The Viscount's Unconventional Bride

Chapter Three

The inn was an extremely busy one and Louise wondered if she and Betty would be able to obtain a room to themselves, but while she was trying to persuade the innkeeper to find one for her, Jonathan stepped in and offered his room, which a few sovereigns had already procured. ‘I will take whatever mine host can find for me,’ he told her. ‘I can sleep anywhere.’

She hesitated—she did not like being beholden to this man. It was not just pride, but the feeling that before long he would penetrate her disguise and know her for what she was and then he would have his fun with her and everyone would know she was a female and she would look foolish and vulnerable. She did not want that, but on the other hand, sharing a room with men was something she most certainly could not do. ‘Thank you, sir,’ she said. ‘I would not mind for myself, but my wife is nervous of being alone, you see…’ She looked at Betty, who was once again chattering to Joe and not looking at all nervous.

‘I understand.’ he said, assuming the young man was jealous and not inclined to let his wife out of his sight. If she really was his wife. ‘You are welcome.’

Louise and Betty were conducted upstairs to a spacious room that looked out on to the busy yard. Water was brought for them to wash. Louise stripped off and sponged herself down, but the clothes had to be put on again. The only others she had were feminine garments. She smiled suddenly, wondering what Mr Linton would say if he could see the contents of her bag. It might be fun to change and appear as Miss Louise Vail. She imagined him staring at her in disbelief and then smiling and kissing her hand and saying he liked her much better as a woman. She suddenly became cross with herself for thinking like that. It was pure fantasy and she was doing herself no favours indulging in it.

They went down to the dining room for supper and found themselves again sitting with Jonathan Linton and Joe Potton. Burrows and Williams were a little further down the table. Louise was beginning to perfect her masculine voice, but she did not use it any more than she had to. Mr Linton’s attempts to engage her in conversation were met with little more than polite monosyllables. When he offered her a dish, she took some from it and said, ‘Thank you, sir’, and when he commented on the fine weather, she said, ‘Very fine, sir.’ She thought she was doing well until the meal ended and Burrows suggested they continue the game of cards abandoned the night before. ‘You must give us the opportunity to recoup some of our losses, Smith,’ he said.

‘I did not win so much,’ she said, pretending indifference. ‘’Twas only a trifling amount.’

‘A trifling amount,’ he repeated. ‘Then let us put up the stakes.’ He turned to Jonathan. ‘Will you join us in a game for trifling stakes?’

Jonathan considered declining, but they would only ask someone else, and he wanted to be near the boy, if only to protect him if his losses became too great and he found himself at odds with his playing partners. He accepted, cards were called for, the seal broken and the game began.

Louise was careful, very careful, especially as the half-guinea stake was now a guinea. If she lost all her money, what, in heaven’s name would she do, stranded miles from her objective and with home so far behind her it seemed like another life? Some way must be devised to end the game before that happened. They would not allow her to plead tiredness as she had the evening before.

They played several hands in which she won a little and lost a little, mainly due to inattention. ‘Mr Linton, I could have sworn you held no more trumps,’ she said after he had trumped her winning hand.

‘Are you accusing me of cheating?’ It was said angrily.

Now what to say? She had not meant to accuse him, simply to point out that her concentration had momentarily lapsed. Admit it and let them walk all over her? Tell them she was too tired to go on? She shrugged. ‘If the cap fits, Mr Linton…’

The boy had nerve, more than he would have dared under the circumstances, Jonathan conceded. ‘I have no cap, Mr Smith. Nor anything up my sleeve.’ He shook his sleeves out one by one to prove it.

‘God’s truth, the young shaver’s bold as brass,’ Bill Williams put in. ‘Call him out, Linton. You can’t let him get away with calling you a cheat. I’ll stand second for you.’

The whole thing was getting out of hand and Jonathan wanted to bring it to a speedy conclusion, but he had been insulted and he was not in the habit of letting anyone, least of all a green bantling, get away with that. He hesitated. ‘Go on,’ Charlie Burrows urged him, while Louise held her breath. ‘You are not afraid of that skinny young cub, are you?’

Frowning inwardly, Jonathan took a deep breath and addressed Louise. ‘You give me no choice, sir. I must call you out.’ It was either that or be accused of cowardice, which was unacceptable to him.

