outrage among the supporters of Lord Wickham and once more pandemonium ensued. Sighing, Lord Giles said to himself that he washed his hands of this pack of fools, stood up and left the scene that began to evince every sign of trouble.

The day after the duel, an agitated Miss Carstairs called on her friends at Bruton Street to break the news. Her red eyes instantly came to the two other girls’ attentions and prompted an anxious inquiry if something had happened to upset her so. “Indeed, indeed! The most terrible thing!” she cried and retreated to her handkerchief for a while.

Miss Davis, her soft heart wrung at the sight of her sobbing friend, put a consoling arm around her. “Poor Marianne. There, there. Do not cry now, else your eyes will be awfully red. What is it? Please tell us.”

“Oh, I’m sure they will,” she moaned and hastily dashed off the tears. “It’s about that disgraceful cousin of mine, you see.”

“Lord Stokeford? Why, whatever he’s done to you?”

“Nothing! Except that he’s been worrying me like the plague, for what must he do but constantly embroiled himself in a fine trouble, that stupid creature? The other night it was a bruised jaw, and now a — a duel, with his arm se-severely wounded f-from it. Oh, and the horrid scandal to be dealt with!”

Sophie gave a gasp of shock, but Caroline visibly stiffened and paled. She whispered: “A duel, you say?”

Nodding, Miss Carstairs blew her nose. “I’ve just learned everything this morning when I visited Stokeford House. Poor Stefan! If only you’d seen him, so pale and weak and aching all over he could hardly talk. Thank heavens he’d come out alive from the wretched fever last night, but he still suffers a relapse from the gunshot wound.”

Her heart pounding anxiously, Caroline walked to the window — a ruse, so that they wouldn’t see how she was struggling to compose herself as well. Dear God, a duel! They said he was a fine shot and never missed his mark, but recollecting Miss Carstairs’s words about the scandal, a grim possibility occurred to her mind. She gasped, spun around and almost wailed to her friend: “Oh, Marianne, never say he killed his opponent?”

Rather shocked by the possibility herself, Marianne said faintly: “No, no. I heard Wickham’s alive and well, and not in the least wounded.”

“Good gracious! Lord Wickham?” struck in Sophie. “So they’d finally settled the score, and in a duel, no less. How horrid men are!”

“They are! Do you know that my cousin came to cuffs with him outside their club at St James? Shameful!” Miss Casrtairs declared scornfully. “That was when Wickham had challenged him in a due. They said the quarrel was forced on Stefan but I daresay it wouldn’t come to pass without the slightest provocation on his part!”

Caroline let out a sigh of relief. “At all events, Lord Stokeford did not kill him so he wouldn’t be obliged to leave the country with the Bow Street Runners after his heels,” she inferred in a more sanguine tone. As if an afterthought, she added uncharitably: “But I heard that this Wickham is a dreadful young man and it would have been better had his lordship shot him as well. To teach him a lesson, I mean.”

“Caro!” exclaimed her outraged cousin.

Marianne broke into a giggle. “Heavens, but you’ve a cold blood running in your veins, my dear.”

“Well, I think I have,” she said and retreated to the window again. Because I do not want to see someone I’ve come to care about in pain, she thought.

Had Lord Stokeford heard his cousin’s most vivid description of him languishing weakly in his bed, he would have been irked by such gross exaggeration. Earlier that morning he’d felt bone-tired, and his arm still ached like hell — all true, but be damned if he would stay another minute in his bed. Not even the tearful appeals of his valet could have induced him to go back to that ‘confining nest which had become so curst uncomfortable’, as he wrathfully described it.

Mr Brandon turned a dubious eye at the large four poster bed, looking very cozy and inviting with silk-covered pillows strewn about. Risking another display of wrath from his employer, he tried his appeal again. “But with all due respect, my lord, I am under strict orders by the doctor not to let you get up. You’ve been injured but a day, and the fever has just broken down! You’ll tire yourself fast and worse, another bout of fever may return again! Which will never do, my lord, else the doctor will ring a nice peal over me again!”

“Devil fly away with you and all your fustian! You’re not my mother!” my lord replied unkindly. “And may I remind you, Brandon, that you’re in my employ and not in some meddlesome doctor’s, so if you want to keep your post keep, that fussy tongue between your teeth and let me be, for God’s sake!”

And thus defeated, the harassed valet withdrew from the room with slumped shoulders. Much to his lordship’s annoyance, the door opened again to admit his butler, an offended look descended upon his rather grave countenance. “What now?”

His lips pursed, Philips answered sternly: “Another visitors, my lord, demanding entry when you’re rather indisposed, as I’ve informed them these five minutes past.”

