The Convenient Marriage Read online

  A faint, last hope flashed into Mr Drelincourt’s soul that perhaps Sir Roland would fail to bring his principal to the meeting place in time.

  ‘Well,’ said the Captain, glancing at his watch, ‘may as well go on to the ground, eh, gentlemen?’

  The little procession started out once more, the Captain striding ahead with Lord Cheston, Mr Drelincourt following with his friend Puckleton and the doctor bringing up the rear.

  Dr Parvey hummed a little tune to himself as he trod over the grass; Cheston and the Captain were talking casually of the improvements at Ranelagh. Mr Drelincourt cleared his throat once or twice and at last said: ‘If – if the fellow offers me an apology I think I should let it rest at that, d-don’t you, Francis?’

  ‘Oh, yes, pray do!’ agreed Mr Puckleton with a shudder. ‘I know I shall feel devilish queasy if there is much blood.’

  ‘He was drunk, you know,’ Crosby said eagerly. ‘Perhaps I should not have heeded him. I daresay he will be sorry by now: I don’t – I don’t object to him being asked if he cares to apologize.’

  Mr Puckleton shook his head. ‘He’d never do it,’ he opined. ‘He’s fought two duels already, so I’m told.’

  Mr Drelincourt gave a laugh that quivered uncertainly in the middle. ‘Well, I hope he mayn’t have sat up over the bottle last night.’

  Mr Puckleton was inclined to think that even such a mad young buck as Winwood would not do that.

  By this time they had reached the ground and Captain Forde had opened that sinister case. Reposing in a bed of velvet lay two shining swords, their blades gleaming wickedly in the pale sunlight.

  ‘It still wants a few minutes to six,’ observed the Captain. ‘I take it your man won’t be late?’

  Mr Drelincourt stepped forward. ‘Late? I give you my word I don’t intend to wait upon his lordship’s convenience! If he does not come by six I shall assume he does not mean to meet me, and go back to town.’

  Lord Cheston looked him over with a certain haughtiness. ‘Don’t put yourself about, sir: he’ll be here.’

  From the edge of the clearing a view of the road could be obtained. Mr Drelincourt watched it in an agony of suspense, and as the moments dragged past began to feel almost hopeful.

  But just as he was about to ask Puckleton the time (for he felt sure it must now be well over the hour), a gig came into sight, bowling at a fine rate down the road. It drew up at the gate which stood open on to the meadow and turned in.

  ‘Ah, here’s your man!’ said Captain Forde. ‘And six of the clock exactly!’

  Any hopes that Mr Drelincourt still nursed were put to flight. The Viscount, with Sir Roland Pommeroy beside him, was driving the gig himself, and from the way in which he was handling a restive horse it was evident that he was not in the least fuddled by drink. He drew up on the edge of the clearing, and sprang down from the high perch.

  ‘Not late, am I?’ he said. ‘Servant, Puckleton, servant, Forde. Never saw such a perfect morning in my life.’

  ‘Well, you don’t see many of ’em, Pel,’ remarked Cheston, with a grin.

  The Viscount laughed. His laughter sounded fiendish to Mr Drelincourt.

  Sir Roland had picked the swords out of their velvet bed and was glancing down the blades.

  ‘Nothing to choose between ’em,’ said Cheston, strolling over to him.

  The Captain tapped Mr Drelincourt on the shoulder. ‘Ready, sir? I’ll take your coat and wig.’

  Mr Drelincourt was stripped of his coat and saw that the Viscount, already in his shirt-sleeves, had sat down on a tree-stump and was pulling off his top boots.

  ‘Take a drop of cognac, Pel?’ inquired Sir Roland, producing a flask. ‘Keep the cold out.’

