“Shot?” Nathaniel’s nerves went into full alarm mode. God, no. Please.
Behind him, Helen gasped, both hands pressed to her mouth.
“Is he alive?” Nathaniel asked. “Where is he?”
“Yes, sir, he breathes. They’ve got him laid out in the stillroom. Mr. Hudson’s sent Clive for the surgeon.”
He hoped the groom had taken their fastest horse.
Nathaniel ran down the stairs, Helen at his heels.
Clusters of agitated servants, talking to one another behind their hands, shrunk into the wall to allow them to pass. Monsieur Fournier crossed himself. Nathaniel found the metallic smell of blood mingling with the scents of cinnamon and pastry nauseating.
Inside the stillroom, Hudson bent over Lewis’s prone form, pressing a handkerchief to his chest. “Another cloth, please, Mrs. Budgeon,” Hudson asked, polite even in his anxiety.
Lewis lay still, limp limbs dangling off the worktable, his face and jaw slack and unnaturally grey.
Hudson glanced up at their entrance. “Sir. Miss Upchurch.”
“What happened?” Nathaniel asked.
“I don’t know. His valet and a local farmer, a Mr. Jones, brought him home in the farmer’s wagon. Something about a duel.”
Nathaniel winced. “How bad is it?”
Hudson glanced up once more, skirting Helen’s face to square on his. “Bad.”
At closer range, Nathaniel could see that someone had ripped open Lewis’s waistcoat and shirt, exposing his chest, though most was covered by Hudson’s large hands and the blood-soaked handkerchief.
Mrs. Budgeon handed Hudson a clean cloth. Hudson hesitated before handing the soiled one to the housekeeper, but she stoically took it from him and set it into a nearby basin.
Hudson said to her, “Make sure someone leads that surgeon here without delay.”
She nodded and briskly strode from the room. Only then did Nathaniel notice the young valet huddled in the corner of the stillroom, white-faced and dazed, his cravat bloodstained. A plump maid held his hand.
“What can I do?” Nathaniel asked.
“And I?” Helen added.
Hudson checked the new cloth, saw it rapidly soaking up blood, before he looked from one to the other. “Pray.”
Three hours later, the surgeon Mr. White had come and gone—bullet removed, wound cleaned, dressing applied, and little hope given.
They carefully moved Lewis, still insensible, up one flight of stairs to the library, which Mrs. Budgeon had quickly outfitted as a sickroom while the surgeon finished bandaging the wound. They dared not jostle him more than necessary nor risk carrying him up additional flights of stairs. The surgeon, bloodstained and weary, said he would send a seasoned chamber nurse to tend Lewis, even though Helen insisted she would sit with her brother all night.
Mr. White promised to return in the morning and told them to send for him if there was any change, though the offer was made with little enthusiasm. Would Lewis even live through the night? Nathaniel’s soul heaved at the thought. He and his brother had not been close in years, but the thought of losing him grieved his heart.
Nathaniel sat next to Helen at Lewis’s bedside in the library-turned-sickroom. He was torn between wanting to remain at his brother’s side, to share his final hours on earth, if final they were, and wanting to discover what had happened and who was to blame. Was Lewis the challenger, or the challenged? Had he chosen the weapons to be used, in this case, apparently pistols? It seemed possible, as Lewis had never been good with a sword. Too much dashed work, he’d always complained.
Who had acted as his second—Saxby? Or perhaps Lewis’s valet. Nathaniel thought back to his brief glimpse of the young man belowstairs. He had looked ashen and shaken from the ordeal. Nathaniel would need to talk with him soon but would first allow the man time to get over the worst of the shock.
Mrs. Budgeon knocked softly on the open door. Nathaniel rose and crossed the room to speak to her.
“Pardon me, sir. But when we were bundling up Mr. Upchurch’s clothes to take to the laundry—those which could be salvaged, that is—we found a few things in his pockets and thought you would want to have them.”
She held forth a rosewood tray. Servants were taught not to hand small objects directly to their betters, to avoid the accidental brush of hands—a practice that seemed incredibly trivial in the circumstances.
