Lord Philip's Christmas (Regency Belles &Beaux Book 2) Page 8

  “Perhaps something unexpected happened. Where did he go on the occasions he did not come back?”

  “Once or twice he stayed with his cousin. That is all I remember.”

  “His cousin? Victor Debord?”

  “I don’t know his name, but he was the one who came to Madame’s funeral.”

  “I wonder…”

  “What do you wonder?” Alice asked her husband and her tone was sharp.

  “I wonder if he managed after all to find a second for his duel.”

  Agathe gave a gasp and Alice dropped nervelessly onto a sofa. She would have fallen backwards if Grace had not put an arm around her shoulders to steady her.

  “Monsieur Pezzi, did my brother-in-law tell you where he was going when he left you?”

  “No, indeed. He was in such a passion that, if we had had swords in our hands, I think he would have tried to spit me.”

  “Is there anyone else whom he might have persuaded to act for him?”

  “He is friendly with one of my instructors, a man called Alphonse Mercier. That is possible, I suppose.”

  “Then if you will, let us visit both these men and see if they can tell us what has happened to him.”

  Alice rose from the chair but her husband caught her hand.

  “No, Alice. I’m not sure where we will have to go or what we will find. Paris has areas which are not safe for women. Stay here with Miss Talbot and Mademoiselle Bouchard. We’ll be as quick as we can.”

  “But Edward…”

  “Please, my love, in this obey me.”

  Edward and Marco went first to Alphonse Mercier’s rooms. The man was there and seemed surprised to see his employer at such an hour. When their errand was explained to him, he denied that he had seen Philip since the day before, when they had both been working in the Salle. He had no idea where he was now. Philip had not told him any of his plans. The two men left quickly.

  “Perhaps we will be more fortunate at Victor’s,” Edward said and indeed they were.

  “Mais oui, Messieurs,” the concierge told them. “Monsieur Debord left early this morning with two other gentlemen. A coach called for them and they drove off together. I have not seen them since.”

  “You did not hear where they were going?”

  “Unfortunately not, but this was very early. It was just becoming light. An odd time to start on a journey. It was the clatter of the horses’ hooves that awakened me.”

  “Did you recognise either of the other men?”

  “One of them was muffled up, but I have seen him a couple of times before. A relative of Monsieur Debord’s I think. The other was his friend Monsieur de Bray.”

  “Do you know where could we find Monsieur de Bray at this hour of the day?”

  “He’s a medical student at the university. If he is not there, he sometimes works at the Hôtel-Dieu.”

  “When Monsieur Debord returns, or if Monsieur de Bray comes here, will you please give them this note?”

  Edward scribbled some words into his pocketbook, tore out the page and gave it to him. Then he placed some coins into his hand. They left with the old man’s thanks ringing in their ears.

  “What now?” Marco asked.

  “We go to the university to see if this Monsieur de Bray is there. Where is it?”

  “The Rue d’Ulm. The coachman will know for sure.”

  A diligent search of the famous medical school, however, failed to produce the missing student. They were directed instead to the Hôtel-Dieu where students practised their skills when not at their studies.

  Chapter Nine

  The day before he was due to meet his sister again, Philip worked late, teaching a client who had arrived just before the Salle closed. The bout finished and Philip instructed Billy Boy, who was the only one left on the premises, to escort his pupil out and to lock the doors after him. Philip stayed behind to put away the foils and the other equipment. He had picked up his coat and his shoes prior to going home when Billy Boy returned but he was not alone.

  Philip turned at the sound of their footsteps. He saw Mr. Charville first but it was the other man who made his hands clench at his side and his spine feel icy cold. His heart started to beat faster and his breath whistled between his teeth.

  “I give you good evening, Lord Philip, or should I say Baron de Vezey?”

  Philip shrugged. “Either will do, Staunton. Billy, you need not stay to show these gentlemen out.”

  “But, Monsieur, I have to clean the floor first.”

  “Not tonight. Tell Monsieur Pezzi that I said it was all right.”

