The Heart That Lies Page 5

  He snuffed out the candles as he left the room and went upstairs, hoping that he would be able to sleep and to sleep without dreaming.

  Chapter Three

  Smith stood as Meldon entered the foyer of the gaming club. It had been a week since Meldon had seen the boy and he looked as if he had not slept for a single one of those seven nights.

  “Are you well?” he asked with some concern after they had shaken hands.

  “Well enough, thank you.”

  “Come in and have a drink. Have you been here long? I apologise for being late; my sister would not let me leave her house unless I ate with them.”

  Meldon was very annoyed that Caro had pressed him so hard to stay. She knew that this was his card night, but she had chosen tonight to take him to task for not marrying, again. They had discussed his need for heirs even though Meldon had pointed out that her son John would inherit everything, save the title. “It’s all in my will,” he had explained, even though Caro had read it. It was not, however, right in her eyes that the title should go out of the family. Meldon did not like quarrelling with his sister. Usually their views differed little, but this one area was a grave cause for disagreement when Caro chose to raise it. It didn’t help matters that Meldon knew she was right. He must marry and soon. He had not poured his soul into his estate to see it go anywhere other than to a son and he wanted to live long enough to show his son how to carry on after him. His own father had died when Meldon had been fifteen and he had felt the responsibility sit heavily on his shoulders. It was not that his father had not prepared him well, but there was so much he still had to learn. It was only with the help of his mother and General Warren that he had managed to build on what had gone before at Meldon Hall. He had a natural gift for managing his estate and it gave him pleasure to see his fields and livestock flourish. When he made money he managed to keep it and his house became a place guests were happy to visit. As Caro had said, any sensible woman would be happy to marry him. Meldon had retorted that he wouldn’t take a sensible woman. Two sensible people in a marriage would be one too many. He hadn’t meant it. He meant only that he found the young girls he was introduced to too vapid and foolish. He knew the kind of woman he wanted would be clever enough to ask questions about where he went and why he spent so much time with Finch and General Warren. Marrying that kind of woman would mean giving up spying, for he would not lie to such a wife.

  Seeing Smith again did not improve his temper. He was angry with Caro, which would leave him little energy to deal with the discomfort that Smith caused. And, despite being prepared for it, the discomfort was great.

  “I have not been here long, Lord Meldon. I was not sure you would play this evening.”

  “Yes, I’m playing. We’ll have a peaceful evening. I have not invited any guests. Tonight is just for my friends.”

  “Then perhaps I should leave.”

  The boy looked uncomfortable and Meldon regretted his outburst.

  “No, that’s not what I meant. You fitted in very well last time you played. Some of my guests forget they are guests.” He was more tired than he thought; he was usually more guarded in conversation.

  He led the boy into the smallest of the three gaming rooms. He thought the boy seemed nervous, but put it down to lack of sleep. His own head was aching from his argument with Caro. The one thing he held against her was that she got louder as her argument got weaker and she had shouted at him until his brother-in-law had suggested she might prefer to keep her argument between herself and her brother and not make their neighbours privy to it. Even then she had not been apologetic, but had carried on her argument in a quieter voice sitting on the arm of her brother’s chair.

  Despite his tiredness, Meldon thought the evening began well. They were a small party of skilled players and these were men whose company Meldon enjoyed. They talked as they played. Their conversation was a level above gossip, but was neither personal nor deep. Smith was quieter than he had been before, which meant that Meldon was not quite so distracted by his presence.

  As the evening wore on, however, Smith began to lose more often. Each time he lost he looked at Meldon and it was soon obvious to Meldon, if not to the others, that Smith was watching his hands. Upset by his argument with his sister and dwelling still on its aftermath, he was too slow to work out what was happening.

  “I believe your lordship played that card earlier this hand.”

  Smith’s voice was quiet, but the silence that followed was deafening. The men at the table looked at him, then at Meldon. Even as Meldon looked at the card he had just placed on the table he hadn’t understood what the boy meant.

  “Meldon’s not a cheat,” said Finch.

  “What?” Now Meldon understood. “You think I somehow retrieved the card?”

  “I saw you do it. And you played it earlier in the hand.” Smith’s voice was quieter than before and Meldon thought it was not quite steady.

  “By God, he’s right, Meldon. You did play it.” Stallard’s memory was as worthy of trust as the man himself, so Meldon didn’t doubt that he had put the card down before. His only question was how it had come to be in his hand again. If he had been concentrating properly, he would have noticed when it came into his hand, but he had decided to throw this hand and go home, so had not been paying attention.

  “Meldon’s not a cheat,” repeated Finch angrily.

  “No,” agreed Stallard, obviously confused. “He’s not a cheat, but he did play the card before.”

  Stallard and Finch looked at Smith as if for an explanation. Meldon continued to stare at his card.

  “You are silent, my lord.”

  “I have nothing to say.”

  He turned his aching head to look at the boy.

  “You do not deny that y...you are a cheat?” queried Smith.

  “Of course I deny it. I cannot admit to being what I am not.” I wonder how you did it, he thought, and why.