For some reason, Nathaniel felt the need to reach out and lay his hand on hers. “Thank you, Mrs. Budgeon. For everything.”
She seemed taken aback but did not pull away. “You’re welcome, sir. And we shall all be praying for your brother’s recovery.”
Again he thanked her, carried the paltry collection to Helen, and reclaimed his seat beside Lewis’s sickbed.
He watched as Helen tearfully fingered through the items: a pocket watch, several coins, a length of blue ribbon, and a folded scrap of paper, stained with blood. Eyes wide, Helen handed the note to him. Nathaniel unfolded it and read.
I demand satisfaction, Mr. Upchurch. And I demand it now. Penenden Heath tomorrow at half past seven.
P.
Could it be? If Preston had written it, then had this letter truly been meant for Lewis, or for him? What could Abel Preston have against Lewis? The two men had likely met while both resided in Barbados, but Nathaniel didn’t recall any mention of strife between them. Preston had made no secret of his grudge against him, but Nathaniel had never heard him speak a word against Lewis. Nathaniel’s stomach roiled. Had Lewis taken a bullet meant for him?
———
Nathaniel went to look for Lewis’s friend Saxby but could not find him. Nor had any of the servants seen him. So he returned to the library. The vicar arrived and led them in prayer at Lewis’s bedside, beseeching God for his life. Afterward, Nathaniel left his brother for a time in the capable hands of his sister and the chamber nurse.
He asked Hudson to send Lewis’s valet to him in the morning room and paced until the young man knocked at the open door.
“Connor. Come in.”
The young man stepped inside and stood before him, hands behind his back. His face looked pale beneath his red hair, but he held himself erect and met Nathaniel’s gaze directly.
“I want to know what happened,” Nathaniel said. “Everything. Spare no detail or my feelings.”
“Very well, sir.” The young man’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “It was awful. . . .”
Nathaniel braced himself. “Start at the beginning. There was mention of a duel. Had you known of it beforehand?”
“I only learned of it this morning.”
“Had it something to do with the reason Lewis left the ball early last night?”
Connor frowned. “Did he? I didn’t know it, sir. I didn’t see him from the time he dressed for the ball until he returned to his room about three in the morning. He asked me to wake him only a few hours later—at six. You know he was never one to rise early, sir, so that surprised me, but he didn’t tell me why, and neither did I ask.”
No servant would ask. “Go on.”
“When I woke him, he bid me to help him dress and to prepare myself for going out. He also told me to bring his dueling pistols.” Connor swallowed. “I asked if I should wake the coachman and call for a carriage, but he said we would ride. So I roused the groom to saddle two horses.
“I asked if I should pack an overnight case for him, but he said only the pistols in the saddle bag.” His Adam’s apple rose and fell. “I confess I was nervous.”
Nathaniel nodded. “Go on.”
“When we neared Penenden Heath, he told me he needed me to act as his second.”
Nathaniel wondered why Lewis had not asked his friend Saxby to act for him. Unless . . . might Piers Saxby have been the challenger? “Had you acted for him before?”
Connor ducked his head. Duels were illegal, and Nathaniel didn’t blame the young man for not wanting to implicate himself or his master.
Nathaniel said, “N
ow is not the time to worry about protecting anyone’s honor. Just tell me.”
Connor nodded. “Once before, sir. But neither man was hurt that time. Both were so foxed that neither hit his mark. Though one old ewe did die.”
“And this time?”
“Both men sober as Quakers.”
“Who was it?”
“I . . .” The valet hesitated. “I could not say, sir.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t believe I knew the man.”
“Don’t believe you knew him?”
“That’s right, sir. I didn’t recognize him. He wore a mask.”
Nathaniel reared back. “A mask?”
Connor nodded briskly. “Yes, sir. Never did I see the like.”
Fury seethed through Nathaniel like overfermented ale. The man was a coward, whoever he was. He asked, “Did Lewis call him by name?”
Connor shook his head. “I heard no names spoken, sir. Only insults.”
“What insults?”