  The Viscount’s reply was clearly wafted to Mr Drelincourt’s ears. ‘Never touch spirit before a fight, my dear fellow. Puts your eye out.’ He stood up in his stockinged feet and began to roll up his sleeves. Mr Drelincourt, handing his wig to Mr Puckleton’s tender care, wondered why he had never before realized what sinewy arms the Viscount had. He found that Lord Cheston was presenting two identical swords to him. He gulped, and took one of them in a damp grasp.

  The Viscount received the other, made a pass as though to test its flexibility, and stood waiting, the point lightly resting on the ground.

  Mr Drelincourt was led to his place, the seconds stepped back. He was alone, facing the Viscount, who had undergone some sort of transformation. The careless good humour had left his handsome face, his roving eye look remarkably keen and steady, his mouth appallingly grim.

  ‘Ready, gentlemen?’ Captain Forde called. ‘On guard!’

  Mr Drelincourt saw the Viscount’s sword flash to the salute, and setting his teeth went through the same motions.

  The Viscount opened with a dangerous thrust in prime, which Mr Drelincourt parried, but failed to take advantage of. Now that the assault was begun his jumping nerves became steadier; he remembered Captain Forde’s advice, and tried to keep a good guard. As for luring his opponent on, he was kept too busy keeping a proper measure to think of it. An opportunity offering he delivered a thrust in tierce which ought to have ended the affair. But the Viscount parried it by yielding the foible, and countered so quickly that Mr Drelincourt’s heart leapt into his mouth as in the very nick of time he recovered his guard.

  The sweat was rolling off his brow and his breath came in exhausted gasps. All at once he thought he saw an opening and lunged wildly. Something icily cold pierced his shoulder, and as he reeled the second’s sword struck his wavering blade upwards. It flew out of his hand, and he sank back into the arms of Mr Puckleton, who cried out: ‘My God, is he killed? Crosby! Oh, there is blood! I positively cannot bear it!’

  ‘Killed? Lord, no!’ said Cheston scornfully. ‘Here, Parvey, neatly pinked through the shoulder. I take it you are satisfied, Forde?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ grunted the Captain. ‘Damme, if I ever saw a tamer fight!’ He looked disgustedly down at the prostrate form of his principal, and inquired of Dr Parvey whether it was a dangerous wound.

  The doctor glanced up from his work and beamingly replied: ‘Dangerous, sir? Why, not in the least! A little blood lost, and no harm done. A beautifully clean wound!’

  The Viscount, struggling into his coat, said: ‘Well, I’m for breakfast. Pom, did you bespeak breakfast?’

  Sir Roland, who was conferring with Captain Forde, looked over his shoulder. ‘Now, Pel, would I forget a thing like that? I’m asking Forde here if he cares to join us.’

  ‘Oh, by all means!’ said the Viscount, shaking out his ruffles. ‘Well, if you’re ready, I am, Pom. I’m devilish hungry.’

  With which he linked his arm in Sir Roland’s and strolled off to tell his groom to drive the gig round to the inn.

  Mr Drelincourt, his shoulder bandaged and his arm put into a sling, was assisted to his feet by the cheerful doctor, and assured that he had merely received a scratch. His surprise at finding himself still alive held him silent for a few moments, but he presently realized that the dreadful affair was at an end, and that his wig lay on the ground beside his shoes.

  ‘My toupet!’ he said faintly. ‘How could you, Francis? Give it to me at once!’

  Ten

  For several days after his encounter with the Viscount Mr Drelincourt kept his bed, a pale and interesting invalid. Having conceived a dislike of Dr Parvey, he rejected all that Member of the Faculty’s offers to attend to him to his lodging, and drove home with only the faithful but shaken Mr Puckleton to support him. They shared the vinaigrette, and upon arrival in Jermyn Street Mr Drelincourt was supported upstairs to his bed-chamber, while Mr Puckleton sent the valet running to fetch the fashionable Dr Hawkins. Dr Hawkins took a suitably grave view of the wound and not only blooded Mr Drelincourt, but bade him lie up for a day or two, and sent off the valet once more to Graham’s, the apothecary’s