  Smith stood. “You will hear from me in the morning.”

  “Wait a moment,” said Stallard, “what you’re suggesting is illegal. And you’re not the injured party.”

  “Don’t be foolish boy. Meldon can shoot straighter than any man I know.” Meldon almost smiled at Finch’s lie. Finch was a much better shot than he was. Meldon found he was more likely to hit what he did not aim for.

  “How did you do it?” wondered Meldon aloud. “How did you put that card into my hand?”

  Stallard groaned and Meldon saw that Smith was both relived and afraid.

  “Now I am the injured party. Good evening, gentlemen.”

  Smith turned and walked away from the table.

  “Why did you say that?” hissed Finch.

  “Because I wanted to know the answer.”

  “That was the worst thing you could have done. Now he’ll call you out.”

  Meldon stared at him.

  “He’s a boy. He can’t intend to call me out. He writes poetry for God’s sake.”

  “You insulted him.”

  “He slipped me the card.”

  Meldon was almost pleading with his friend to understand.

  “Of course he did, but I didn’t see him do it. Did you?”

  Meldon shook his head.

  “Stallard?”

  “No.” Stallard tapped his fingers on the table thoughtfully. “Do you think he came here just to call you out? He made you out to be a cheat in front of witnesses.”

  Finch’s eyes widened in alarm and Meldon dropped his head into his hands.

  Smith’s letter arrived the next morning. It set out the insult in a strong, clear hand and requested satisfaction two days hence. Tomorrow he would call on Meldon to discuss the choice of weapon.

  Enraged by the stupidity of it, Meldon flung the letter to the floor. Johnson had told him that Smith had brought the letter himself. It was clear to him that the boy knew enough about the rules of duelling to know how to issue the challenge, but not enough about how to carry it out, for politeness dema
nded that his second bring the challenge to him personally.

  Cursing, he bent and picked up the letter and read it again. Apart from being illegal, the outcome of a duel was never certain, no matter how good a shot a man might be or how good a swordsman. The dangers were many. An unevenness in the ground might make him stumble as he turned. A sudden distraction, a bird’s flight or a horse’s whinny might cause him to miss his aim. Anger or sorrow could cause him to hesitate. Rain could make the ground slippery underfoot. No man called out another lightly, except, it seemed, Smith.

  Meldon looked once more at the letter in his hand. What was the boy thinking of?

  Briefly, he considered apologising, but he knew that the accusation was false. Honour demanded that he defend himself. He had spent the night working out how the boy had placed the card in his hand and was convinced that he knew how it had been done; what he did not understand was how he had not noticed it. Did he really find the boy so fascinating that he no longer exercised his usual caution? If so, he was a fool and deserved whatever he received at the boy’s hand.

  He called for Perkins.

  “I think I’ll change into something more sober,” he said when his valet arrived.

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “And then I shall go and see Mr Finch. Ask cook to send up some of those biscuits that Mr Freddie likes.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “I thought I should see you this morning,” said Finch gloomily after his son had been sent away with Uncle George’s biscuits.

  Meldon showed him the letter and paced impatiently whilst he read it. Normally he enjoyed being in Finch’s house, for it allowed him to lay aside his stick and to walk as normally as he could, but today he was nervous.

  “I assume you don’t want me to go round with an apology?” asked Finch when he had finished reading.

  “I don’t think it would be accepted. Smith made it appear as if I had cheated simply so that he could call me out.”

  “Yes, I came to the same conclusion.”

  Meldon was touched that his friend had given the matter some thought.

  “Meldon, this is a ticklish subject, but since I assume you’ve come here to ask me to be your second...”

  “Of course,” interrupted Meldon.

  “Then what on Earth did you do to him to cause him to go to this trouble?”

  Meldon was taken aback; he hadn’t expected this from Finch.

  “Nothing. I never met him before you introduced us.”

  “That was a month ago. Plenty of time for an insult, real or imagined.”

  Meldon sat on the most comfortable chair in the room, but still he shifted as if he were in pain.

  “I swear to you, Finch, I have done nothing.”

  “Only... Meldon, boys like Smith don’t call out men like you unless... well, unless they feel they really have to.”

  Meldon stared at Finch.

  “What do you think I’ve done?”

  Finch looked at his feet, at the empty grate and then back at Meldon.

  “I think he misinterpreted something you said or did,” he said heavily.

  Meldon clenched his fists, unwilling to believe that his friend thought this of him.

  “No,” he said firmly, “there can have been no misinterpretation of anything.” He was certain of this and had been aware of Smith’s reaction to everything he had said or done in his company. “There has been nothing to misinterpret.”

  “Why else would he risk his own life?” asked Finch helplessly.

  “I don’t know, but it’s not because I’ve said or done anything inappropriate.”

  “Before you thought the French...?”

  “It crossed my mind.”

  “But it’s so convoluted and uncertain. He’s only a boy.”

  “Who has been less than truthful about who he is and where he’s from.”

  “Yes. I did ask some questions about him and no one knows him. We agreed he was dangerous, we just didn’t realise he would be dangerous for you.”