Connor’s eyes flashed. “Mr. Lewis said the man was no gentleman—that I did hear.”
Nathaniel clenched his jaw. “Did this man even follow the rules?” Illegal though dueling was, gentlemanly conduct was expected. He continued, “Was no apology solicited? Did his second not offer you a chance to reconcile your masters before a shot was fired?”
The young man frowned in confusion. “I . . . No, sir. Not that I know of.”
“Did you not recognize his second either?”
“No, sir.”
Nathaniel scoffed. “Was he masked too?”
“No, sir.”
Nathaniel crossed his arms. “He did have a second?”
“Of course. But I didn’t know him. Never saw him before.”
“How had Lewis offended the man’s honor?” Nathaniel realized he assumed Lewis had been the one to cause offense. Guilt plagued him at thinking ill of his poor brother.
Connor squirmed. A valet was expected to be discreet, to keep his master’s secrets. “I don’t exactly know, sir. Something about a woman, I believe.”
Yes, that would be it. Nathaniel flopped into a chair. “Tell me what happened next.”
“The other second and I inspected the weapons. Then they paced off and—”
“Not very many paces, by the looks of it. The surgeon said the shot was made at close range, judging by the wound.”
“I did try to negotiate for more than twelve paces, but the man was adamant. And Mr. Upchurch too proud to insist.”
“Was the duel fought to first blood?”
Connor paled further. “Yes.”
There were two other options, normally negotiated by the seconds—until one man could no longer stand, or to the death. “What then?”
“Well, like I said, the men paced off, turned, and shot. Mr. Upchurch fell.”
“At the first shot?”
“Yes.”
“And you watched to make sure nothing dishonorable happened?”
Connor pressed his lips together. Nathaniel feared the young man might retch. “Yes. I watched.”
“And the other man. Was he injured?”
“No, I don’t think so, sir.”
Dash it.
“In any case, he and his second rode away. And when I saw how bad Mr. Upchurch was, I ran to the road and hailed the first wagon that passed.”
“And I thank you for doing so.” Nathaniel inhaled deeply. “You didn’t recognize the man, but do you have any guesses? Know of anyone with a grudge against my brother?”
“I don’t know, sir.” Connor’s face puckered in thought. “I’m not thinking very clearly at the moment.”
Nathaniel sighed. “Of course you’re not. Sorry to push you so.” He stood. “Very well, Connor. That will be all for now. If you think of anything else, do let me know.”
“Yes, sir. I am sorry, sir.”
“So am I. But don’t despair; he may yet recover.”
“There is hope, then?”
“There is always hope, with God. Though the surgeon holds out little. I have sent for a physician, a friend of my father’s. Until he arrives, we can do little but pray.”
Killing in a duel had long been outlawed by the
beginning of the 1800s, but the practice of dueling continued
to be found through the late 19th century, though by
this time duels were rarely fought to the death.
—Caliburn Fencing Club
Chapter 26
Nathaniel had not seen Mr. Saxby all day. But he did join Nathaniel and Helen for a somber dinner that night. Nathaniel asked him nothing during the meal, but when Helen excused herself to return to the sickroom, Nathaniel lingered in the dining room while Lewis’s friend sipped his port.
“Do you know anything about the duel?” Nathaniel asked.
Saxby’s eyes were steely. “What should I know about it?”
“Did you see Lewis last night after he left the ball?”
“No.”
“Where did he go, do you know?”
Saxby shrugged. “The only thing that would draw Lewis from a room full of ladies is a female more fair—or more willing—somewhere else.”
Nathaniel’s anger flared, and Saxby must have seen it. “Come, take no offense, Nate. You know your brother as well as I do. There is no need to saint him while he yet breathes.”
“Do you know the identity of this fair lady?”
Saxby sipped. “Never said she was a lady.”
Nathaniel fisted his hand. “Then we are not speaking of Miss Lyons?”
The man’s eyes flashed anger of his own. “No, we are not. Not that Lewis hasn’t tried his charms in that direction. But that lady prefers a more . . . sophisticated gentleman.”