“Show them in.”

Philips’s grave countenance indicated signs of opposition. “But my lord — ”

“If you utter another stricture ordered by that confounded doctor,” Stefan began menacingly, “I’d wring your stiff and starchy neck, Philips, I swear.”

“No, you can’t. Lord, what a pesky patient you are! Shouldn’t work yourself up in to such a pelter,” interposed Lord March, edging his way through the door before the butler could have showed him in. Mr Milborne, following suit, had been so unlucky as to receive the glacial stare of the servant. He sighed as Philips closed the door behind them and said thoughtfully: “You know Stokeford, that butler of yours could be dashed too frightening than my old man’s black look.”

“Never mind Philips. I’ve long since reconciled myself with his stringent ways.”

“How’s your arm?”

“In no better shape, I fear. It aches unceasingly,” he grumbled and, suddenly looking exhausted, slumped into an armchair by the window. “I’d caught a fever last night, too. Quite done me in, and by morning it felt like my body’s been trampled down by a boulder.”

Robert looked very grave and worried. “It could have been worse. Perhaps you shouldn’t be moving about just yet, Stefan. You look properly knocked out and Dr Kelly has been very — ”

“When I get my hands on that Dr Kelly, I’ll put his nose out of joint for all his high-handed ways!”

Cedric laughed. “Don’t like sawbones, d’you?”

“No, I don’t,” Stokeford replied dourly. “Especially those who are too full of themselves and have the impudence to put my servants under damnable orders to treat me as if I were a child scarcely out of leading strings.”

“I own he’s too austere by half,” concurred the Viscount. “But the good doctor has a job to do, you know, so stop being a repellant brat and just capitulate to his er, tender ministrations.” He was met with a glowering stare. “Well, that’s what you get when you acted so nobly and deliberately missed that shot!” added Lord March with blunt precision.

“And underestimated your opponent through and through. You’d pulled the trigger faster than Wickham did, and it could have been your advantage had you got him first,” Cedric supplied in a serious tone. “You’d erred there, my lord.”

Under their heavy stares the Earl looked away. After a moment, he said quietly: “Indeed I’d erred, in a most damnable, idiotic, misguided way imaginable. Now I know being a hero could be so devilishly tiresome, and comes with weighty costs.” He raised a pair of bleak blue eyes at them. “But I told you, didn’t I? Don’t want his blood. Don’t want his miserable life. Most of all, I don’t hunger for revenge. Alas, the price of being scrupulous, my friends.”

“I really think you’re not entirely yourself, else you’d not be such a sentimental clod,” Robert chastised mildly. “I’m dead certain our friend Wickham doesn’t appreciate your scruples at all Stefan, so don’t think to flaunt it abroad. Moreover, there’s talk that he’s not at all pleased with the outcome of the duel. He thought you judged him unworthy of your bullet, which is the greatest insult of all. Worse, everyone believes it, too.”

“Some of his friends have been egging him on, I believe.”

Stefan let out a pained, exasperated breath. “Gad, never tell me he’s insisting on another duel again! Isn’t he satisfied that he’d finally put a bullet on this blasted arm? Why don’t he find some poor devil who’s equally eager to draw his blood? I’m too damned tired of quarreling and hearing my name being bandied about with contempt! I wish to God they would forget about me, or ignore me all they like! God, I wish I was home… with Papa.”

Much alarmed, Cedric noted the heightened colour on his peaked face and the restless hands that seemed trembling. “Y-Your Papa?” he asked uncertainly. “But — isn’t he dead long ago?”

“It’s alright, Milborne. He’s only having a fit of delirium,” Lord March whispered, patted Stefan soothingly on the shoulder and felt his pulse. It was weak.

Cedric eyed him anxiously. “I gather the fever’s returning? I think he’s shivering.”

He nodded grimly. “I’m afraid so. Poor fellow. We’ve tired you, haven’t we? Come, let me take you to your bed, my friend.”

Raising no demur, Stokeford let them assist him to bed, murmuring between laborious breaths: “Too… damned tired. It aches… my arm’s like hell. Damn Wickham! Thank you. I’d like to rest now… if you please.”

“Of course. Rest well, Stefan. We’ll visit you again soon.” The voice was soft and calm, but little did he know that their faces were worn with concern, for he fell asleep instantly.

By morning the next day, he’d sustained another visit from his physician. It had been a taxing half-hour, with the bulk of it spent by trying to suppress his rising temper while the stern Dr Kelly ran on with his remonstrances and edicts. Both his butler and his valet had been present, very alert lest his lordship would make a scene. Fortunately, the visit ended without any undesirable instances.