  “Afraid of witnesses?” Staunton asked when Billy had gone out.

  “Not at all, but the boy has no place in our quarrel and there’s no reason why he should be dragged into it. I’m glad you have come.”

  “I doubt that. Tell me, before I kill you, where you have hidden my wife.”

  “Celia is dead, Staunton. She died just before Christmas. As for killing me, you can certainly try if your swordsmanship has improved since the last time we met.”

  “You killed her!”

  “Not I. She never recovered from the treatment you meted out to her. Did it give you pleasure to beat a defenseless woman until she could not stand? What sort of animal are you?” Although his rage was almost choking him, Philip knew that he had to keep himself in check. One of them would not walk away from this encounter and he was determined that it would be Staunton.

  “An animal who is quite prepared to brand you a liar and a murderer. If you live, you will never be able to hold up your head in public again. As for my wife, whom I rejoice is dead, she was a little slut not fit to bear my name.”

  Philip jumped towards the man and deliberately slapped him across the face as hard as he could. Staunton staggered backwards, his hand to his cheek for Philip had put all his power into the blow. Charville surged forward and caught Philip’s arm but Philip shrugged him off and stepped away.

  “Have no fear, I have no intention of milling your friend down tonight although I am sorely tempted to give him a taste of his own medicine. Well, Staunton, are you ready to fight me? The Salle is available and the weapons are at hand.”

  “I think not. You have proved me right yet again in my perception of your wit, Sutherland. If I kill you here where you work and without proper witnesses, I would rightly be accused of murder. I intend to slaughter you publicly and according to every rule of the Code Duello. What a fool you were to challenge me, giving me the choice of weapons. I choose pistols, tomorrow at dawn in the Bois de Boulogne. Charville, here, has agreed to be one of my seconds. Who are yours?”

  “You obviously came well prepared for this encounter, Staunton. I didn’t expect you this evening so I haven’t made any arrangements. Charville, where are you staying? I will send my seconds to you there as soon as possible.”

  Charville mentioned the name of a small hotel which was popular with English travellers and then Philip opened the door to let them out.

  “Until tomorrow.”

  When they had gone, Philip slumped back against the wall for a moment. He shook with suppressed rage and grief. I must be calm, he thought. This is how it ends, one way or the other. Damn him for choosing pistols. It will be so much harder to kill him, but I shall try. The scélérat is free to marry again and treat another girl as he did Celia. God give me the power to prevent him doing so and avenge my love.

  Philip pushed himself upright and turned his mind to the choice of a second. Although he had been hoping for this meeting, he had not yet asked anyone to stand with him, in case they tried to dissuade him from issuing the challenge. Marco was his first thought and he made haste to his apartment. It took all his self-control to leave with a certain degree of civility, after Marco refused to help him. He had to cross Paris to reach his cousin’s rooms but anger gave him the strength to get there quickly. He found Victor eating his supper and reading a book by the light of a flickering candle.

  “What are you doing h
ere at this hour?” was his cheerful greeting. “Have some wine. It’s vile but you won’t notice after the second glass.”

  “I can’t. I’ve got to keep a cool head for tomorrow,” Philip replied and told him about his challenge.

  “Comme tu es bête!” Victor exclaimed when he had finished. “I thought you said you couldn’t shoot?”

  Philip grinned. “I was the despair of Old Ned at home. I should have waited for Staunton to challenge me, but it was all I could do to stand there instead of ripping him apart with my bare hands. Will you help me?”

  “I don’t want my father to blame me for letting you kill yourself,” Victor objected.

  “Why tell him? If I’m dead, it’s my own fault and telling him would do me no good. Please Victor? If you don’t, I’ll have to comb Paris for someone else.”

  In the end, Victor reluctantly agreed and went out to fetch a friend of his as the other second. Afterwards he promised to call upon Charville to arrange the details of the duel. Philip curled up on the floor of Victor’s rooms to wait for his return. His thoughts were chaotic and it was a long time before he could compose himself to sleep. It seemed only a few moments later when his cousin shook him awake in the cold light of dawn.