“Meaning yourself.”
He shrugged and flicked a piece of invisible lint from his coat sleeve. “A gentleman does not like to brag.”
“Then who? Who was she?”
“I don’t know her name. Some local chit, I gather.”
Was it really some other woman, or was Saxby trying to cover for Miss Lyons? To save face by not admitting his lover had left the ball—alone at night—with Lewis?
Knowing he might very well say something he regretted if he stayed longer, Nathaniel excused himself and went to join Helen in the sickroom.
Before dawn the next morning, Nathaniel trudged downstairs in his dressing gown to check on Lewis. The chamber nurse, Mrs. Welch, reclined on the settee in the corner, softly snoring. Helen sat on a chair near the foot of the bed. She was bent forward at the waist, her arms folded on the bed, her head on her arms. Asleep. Poor thing had sat there all night.
Lewis lay, unmoving. Yet beneath the bedclothes his bandaged chest rose and fell. His breaths were shallow, but he was still alive. Nathaniel thanked God.
He gently touched his sister’s shoulder. “Helen?” he whispered.
“Hmm?” she murmured, eyes flickering open, then widening when she saw him. She pushed up from the bed, her gaze flying to Lewis’s face. “Is he . . . ?”
“He’s breathing. Go up to bed. I shall get dressed and then sit with him while you sleep.”
“I did sleep,” she protested.
Nathaniel was reminded of when they were children. Helen, small for her age, had always been determined to prove herself as strong and capable as both her older and younger brother. Now, seeing the imprint Helen’s sleeve had left on her cheek, he felt tenderness for her tighten his heart.
“Go on,” he gently urged. “Besides, you need your beauty sleep.” He winked. “I shall be down directly. In the meantime, Mrs. Welch will tend him.” He turned his head and said more loudly, “Won’t you, Mrs. Welch?”
The older woman sputtered awake, straightening on the settee. “I was only resting me eyes.”
Brother and sister shared wobbly grins.
Nathaniel returned to his room and set about washing and dressing. A knock sounded at his door.
“Enter.”
Connor stepped inside. “I was wonderin’, sir.”
“Yes?”
“Would you like a shave? With Mr. Lewis abed, I would consider it an honor to valet for you.”
Nathaniel ran a hand over his bristly jaw. “Very well. Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me, sir. I wish there was more I could do.”
A few minutes later, Nathaniel sat before his dressing mirror, face lathered and a white cloth tied at his neck to shroud his clothes. Connor stood, wielding the razor far more deftly than Arnold ever had. The valet tilted Nathaniel’s jaw and stroked the straight razor across his whiskered cheek, pausing between strokes to swish the blade in the basin of water.
Connor began, “You told me, sir, to tell you if I thought of anything. . . .”
“About?”
“About the man who shot Mr. Lewis.”
Nathaniel’s eyes flashed upward, catching the young man’s face in the mirror. “Yes?”
“There is something. I don’t like to speak out of turn. . . .”
“Go on.”
“You asked if I knew of anybody who had something against your brother.”
“Yes?”
“I wonder, sir. How well acquainted are you with Mr. Saxby?”
Nathaniel felt his pulse begin to accelerate. “Fairly well. But don’t let that hinder you.”
“It’s only . . . I do know those two gentlemen argued over a certain lady. A lady they both admired.”
“Miss Lyons?”
“I . . . believe so, sir. Though one tries not to attend to every detail of personal conversations.”
“Of course. Did you hear Saxby threaten Lewis?”
“I wouldn’t say threaten exactly. But he did warn him to stay away from her.”
“I see. Are you suggesting the man at Penenden Heath might have been Mr. Saxby?”
“I’m not suggesting anything, sir. It isn’t my place. I just thought I should mention it.”
“But you said you didn’t recognize his second. You have met Mr. Saxby’s valet, I trust, while he’s been here?”
“I have, sir. And no, he wasn’t the second. I didn’t recognize the man.”
“What did the second look like?”
Connor shrugged. “Average looking. Slight. Dark hair. Maybe twenty or a few years older.”