How on earth had she got into such a pickle? Louise asked herself. She wanted to turn and run all the way back to Barnet. Never, in her wildest dreams, had she imagined something like this. The teasing and banter that went on when she played her brothers for pennies and shillings had not schooled her for such a situation. She should never have started to play either yesterday or today. Now what was she to do? Admit herself in the wrong and take the ridicule of everyone in the room, not only the other players but everyone else who had stopped whatever they were doing, to listen and wait. And she would have to abandon her winnings. She had been counting on those.

‘You give me no choice either, sir,’ she said. ‘I accept.’

‘You accept?’ he asked in astonishment, then to give the boy a way out, added, ‘I will take a simple apology in lieu.’

She was nothing if not stubborn. ‘Would that not be tantamount to admitting I am in the wrong?’ she asked.

‘Yes, but you are.’

‘Stop beatin’ about the bush, Linton,’ Williams said. ‘Mr Smith, as Mr Linton’s representative, I ask you to name your second and choose your weapon.’

‘Swords,’ she said without hesitation. Unless Mr Linton was particularly cruel and determined, he would not deal more than a glancing blow, just enough to draw blood, before saying he was satisfied. A pistol shot could kill without him meaning it to. Why she thought he did not want to kill her, she did not know. And in the last few days she had become more than a little reckless. As for a second…She looked round the room. ‘Will anyone here stand by me?’

‘I will,’ Joe said, at a nod from Jonathan.

‘I’m not having duels on my premises,’ the innkeeper said. ‘If you must fight, take yourselves off somewhere else. There is a field on the other side of the river just outside town. Go there.’

‘It’s too dark now,’ Bill Williams said. ‘We will meet there at dawn.’

‘I will take charge of the pot,’ the innkeeper said, scooping it up. ‘You can have it back tomorrow.’

Louise went up to her room to find Betty taking up most of the bed and snoring her head off. Should she wake her and insist they leave at once? Where would they go if she did? And did she really want to be branded a coward? Would they come after her and exact their pound of flesh anyway? Why, oh, why had she been so foolish as to start this escapade in the first place? If her parents had not been out when she returned to the house after the shock of hearing what she had, if she had been able to speak to them there and then instead of being alone to stew over it, she might not have done what she had. Now it was too late.

She sat on the edge of the bed and let the tears roll down her cheeks. They were the first tears she had shed since sitting alone in the arbour. She had been so determined to find her lost mother, she had given herself no time for tears, no time for reflection or considering where it was all going to lead. If only she could have confided in Luke, he might have come with her, kept her safe, let her be herself, not some mythical Mr Smith. And on top of all that she felt responsible for Betty.

In a few hours the sun would come up and everyone would gather in the field on the outskirts of the town to wait for her and Mr Linton to appear. To the onlookers it would be an entertainment, like a play, to be watched and applauded. She dreaded it and wondered how to get out of it without making a complete cake of herself. She could say her sword was broken, but they would find her another and she needed a weapon she was familiar with. She rose and went to the hook on the back of the door where she had hung her belt before going down to supper. She withdrew the sword and made a few practice moves. It felt comfortable and balanced in her hand and reminded her that she had always enjoyed fencing and been good at it. She had to go through with this charade of a duel or lose all credibility as a man of honour.

Jonathan had no intention whatever of killing the lad. He would not hurt a hair of his head. He had killed once before in a duel and the sight of the man’s bloodied body being carried away had been a terrible shock and one he would never forget. Ever since then he had avoided getting into situations that called upon him to defend his honour. So how had it happened this time? He was annoyed with himself for handling things so badly. He had only to declare he did not fight children and everyone would have laughed and there would have been no challenge.

But how could he have done that? The boy would have been humiliated, made a laughing stock and he did not want to subject him to that, but he was of a mind to teach him a lesson. One simply did not go about accusing people of cheating at cards without a shred of evidence. He wondered why the pair had embarked on the adventure in the first place—could it have been for a jest, or a wager? Or was there something deadly serious behind it all? Once or twice he had caught an expression on the young man’s face that hinted at sadness, and a softness to those extraordinary eyes that belied his confident strutting. Jonathan found himself changing from being annoyed, to sympathising and wanting to help. But that did not extend to failing to appear at the duel himself. Honour had to be satisfied.

He thanked his fencing master that he was proficient enough to pretend to be fighting with a will, to defend himself while holding back from dealing a fatal blow. He wished he had learned it before he had killed that last time. He did not know why he was thinking like this; his adversary would not show up. He would be gone by dawn. Sighing, he sat down to write his log, making it sound dull and uneventful; he certainly did not mention he was to fight a duel.

