Joy V. Sheridan writes

Charity Amour

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX part 3

The marksmen, in emulation of their recent rehersal, stood in the shady light of dawn. Two shots rang out and as preordained, the taller of the two duellists groaned, clutched his left breast and fell to the ground. Lord Rispian - secreted behind a handy overhang of thick shrubbery and branches, reappeared, the smoking pistol hanging loosely from his right hand.

“You saw, Sir, that it was a fair and square and as honest a duel that two gentlemen may fight?” “I did your lordship, I did.” The old man’s voice warbled. His expression was grave. ”But, your lordship, could there not have been another way around your problems? Must it have had to come to this...?” “There was no other way, Sir Dicken, alas, no other way. Should you wish to satisfy yourself that His Lordship, Lord Seyton Clover, is now, alas, decesased?” “No, no need for that. I trust Dr Mellors, indeed I do.” 

The old gentleman whistled slightly between the gaps of his few remaining teeth. Natalie d’Esprit smirked under the thick veiling of her hat. She noted how the elderly Englishman's hands trembled: most assuredly he was in his dotage.

Lord Rispian wore the look of a righteous man who has been forced into doing a wrong action; but one who has had to perform the necessary foul deed with a righteous victory achieved, if only for name clearing. Such it seemed to old Sir Dicken Mortimore. And this action had borne fruit favourably in Rispian’s direction. 

Without further ado, the duelling nobleman summoned a couple of lackeys to pick the body up. Madame noticed ‘Dr’ Mellors conferring with the elderly gentleman and affixing his signature to a sheet of parchment, blotting the ink off his quill-feather pen before he did so. Resting the sheet of paper on a wooden step, he summoned the witness to sign likewise. The attestation was duly signed, sealed and delivered to Lord Rispian. Now once more be-jacketed, He accepted it with a thoughtful, grave air: 

“Thank you, Sir Mortimore.” “I think,” Madame d’Esprit whispered into Lord Rispian’s ear, “that Sir Mortimore best not tarry here, best be on his way home now. You surely don’t wish him to catch the same kind of complaint as I am suffering with?”

“Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a hoot,” replied his lordship, but assessing the fact that it would suit them all equally well to be on their way, he suggested the same to the shivering old gentleman. The old chap, enthusiastic to be once again, out of this biting cold, bade a faltering farewell to the party and with ‘Dr’ Mellors beside him, motioned his driver to whip the horses speedily homewards. 

“We have come to a sorry pass,” the old man confided in Mellors, “when two members of the English aristocracy come to France to fight their duels. Tut, tut. What hope is there?” He threw rheumy, down-drooping eyes in Mellors' direction. Mellors merely nodded in mute agreement. What indeed! “Still, I daresay Lord R did the only honourable thing. Have a decent wake for the deceased; that sort of thing. Did he say if he was coming to the residence this afternoon?” “Yes, Sir, that he did,” replied Mellors, trying to stifle a yawn. He had been up too late the previous evening.

Lord Rispian, his face like a clutch of golden corn, bundled it into a sunny, good-humoured smile. “Well acted, eh, Nat?” “I could not have done better myself,” she sniffed, then blew her nose. “Come, Fitzroy, although it might appear that I have caught my death of cold, there is no need for the bells to toll for the pair of us. Shall we not now get into the coach?” 

Jarvis and Hinches materialised from behind an overspill of frozen bushes. Rispian turned to them, tossing each some gold coin. “Well done you two, you've earnt that and you shall have a bonus once I know Clover has been fair and squarely dispatched of, you hear me?” “I have a puritan’s knife about me person now, your lordship,” leered Jarvis, “and no more fanatical a ‘Justice Party’ member could wave it and strike home for sure, than the one I’m thinking of!” “Excellent! Excellent!” 

Madame d’Esprit shivered as they made their way at a fast trot to the waiting carriage. Oh lord, she felt so dead suddenly. Oh for the comfort of one or two of her dear, dead, charred girls.... Still, there was one thing which cheered her. Now this never-ending charade seemed at last to be looking as though it would be finalised satisfactorily very soon. Then, the world would be once more her oyster. Or rather, she was the pearl and the gritty clam which would come adrift on the storms of the ocean was more than likely to be her noble companion who now strode so purposefully on towards the coach. 

The conveyance jolted, the horses having moved as they got in, then, with a resounding crackle of thonged leather the driver had whipped the horses into action. Behind them, at an irreligious rate came the waggon bearing the supposed corpse of his late Lordship, Lord Seyton Clover. The black plumes atop the coal-coloured horses curtseyed up and down with a vigour to match the ribald laughter issuing from the inside of the preceding carriage.