  “Will you be my second?”

  Meldon was aware that Finch hadn’t indicated his willingness to fulfil that rôle, despite his offer to talk to Smith.

  “Of course. Meldon, I didn’t mean to insult you, I know you better than that, but it just makes no sense.”

  Meldon was relieved that Finch seemed to be back on his side, but he was right; Smith must be insane.

  The next morning Finch arrived at Meldon House a few minutes before Smith. Meldon had agreed to keep out of the way so that Finch could talk to Smith alone and try to talk him out of the duel. If that could not be achieved, Meldon would choose swords.

  “He doesn’t fence,” said Finch despondently when Meldon joined him in the drawing-room after Smith had left.

  “Pistols it is, then.”

  “Don’t joke, Meldon. If he’s as good a shot as he seems to think he is, you won’t stand a chance.”

  “No one’s as good a shot as they think they are.”

  “Some men practise in the same way that you practise with your wretched knife.”

  Meldon knew that Finch was such a man. He also knew that his friend practised with his own knife.

  “Do you think he practises?”

  Finch nodded. “He was frightened, but confident.”

  “Perhaps he’ll be less confident when he’s looking down the barrel of my pistol.”

  “Meldon, this is a mess.”

  “I’ve fought duels before.”

  “With a sword. God knows why, but you’re better with a sword than a pistol.”

  “Because a sword is an extension of oneself and a pistol is just something that you hold in your hand.” This was the only explanation that Meldon had ever come up with to explain his complete lack of skill with a pistol.

  “Then you’d better start thinking of your pistol as an extension of yourself before tomorrow morning.”

  “Does he have a suggestion for a referee?”

  “No. He leaves it in your hands, since he knows so few people in London. He said the strangest thing. He said that you were a man of honour and would choose wisely.”

  “That doesn’t sound like a man with a grudge.”

  “No. It sounds more like a French agent, but such a man would have to be honourable himself.” Finch examined his nails while he let the thought sink in. Meldon could make no sense of it. “I thought Lord Philpott,” he continued.

  “Hmm?”

  “For the referee?”

  It was a good choice and Meldon said so.

  “I’ll go to him when I leave here.” Finch paused. “Meldon, I hope you don’t mind, but I asked Smith what would happen if you apologised.”

  “I don’t mind,” said Meldon. “It’s your job as my second to protect me against myself.”

  “Hmm. He said he would not accept an apology.”

  “We said as much yesterday.”

  “I know, but the strange thing was the way he said it. As if he didn’t want to fight you, almost as if he’d hoped that you would apologise to give him an excuse to back out of it, even knowing that he wouldn’t accept it.”

  Meldon thought for a while, but could not work it out. Eventually he shook his head.

  “Go and see Philpott,” he said. “Then perhaps we could go somewhere where I can practise with a pistol, or just get very drunk.”

  When he arrived with Finch and Perkins at the place appointed for the duel, Meldon was horrified to see that Smith was alone. He stood in the small clearing on Wimbledon Common, looking towards the carriage. Meldon would have preferred Hyde Park, as it was much closer to his house should one or both of them be wounded, but the risk of discovery was much greater there.

  He stepped out of the carriage.

  “Smith, where’s your second?”

  “Second?”

  The boy had no idea what he was doing and obviously hadn’t understood what Finch had told him. Meldon was tempted to call a halt to the thing there and then, only
the fear that Smith would call him a coward held him back.

  “Your second. A man you trust to make sure everything is done properly and to look after you should you be injured.” Had his voice really shaken at the thought that he might hurt the boy? He hoped not. He had tried not to think about accidentally killing him, but pistols were so unpredictable.

  “I have no second. Mr Finch did explain, but I’m new in London and duelling is illegal. There is no one I trust that much.”

  “Then you are a fool.” He was angry. He had been right that Smith knew enough about duels to know how to call him out, but not enough to know how to proceed with the duel itself. “Finch, you’ll have to do it.”

  “But, Meldon...”

  “Enough. Make sure Mr Smith knows what he has to do. I don’t want this to be murder.”

  Smith paled and Meldon hoped that his blunt speaking would cause him to withdraw his challenge, but the boy straightened and bowed his head slightly.

  “Thank you, my lord. I should be very grateful for Mr Finch’s assistance. And the other gentleman, is he the referee?”

  “It is usual to bring a doctor to a duel. Perkins is not a doctor, he’s my valet, but he knows enough to look after either one of us if we’re wounded and to keep his mouth shut. And, before you ask, the carriage is at your disposal should I merely wound you and not kill you. Should I kill you, we will use it to remove your body from this place.”

  Satisfied that he had laid out the possible outcomes of the duel well enough to scare the boy, he took Finch aside and said quietly, “Try to talk him out of this.”

  Finch nodded and went to Smith. Meldon watched from a distance as Finch explained. Occasionally the boy looked in his direction and Meldon hoped that he was starting to reconsider.

  Philpott arrived in his carriage and went straight to Meldon.

  “Are you trying to get a reputation as a duellist?” he asked as he approached.