Louise watched the dawn come up, heard the ostlers and grooms busying themselves in the yard and wished herself anywhere but where she was. There was a knock at the door and Joe’s voice called, ‘Time to get up, Mr Smith. You have half an hour. Shall I order breakfast for you?’

‘No, thank you,’ she called back. Food would choke her. ‘No breakfast. I shall join you directly.’

She heard him move away and his footsteps going down the stairs. She left the bed and dressed herself. It occurred to her that if her coat were to be torn, she did not have another. She was shaking with nerves as she pulled on her boots and buckled on her sword belt. She turned, intending to shake Betty awake, but changed her mind and left her sleeping.

Downstairs the dining room was empty; there was no one eating breakfast, nor even any waiters. She went outside. The yard was deserted; the people who had been working there earlier had disappeared, but Joe came from round the side of the building to join her. ‘Where is everyone?’ she asked.

‘They’re all at the field, waitin’ for you.’

Her heart sank. There would be a huge crowd to witness her humiliation. Would they be baying for blood? She wanted to dawdle and delay her arrival, but what would that avail her? Putting her hand on the hilt of her sword, she fell into step beside Joe, their footsteps echoing on the cobbles. In her mind she rehearsed all the moves she had been taught and wondered if she would be given the opportunity to execute them or whether Mr Linton would pierce her defence before she could make any move at all.

The field was crowded, but they made way for her and some cheered. ‘Go to it, young shaver. Show the bully he can’t walk all over you.’ Others laughed, calling her a bratling who wouldn’t have the strength to lift a sword, let along wield it. The gibes hardened her resolve; she put her chin in the air and made her way to where an arena had been roped off. Mr Linton and his second, together with the innkeeper, who was acting as referee, stood waiting. Mr Linton was in breeches and shirt sleeves and she became uncomfortably aware of his powerful physique, his masculinity, so very different from her own slim figure and lack of muscle. But here she was and there was no going back.

Jonathan watched as she drew her sword from its scabbard and tested its blade with her thumb. And then Joe was helping her off with her coat and cravat and she was obeying the beckoning hand of the innkeeper and joining him in the middle of the arena. Jonathan was a bag of nerves himself, but only on the boy’s behalf. He must not hurt him, he told himself, remembering that other duel so many years before, when he had dealt that fatal blow for which he had never forgiven himself.

The formalities were gone through and then they were alone, facing each other, the flat of their swords held point up against their lips in salute before taking their stance. They were given the command and the duel began.

They sparred a little, feinting, moving backwards and forwards and once Smith lunged and nearly had him. He parried with a riposte, which the boy easily avoided, and suddenly Jonathan realised the lad did know what he was doing and really could put on a good show. He began to be a little less diffident and made one or two real moves, which his opponent answered with moves of his own.

Louise found herself enjoying the cut and thrust and was annoyed when she realised he was holding back. She renewed her attack, making him defend himself. They danced back and forth, lunged and parried while the crowd cheered. Wanting to finish it quickly, Jonathan lunged a little wildly and the boy came back with a high outside riposte that nicked his upper arm, drawing a pinpoint of blood.

If she had been the challenger, Louise could have said she was satisfied with first blood and put an end to it there and then, but as she was the one who had been challenged, it was left to her opponent to admit defeat. The crowd roared their appreciation; they were in no mood to agree that honour had been satisfied. The duel went on, though Jonathan had to use all his skill to defend himself, let alone try not to hurt his adversary. It was this that made him momentarily lose his concentration. His weapon was suddenly knocked from his grasp. Louise stood back and waited for him to pick it up.

He hesitated. Where was this all going to end? He was a man of the law, the Society required him to uphold it at all times and what was he doing breaking it? Having a game? Did Louis Smith think it was a game? He had to end it, but not in this ignominious way. He bent to pick up his sword.

It was then, as he straightened up, he noticed her gently heaving breasts from which the binding had slipped and was confronted with the fact that he had been crossing swords with a woman. What a fool he had been! Why had he not seen it before? Those magnificent eyes, the unruly hair, the sensitive hands with their neatly manicured nails, the delicate colour in her cheeks, all proclaimed he was facing a member of the gentler sex. Why had he not realised it before? The signs had all been there. What did she think she was playing at? He could not fight a woman. His sword arm dropped.

She noted his reluctance and wondered at it; he was a long way from defeat. ‘You hesitate,’ she said, pointing her sword at him. ‘Do you concede?’

The crowd roared their disapproval. ‘Fight on,’ they shouted. ‘You can’t let a stripling like that best you.’