  The day was foggy as the three men drove out in a hired carriage to the Bois. Houses and trees loomed out of the mist and the occasional lanterns had acquired halos. Philip could not help shivering although he was wrapped in one of Victor’s greatcoats.

  “You’ll never be able to shoot like that!” Victor remarked and produced a bottle of brandy.

  “I won’t be able to shoot at all if I’m half-sprung,” Philip objected.

  “A couple of swigs, nothing more. Just to warm you. I need it and so does Antoine, even if you don’t.”

  Obediently Philip raised the bottle to his lips. The spirit ran like fire through his body and after a few moments his hands steadied.

  “You were right about the brandy, Victor. I’m sorry I doubted you,” he murmured.

  “I’m always right.” Silence fell until the carriage left the road and moved across a softer surface. “We’re into the woods. Not long now.”

  “Victor, if I die this morning, send my things to my sister, Alice, and ask her to give something to the girl who works for me. Agathe Buchard is her name.”

  “You’re being morbid, mon brave. From what you tell me Staunton is the one who deserves to die. Don’t you believe in justice?”

  Philip grinned. “Who does at such a moment? I don’t believe in myths either.”

  “Victor tells me that you won’t apologise for striking this man and you don’t expect us to try to settle this quarrel for you. Is that correct?” Antoine asked.

  “I doubt he would accept an apology and I certainly intend to fight him.”

  “Try not to kill him,” Victor said. “If you do, you will have to fly from Paris and stay in the country for a while. You’re known to be a Bonapartist. The Royalists would be only too glad of a chance to throw you into gaol and leave you to rot.”

  “Small risk of my killing Staunton with a pistol, even though I’ll try. I should have listened more to Old Ned when I was a boy.”

  “They may ask at what point you would consider your honour to be satisfied. A single shot? Two? Three? More than that is considered barbaric in France.”

  Philip grinned. “Three’s enough. If I can’t hit him in three shots I never will, even if my nerve holds out.”

  “Are you sure? From what you’ve been saying, he’s more likely to hit you.”

  “So what? My life hasn’t been worth much to me since Celia died. I’d gladly give it up if I could take that villain with me.”

  “Oh, mon brave, don’t say that. It’s unlucky.”

  The carriage drew up with a jerk and the coachman called, “We’re here, Messieurs.”

  They alighted and saw through the mist a group of men waiting for them some distance away.

  “Stay here for now,” Victor said, “while Antoine and I get everything ready.”

  Philip leaned back against the coach and tried to order his thoughts. He had spoken truly when he told them that he did not fear death, but he had a foreboding that Staunton would prove to be the better shot. He, not Philip, would walk away unmarked. Now, if he had but chosen swords! The cold was creeping into the folds of Philip’s greatcoat. He thrust his hands into the pockets to keep them warm, feeling strangely detached, as if the real world was hidden behind the curtain of mist. Would he be able to pass through it in the next few minutes, or would he be left standing here forever in an agony of uncertainty? He was almost relieved when Victor came to fetch him.

  “We’re ready for you, now.” As they started to walk forwards, Victor said softly, “A word of warning. Staunton declares that this duel is à l'outrance. He will not accept first blood and intends to kill you.”

  “I never expected anything else,” Philip replied. His actions became mechanical. He made his choice of the pistols offered to him, closing his fist around the cold metal of the butt. He walked to the place marked by a sword pushed down into the ground, stood listening to Victor’s instructions and gave his consent. Then Victor retreated and Charville remained in the middle and to one side, a handkerchief held in his up-stretched hand. It fell. Immediately Philip jerked up his arm upwards and fired. He heard the crack of a bullet as it passed him by. Both men were still on their feet and unharmed.

  “Again!” Staunton ordered, not waiting for his seconds to speak.

  “Do you agree?” Victor asked and Philip nodded.