Next came his mother who’d stayed briefly for a small talk. The Countess brought with her a small posy in a narrow filigreed vase, and put it above the mantlepiece— so strangely incongruous with the rest of the masculine bedchamber. “Something to remember me by, dear,” Lady Stokeford had said, patting his hand consolingly.

In the late afternoon, just when he’d stirred from his first peaceful slumber, the door of his room was stealthily opened, and Laurie’s head peeped from the gap, saying: “I hope you’re done with all your resting, my lazy cousin?” Stefan smiled drowsily and beckoned him to come in. “Thank God, then,” he went on and dragged a chair beside the bed. “Philips had been very severe with me when I suggested to take a look in your room and see if you were already awake. He nearly snapped my nose off, you know.”

“My servants, alas, are very loyal to that tyrant Dr Kelly. Where have you been, you rascal?”

“Oh, just out and about,” he replied airily. “I called on the Winscotts before going here. The cousins inquired after you, and sent their love. Marianne was there, too, by the bye.”

Stefan frowned. “Stop pitching the gammon, Laurie. Love, indeed!”

His cousin chuckled. “My mistake! I should have said ‘regards’. No, but believe me, they’ve been anxious for you, my lord cousin. And how could you have contrived to inspire such profound solicitude in their lovely hearts, devil tale me if I knew! I’m sure Marianne has been taking pains in telling them how you’ve reduced into ‘poor dear Stefan, so frail and peaked still’!”

“No! Did she? Of all the fustian things to say!”

“She’s right, you know. If you could see your face in the mirror, the picture she so aptly described couldn’t be far from the truth. How’s that arm of yours?”

Stefan glanced ruefully at the left arm that was comfortably resting on a pillow beside him. A small scarlet patch just above his elbow was faintly visible through his nightshirt. “A little better I think, though every now and then it’s giving me the devil of a time. I’m no fit duelist if I couldn’t even bear this scratch.”

Laurie snorted. “Your no duelist any more than Johnny the parson is. Besides — ”

“Who the deuce is Johnny the parson?” he demanded.

“Oh, devil take you, you know it’s just a comparison!”

“Well, if it is, it’s certainly a poor attempt,” declared his lordship bluntly.

“You know Stefan, I have a mind to bash you with that pillow were you not wounded!” Laurie warned. “And stop making light of your wound for it’s anything but a scratch! The doctor said the ball grazed a bone so it will take time to heal.”

“Of all the things I find abominable, it is to be laid by my heels in bed. Gad, what a fool I am! I believe I could kill Wickham for this inconvenience alone.”

“Then stop being a fool by keeping your nose out of trouble. This is bad enough and — ” he hesitated, then added gently: “and there’s the scandal to think of, cousin.”

The languid eyes closed for a moment. “Oh yes, the scandal,” Stefan said after a brief silence. “I’m quite forgetting about it. Well, what do they say about me this time, now that I’d become really involve in a piece of infamy, besides that little scuffle the other night?”

Laurie’s somber countenance broke into a grin. “It will amuse you to find, dear cousin of mine, that factions have formed regarding this latest affair. Let’s see… Some say that it was quite your intention to miss your shot just to spare poor Wickham’s life, and you certainly earned their gracious approvals. On the other side, they say it’s all a fudge about you being a crack shot. In which case, Lord Giles had unexpectedly championed you against this defamation, Stefan.”

“The devil he did!” exclaimed his lordship, incredulous.

“Couldn’t believe it either, but they say it’s all true. Giles merely told them about that story when you’d shot a ruffian dead, and then they were spellbound, especially your staunch supporters,” he chuckled and completely missed the change in Stefan’s expression.

“That same old tale again, eh? Lord, but they’d surely made a jolly fine entertainment out of it, I’m sure!”

Catching the hard edge on his voice, Laurie abruptly sobered. “Forgive me. I know you dislike it very much to broach about that particular incident again. Lord Giles — ”

“Is a silver-tongued, impudent snooping dog who should know better than to interest himself in my affairs, curse him!” flared the Earl.

Hastily taking himself to the task of appeasing his temperamental cousin, Laurie said soothingly: “No need to fly into a high dudgeon, cousin. I’ll see to it to drop a hint in his ear, never fear.”

Stefan shifted in his bed, grimacing. “Thanks. Be sure to drop a warning not to let his tongue run away like wheels, else I’ll put a spoke on ‘em!”

“Egad, take a damper! It’s that dashed temper of yours that gets you into a fine tight spot more often than not.” A knock fell on the door, and the valet entered with a small tray of his lordship’s medicine. Knowing that his visit was at end, Laurie stood up and grinned at the patient. “Try to be an exemplary invalid for a week or two, cousin. I shall leave you now.”