They saluted each other formally and began again. He danced about her, parrying her advances and watching for his opportunity to bring it to an end without betraying her for what she was.

She was beginning to tire chasing after an illusive target, who seemed not to abide by the usual rules, but kept moving back. His defensive tactics did not please the crowd, who began cheering the boy. Jonathan saw his chance, knocked her sword aside and went in to the chest, his blade hovering half an inch from the material of her shirt. He pricked it just enough to put a tiny tear in the cloth, but not enough to pierce her skin. A sharp downward stroke would have had the shirt off her back. He saw her eyes widen in horror. ‘Give in?’ he murmured, knowing she would never risk being exposed.

She dropped her sword, all the fight gone out of her. The crowd turned away, a few of them muttering with disappointment that the youth had given in when none of his blood had been spilled, but most praising him for the show he had put on. It had been a fair fight between skilled opponents and most had no complaints. Louise turned to Jonathan, who was dabbing at the cut on his arm. ‘Are you hurt, Mr Linton?’

‘A scratch, nothing more. You fight well, Mr Smith.’ Did she imagine it or did he put unusual emphasis on her name?

‘Thank you, Mr Linton. So do you.’

They walked side by side, the tall muscular man and the slight, effeminate youth, to where their seconds held their coats. Betty had joined Joe and was watching them approach, her eyes alive with excitement. As Jonathan reached out to take his coat from Joe, his arm accidentally knocked against Louise who was reaching out for her own garment. Already more than a little shaken by her ordeal, it took her off balance and she would have gone down if he had not reached out and grabbed her.

The contact of his hands on her shoulders was only momentary, but it was enough for him to feel the soft feminine flesh beneath his hands and for her to shudder at the sensation his touch caused. She felt so weak with the shock of it, she was afraid her knees would give way. This man was so strong, so masculine, so…so physical. The feeling was different from anything she had experienced before. Her brothers often grabbed hold of her, especially when she was younger and joining in their rough and tumble; her father sometimes took her shoulders in his hands to emphasise some point to her, but it had not felt like this. This made her tremble all over.

Pulling herself together, she stepped away from him. ‘Thank you, sir.’

‘My pleasure.’ Her masculine attire was off-putting and alluring at the same time and made him feel ill at ease. He could not smile at her as a man would smile at a woman, he could not take her hand, certainly he could not kiss her, which he had been very tempted to do as they stood so close, facing each other.

Betty came forwards to help her on with her coat. ‘Let’s get out of here,’ she whispered. ‘You shouldn’t hev took your coat off. The binding’s slipped.’

‘I could not have fought in a coat, could I?’ Resisting the temptation to put her hand to her breasts, she hurriedly did up the buttons, picked up her sword and strolled off arm in arm with Betty, as casually as she could manage.

Jonathan watched them go. Here was the missing Miss Louise Vail, he was sure of it, though why she was not miles ahead he had no idea. She had not been abducted and as far as he could see, no crime had been committed. She was simply a spoiled young lady looking for adventure. It annoyed him to think he had been sent on a wild goose chase. The Piccadilly Gentleman’s Club was never founded to investigate such a paltry affair. He would return to Barnet and make his report to her parents and then wash his hands of her. But could he leave her where she was, prey to whoever decided to have some sport with her? Besides, the memory of those lustrous eyes, appealing to him not to tear her shirt off, could not be cast aside. And had not Mrs Vail entreated him to see no harm came to her? And had he not promised to do his best to return her to the bosom of her family?

‘Do you think anyone else noticed the slipped bindings?’ Louise asked when they were out of earshot and making their way back to the George.

‘Don’ know. I reckon Mr Linton did. He was closest.’

Too close, she realised. ‘We will stay in our room until the coach is ready to leave. Perhaps we will not see him again.’ It was said more in regret than hope, she realised. But now was not the time to be mooning over a handsome man; she was on a mission, a most important mission, one that would probably dictate how the rest of her life would evolve. It was certainly not the time to get involved with cards and duels and handsome young men, whose touch excited her. She must hold herself aloof.

‘Much hope of that,’ Betty said. ‘He’s bin with us all the way so far, so I don’ reckon he’ll stop now.’

The coach was in the yard, the horses harnessed and the driver and guard inspecting the vehicle, tackle and horses, making sure all was well before taking his passengers on board. A woman with a young child, a young man escorting a schoolboy, and a man in a black coat, green with age, were waiting to board it. Louise and Betty just had time to go to their room, rebind her breasts, collect their bags and pay their bill before hurrying out to take their seats.

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