  The guns were taken, cleaned and fresh bullets inserted. Then the opponents were back beside the swords again. This time, when the handkerchief dropped, Staunton fired and a red-hot pain swept through Philip’s arm. He staggered but managed to squeeze the trigger even as he began to fall. The back of his head hit the ground hard. He blacked out. When he regained his senses, he had been lifted upright, his coat pulled off and his shirt sleeve ripped open. A cloth was bound tightly around his arm and then he was hustled away into the coach which set off immediately from the Bois. The jolting was agonising and he would have twisted free from Antoine’s restraining hand but both men gripped him.

  “Where are we going? What’s happened? Staunton?”

  “He’s dead, mon brave. Your second shot went straight through his eye.”

  “Thank God!” the wounded man muttered impiously.

  Philip remembered the journey back to Paris in a series of flashes as the carriage jolted over the bumpy road and sent daggers of pain through his arm. He knew he was bleeding quite badly, from the warmth and wetness of his clothes. Victor held him propped up while Antoine busied himself with the wound.

  “The bullet is in deep. I shall have to probe for it, but not here or he’ll bleed to death before I can finish,” he said.

  Through the haze of his senses, Philip heard his own words. “What is he doing to me?”

  “Keeping you alive, mon brave. Antoine is a medical student at the Sorbonne. Didn’t I tell you? Lie still and all will be well,” Victor reassured him.

  An impression of being lifted out of the coach. Steps, long corridors which reeked of sickness, groans and shouting. His arm felt huge and it throbbed. He was put down on a straw paillasse in a room with many other people. Then someone gave him water and he was left for a while. He sank into sleep but was roused when a blade sliced into his flesh and he screamed.

  “Easy, mon brave. Antoine has to get the bullet out.” Victor’s arms tightened, holding him still. He knew nothing more for some time. Waves of agony washed over him and blackness. The pain deepened and suddenly Antoine exclaimed,

  “Got it.”

  The pain lessened. Something wet was poured into his wound which stung so much, he lashed out. Then bandages were wrapped around him. Covers were pulled up to his chin. Antoine murmured,

  “Will you stay with him for a while?”

  “Yes”

  It was very dark when Phili
p woke. Only the glow of a covered lantern flickered in the dimness far away. He moved restlessly, until pain shot through his arm making him groan aloud.

  “Awake, are you?” Victor’s voice. A tinderbox flared and a candle’s flame steadied.

  “Water!” he gasped. Drops were poured into his dry mouth and trickled down his cheek. When he had swallowed enough, he found he could talk and asked,

  “Where am I?”

  “At the Hôtel-Dieu. It seemed best. Antoine works here and no one questioned him. If anyone asks, just tell them your name is Louis, there are plenty of those in Paris, God knows.”

  Silence fell for a few minutes and then Philip murmured,

  “Did I dream it or did someone say Staunton is dead?”

  “Well at least you have your memory back. He hit you first and you fired as you dropped to the ground. Most likely it was the best shot you’ll ever make. You were bleeding like a pig and I thought you were dying, but Antoine said you’d live if we packed the wound and held it tight. He insisted we brought you here until we found somewhere else to take you. What’s one more wounded man among so many? And Antoine vouched for you to the nuns.”

  “Thank him, will you?”

  “Thank him yourself when he comes back. He’s gone to see if Staunton’s death has been reported yet and to find somewhere we can move you to.”

  A restless night followed. Philip was hot and cold by turns. Victor stayed with him, helping him to drink, washing his face and hands when his skin burned. Philip lost count of the hours but it was full daylight before anyone disturbed them. A rustling sound. Through half closed eyes, he saw a silhouette standing by his bed and recognised one of the Augustinian nuns. Then he heard her say, “Here they are,” and wondered if the police had come to arrest him.

  Chapter Ten

  “Victor!”

  “Edward! How did you find us?”

  Edward ignored the question and asked with a certain amount of dread,

  “How is Philip?”

  “Keep your voice low, he’s just gone to sleep.”