“It’s the dawn of a new day.” Robert snorted with derision.
A confused expression flashed across Rennoll’s smarmy countenance. It was quickly quashed, and the light of manic enjoyment returned. Still, the glow was not quite as bright—muted by a whisper of concern.
Robert smiled.
Chapter 14
In which an anonymous mole affects a duel and Miss Whitfield experiences a strange sort of tingling
Robert stared at Lord Rennoll, aware that Cassidy had not moved—not to look into the pistol box and certainly not to gesture which of the offending weapons was supposed to seal his fate. Rennoll’s smirk made it clear what he thought of the delay.
And then, as they had agreed, Cassidy stepped back, feigning confusion. “I’m not sure.… I can’t decide. What think you, Newton?”
Robert leaned forward as if to judge the contents of the box. Deferring to a second was not unusual. Checking and loading the weapon was his responsibility, so garnering his opinion would be advisable.
“It is difficult to say.” Robert heard the stiffness in his tone and altered it, trying to match it with his trivial words. “This one has a scratch, and that one looks dirty—probably used too often.” He sighed dramatically. “No, they will not do. I don’t like either for you. We will have to go with swords.” He noted that the sky was lightening and knew that the increased visibility would be to their service.
“Swords?” Now it was Rennoll’s turn to sound stiff. “I think not. Pistols at dawn. Swords are from a bygone era.”
“Really? There are fencing academies aplenty that would likely disagree. Still, if the blades are not here, the point is moot. Boxing—perhaps you might bash each other about for a bit. Call it a draw, and then we can all have a drink at the pub. Though it is a little early for whiskey, ale would be fine. So … well, what say you?”
“I say this is nonsense! Stand ready! This is a duel, not a garden party!” The roar of Rennoll’s words echoed throughout the meadow, followed by an unfortunate silence.
Unfortunate, for in that stillness a twig snapped.
Rennoll, however, had worked himself into a grand pique. So intent with his own concerns, he had failed to understand the significance of a snapped twig in what was supposed to be a soulless copse.
“Pick your pistol and mark your line,” Rennoll barked. He pointed at the box, gesturing Harold forward. Robert didn’t deign to look down.
“No, I think not. I have a different solution to this … disagreement.”
Sensing that he was losing the upper hand, Rennoll frowned, leaning back ever so slightly. “This is not a disagreement, boy. This is a duel.” He glanced at Cassidy and then back to Robert.
“Not in my eyes. You see, if this were a duel, I would have to report it to the authorities.”
“You would have to do no such thing. Where is your sense of honor?”
“Which honor—my honor as a gentleman or my honor as a lawyer?” Robert wasn’t going to dilute the point by mentioning that he was not yet a lawyer, but an apprentice … in-waiting.
Both Rennoll and Harold swallowed audibly and looked around.
“Let me tell you a tale. It’s not overlong. Simply told, it’s about a baron with an excellent shooting ability who likes to feign insult and challenge young bucks to a duel. Only the baron knows the why of his actions. However—and this is the crux of the matter—when a certain young lawyer looked into the matter, he discovered that the baron had participated in three duels with increasingly serious injury to the offending principal. In short, it was just a matter of time before the baron’s shot would be fatal. So you see, honor dictated his actions. The baron could not be allowed to continue unchecked.”
Harold took Robert’s meaning faster than Rennoll, thrusting the box into the man’s hands and rushing into the woods. A resounding thud offered a clue to the results of that folly.
And then at last, the signal Robert had been waiting for, though not the whistle he expected but a disembodied voice. “Nab him, sir.”
Blinking in surprise, Rennoll stared at Robert. Robert stared back, allowing a slow rise at the corner of his mouth in what could be mistaken for a smile … but one of satisfaction, not pleasure. A catalog of emotions flitted across Rennoll’s face: puzzlement, discomfort, concern, and then, finally, realization.
Rennoll threw the open box at Robert’s head, turned tail, and ran. As he dodged the flying pistols, Robert’s grab was off-kilter and a split second too late; his fingers closed on air. Rennoll raced across the meadow in a great lopping stride.
A carriage, visible now in the early light of day, sat waiting on the far side of the clearing. The baron’s escape was assured should Robert not bring him down. Surprised by the man’s speed, Robert chased after the miscreant with an ever-increasing gait until he was hard on the man’s heels. Cassidy, as evidenced by his labored breathing, was hard on Robert’s heels, shouting out a needless warning. “The carriage. Robert. Don’t. Let—”
Rennoll went down, tripped up by a mole mound. Jumping to prevent his own spill, Robert heard a grunt as the heel of his Hessian landed on the man’s butt. Stumbling, Robert fell forward, but he rolled just as he made contact with the ground and regained his feet in a trice. Turning back, he joined Cassidy, who had somehow managed to avoid the heap of tripping gentlemen. They watched Rennoll struggle to stand, ready to grab him if he succeeded.
Winded, Lord Rennoll sneered and labored into a sitting position, trying to gain his feet. But his energies were spent; he could only pant and bluster. “I am a baron of the realm, and I will not be interfered with.” He spat this out as if it were a threat of some sort. “I have had enough. I am leaving.”
His words were hollow. No sooner had he spoken than the sound of carriage wheels on gravel reached them. The jingle of equipage, the snap of a whip, and the shout of a driver put paid to Rennoll’s hopes. His ride had just departed.
“Worry not,” Robert said with great satisfaction between his gulps for air. “Another coach. Will be here presently. One that will take you. To court.” He glanced across the clearing, watching a party of three men emerge from the woods. One held his arms in front of him, walking awkwardly—as if his wrists were tied together.
Looking down at the expression of dismay on Lord Rennoll’s face, Robert smiled. “I would like to offer you an introduction,” he said while placing a restraining hand on Rennoll’s shoulder to prevent him from rising.
A figure in a dark blue coat with brass buttons stepped ahead of the others, quickly closing the distance.
“To Mr. Burt Warner, Principal Officer of Bow Street.”